It wasn’t a secret, but it felt like one. Midafternoon usually found the pool all but empty, a blessing of my desynchronized schedule. The only people I ever saw were fantastically built men in glorious speedos. I thanked them quietly for letting the skinny white girl borrow a lane.
Queer culture is outdoor pool culture is rooftop culture is midafternoon lap culture. In the evolution of a city, a pool itself might not actually be gay, but I know the district historically was. So, can a gay jump in the same pool twice? Would we ever want to?
Cap. Goggles. In and under. I traded the scream of the capital for the murmuring bubbles of my own laboured breath. I loved the quiet, the coolness, the breeze, the gritty concrete platforms, the threat of sunburn, the whimsical colours chopped up by the weather, and the feeling of being far from where most people would prefer. The shimmering palms around the border reminded me that I was also far from where I started. It was beautiful water. Barely chlorinated, insects and loose leaves always floating on the surface, an integrated oasis so unlike the sweaty basement ponds preferred by local seniors and athletes.
I left parts of myself in that pool. I’d hum ditties under the water. If the place was really empty, sometimes I’d scream. I’d make peace with my ravaged body, a different body every time. Suspended in the deep end, I had enough distance and privacy to take inventory of my secret lives. When my goggles inevitably fogged up, I’d stop at the end of the lane to stretch out my back, to feast my eyes on all the nothing. Even fully drenched, I was burning with a particular greed that demanded the devouring of life itself. I’d leave hungry for a box of dumplings, an iced coffee, and more. Always more.
Access was seasonal. As any connoisseur will tell you: a limited time offer tastes different, and better.
-Rose
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