Please see original story (www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/camping/canvas-hell/) for warnings and copyright. Highlights: All fiction. All rights reserved. Includes sex between young-adult men. Go away if any of that is against your local rules. Practice safer sex than my characters. Write if you like, but flamers end up in the nasty bits of future stories. Donate to Nifty TODAY at donate.nifty.org/donate.html to keep the cum coming.
Jim and Karl spoke in unison, and I almost died when I heard them. "You can't lose us, Patrick." Jim went on. "You couldn't lose us if you tried."
***** Canvas Hell 14: 1 Thessalonians 4:17
By Bear Pup
T/T; self-discovery; kissing; frottage; masturbation; love
I just sat for a minute, panting, eyes wide. My heart was trying to burst with love for these two and simultaneously shrivel at the thought of what must come next. I was a study in such contradictions. My mouth was as dry as a desert and my palms and armpits streamed with sweat. My heartbeat was insanely fast and my breathing was a series of deep, slow shuddering inhalations. My face was blazing hot and my spine tingled with cold. Most of all, my brains raced with... nothing. I was as if my thoughts were moving too quickly for me to catch any sense of their meaning.
I finally realised that I'd been sitting there for hours when Karl and Jim had only had perhaps a half-dozen heartbeats. I sucked in a deep breath and found that, after the monumental effort that I'd worked up to the prior string of nervous chatter, my voice was steady. Either they were true and what I was about to say would not destroy me, or they were false and all I could lose was the mirage of their false and meaningless friendship.
"Karl, I have w-wanted to be near you, to see you, even hoped to touch you since that first night when you said what you said. I wanted to comfort you and hold you, and I knew it could never be." Karl simply stared, wide-eyed.
"And Jim, when you t-touched me, when you as-asked me to touch you, it was the single g-greatest thing in my life. That is what has scared me, both of you. Yes, I'm always scared, always afraid, have been forever. But the thought of telling you th-that and losing any chance just by saying the words, it's been ripping me apart."
Jim stood, a slim and small frame containing more strength than a mighty army, came to me and hugged me tight. "It scares me, too, Patrick. I think it would scare anyone. It's just that you're brave enough to keep something so powerful and dangerous inside, willing to tear yourself up just so me and Karl wouldn't be, I dunno, uncomfortable. You know that's brave, right? Really, really stupid... but brave."
Karl swam in my tear-filled vision, but he moved to us as well. He didn't hug me or Jim, but put a hard and heavy hand on each shoulder. "I, I, um, I don't know what I feel, Patrick. I was so, so scared and worried about what it meant to me, how I felt when you k-k-kissed me. Then I realised you were shredding your own insides and that about killed me, seeing that. I, um, I really don't know about the, you know, touching and such. But I know you to are the more courageous people I've known si-since my, m-my Dad." With that, he finally collapsed into our hug.
I swayed, floating, a balloon tethered to the ground by friendship, relief, release and self-recrimination for hiding this from the two people who meant more to me that my own family. Kept it from them and refused to accept their needs to help me. Refused to admit that I, maybe, couldn't handle something on my own. That maybe, just maybe, my greatest secret was little more than a detail of who I really was.
Jim, my ultimate guru, brought us back. He snuffled a bit (he'd not been the only one choked up, just the first to speak) and said, "We have to learn the rest of that song. I'll die of shame if the only voices that come out in our verse is Orson," giving the lad's name about sixteen syllables each in a different key.
We laughed ourselves back to normal, a made a leisurely way back to Camp Sin. By the sun, I figured we had an hour before the triangle would ring for dinner, so the three of us took a circuitous 'behind the hill' route, finding wonders and surprises at every turn. It was an afternoon of giggles and comradery and shouts and secrets and laughter and... and everything that boyhood memories should really be.
We were nearly back to camp when the dinner bell rang. Tonight's festival of horrors was... special. Top item was green peppers steamed into submission after being stuffed with a greasy meteorite of beef and rice, served with a watery sauce of garlic, tomato and sadness. Next up Swiss Steak, thin pieces of beaten and abused... 'meat?' in another reddish, suspiciously-chunky sauce. We decided it was 'Swiss' because one would need each and every implement on a Swiss Army Knife to consume it. Last was the cold option, a pasta salad chock full of veggies and beans and swimming in an oily sludge. Don't worry, it was far worse than it sounded.
Since we hadn't been as early as normal, virtually all of the fruits (and none of the entrees) were gone when we got there. After a spirited scramble, Jim came up with two apples and a banana and Karl was relegated to dubious strawberries and an orange. I decided that today would be a good fast day, and decided milk and bread (actually, rather nice hard rolls; I don't think they were meant to be hard, but whatever) were my best options.
We arrived at the fire-ring at Cabin 4 to a real surprise. Taking the initiative and capitalising on the night's menu, the leaders had devised a cunningly-evil incentive plan. They had a couple packages of actual hot dogs! With BUNS! Whichever team was smoothest and clearest in our last practice got FOOD.
We resorted to appropriate, healthy team behaviour in the best tradition of teen comradery to ensure victory. The first person to forget their line, get of rhythm, muff the handoff, break their voice or fade into the background (the last two pointed glaringly at Orson and Willie) would be ostracised, shunned and would live their life in utter and complete disgrace for all eternity. We wanted the FOOD.
And the entire group was simply splendid. It honestly sounded like a professional singing group. And this is when their evil genius paid off. The leaders declared a five-way tie, and a shout of joy went up that scared small game for several miles around. The leaders, smartly, stepped well back from the cooler to avoid the carnage as twenty-five starving, slavering teens descended on the cooler like the pack of uncivilised wild beasts that we quite honestly were. Sticks and skewers were brought to the fray and sizzling noises erupted as hot dog juice and boy-drool dripped equally onto the coals. Ketchup and mustard magically appeared just as the crispy (often incinerated) wienies came off.
We found out the next day that every Cabin had been thus supplied and my estimation of Major Bachgen soared. I have never, before nor since, seen teens played so masterfully. It is almost as if the Dinner of Death was a setup to achieve the level of blissful repletion in which all of us basked that starlit night.
The day had been a long one for all three of us. The tight tension of separate breakfasts had wrong-footed us from the start. Jim's work at the Hygiene Hut and Kitchen had been as gruelling as my snake-and-centipede-haunted work, and Karl thought his back might never straighten after litter patrol. The horrific tension in the tent between that and lunch, then the Pepper Chihuahua and the long walk to the dell where I nearly broke, which in turn nearly broke both of my friends. The resulting catharsis and release and beautiful walk back. The unspeakable horror of dinner, the singing and the utter elation of the hot dogs.
We got back to Tent Canvas Hell and all three of us sat for a minute, staring out into the woods. Jim literally fell asleep and slumped into Karl, so we bundled him into his bag, waking him up enough that he could undress, and Karl and I were both fast asleep ourselves before we knew it.
As I drifted to slumber, a strange thought flitted across my mind. No tears, fears, doubts, stresses or pain marred this night. Just warm, smoky friends and soft, quiet night-time. And it was with that thought that I slept.
I don't know what woke me. It was not yet light at all, perhaps a timid glow to the East, but just as possibly an illusion. Jim laid, half out of his sack, curled like sleepy hedgehog and just as peaceful. One of Karl's thick, strong arms was flung behind his head and the other lay alongside him. I laid there for the longest time with only a single word forming and reforming in my mind: Friends.
I got up to relieve myself and realised that I could never get back to sleep. I silently pulled on my trainers and yesterday's jeans and over-shirt as the morn was foggy and had the slightest chill. I crossed the camp and headed the way I'd not yet explored, to the upstream bridge of land that connected Camp Sinnemahoning to the rest of Pennsylvania. The river here was a bit wider and utterly silent. I watched ghosts and haints of mist dance across the surface, tugged perhaps by the currents, or perhaps by the sheer luxuriance of the dance.
Across the river, something too small to really make out but big enough to notice came down to wash in the water. Racoon, I guessed. I got a glimpse of soft brown and heard rustling to the other side, but never actually saw what I guessed to be a small family of deer on the nearer bank. I thought to the day before, my opening up to Jim and Karl. My confession, if you will, and their absolution of me. I pulled in a deep breath of the damp morning air, and blew out my breath in a long, soft stream. Guilt, fear and self-loathing flowed out with it. I felt something that I'd learned in catechism since I was old enough to go to CCD, but never really understood or imagined: benediction, the true absolution that comes directly from God's love.
I turned and walked back toward camp as the sun rose and the mist-ghosts slowly fled to the banks to hide in the shadows before being consumed by the dawn. I got back to Tent Canvas Hell just as Jim was stirring, which woke Karl. After watering the trees, we gathered our morning kit and went for the showers -- early, but not so bad as to preceded the warm water. Clean, refreshed and well-rested, we wandered for a few minutes before heading to the Mess Hall just as the triangle pealed.
Something was seriously wrong. All three of us could sense it instantly. In the first tray were small pink slices of ham in a coffee-coloured gravy (Red Eye, I'd learn to call it). Next were fluffy omelettes stuffed with cheese. Grilled tomato slices were in a half-tray opposite a white porridge none of us had heard of, something called grits. A little sign suggested butter and salt instead of our assumption of milk and sugar. It was then that we noticed that line and kitchen were staffed by Lloyd Dean and George the Activities Master, assisted by a half-dozen leaders.
George winked and nodded to a partially-hidden niche where two cups of steaming black 'milk' awaited me and Karl. By the time we got into line for seconds, the Mess Hall was ringing with utterly-alien sounds like laughter, Mmmms and Ahhhhs. Whispered rumours flew that Chef had (a) died of food poisoning after eating his own food, (b) been attacked by his own utensils in retribution for what he'd forced them to do and/or (c) hauled away by the Department of Agriculture for Crimes again Foodmanity.
Major Bachgen stood and told us that Sunday was Chef's day off each week, and he was polite enough to frown and tsk at the applause this evoked. When he acknowledged the efforts of Lloyd and George, most of the boys would have happily signed on to follow them to the gates of Mordor and a rousing cheer went up.
The triangle sounded and the Major announced that religious services would be held at the central Fire Ring in ten minutes. Jim and I headed there, but a sombre-faced Karl strode off in the opposite direction.
I was a Roman Catholic and Jim was Episcopalian -- something we decided was basically Catholic-sans-Pope but with nicer robes and fewer sins. The service, therefore, left us both with a puckered half-frown. It was something relatively new to the 70s, the Chinese Menu approach to Christianity intended to offend no one without actually saying anything whatsoever. You left wondering vaguely if the "minister" believed in God at all, or just wanted to sing about rainbows and Fatherly Love. In a way, it was like biting into a candy expecting the harsh but satisfying burst of liquorice and instead getting the bland sweetness of stale marshmallow.
Once the service either ended or died a lingering and befuddled death (the minster pretty well made it clear that either was an option), Jim and I returned to Tent Canvas Hell. Karl was there, absorbed in a map and his compass. Sunday was technically a free day, but they organised larger events and expeditions on Sunday as well. Karl had immediately signed up for a long "blind march" around the peninsula. Jim and I had hemmed and hawed until pretty much everything was taken. There was the "strenuous hike" still open, which appeared to be an opportunity for gruelling self-torture. Another was an archery competition; Jim and I just laughed at the thought.
We decided to join Karl as "unofficial" hikers -- after we all three grabbed the heavy, luscious box lunches prepared by Lloyd and George -- with the stated agreement that we'd bail if we got bored, tired or completely lost. Karl huffed quite a bit at the last option, feeling his manhood had clearly been impugned. We actually stuck with him for over an hour before we came into a stunning clearing on the "back" of the Camp, bright grass and a shingle-shore along the preternaturally-smooth water. Karl went on with his team and Jim and I started to skip the flat shale-rock across the surface. I helped Jim with his power and he helped me with my angle of attack until we were both able to skim the stones nearly across the entire span of water.
It was a bit past noon and the sun had gotten hot, so Jim and I found a shaded bower where erosion had turned a towering tree's massive roots into convenient benches and left the interstices carpeted with a soft, resilient moss. A jay popped up, apparently well-trained on the meaning of the white paper boxes and added the entertainment to lunch as he kept trying to find ways to snatch up or make us drop tempting morsels. He was a determined fellow, but Jim and I were resolute in our desire to finish off the absolutely scrumptious sandwiches, roast beef with a pungent onion and horseradish sauce that we both loved (and regretted a little later).
We finished and satisfied the jay that every crumb was, indeed, inaccessible and he left in huff. We sank down to the cool moss, using the roots now as sofa-backs, and started to chat about Hershey and our mundane lives. I was green with envy when I found out that Jim had gotten a Pong console for Christmas and we spent an enjoyable hour probing every conceivable facet of the game that turned a boring TV into your very own arcade.
Our lunch jay, or perhaps a friend, flew screaming over our heads as we exhausted the subject and we started to talk about what might have scared him, or what might have set him in hot pursuit. That got us to cop TV and from there we laughed our way through shows and movies. It was probably around two when Jim just went quiet, looking at me, head cocked to one side and slight smile on his face.
In true teen fashion, I immediately brushed off my face, ran a hand through my hair and checked shirt and short pants for signs of lunch spillage or other potential social gaffes. "What?"
"Nothing. You. The difference between, you know, yesterday and now."
I blushed and stammered, mortified, then suddenly relaxed and looked back at him. He was still smiling slightly, and I gave a tentative one in return. "Am I, you know, better now?"
"Yeah, you laughed and just, I dunno, talked. I still can't believe I'm lucky enough to have you as a friend, Patrick." He looked shyly down.
Him? Lucky? "But Jim, I'm just nobody; you're, I mean, beautiful!" I stopped, shocked, horror writ large across my face. Jim finally looked up, smile gone and I knew I'd blown it.
"Am I? Why? Patrick, you're a junior. You're older and tall and smart and can do everything you try. And you're brave and you really care about people. I'm just... me. Why would you? I mean?" His voice trailed away and he looked down again.
I leant forward toward Jim and grabbed his hand. "I don't care what it makes me, Jim, or what God or anyone else thinks. I have to say this and you can hate me if you want. I think you are the most beautiful, wonderful person I've ever met. You're, y-you're perfect, Jim."
His eyes met mine and got big. His lips parted slightly and I melted into him. I felt his arms coil around my neck as mine locked around his back and I kissed him like I'd always wanted by never knew I'd wanted to do.
Thursday had been a kiss of fear and desperation, on both of our parts. The need had been hard and burning. Today it was more intense but less hard-edged. This was the first kiss of unadulterated love I ever knew, and the one I treasure above all others in my life, even from this far remove. There was need and even hunger, sure, but it was not the need to conquer or to prove or to snatch a moment of desperately-needed contact. This was a kiss where my entire universe was focused on making Jim feel as special and wonderful as I knew him to be.
It was also a kiss overwhelmed with onions and horseradish. I know that's downer, but how can you taste it and NOT think how horrible your own breath and tongue must taste? I prayed to Gods that I actually invented to make sure that Jim couldn't taste it. I assumed that he was doing the same in reverse.
My hands roved his back and his pulled my head deeper and deeper into the kiss. I felt wetness between our faces and didn't know which of us were crying (it was both). We pulled back, neither seeming to initiate the move but both cooperating in it. We simply stared into each other's eyes, his glowing in the blue of a deep, sparkling pool. I don't think I had really studied the eyes of another person before. I knew that my mom's were 'bright' and Karl's were 'dark', but Jim's eyes held entire universes, including the one in which beat my own heart.
I cannot guess what he saw in mine. I knew that my eyes were some sort of nondescript hazel with green and gold in there, but expressive? Deep? Infinite? Interesting? Never.
Jim closed his own and pulled himself up and into me again, and we melted and flowed into each other. It was as if our bodies were mere shells holding our true selves, and the latter had decided that the shells were simply no longer relevant. I could feel but ignored his sharp elbows, gaunt shoulders and hard hipbones. Jim burrowed into me, demanding contact at every possible point. Years, decades, centuries sped along; I could not manage to care. I was where I needed to be.
Lifetimes later, Jim pulled back. His eyes shone in a way I'd never seen in any person, not even on movies. He pushed his hands between up and whisper-shouted, "I'm sorry Patrick, I can't...!" His delicate and small hands gripped my shirt and literally ripped apart, buttons flying. I sat in stunned amazement as he flung his own shirt and t-shirt off in a single movement and attacked my own undershirt. I finally 'got it' enough to assist and our chests were suddenly rubbing against each other.
I moaned into a kiss I don't even know which of us initiated. I felt him whine when my hands pried between us so I could pet his nipples, something I'd prayed for since I first saw them, perky and taut under his shirt after our epic orgasms. A massive whimper of high-pitched need suffused the bower. I realised it was my own voice as Jim had found my own desperate, hard, throbbing nips.
Suddenly and without preliminaries, like a spell of the forbidden Morgana, our pants were simply... gone, our kiss unbroken and our need undiminished. I pulled Jim to me and felt his cock slide across my belly and mine between his thighs as he crouched there. Jim's hand left my nipple and reached behind him, bucking a bit and abruptly forcing my throbbing erection up his back as I thrust and his small hand teased the head. I whinnied like a colt, whimpering again into Jim's demanding mouth.
I reached down and grabbed his balls in one hand and dick in the other. As he'd done for me, I drank down his squeal of need and pleasure. We writhed against each other, never breaking the kiss, desperate to bring the other pleasure whilst ignoring and dismissing our own. I wanted this to last my entire life, to bring Jim this pleasure, irregardless of whether I ever came again in my life. His squeaks and moans were the only stimulation or reward I would ever need or want.
That was, sadly, not within the biology of teenaged boys. Our voices rose, rose again, redoubling each time we independently decided to ensure the other exploded first. We were both determined, resolute, resolved to push the other to the pinnacle of pleasure before exploding ourselves. We both... failed.
We climaxed together, inventing and discovering this intense and forbidden pleasure together. NO ONE could have ever known about this. NO ONE could have experienced this. NO ONE could have had what we had, and given to each other, because if they had, they never would have left each other's arms. This was Patrickjim, Jimpatrick, something unique and special to us. Otherwise, people would be crying from every rooftop, proclaiming in every square, expostulating in every cathedral. It was... divine in a way that no priest, deacon or minister could ever define or constrain. It was... us. Holy, sacred, ours.
Note on chapter title: 1 Thessalonians 4:17 is the (controversial) scriptural basis of all sects that believe in The Rapture.
Please let me know what you think. Your comments (praise or polite criticism) are the only way I will become a better author. Also, let me know what other themes excite or intrigue you. I have a number of fantasies 'on the shelf' and am unsure which to 'deploy'.
Active storelines, all at www.nifty.org/nifty/gay... Karl & Greg: 16 chapters .../incest/karl-and-greg/ Canvas Hell: 14 chapters .../camping/canvas-hell/ Beaux Thibodaux: 6 chapters .../adult-youth/beaux-thibodaux/ The Heathens: 6 chapters .../historical/the-heathens/ Mud Lark Holler: 4 chapters .../rural/mud-lark-holler/ Turntable Rehab: 5 chapter .../authoritarian/turntable-rehabilitation-services/
New One-Off: .../historical/that-lion