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The midcentury oasis is a veritable treasure trove of coolly painted architecture. Pink doors, white walls, floor-to-ceiling windows, Palmer & Krisel, Wexler, Cody. All of the clean-lined, bright structures do little, however, to dissipate the heat of the desert, which this particular day is creeping over the 110-degree mark.
Illumi Zoldyck is used to this. Scratching one ankle, delicately clad in a tiny sock disappearing into a classic pair of Tretorns, he shifts one leg over the other and ignores the sweat on his thighs. The heat is dry; there are unlimited bottles of water on ice in a barrel-style cooler on the side of the courts. Every summer, it's been the same for the last few years since he turned 14, he's been coming to the tennis club to hit with fellow privileged teens for a week or two in the heat of the luxury desert sun. His parents, for whatever reason, seem to think this is some sort of necessary finishing glaze to his deportment, although he's being trained in the family business--an industry that isn't exactly conducive to genteel sports.
At any rate, in an hour or two, he can shed the tennis whites and go swimming, then indulge in sundown hijinks. The tennis club is one of the oldest in the desert; the courts are renowned, but the resort lodging is not as fancy or trendy as, say, the Parker or L'Horizon. However, Silva and Kikyo Zoldyck have a fondness for the place due to its impeccable retro credentials and celeb/mafia-heavy history. Illumi himself is fine with it; it's not terribly difficult to get a car down to the Colony Palms, and the main drag is just a short walk away.
Right now, he's hitting alternately with a couple of rich kids he's forgotten the names of. Him and Her. That'll do.
"Illu," yells Him. "Come on out, you're up." Illumi stands up and brushes off his skirt, casts a glance at his long legs. He shaved them this morning out of habit, but has been perversely letting his underarms go and deliberately wearing sleeveless, braless ever-so-slightly-sheer white on top. He knows he will have to conform and put on a proper suit when he goes to the pool after their set, but for right now, he'll take what he can get away with.
"You hit good," says Him. "For a girl."
"Don't be sexist," jeers Her. "Illu is fucking hardcore. Don't let Him push you around," she says.
Hell no, thinks Illumi. He serves with a explosion of power that elicits a grunt from his throat, then roundly lambasts Him after a vicious volley with a perfect backhand stroke.
Fingering his hair, which he's put in two long French braids, Illumi flips out a bottle of iced water from the barrel and takes several greedy gulps. "Good set," he says calmly. "Let's go to the pool? We can walk to the strip after for dinner."
At the pool, the trio drink wine and surreptitiously light up a joint, keeping it out of view of the older clientele baking in the late afternoon sun. "Your folks here?" Her asks Illumi. "Mine are over there, check them out." She indicates two bronzed individuals in their early 50s sitting in chaises, sunglasses hiding their eyes. It's unclear if they are awake or not.
Illumi hides the joint with the palm of his left hand. "No, thank God," he says. Neither one of his parents are much for sun and chlorine, and every year, they simply send Illumi on his own. He tries to imagine Silva and Kikyo at the tennis club and fails to get a clear picture, although he has borrowed his mother's immaculately cut black maillot--which she rarely uses--for this particular visit.
Stoned and sweating, Illumi dives into the deep end of the pool and swims underwater for several minutes without coming up for air. He feels his braids drift against his back. I won't cut my hair, he thinks to himself. I like it. Humming some popular song he'd heard on the sound system at the club restaurant earlier that morning during breakfast, he twirls around in the water and allows it to rush under his suit, under his arms, and around his unhurried, lazily kicking legs.
Surfacing, he calls to Him and Her. "I don't know about you two, but I am starving. Want to go to the strip now? Let's just walk up to La Bonita's before it gets too crowded." He pushes himself out of the pool and dries off. "I just need to put some clothes on. Give me a minute."
"I need more than a minute," protests Her, but Him and Illumi shout her down. "No, no. Just throw on your cutoffs and a t-shirt."
Her gives in. The three walk the short block to the strip and hang a left to the trendy taqueria. Illumi procures a seat outside, where they can observe all the tourists walking by. Him and Her go to order food at the counter, leaving Illumi to bask in the setting sun. He rubs his bicep, left bare in the thin white tank he's wearing.
As Him and Her approach the table following putting in the order, Illumi--still stoned--regards them, thoughts curling slowly in his mind. I kind of want to fuck both of them, he thinks. I probably can only do one tonight.
As a test case, he signals Him. "Look," Illumi says, snickering. When Him looks over, Illumi raises his tank for a flash. His breasts are beautiful, barely formed and just jutting out a tiny bit like shiny new toys. "Pretty, aren't they?" he says. To his surprise, none of the tourists passing by on the sidewalk immediately in front of their table seems to register what is going on, which somehow enhances the entire gesture.
Him stares, then laughs. "I can't criticize," he says. "What do you think?" he addresses Her.
"You're bad, Illu," giggles Her, taking a bite of cauliflower taco. Illumi gazes at her and begins to go deep in his mind. I want a cock, he thinks. I want to know what it feels like to stick an actual cock into her, over and over and over until I... He surreptitiously touches his crotch and is dissatisfied with what he already knows; there isn't anything of any volume there, but he can feel his epicenter burning hotly, an energy force of infinite and indeterminate proportion.
"You aren't eating, Illu," says Him. "Not hungry?"
Illumi takes a taco and bites into it. "I think I had a little too much sun today. Should we get going back soon?"
The sun has just about gone down over the towering mountains at this point. Tourists continue their up and down march down Palm Canyon. Illumi is wondering what he wants to do with the upcoming hours. He's not hungry, he doesn't need any more weed, not sure if he wants any more alcohol, not sure which of his acquaintances he wants to strip down in front of. He guesses Him will want to fuck him in the traditional manner. He guesses Her will giggle like she did at dinner, and say she's not into that sort of thing.
Neither scenario appeals to Illumi, although he would be happy with alternates of his own choosing for either one of them. Feeling a bit frustrated, he takes out his key card at the tennis club resort gate.
"We'll hit in the morning again?" says Him.
"Breakfast first, at Spencer's," says Her.
"Yes to both," says Illumi. He walks to his room and lets himself in.
Lying down on the bed, he allows his hand down his shorts, touching himself, feeling the heat that seems so large, so powerful between his legs. He drifts the other hand up his tank, feeling the delicate buds of his chest.
Falling asleep, when he wakes up in the morning, he unbraids his hair to a glorious mass of kinks in the mirror. By 9 a.m., the temperature is already 100 degrees.