This story and its characters are fiction. It is a personal fantasy which I am sharing with you. If any character resembles you or someone you know, I WANT DETAILS, you lucky fucker, preferably with photos! It is, of course, copyrighted by the author with all rights reserved and very, very negotiable. Also, keep the cum coming -- Donate to Nifty TODAY at donate.nifty.org/donate.html! I'm an old guy (>30). I know what it was like when you had to BUY porn. Five miles uphill both ways in the snow just to GET to the XXX store. You whippersnapper don't know how good you've got it.
This involves sex between consenting (>16 yo) males; if that is illegal for who/where you may be right now, fuck off and get thee to a monastery (where you might just find scenes similar to some below). Also, please note that all my stories exist in a world where STDs are neither common nor deadly. Don't be a fucking idiot; use protection. 'To die for' sex should never lead to your actual death.
I like hearing from people but I also hate spam. If you get off on flaming people, please know that you will HATE the results. I will read your missive and weave you and your comments into my next story to the point that you cry like a little girl. Bullies get as bullies give.
NOTE: This is a story of teen (>16) self-discovery. Thus, sex will arrive far later. If you are looking for a quick stroke, you really are not going to enjoy this for several chapters. It is absolutely infested with awful things like "plot" and "dialogue" and the inevitable teen angst. Apologies in advance.
Canvas Hell 1: Arrival of the Damned By Bear Pup
T/T; no sex this chapter; self-discovery
Camp Sinnemahoning was a Boy's Camp in the highlands of Pennsylvania for not-quite-rich teens, 13 to 17 years of age (18-year-olds could return as "leaders"). All the kids called it Camp Sin, though there was precious little opportunity for sinning (or so I believed when I was a stripling). I had been to camp in the summer of my 13th year, but the last three summers were pre-empted -- the first by the untimely death of my grandmother, the second by my father's promotion and move to a new city, and the third by Mom's paranoia about the Swine Flu in 1976. So unlike the rest of the kids around me, I was a 17-year-old semi-novice.
When it came to anything other than the camping aspect, I was certainly NOT a "semi"-novice. I was a complete one. I was about as impenetrably-naive as it was possible to be; in the 70s, that was quite a lot. My parent were children of the 60s Cultural Revolution and were thus fully aware of all the wonderfully-sinful things from which I needed to be protected. They came to Faith a bit late in the game, so they had a win-win -- a decadent youth and a pious adulthood. Basically, a recipe for a miserable teenager.
So... me at barely-17? I was late to my growth. I matured about normal with the startling appearance of hair down there at 12 that spread to you've got to be kidding by 14. What I didn't get in a timely manner was the growth spurt. Apparently, I'd plateaued at 14 and stayed in a nightmarishly-in-between holding pattern until my 16th year. I then grew fast enough that Mom complained of having to buy new pants and shoes every weekend (an exaggeration, but not by much). I went from soprano to baritone to tenor and back more often than a Broadway musical, settling in the lower register just a few scant months before this tale ensues. I was now an utterly-awkward 6' 1" and my weight had yet to catch up to my height. Add thick-rimmed glasses (were there any others in the 70s?) and at 160 lbs I looked more like a praying mantis than anything else.
I also had (okay, HAVE) the self-esteem of oatmeal. So I climbed off the bus at the Camp Sin main gate, a head taller than most (I tried to slouch), bespectacled (I stared at the ground) naive and intimidated man-child. All I wanted was to find my cabin, stow my crap and hide in the crowd of orientation lectures. Fate, as always, was NOT on my side.
"LISTEN UP campers!" a camp aide bellowed. His voice didn't carry; it hoisted with a winch. I wasn't the only one to jump. Everyone congealed in the inevitable circle. "We are, for the second year running, OVERBOOKED. Some of you lucky campers will have the bonus of a REAL camp experience. You won't be stuck in a stuffy and crowded cabin. NO! You'll be rooming with only ONE other guy in your own private TENT!" A few half-hearted cheers greeted this announcement. I was a connoisseur of hiding in a crowd; the idea of trying to vanish in a group of two undid me. The aide started reading the names of the "lucky" guys sharing tents. The first name was...
"Kennedy! Patrick!" Sigh. Me. Did I mention that I was Irish Catholic? With flaming orange hair and more freckles than body hair (a fact true to this day)? Sorry, forgot that juicy detail. Bonus: When I blushed, I turned a shade of red that clashed stunningly with my hair and made my freckles glow like nuclear waste. The first name called. Singled out when already terrified. My face lit up like Times Square.
"Mueller! Karl!" A head snapped up about a third of the way round the circle. I had always envisioned German guys as the Nazi Youth poster-child: thin, tall, blonde, rosy-cheeked, enthusiastic, chipper. Karl had the rosy cheeks and nothing else. He was a furrow-browed, surly, short, dark, wider-than-tall, hairy, muscle-bound tank. "Patrick and Karl - Tent 9 - See George at the mess hall! OFF YOU GO! Abrams! Eugene..." and the roll-call to hell proceeded as Karl and I fought our way to the back of the crowd.
We drew abreast and fell into rough step and Karl finally looked over at me. I hesitantly smiled, an expression that faded to a vacant grimace as I watched him assess me. The final verdict? He gave me the look you'd save for the man who had impregnated your pet poodle. Fucking GREAAAAT! I returned my eyes to close observation of my converse sneakers and plotted a variety of ways to kill myself during classes on macrame and basket-weaving. Some of those had started to flesh out into actual plans before we reached the "Mess Hall", a tent-thing of cavernous proportions. The posts and roof were like any real building, but with netting instead of walls to maximise the breeze. I think it was to disperse the stench of camp cooking, but could never prove the hypothesis.
We collided at the door as Karl assumed he would go first whilst I was blithely unaware that a doorway was involved. I think I was somewhere around 'carmine' on the colour scale at that point. George, though, turned out to be a spritely and effervescent youngish man who actually seemed to want to put us at ease. As far as I could tell, that only increased the surly quotient for Karl, but it did wonders for me. My blush faded to crimson as we got the location of our new, four-week home.
A bit about the layout of Camp Sin. The primary camp occupied a level clearing overlooking the river with a mess hall; boxy and air-conditioned administrative building; "Hygiene Hut"; gargantuan, open-air activity pavilion; and six large dormitory-cabins with canvas-and-mesh walls. Just above the main camp was a series of smaller cabins for the staff. Tents, we found, were scattered on flat (or kinda flat) spots within hailing distance of the main encampment, each atop a double-bed of shipping pallets to keep the tent above rain runoff and deter the less-dedicated creepy-crawly critters.
Tent 9 lay about 40 yard into the woods behind the shower/toilet/medical cabin euphemistically called the Hygiene Hut. It was between three towering beech trees with branches intertwined above it. We had a clear view to the "lake" (widening of the river) below us, but rapine quiet plus privacy from the main camp. The air was clear and scented with woodland flowers and dry loam on the zephyr breezes that shook our leafy ceiling. Looking back now, it was heaven on Earth.
Looking at it then, it was Siberia, an inescapable prison that would force me together with this, this troglodyte! I hadn't started out with a lot of hope when assigned to the tent. Every one of his glances at me, though, put another puncture in the limp balloon of my enthusiasm and it reflected in my own assessment of my cell-, um, tent-mate. As I stumbled over every rock and root on the path, further humiliating myself, I whiled away the short hike inventing nicknames for Karl. Knuckle-Dragging Nazi was too obvious. As I was an aficionado of Tolkien (actually, an adolescent addict), a new Thorin's Company brother of the dwarves Bifur, Bofur and Bombur named Buggerfur was the leading contender for Karl's nom de pits-of-gehenna.
It wasn't until we got to Tent 9 that the true horror of the reality hit home to both of us. Apparently, Karl was as experienced an outdoorsman as myself. We envisioned a "tent" as the kind of thing shown on MAS*H, open and spacious with a cosy central camp-stove and flaps that you raise to create a light and airy space. Um, not so much. This was a Canvas Hell. Tent 9 was a wedge nominally eight-by-seven (size dictated by the dimensions of the shipping pallets beneath). Simple geometry, though meant that the usable width at cot height was ever-so-slightly wider than the cots themselves, giving us about a foot of "hall" between and about eight inches at the foot of each cot.
Buggerfur didn't even look at me as he hove his backpack onto the left cot and started to untie his sleeping bag. I didn't think to object to his presuming which to take; first off I didn't care and second, on the rare times we'd walked abreast, that was the side on which he'd walked. I looked over our new gulag as I copied his movements, setting up my own kit. The frame was nine barked striplings, a triangle at each end connected by a slightly-heavier ridge pole and stringers on bottom of each side. A single panel of canvas ran seamlessly as floor and walls, a sort of triangular tube with flaps on each end. The back was sewn shut with a mesh "window" that could be covered with a flap and the front had both mesh and solid flaps that could be tied closed or rolled to each side.
One bonus of this was a nice, two-inch-thick "tripping bar" at the entrance with a delightful six-inch drop to the forest floor, a feature that I would make good and humiliating use of over the four weeks of residence. I proceeded to do so before I even finished sorting my kit; my heel caught and back I went onto my bony arse. A barked laughed and sneer showed Karl's distain. I took that as my cue to exit-stage-mortify and spun toward the Hygiene Hut. I thought I was about to sick up, but once inside a rather fetid (and door-less) cubicle, I felt a bit better as I rested on a commode. My breathing slowed a bit and the tiniest fraction of perspective came back to me.
No, I was not some precocious wunderkind. So for me as with all boys, four weeks was an eternity and the slightest misstep was a disgrace that would utterly poison my entire future. However, Karl was the only boy who had treated me like an outcast; others had smiled and even waved as I made my way through the camp. Yes, I would have to interact with him more than any other human (using the term loosely enough to include Buggerfur), but he was the only guy amongst the horde to have seen me humiliate myself, and the only one who even seemed to care. Slightly more at ease, I started to feel a bit more human.
Since I was in the Hygiene Hut already, I decided to take piss before leaving. I was just shaking off the last drops when Karl and a trio of other campers he seemed to know (I provisionally named them Buggers 2, 3 and 4) came into the facilities.
"If you're finished fisting yourself, McJackOff, me mates and I need to use the pisser."
Every ounce of breath left me at this stunningly-unfair attack. The fact that I had actually considered a quiet wank to relieve the tension would have made me blush anyway, but the twin humiliation and fury of Karl's insinuation and his pals' raucous laughter left me in a crimson rage. I made a rush on the door, shouldering Buggerfur into his bum-buddies, leaving them to thrash in a pile as I made my escape.
I will admit to some wander-weeping before the triangle started to peal out the call to food. We'd been told that it would take until dinner to get everyone sorted and settled. As the first to be called for Tent Canvas Hell, Karl and I had the longest to get ready. I had not returned to Tent 9, instead making a several-hour rambling and random exploration of the trails up the hill and down to the river.
Camp Sinnemahoning was on a long spear of land between the current path of the Sinnemahoning River and a long lake connected at the downstream end that had once been its ancient riverbed. Between was a series of three hills, each with its own peak. The tallest and most-upstream was high enough to have a tiny rock-strewn bald patch at the peak; between this peak and the next was the area on which the camp was centred. The other two were simply forested slopes with flats and vales caused by stony creeks and seasonal rills.
I found stands of close-packed junipers, scented like rich gin and neatly poisoning the ground around it to provide a foothold for its seedlings. Later, a mockingbird erupted from a bramble; having taken serious offense at my presence she chased me, dive-bombing, until I'd gotten far enough from her nest. On the other side of a ridge, I found a tiny dell, rich in ferns and flowers with a spring-fed cascade. I was as close to a Middle Earth idyll as I would ever find unto this day. The highlight was rounding a large boulder and startling a deer who leapt like a gazelle before vanishing like a magician's trick into the undergrowth without a single leaf-ripple to mark her escape. All in all, I was as much at peace as I think I'd ever been when that clang-a-ring-a-bong called everyone to mess.
I was neither first nor last to the mess hall, but a bit before the crush. Others had ranged further afield or been wrapped up in other activities (some quite illicit, I would later find) when the triangle called them. In addition to being the first meal, this was also the orientation lecture and the first chance for the Camp Sinners to interact as a group.
I guessed there were well over 100 people there. Later, based on the camp and staff I learned about, I would guess roughly 148 men and boys; 120 campers, 20 "leaders" (late teens returned to help run the show) and some permanent staff like the doctor, nurse and councillor. Regardless, there was plenty of chaos and cheer to go round that night when the voice of the aide that had brought us to heel earlier rang forth.
"OI! Oi! Quieten down, you lot! Yes, even you Quincy! Don't you snicker, Lawks, you've been no better than you should be! SIIIII-LENNNNN-CE!!!!!" That shut up all but the rowdiest; those were suppressed by the combined weight of the ringing silence and the disapproving glares of their tablemates.
An older man stood and smiled at the aide, "Thank you, Lloyd." He turned to the assembled boys, "I am Major Bachgen. I lead Camp Sinnemahoning. You can call me Major (my rank whilst in service) or Mr. Bachgen or even 'HEY, Mr. Whoever!' {laughter}. The soft and dulcet voice you just heard was our Dean of Boys ironically named Dean.
"George is our Activities Master -- you'll never be bored with George on the job -- and he's our registered nurse. Find him for anything where the bleeding is not excessive and the patient can walk. If that is not a good description, you need The Doc {pointing to his left}. For issues less physical, see the Dr Eaglas {further right}; he handles everything from homesickness or problems adjusting to the camp lifestyle to serious issues, and he reports to no one, not even me. Not a soul will know what you tell him, I swear. Our two games-masters, one for water and one for land, complete our adult contingent.
"You've already eaten dinner, but growing boys need more." A couple of guys rolled up the shutters on a range of pastries and jellies. "there are your desserts. Do your worst then retire for the night. You'll be up at dawn (trust me) and you'll want plenty of sleep beforehand. However, I know that none of you will pay a lick of attention to that warnings, so your gruelling Day Two is on your own heads. Good night, boys. See you in a few short hours."
I was replete with both a thick and rich dinner and a delicious dessert. I staggered to Tent 9 and barely noticed that Buggerfur was close behind. Even after the idyllic ramble and rich meal, I just couldn't take a confrontation. I stripped quickly, dove into my bag and rolled toward the tent wall. I heard Karl come into the tent and undress more slowly. Some animal instinct told me that he was watching me carefully throughout, and I wondered why. I pretended to sleep (I'm good at that; mom always checked that I was asleep before my rents went to bed. If I wanted a satisfying wank, I needed to convince her I was out cold then start after they went to dreamland).
Karl settled in then tossed and turned. It seemed his body was as restless as my mind. I kept replaying the day, every humiliation and mortifying episode. I cry easily, but silently. I don't really know why that is. No choking sobs for me, but a soaking pillow instead. I kept coming back to twin questions: Why did Karl take such an instant dislike to me? How can I make friends with other if he keeps after me?
I froze for a moment when I heard his voice, and it took a massive effort to return to my fake-sleep breathing. "Patrick?" Karl said in a whisper-voice. "Patrick, you awake?" Needless to say, I kept 'sleeping'; I didn't need or want a scene.
"Patrick? Okay, good," he sounded relieved, "I don't know if I could say this if you were awake. I'm sorry, Patrick. Today was a horrible day and I took it out on you. I know you think I'm useless; I could see it when you first looked at me. Then I tried to man up in front of people who I shouldn't even call friends, so maybe you're r'r'right. I'm, I," I heard his voice catch and rise in pitch, "I'm real sorry and I promise to do better. I pray to God that you'll let me and it's not too late. I really need a friend and... Never mind. You can't hear me. Good night, Patrick."
Even if I hadn't been fake-sleeping, I would have been struck dumb. My entire worldview just crashed in flames. He thought that I didn't like him? He was desperate for a friend? My eyes really did drift shut on my spinning universe as I dropped into a fitful sleep filled with dreams where I was an accidental bully. I think Scrooge's Ghost of Xmas Past came into the story someplace and escorted me on a tour of innumerable times that I came off as a complete dick, hurting others without even bothering to notice. Most of them not real memories, thank god, but dream torments; I'm actually a pretty caring guy when I pull my head out of my ass. How do I fix this? More to the point, how do I fix this without him knowing that I'm a sneak and a faker and listened to what he obviously thought was an intensely-private confession?