If you don’t know the Pool, it’s probably because you’re not gay, boozy or particularly randy, or preferably all three. His gaze quickly moves on to the next focus of his (easily diverted) attention: an olive-skinned, firm-chested man whose nipples, he boisterously marvels, are extraordinarily hard and pointy. He positions his hand to the back of his head like a Roman god, gives me his best Marilyn-Monroe-seducing-the-camera eyes, then breaks at the knee like a schoolgirl about to curtsy.
