Rear Security

With a mixture of disgust and awe, pool boy Felix LaPierre watched as Miss Bakersfield 2001 taught a rather complex cheerleading routine to a gaggle of female guests on the pool deck of the West Coast Hotel. The ages of the curious chorus line ranged from eight to eighteen, and as Felix observed their rehearsal from the comfort of his umbrella covered towel stand he began to fear for the future of California’s youth.

Miss Bakersfield’s brother, Private Roger Gunnarson of the United States Army reserve descended the stairs onto the pool deck clad in board shorts, Ray Bans, and flip flops with a Corona Extra in one hand.

Miss Bakersfield, who must have had a killer body until the endless beer bongs and chili cheese fries had caught up with her, was barely covering herself with an indiscreet Honey Ryder two-piece; a pack of “CancAir” Ultralights stuck under the fabric next to her honey spot, exposing a fierce tan line.

With a shrill, barely tolerable voice she called out to her brother, “Lay down a beat for me and my girls!” Roger smiled as he covered his mouth and began beat-boxing a spirited hip-hop rhythm. “Okay girls, take it from the top,” Miss Bakersfield ordered, “and let’s see some tits and teeth!”

The entire population of the pool deck turned to watch the spectacle and became immediately riveted. The younger girls were a step or two behind for most of the routine, but the older ladies sold it with exuberant panache. The number ended in a distastefully provocative tableau, prompting thunderous applause from their captive audience.

The girls scattered across the pool deck, the older ones heading for the hot tub and the rest gleefully running to jump into the pool.

“No running!” Felix bellowed with authority. The CPR uncertified pool boy shook his head with a sigh and looked over to see Miss Bakersfield holding a CanCair gingerly between her fingers.

She smiled at Felix, leering at him over her matching white Coco Chanel sunglasses as if to say “Come light my fire pool boy.”

Taking the silent cue, Felix pulled out his light-up tittie/coochie lighter and sauntered over to her. He lit her up and she blew her first drag directly into his face.

“Thanks baby,” she cooed through the smoke.

“No problem Peaches,” Felix replied with a devious smirk.

Miss Bakersfield 2001 sat down in her chaise lounge chair and let her smoking hand rest just above her navel. Felix gave the deck a cursory glance to see if anyone was watching and planted himself down next to her. She scooted closer and brushed her cheek across his face, almost forcing Felix to give it a gentle kiss. She turned to him, their lips almost touching and muttered, “Awww…thanks baby.”

The world’s greatest pool boy and Kern county’s girl next door were both being vicious teases. Felix avoided fooling around with hotel guests, not wishing to mix business with pleasure. He might be a pool boy, but he had to retain at least some semblance of professionalism or professionality or whatever….Felix was too horny to wrangle with vocab!

All of a sudden the tingle of Felix’s pool boy sense—the same innate ability which allowed him to know when some local kid had stuck a stick into the locked pool access gate to ensure constant entry—Felix felt that someone was watching them.

The intrepid pool boy looked up to see Miss Bakersfield’s brother eying them intently. At first Felix mistook the curious gaze as some sort of protective brotherly glare, but quickly realized it was a look of jealousy. Jealousy of his sister.

Miss Bakersfield looked to her empty margarita glass. “Hang on honey,” she said, wrapping her hands around Felix’s neck, “I need a repair.” The overly-buxom blond got up and began an ass-shaking strut over to the cabana hutched pool bar.

Before Felix could get up, Private Gunnarson walked up and awkwardly took his sister’s seat.

“What’s up pool boy?”

“Not much,” Felix responded.

“Pretty chill job you got here my friend.”

Felix glanced out onto the gorgeous panorama of the pacific he took for granted each day and dispassionately mused, “There’s certainly worse places to come to work in the morning.”

“And it looks like you get paid to sit on your…uh…ass..most of the day,” Private Gunnarson added thoughtfully.

“Yeah, well considering I make a living wage in a town with the most expensive real estate this side of Tokyo, I make a pretty exurbanite sum relative to the amount of work I do,” Felix commented. “And honestly,” the pool boy continued, “I don’t think I could handle any more of a challenging job than this. I mean you’re in the army dude…you’ve gotta be a brawler to do that job.”

“Yeah, well I’m just in the reserves,” Roger admitted. “I spend most of my time at school.”

“Oh yeah. Where you at?” Felix inquired.

“Oh, Chico State,” Roger replied casually.

“Cool,” said Felix, trying to hide his condescending attitude towards the school which made his city-on-a-hill-in-the-forest stoner paradise of a UC look like the fucking Starfleet Academy.

“So, the discipline you get from the service probably helps you with school, huh?” Felix continued, desperately grasping for something to stave off the bizarre homoerotic vibes Roger was sending him with a slightly gaping mouth and an odd twinkle in his eyes.

“Yeah, I guess,” the worked up soldier replied. “Sometimes the C.O….”

“Uh…commanding officer?”
“Yeah the C.O. wakes us up at like four am and sends us on training sorties, making us lie in the dirt for fifteen hours staring down the shaft of our rifles. You find yourself fixating on a line of ants or some shit just to stay awake and focused.”

“See,” said Felix with forced appreciation, “I couldn’t teal with that shit. I can barely sit by a pool filled with dozens of MILFs and their jailbait daughters for five minutes without going stir crazy.”

Roger ignored LaPierre’s comment and stared even more intensely at him. “Sometimes,” Private Gunnarson continued, “I get so fucking horny out there with my dick in the dirt I can barely sit still.”

“Uh…”

Roger babbled on, his eyes starting to glaze over. “I just start thinking if I could just fire my weapon it could all go away. Like some lead fucking orgasm, y’know?”

Felix didn’t know.

“But I can’t. It’s like the biggest fucking cock tease you could imagine. And it just doesn’t go away, even when I go back to school. I go out and find some chick and just rail the shit out of her. But I’m not even thinking about her. I’m still in the woods, still thinking about that goddamn rifle and my fucking dick in the ground. And when I finally blow my wad, it’s like I’m not even there. I’m just out in the forest firing my weapon…over…and over again.”

There was an excruciatingly awkward pause. Felix searched for something to say. “So, uh…” he stammered, “what exactly is your uh…unit…training for?”

“Rear security,” Private Roger Gunnarson informed him.

“Excuse me?”

“Rear security. If we ever go into a combat situation, they send in the Alpha unit and we sit back and watch their ass. Y’know? Hang out in the rear.”

Felix could barely control his laughter. He looked at this poor, confused, and ridiculously well built closet case and saw a millennia-old tradition of Greco-Roman infantry man-love coursing through his veins. For thousands of years, guys like Private Roger Gunnarson have been watching each other’s asses with resolve, determination, and inexplicably binding duty.

Roger returned to planet Earth. “So you go to school here?” he asked.

“Uh, yeah,” Felix replied.

“Well, you should come and visit Chico some weekend.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“We’ll hit up some parties, get trashed, find some punanny. You can crash in my bed, I mean at my place. I mean you’ll crash my bed and I’ll crash on the couch.”

“Uh, yeah. Sounds like fun.”

Miss Bakersfield 2001 called out from the balcony of her room, “Rogie! We’re going to dinner! Come up and put some clothes on!”

The young pool boy stood up quickly and Roger followed suite.

“Alright pool boy, I’ll see you later.” Private Gunnarson said as he slapped Felix on the ass with the kind of locker room abandon that rarely sees the light of day. Felix tried his best to smile as Roger walked towards the pool gate.

“Rear security,” Felix LaPierre muttered with a laugh as he strolled back over to his towel stand. The world’s greatest pool boy suddenly felt safer than he ever had before, because he knew that no matter how deeply the war on terror would drag the country into ruin, guys like Private Roger Gunnarson would be watching America’s rear.

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