Stories I want to tell you


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Summer Camp

It was the summer I was 16, which made me the oldest in the room. Most of the boys were 14, some were 15. There were 8 of us in that room, but I only remember four of us clearly. Myself, Gentle, top bunk #7 furthest from the door, and my twerp of a bunkmate, Gord in the bottom bunk #8. Frenchy, top bunk #1 nearest the door, and Tommy, top bunk #3.

It was an all boy summer camp, hosting nearly a thousand boys each two week stint all summer long. During the day, our time was tightly scheduled. There were classes that introduced or improved various skills, and experiences that broadened our horizons. The adults took most of it quite seriously, and worked very hard at packing in as much as possible during those daytime hours.

The evenings were all our time. Frenchy set the tone for our room in the first evening, during the pre-bed shower hour. Shouting triumph at his accomplishment, he posed with his erection as a towel rod, supporting his towel draped over it. We looked on with great amusement. In the evenings to come, he would find other poses or dramatic involvements to display his erection with. Although his large circumcised member was the focus of attention; it was the unabashed shamelessness of his display that electrified the atmosphere.

I wasn’t at all surprised by Frenchy. When part of the elementary grade age neighbourhood gang of kids playing sex games in the woods, I was among the first to drop my pants, and display myself, usually stiff, sometimes erect. I knew both where Frenchy’s impulse came from, and how it felt to be that center of attention.

That doesn’t mean I was comfortable with all things sexy. Once, as the conversation touched on jerking off and who was doing it, my twerp of a bunkmate Gord blurted “I know he does it! I can feel him shaking the bed at night!” and I was ready to fall through the floor with embarrassment, but no one even looked at me, nor picked up that conversational thread, and I hated my bunkmate with a fierce loathing. Where was the unspoken pact of privacy in the lack of privacy - You pretend not to notice what I’m doing and I’ll pretend not to notice what you’re doing. When, a few nights later, I realized I was feeling the bed shaking, and the shaking perfectly followed the pattern of a self-loving sexual experience, I felt somehow vindicated, yet I still loathed him. He was a loud show off goofball, and the only boy in the room I had no sexual curiosity about.

I am blessed and cursed with a somewhat eidetic memory. It’s not perfect. It invents things, so I don’t trust it. Whenever I use it, I’m careful to label ‘My memory is … ” so that I’m not saying “What happened was … “. But it is powerful, and some impressions can be relived right down to the texture of the surface under my hands. It only remembers what I’ve paid attention to. So I have no idea what we were talking about before Tommy pulled the covers back to reveal himself masturbating fiercely. I totally remember how the room immediately moved to surround his bed, he being on the top bunk, and some of us having to stand on the bottom bunk to watch him going at it. He swiveled onto his left hip, thrusting himself outward and pushed his dick down to point towards the closest face inviting him to “Suck on it!” and the face stood down off the bed away from the dick and Tommy swiveled onto his right hip with the same action and invitation but the right side of the bed just leaned away from the rigid cock part of me silently wishing him to ask me directly instead of the general invitation in my general direction that I would have had to step around others to perform and part of me shocked at how small his cock was the same size erect as flaccid. With no one taking up his invitation Tommy was now working harder when someone whispered “Counselor” and we all dove for our own areas as Tommy threw the covers back over himself.

That night, Frenchy called out in the dark “I came! I spurted cum! I am a man!” It took me a few minutes to obey my impulse and I slipped out of my bed and went to Frenchy’s bunk, and asked “Show me the cum”. He pulled back the blankets and pushed down his pajamas, to display himself, saying “I’ve wiped it away”, and there was no spunk to see, just tacky flesh. On my way back I stopped at Tommy’s bunk and asked if he spurted, and with the same motion he displayed himself, affirming his cumming and said “I’ve wiped it all up already.”.

Somehow Tommy and I dared each other into jacking off together, but we needed some privacy, so we stepped into the clothes’ closet. We both unzipped and brought our junk out, but the next step eluded us. Between the dark, the cramped airless quarters, and the sudden shyness that overcame us, we wordlessly rezipped, and stepped out, and never spoke of it.

One afternoon, resting in the shade waiting for the next event to initiate, a voice attached to a cute quarterback all star boy-next-door face, began speaking to me, calling me by name, telling me he met me here last year, and the penny dropped. He was Brian, Brian Bolt, a friend of the bunkmate I was cursed with the year before. I was only able to attend camp twice, and I hated both of the bunkmates I had become paired with. Camp that year wasn’t in a dormitory setting with 8 to a room. It was in a vast gymnasium-like room, with bunks grouped in fours, two upper, two lower, laid end to end, each group part of a large grid of hundreds of bunks laid out in rows and columns across the acres of floor. I was in the bottom bunk that year. On the first night, in the first few minutes of lights out, I pushed down my underwear, massaged my dick into an erection and began fapping, as I had every night since first learning to masturbate that spring. My bunkmate leaned over the edge of his bed to look down on me and shouted “Would you quit jacking off so I can get some sleep!” I froze! Perhaps he hadn’t shouted. Perhaps he spoke quietly so that only I could hear, but in those first mortifying minutes, it seemed the whole world was holding its breath and staring at me, and barely containing its laughter. My dick was a jealous master, and I cautiously moved my hand upwards, downwards, but as soon as I started to like it again, he appeared again, louder, angrier, and I froze again. I knew there would be no sleep for me until I had made myself cum. I knew there was no fapping with the master fap alarm on guard above me, and inspiration struck. I hooked my toes under the struts of the bunk, and put my hands up above the covers, near my chin. I began push/pull with my foot in the same rhythm as my fapping had been, and near immediately he rolled over but his shout choked in his throat as he saw my hands not with my dick but resting calmly, as the bed kept shaking. When he rolled back onto his bunk, my hands dove under the covers and I went to town. No pretense or trying to hide what I was doing. I was making myself cum, and I knew he could feel it, and that awareness made me more aware yet also fearful in an odd way. This was my first jerking off that I knew wasn’t a wholly private event, and my exhibitionist streak exalted, yet the mix of adrenaline and shame from my bunkmate’s yelling was robbing much of the pleasure from me, and the cum was rubbed out with a fierce frenzy of jerking that was ultimately going to cum or bust my arm trying. In the nights that followed, he never rolled over to shout at me again, and we never liked each other.

That was the story that flashed over me as the penny dropped. “Had my ex-bunkmate told Brian of the bed shaking?” I wondered as I exchanged greetings. He acknowledged my antipathy towards my old bunkmate with a “good thing he’s not here this year” but the grin he said it with, the near smirk said to me that the bed shaking was why he remembered me. The conversation never really got going because I couldn’t get past the memory, and he couldn’t address it. But our smiles, and genuine pleasure of seeing each other, did I say he was cute!, kept us trying. With what I know now, I would’ve rolled off my front onto my side, and casually adjusted my junk - no overt groping - just a push or nudge as my hand passed over my crotch - and said “We could go somewhere”. I have no idea where we would’ve gone or what we could’ve done, but I know that grin on his face was all about the bed shaking stories he had been told, and he wouldn’t have been grinning if he didn’t like them.

Frenchy came into the room just after lights out. “Who has a boner? I want to feel someone’s hard on, to compare!”

I had already started my bedtime stroking. “I’m hard.” I called, and he came to my bunk. His hand slipped under the cover and explored my erection. He gripped the shaft, not moving along the shaft, just gripping, squeezing to test the stiffness and rigidity. He gripped near the base, then the upper end, his fingers traced out the acorn, sculpting the edge, sensing the shape, then gripped again just below the head, and again with the head included, then gone without a word. I started stroking again, and was surprised by cumming with a massive heart-pounding groan/grunt inducing ejaculation within seconds of resuming. If Frenchy had teased me for just a short time longer, that would have been all over his hand instead of mine. As I was being gripped, or groped, I had no idea I was being turned on, or how much I was enjoying it until I had to make sense of cumming so hard and so quickly.

Not that night, but one soon after, in the time between lights out and sleeping, in the time of fapping, Frenchy called out “Sometimes, it’s just …  .   .     .        .” as his voice trailed off, wishing for the right word, I whispered “perfect” as I was stroking, and he echoed “Perfect!” and I knew exactly what he meant. He meant then, and every then. He meant when you are home alone and you rush into your bedroom and close the door and push down your pants and look at your cock and watch it unfurl itself from its nest of pubic hair, and freed it plops along its length, and as you’re watching, straighten, stiffen, and raise itself, rising with the pulse of your heartbeat until heated and stiff you put your hand on it as you lay on your bed legs still trapped in pants and underwear, and begin stroking that electric shiver as you begin play with it, that pleasure that holds promise of ecstasy to come, yet is all the pleasure you need right now cause it’s “Perfect” I knew what he meant “Perfect” and I learned in that instant the more honest the statement, and thus the more honest the story, the more understood, the deeper the reverberations in others’ lives, the louder the echo comes back out of the dark “Perfect”, and I came.

Several thing surprise me of that summer camp. For a budding homo, it was a steamcooker of an experience. I have shared some elements of this story with others, but never have I put the story in a whole before. I have heard of other summer camp stories, but I’ve never been able to compare my camp with other camps to know if mine was unusual in the level and amount of activity, or par for the course. Because the camp the year before was such a different experience, were the sex games part of the smaller numbers that allowed stronger interactions? Some people have come into my life, my bed, and left with less impression than any moment of that summer camp. It does go to something I say jokingly, but the joke masks the truth - the easiest way to have sex with 15 year olds, is to be 15.

Among the miracles of that summer camp, one that stands out in hindsight was the complete absence of sexual/gender judgement. No one labeled anybody or any action with ‘gay’, ‘homo’, ‘fag’, or similar slurs. Did that change when the camp stopped being male only?

On the last day of camp, I had to return to my bunk to fetch something from my pack. On this day, our neatly packed bags were stacked on our unmade beds, bedding stripped off and folded for laundry. New bedding would be laid out after we left, and a new set of campers would be arriving for it. There, on my bunkmate’s bed, was Gord the twerp’s camera. It was more likely his father’s camera, such a fine piece of german elegance it was. I took it up, turned it on, opened my fly, and started taking pictures. I played with angles and focus. I played with the self timer. I didn’t cum on camera, but I came very close. It started beeping about running out of battery or memory I was too nervous when it started beeping to actually look more shut up shut up turn it off and put it back pull up my pants oh god oh god as I was safe again fuck him, let him explain why he has a camera full of dick pictures, asshole.