Russell Twyce

I Live In My Scuba Gear – Chapter Three

Warning: This story contains some fairly explicit sexual depictions

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For the next few days, Belinda stayed over. One day they drove to her apartment to collect fresh clothes and toiletries. She called her folks to assure them that aliens hadn’t abducted her but that rather she was on a special freelance assignment.

The interview sessions took place during the days and evenings, punctuated with frequent sex breaks and various outings. He hadn’t dropped any more conversation bombs like the admission of his having murdered his adoptive father. Rather, the talk was on whatever topic struck a moment’s fancy or detailing the exotic places he had been to and dwelled at. The bulk of his work experience had, not surprisingly, been related to scuba diving, scuba gear, diving equipment and/or swimming.

The two settled into a domestic routine that Belinda found to be surprisingly comfy. It was almost like they were newlyweds and the intercourse that went on without prophylactics or even usage of the Catholic rhythm method made cohabitation feel as if they were a church-wedded couple.

To be completely honest, Belinda quite enjoyed the unprotected sex. When he dived into her naked like that, it felt like she was swimming in the nude. When he came, there was a warm and gooey feeling inside her that made sex with a condom seem clinical in contrast. There was also the background fact that she could conceivably conceive and that bit of life drama turned their sex acts into reproduction events.

“Let’s go to the beach today.” Scott offered. “I’ll teach you how to scuba dive.”

Along the way he stopped off at a specialty sporting goods store for the appropriate scuba diving equipment.

“Can’t we just rent my scuba gear package?” Belinda cringed at the hit to her credit card that a full set of diving equipment might cost.

“We could,” he ushered her to the scuba gear section, “but I’ve seen the way rental diving gear is handled at a dive charter outfit. Most, but not all companies give their stuff a thorough maintenance but I’ve seen scuba gear abused worse than I was.”

He picked out diving gear items and got her to try them on. And a pile of equipment that met his approval grew steadily larger. There were scuba fins, a diving mask, snorkel, a scuba BC vest, regulator and a weight belt. The final selection was a sexy looking scuba diving wetsuit with short sleeves and the leggings ending at her mid thigh. But there her meager finances rebelled.

“I don’t think I’ll need the scuba wetsuit: it’s such a nice warm day.”

“Try telling me that after we’ve been down to about 10 meters or so.” He grabbed the bundle and headed for the store’s checkout. “The warm sunshine isn’t quite as toasty in deeper water.

Belinda’s worst fear, an embarrassing transaction declined message, didn’t materialize though, as he flipped his credit card onto the counter. They wheeled the purchases out to his SUV and loaded them in the back beside his equipment bag.

“What if it turns out that I don’t enjoy scuba diving?” Belinda asked.

“Then I suppose I’ll have to offer it all to the next hot female reporter who wants me to grant her an interview.”

She could tell from his expression that he wasn’t being serious, so she punched him on the shoulder. Her hit was fairly hard: it was stronger than she had intended.

“I barely even felt that.” Scott laughed and scoffed. “Luther’s right hook was a like a freight train coming around a tight corner.”

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“Fully understand one concept before we move onto the next.” Scott grasped her scuba mask and he kicked his flippers: he towed her like that out to deeper water, laughing all the way. Then he stopped kicking and relaxed his grip. Her scuba mask settled onto her face but it was a bit cockeyed. “Let’s go back down to the reef and watch the fish swimming again. This time pay careful attention of how they use their tails and play back the video clips to compare that with my unique kick.”

…

“You’ll not likely finish so far ahead of the rest in the next Olympic games.” Belinda had sat in the truck quietly thinking, before uttering the pronouncement. “Others will have copied Fosbury’s flop.”

“A flop?” His attention was diverted from his driving. “And who is this Fosbury?”

“All high jumpers used to drape their bodies over the bar with their bellies facing down. Then in the 1968 Mexico City Olympic games, a high jumper named Richard Fosbury stunned the world and captured the gold by employing a different style. He went over the bar with his chest facing up instead and it became known as the Fosbury Flop.”

“A ‘flop’ described his odd looking drape over the bar?” Scott correctly guessed.

“Then in the following 1972 Munich games,” she continued, “more than half of the high jumpers employed his technique.”

“Whether or not others emulate my style doesn’t concern me whatsoever. For one thing, in order to beat me, other swimmers would have to overcome my final edge.

“And that is?” The sports reporter asked.

“A coach wants his athletes to follow his game plan. He gets them to start fast and then coast from there, or perhaps he’ll order them to start slowly to conserve the best strength for a powerful finish. My game plan begins with expending maximum effort and then to keep accelerating with all I have, to the end.”

“That would be your poetic heart.” She concluded it for him.

“And secondly,” his resuming caught her off guard because she had forgotten that his previous, ‘for one thing’, had hinted of another reason, “I’ll not be competing in the Olympics again. My times might be later bested, but I won’t be beaten.” Then in a muted tone he added. “I had more than my fill of that during my childhood years.”

Belinda Lyle went quiet. No matter how many times Scott casually remarked about Luther’s abuse, the thought still affected her as strongly each time. She just didn’t like to think about how it had been for the boy to endure it.

…

“Why won’t you do it again?” She asked later that evening, when they were in bed.

“I could gamely try my best,” Scott accurately guessed what she was referring to but an intentional was more fun, “but I think it’s too soon after our last for a reasonable hope of physiological success.”

“You know what I was asking.” Belinda’s fingers tweaked a tender place under the sheets. “So answer that intent or I’ll demand that you go for the second.”

“Decisions, decisions.” The athlete mocked a pause of thought. Then his demeanor became serious. “The reason I won’t compete in the Olympics again is closely linked to my motivation for entering the last games and to the driving force that spurred me to win my events. I wanted to find a strong voice.”

“Fanning water into an open mouth doesn’t grow gills and it hasn’t been shown to augment the development of vocal cords either.” In truth, Belinda had surmised the reason but she felt that some misconstrued turnabout would be fair play.

“Oh never mind.” He sighed. “I have an idea of how I can demonstrate it for you tomorrow.”

“That brings us back to the other meaning.” Her hand walked on her fingers like a crab and it headed straight for his male sex package. “Look on this experiment as a purely scientific study into the physique facts of your stamina and recovery times.”

…

“How old do you suppose she is?” Scott asked as a young streetwalker strolled by.
Instead of driving his truck, they took a taxi to the inner city and got dropped off at a coffee shop with an outdoor seating area. The view from their table was somewhat less than spectacular, as it only looked out over some rush hour traffic amid a light drizzling rain.

“Not very.” Belinda answered. She watched the teenager looking into car windows in hopes of finding a man who had left work horny.

“Yet according to the documentaries one sees on television, underage prostitution only seems to occur in poverty stricken parts of the third world.”

“People here don’t want to see it here.” She replied.

“He especially doesn’t seem to want to see it.” The Olympic swimmer nodded over at a crossing street where a police cruiser was stopped at the curb. “Do you suppose that her apparent age would be discernable from his current location? And does it appear that she’s trying to mask what she’s obviously attempting from him?”

“Easily to the first,” the reporter replied, “not in the slightest to the other. Instead, she’s overacting her intent and physically leaning towards each car to ensure the men inside are able to plainly see that she’s not just an innocent girl on the street.”

“So one could guess that even though the cop is currently looking at a clipboard, a could look in her direction has already shown him precisely what she is up to.”

“That is reasonable to assume.”

Scott then abruptly dropped the topic and he took a drink of his coffee.

“Your point?’ Belinda urged.

“It’s not such a nice day today.” Wagner remarked. The sky had a low overcast and the air was thick with moisture in the form of a fine drizzle.

“One constant thing about the weather, is that it’s always the weather.” Belinda said dryly in frustration over his obvious stalling tactic. “And another is that regardless of what we think of the weather, it will be exactly what it is until it changes into the form it will be next – of its own accord.”

“I see she’s found a mark.” Scott observed. A late model American car had stopped at the very young girl’s position. The man inside leaned over to roll down a window on the passenger’s side.

The streetwalker approached and bent over to discuss the terms. Behind the halted car, several other commuters honked their horns. “And the music of the tooting must’ve sparked the policeman to look over at least briefly.”

They watched as the girl climbed into the car. The vehicle moved forward again, to rejoin with the slow flow of traffic.

“I’m just a layman,” he continued, “but I should think that the crime of ‘soliciting a minor for the purpose of sex’ has already occurred here. Our faithful law upholder is just now jotting something in his pad, if it were the vehicle’s license number and he tagged along behind at a slight a distance, I can surmise that some other offenses could be fairly easily spotted. But obviously, the cop was oblivious to the scene. His cruiser has remained stationary.”

“He really might have legitimately missed it.” Belinda defended. “There may really be something riveting on his clipboard.”

“Your reciprocal blindness has just placed an imaginary fog to cloud what you know to be the real truth.” Scott took another sip of coffee. “But let’s wait a moment to see if this scenario will present us with more information. I’ve been here for coffee more than just this once, so I’ll give you this reality opera’s libretto. In a minute or so, the officer’s cell phone will ring. He’ll answer, listen without speaking and he’ll write something else on his notepad: I suspect it’s an address or a location.”

They watched for a few moments and events unfolded exactly as Scott predicted.

“I’ll attempt to put down my white cane for long enough for you to enlighten me.”

“The first thing the policeman wrote in his pad was the car’s tag number because he was well aware of what was going on. The phone call was from the girl, telling him where she could be found if her john turned into a bad trick. The police come down much harder on pimps, than they do on prostitutes—because pimping is the ideal moonlight job for police officers and they don’t want the competition. The overly young girl has to pay off his pretended blindness and his emergency protection with the coin of gratuitous sexual services and/or a commission of her received fee, with a dividend of insider street information. Should she refuse to cooperate, she would be arrested on a charge of prostitution and locked up in a juvenile offenders home—where her only customers would be the non-paying guards.”

Belinda was tempted to again remark on his omnipresent cynicism but she had just seen it as he did. The scenario as he described it was the most likely explanation.

“Now take the final exam.” Scott continued after a few seconds of her reverie. “Who would God think committed the worst sin here?”

“You’re the only one at this table who has had a death experience to go by.”

“That only qualifies me to grade your answer. You are as capable as anyone is of fathoming God’s mind.”

“Me.” Belinda Lyle answered after a pregnant pause. “And you, and the motorists behind who only honked their frustration over the minor traffic inconvenience.”

“That’s a perfect score. If we had done what we should’ve done, what blindness lets avoid doing, then that girl wouldn’t have her body exploited at such a tender age.”

“This has been your demonstration?”

“No.” Scott chuckled wryly. “I haven’t started that yet. This was only some gravy. Take some photos and videos of what you see here.” He set his digital camera on the table. “You should interview some of the participants.”

“I don’t really see anything going on.” Belinda looked around to confirm that only commonplace things were happening. The heavy traffic was stop and go. Several homeless men were walking between the lanes and using their squeegees to clean motorist’s windows. Because of the drizzling rain, the commuters were less than willing to pay for the cleaning of windows that would be dirtied again so quickly.

“You will.” Scott Wagner stood and removed his shirt. [Content protected for Chevron members only]

…

“What are you planning to do with those?” That evening after making love, Belinda’s eyes fell onto his four medals hanging on the bedpost. During her time with Scott, he hadn’t touched them or even seemed to notice they were there.

“At first I thought I’d use the gold to replace some lead in my weight belt. But having them there might lead to the theft of some treasured scuba gear. Lately though, I’ve been contemplating whether they would net more on Ebay if I sold them singly or as a complete set.” He crawled to the foot of the bed and grasped all four. “Offer me a good price.” Scott Wagner placed the Olympic medals around the girl’s neck. “And maybe you can take them before the bidding opens.”

“None of those are going to happen.” Belinda sternly warned. She had seen him on the computer earlier: he was drafting a message to someone. She hadn’t encroached on his privacy by trying to read it, but had noticed he was messaging from an Ebay account. “Those are the material emblems of your Olympic glory and your publicist absolutely requires you to have them physically available whenever she feels they need to be seen, either in the background or around your stiff neck.”

“I’ve already struck a tentative deal with a power seller.”

“You’ll immediately back down from it. Pay him off with some cash to unruffled his feathers if needs be or give him something else of yours to sell instead. The medals are now utterly OFF the auction block. Am I crystal clear on that?”

“Yes madam.” He acquiesced in the same meek tone of voice that a schoolboy might employ when telling the teacher that he wouldn’t throw rocks again.

…

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