'Gush' by Jan Simpson

I’m all goose-pimply as we leave the warmth of the shady swimming pool for the dash to the outdoor jacuzzi.  Couples canoodle in the steamy mist and there’s nowhere to sit, so we hover by the waterfall jet, bouncing from foot to foot.  A space appears at last and we squeeze in together.  The bubbles force their way up and around us inflating our costumes until our boobs look massive and though you’re giggling, they spurt in my mouth and up my nose and it smells and tastes of other people’s money.  And I need to pee, so start shoogling from side to side and wondering if anyone ever has a sneaky wee.  But it might be a really big one and I won’t be able to stop and you’ll feel the hot gush on your leg, and you’ll tell everyone at school that your mother was right, that I wouldn’t know how to behave in a place like this.  So I hold it in, clenching and squeezing and it begins to snow.  Tilting my head back I feel the flakes nip my cheeks and catch some on my tongue.  I watch them cling to your long lashes and dissolve on your shoulders like temporary white freckles.  That’s where it all starts for me, wanting you so badly and wanting that moment to last and last and my thighs and bum and stomach burn and I can’t do anything to stop myself.  

Our towels have been folded neatly at the end of our loungers.  I’d grabbed two on the way in.  I could have had three, or even four.  Nobody counted them out or complained they would take forever to dry, hanging on an airer in the back bedroom, until they were stiff with shame and beginning to smell.