At an undisclosed location in Sonoma, a woman is trying to enjoy herself at the closest thing there is to a “private” pool for middle-class people. A pool you have to pay to get into. As it turns out, that doesn’t really “thin the herd.” There are so many people willing to pay top dollar for the illusion of a privileged situation. But the only thing “privileged” at this pool was the ability to pay out the nose for a can of Illy coffee (no “real” coffee was available—as in: coffee actually made on the premises out of a machine). Which the woman, Maddy, was willing to do thanks to the sense of caffeine withdrawal she was experiencing. Desperate times call for succumbing to outrageous prices, after all. Of course, who could feel “sorry” for Maddy amid her state of flagrant “white girl problems”? Except that, when one looked around, it didn’t take long to see that there were plenty of non-whites populating the so-called luxury setting. And, Maddy, from her inherently racist perspective, had to wonder how “they” could all afford it. Weren’t expensive price points supposed to weed more people out? Not in California. 

It felt as though everyone found a way to afford those things that they really shouldn’t be able to. Right down to insanely-priced monthly car insurance. Maddy often wondered how she even managed to…until she remembered it was something her work helped to subsidize. Not that the state government wouldn’t have helped her subsidize it if she were “low-income.” As far as Maddy was concerned though, she was. Otherwise, she would have been able to afford a truly private pool. Which, she supposed, meant owning a house that actually had a pool instead of wasting her money on monthly rent at an apartment complex that didn’t even provide a dead pool as an amenity.

So here she found herself, shelling out $250 alone for a day at this theoretically “exclusive” pool at one of the many bougie wineries that the county had to offer. And apparently one of the only ones anybody else had heard about. No one seemed to mind that outside food and beverage was banned from entry, making it impossible to save money elsewhere by not spending it on something like a twenty-five-dollar burger or, as mentioned, an eight-dollar can of “coffee.” Perhaps Maddy had only surrendered to the idea of coming here because it was a means to lure her “sort of” boyfriend, Andrew, along. He wasn’t likely to say no to the offer of a free day at the pool, plus an invitation extended to two other people of his choosing (the cost of $250, at the very least, covered a total of four persons beneath the umbrella). Because, luckily for Andrew, Maddy wasn’t exactly “flush” with friend choices.

Perhaps this is why she was reliant upon forcing a relationship with Andrew to work. Without one, she would have had little else to funnel her untapped social energies into. Not that she really wanted to. For the thing about her “social energies” was that she only had the ability to funnel them into romance. That was what she felt she got the most out of doing in lieu of “cherishing” platonic friendships. You didn’t have the chance of getting an orgasm from those. Though, to be fair, sometimes the chances of getting an orgasm out of a romantic relationship felt equally as remote. Yet Andrew had managed to do a fairly sufficient job. This being part of why she was so determined to sustain his interest. Therefore, the spending of all this money to prove her worth…even though it should have been the other way around. But such is the way with straight men. Because they’re always at a premium, women are willing to pay premium in order to hold onto them. 

Just as Maddy was doing that very day, clutching to Andrew’s arm with a desperation she tried her best not to radiate. She supposed it was fortunate that the additional two people Andrew decided to bring along were a couple that consisted of one very aloof man and one very clingy woman. Their names were Ethan and Nicole. Ethan was thirty-four, Nicole was twenty-one. Recently turned, in fact. Something she liked to bring up every time the server came by to ask if anyone wanted another drink. To which she would reply, “I’m finally legal so fuck yeah I want another drink.” Never mind that each cocktail cost approximately sixteen dollars. It wouldn’t take her long to rack up a one-hundred dollar tab just for her drink orders alone. But what did she care when she knew Ethan was paying? She also didn’t seem to care about making a total spectacle of herself by constantly throwing her lips and her body at Ethan, even when it was clear that public displays of affection made him uncomfortable. That’s why Maddy felt some of the pressure was off her for being generally needy in her comportment toward Andrew.

She knew that’s likely what had caused him to shy away from her these last few weeks. Or maybe “recoil” was the better word. Maddy didn’t think it was impossible that maybe he saw some sort of internal ugliness emanating from her that she had yet to acknowledge herself. Besides, wasn’t it only the exterior that counted to men anyway? That was actually a comfort to Maddy, who despised such California notions as “inner peace.” In contrast, Andrew made his living off it—he owned his own successful yoga studio in Nob Hill. That’s actually how she had met him. She was sure many other women he had “dated” (read: casually fucked) had met him that way, too. But, for whatever reason, she wanted to believe there was something “different” about her. That she stood out to him. She must have, if she had managed to keep him around this long. From what she had learned about his previous pattern with women, he usually only went about three weeks before “cashing out.” There was a reason YogiBear had a high turnover rate. Maddy rarely saw the same woman twice. But the fact that there was never a shortage of them (or gay men, for that matter) was a testament to Andrew’s appeal. 

Maddy knew he could have his pick of any girl in the tri-county area. That he “chose” her for this long was something that made her feel special. Until it didn’t. Because, as mentioned, it was obvious he was pulling away. The “exclusive” pool was supposed to change that. Remind him that she was “fun” and “independent.” Didn’t expect him to pay for all their outings the way someone like Nicole did. Of course, that could actually be a turn-off to some men, but she reckoned it wasn’t to Andrew, who had likely been taken advantage of many times in the past. Unfortunately, it seemed he was as unimpressed by the pool as Maddy. Not only was it filled with screaming children (honestly, places like this should charge more for a child’s head than an adult’s), but the pool was also rather small. Particularly considering that the facility didn’t seem concerned with capping the number of people after a certain capacity had been reached. Between the incessant cackling of the woman next to them (yes, she was Black, as Andrew pointed out offhandedly in his description of her), the lack of selection on the menu (paired with its absurd price points) and the general inability to actually use the pool because it was filled to the brim, it didn’t take long for Andrew and co. to get antsy about leaving well before closing time (which was early enough at five p.m.). 

So there Maddy was, collecting her things from the chaise at around two p.m. as the others changed back into their “street clothes.” They figured that there was at least still a little bit of time to hit up one of the nearby wineries. Make something out of this “waste.” This fucking trek to fucking Sonoma. Maddy suddenly felt like an idiot for trying to make this happen. For not just opting, instead, for some equally as expensive rooftop pool in San Francisco. She could have just booked a room for the night at the Hilton or something and gained access that way. This was so much more embarrassing because of the lengths one had to go in order to get here. Only to be met with such public pool vibes. It was true what everyone said: being middle-class was the new lower-class and being lower-class was the new homeless. 

As though the universe was punishing her for those classist thoughts, in that very instant she felt something on the back of her neck and swatted at it, assuming it was a fly or some errant flower or leaf blown in the wind. Turned out, it was an enraged honeybee who stung her ring finger at the slight of being touched. Interrupted from her work at hand. And yes, it was a female bee, for they’re the only ones who sting. Even Mother Nature, for all her femininity, had to imbue bee culture with this kind of sexism. The idea that only women are bitches. The truth, though, is that women are the only ones willing to go to self-decimating lengths to protect and/or go after what they want. Men never really have to. In the world of bee colonies, that translates to: drones. That’s right, the male bees are called drones. It couldn’t be more appropriate. Andrew and Ethan were droning themselves as Nicole overheard them in the cabine next to hers talking about what a sweet piece of ass she was, and that, if it weren’t for that, Ethan wasn’t sure he could stand her. 

Meanwhile, Maddy stared in horror at the gaping red puncture in her finger, the stinger still lodged in it before she shook herself out of her reverie long enough to quickly remove it. Overcoming the strange shock of the incident, she thought it was best to approach a lifeguard who might have some disinfectant and hydrocortisone cream to offer. Or, at the minimum, an ice pack. That is, indeed, all the lifeguard who ended up assisting her had to give…at first. His name was Eric, and he was extremely slow to remove the necessary contents from his kit that might help diminish her pain. He was probably Nicole’s age, but something about him made him seem older. Maybe his muscular build and already rough-hewn-from-the-sun skin.

When he smiled at her, his teeth looked blindingly white against his tan complexion. The reason he smiled was because he had to take down her information after handing her a conciliatory ice pack that quickly grew warm because of its ersatz nature. In effect, it was useless. And now she was forced to indulge Eric in an “incident report” about something that could barely be classified as such. It was more like a non-event. She felt like an over-reactive white bitch who should have just left the premises without telling anyone she had been stung. Wasn’t that what women were supposed to do anyway? Just suffer their pain in silence?

As she considered this, Eric seemed to be considering something as well as he asked, “And your age?”

That was where Maddy drew the line. As far as she was concerned, she was ageless. Birthed from a cirrus cloud that made her ethereally immortal. And immune to the ravages of time. When she kept saying she would not tell him, he finally wrote, “N/A.” Which Maddy always took to mean “not applicable” rather than “not available.” When he finished writing her name and city of origin, he smiled at her again and said, “Well, that’s all I can really do for you. We’re not allowed to administer medications or creams or anything like that.” 

This place is the fucking worst, she replied in her head. But maybe this was the rule at all public pools. And this was very much, as established, a public pool. With the illusion of privateness because you had to pay. 

Seeing the wheels turn in her head, a flash of deviousness flickered across Eric’s face as he added, “There might be one natural cure I can think of though.”

“Oh?” Maddy said, perking up a bit.

“Follow me.” 

***

Behind an array of Italian cypress trees, Eric sucked on her finger. At first, his priority genuinely was to suck out the poison, until it devolved into him simply sucking lasciviously on her finger and working his way up. Maddy wondered if he did this type of thing all the time. The way Andrew did with his yoga students. Letting him kiss her, at that moment, she didn’t care. Eric was really doing it for and she had no concern over getting caught at this point. She knew both Andrew and Ethan were far too distracted staring at Nicole’s cleavage and ass to think too much about where Maddy might have disappeared to. 

The two sank down onto the ground, and Maddy let him pull off her bathing suit bottom so she could feel what else he had to offer. She wanted to drown in his sweaty, glistening body. Because it was the only way to numb the bee sting out, in addition to her general mindset. Knowing that things would be over with Andrew after today. This was the last “audience” he would give her before gradually fading out. That would leave her with no one to focus on but herself. So, for the time being, she would focus on Eric. On the eroticism of this fuck. She gorged on it, demanding seconds and thirds, because she knew it would be all she had to sustain herself for what would likely be months. She would use it to masturbate, too, thinking back to this unexpected orgasm in the sequestered gardens of a faux luxury pool, located on the grounds of a winery. 

Eric might have gone on pleasuring her longer, were it not for the sound of someone on his walkie-talkie inquiring, “Eric what’s your location?”

Scrambling to pick up the walkie-talkie, he answered, “En route back to pool.”

Barely addressing that she was still underneath him, Eric grabbed for his red shorts and popped up to put them on. This followed by his white tank top (he had never removed the whistle from his neck while fucking her, a detail she would also conjure in her flashback fantasies of the “session”). He was now presented in the same form she had first encountered him in. As though she had never seen him naked at all. Suddenly remembering she was still there, he looked down and remarked, “That ought to take care of your sting, don’t you think?”

She said nothing, and that seemed to be his cue to leave without giving her a second thought. Maddy didn’t know how long she was lying there before her phone finally rang. Noting the time as three-fourteen p.m. when she picked it up, she saw that it was Andrew calling and answered.

“Hey.”

“Um, hey. Not sure where the hell you’ve been, but we’re driving to the Prisoner Winery right now. Maybe you can Uber there or something.” 

“Uh. Yeah. Maybe.”

Sensing her hesitancy, Andrew continued, “Or not. Whatever.”

Maddy paused for a few seconds before responding, “Better make it whatever. Don’t count on me.”

Andrew scoffed. “I never did.” He hung up, and that was that. 

Maddy kept lying there until closing time, just staring up at the sky, a perennial tinge of pollution preventing it from showcasing a pure blue. She had at least found the will to slip her bathing suit back on in case anyone actually encountered her out here, in this position. The position of dissatisfied bereftness. That was probably how the honeybee felt after taking its own plunge. Into her skin. Later, she would learn that only honeybees actually die from leaving their stingers in, discarding their entire digestive tract (and just about everything else from their lower body) in the process. Total self-annihilation for the sake of one brief “thrill.”