43 - Pool Position

It’s summer, which means it’s hot. Not just in our bed—everywhere.

That’s why we set up a big temporary pool in the garden every year. Officially, of course, it’s for our daughter. But as with most so-called “children’s activities,” we all know the truth: kids are merely an alibi so adults can have guilt-free fun. Unofficially, the pool is for adults with a penchant for playfulness—and for shedding clothing.

You may already suspect it: yes, the mister and I occasionally end up in the pool wearing absolutely nothing. Our neighbors seem to have accepted that our garden turns into a nudist zone from time to time. Anyone still shocked simply lacks sufficient skylight experience. Sure, we fenced the yard tall and tight specifically to protect our naked frolicking, but from the attic windows of the surrounding houses, one can still catch a glimpse of our Garden—if one dares (or owns a decent zoom lens).

I assume our neighbors have formed a very… peculiar impression of Germans by now—and not just because my boobs come in two different sizes. After a vigorous midday bedroom workout in the blazing heat, few things are as refreshing as jumping into the pool. What gets the neighbors’ binoculars twitching, however, is when the midday sex isn’t with me—but he’s suddenly splashing around naked with a stranger. Even more fascinating, I suspect, is when half an hour later the equally naked wife joins them—because the husband’s new girlfriend invited her into our own pool. What sounds like the opening scene of someone’s filthy fantasy was, in reality, simply a bunch of friendly people skinny-dipping—two of whom had just had sex—no wedding ring, no cock ring in sight.

I bet curiosity drove our neighbors straight to the attic windows when they noticed the mister lounging in the pool and suddenly not speaking German as usual, but French—which in our neighborhood is considered suspicious. Or at least a solid “Oh là là!” 

Questions arise—questions whose answers would require either meticulous spying or the courage to ring our doorbell. And when, a few days later, they heard me speaking English—floating in the pool wrapped tightly around Leif—their desire for answers must have skyrocketed, while their foreign-language skills waved a little white flag.

By now, I’m certain they keep champagne chilled and dictionaries stacked by the window, ready for an attic-window picnic whenever they hear water splashing on our side of the fence. I’m curious how long it’ll take before we hear the first pointed remark while taking out the trash. Or whether the French really are as discreet as their reputation claims. For scientific purposes, we’ve scheduled a test: a joint post-threesome swim with Chloé and Nele—to cool down, not to provoke. No one should overheat—except maybe the neighbors.

As for us, we’ve decided: we protect our child—but we don’t give a damn what the neighbors think. Let them cancel their YouPorn subscription (annoying anyway, now that you have to verify your age), buy themselves binoculars—we all spend too much time in front of screens already.

With a little courage, they might even discover a new relationship model blossoming in the next garden over. Maybe what they see shimmering in our pool isn’t scandal—it’s simply their own longing to be a little freer.