My Gay Summer at Science Camp

Amateur

Although this story can be read by itself, it is actually a sequel to my earlier story “The Woman on the Bus.” Reading that first would provide context for what happens here. This story is very loosely based on fact. Some of it is made up out of whole cloth, some takes events and heavily embroiders them. Some things are told exactly as they occurred. I leave it to the reader to decide which is which.

After a seeming eternity of frustrated celibacy, I could not have expected that the summer of my eighteenth year would be filled with varied and wholly unexpected sexual experiences. The summer began with the loss of my virginity to a lonely married woman, an event described in the story “The Woman on the Bus”. Although our “relationship” was a brief one totaling two hours duration, it continues to haunt me to this day. But as unexpected and intense as this experience was, nothing could have prepared me for the initiation into sex with another young man that followed almost immediately.

Part of that eventful summer was to be spent at a camp that combined classes in science and math with outdoor activities such as swimming and archer, activities associated with more typical summer camps. All of the campers and counselor/instructors were male. The sole female presence in the camp was the nurse, a school nurse on summer vacation. In any other setting, she would have gone unnoticed. Not beautiful, but not ugly, she looked like the average woman you might encounter in the course of any regular day. But at the camp, with its high concentration of testosterone, she was a person of interest to everyone, a person who could silence a room full of hundreds of young men merely by walking through.

The camp was held in a facility that had many years before been an army training camp. It consisted of a number of plain, rough wooden structures which housed the infirmary, the mess hall and the buildings in which the classes were held. The student/campers lived in two person tents clustered in groups of eight to ten in which were housed the two counselor/teachers. Mornings were spent studying calculus. After lunch, there was an hour and a half period during which people could read or nap or do crafts. After that, campers could go to the lake, to the archery course or rifle range, or play basketball or softball.

It was in one of these afternoon sessions that the second phase of my sexual initiation that summer began. A group of us were on the lake. We had been practicing swimming under water, swimming between the spread legs of the other campers. One of our number, named Augie, the rowdiest one of us and the closest to an alpha male in the group, soon grew bored with the game and started to knock people over by suddenly standing before he had made it completely through their legs. I was fully expecting him to do that to me when instead, he reached up and ran his hand over my ass and between my legs before coming to the surface. I was shocked. It was clear that this was intentional and I had never had anyone do anything like that to me before. I stood, open-mouthed in shock and glared at him when he came to the surface. Far from being frightened or ashamed, Augie just laughed, splashed me in the face and dove under water and swam away.

I stood there, shocked that he had done it but also surprised at my increasing awareness of my own arousal at being touched in this way. It was then, while experiencing this unexpected excitement, that I first saw John.

He was standing on the dock drying off and, for reasons I could not immediately understand, I could not take my eyes off of him. He could not be described as an Adonis, if he weighed five more pounds he probably would have been described as plump. He had delicate, almost feminine features which were emphasized by his glasses which looked like they belonged more on a spinster librarian than a young man. What was most striking though were his round and somewhat exaggerated buttocks which were emphasized by the fit of his swim suit. It was easy to imagine his mother declaring that they would last another season in order to save money. But her optimism was ill-placed. The trunks fit him tightly, the three broad stripes on the sides which had been designed to be vertical instead clung to the curves of his ass like parentheses.

Try as I might, I found myself staring at him until he suddenly started as if he had heard someone call his name or somehow felt that he was being stared at. As he started to turn in my direction, I hurriedly dove under water, staying under as long as my lungs allowed me. When I surfaced, he was nowhere to be seen.

I now found myself in a state of confusion as I trudged back to my tent. Two hours ago, I had been mooning over my short-lived encounter with Janine, the lonely married woman. Now, I was reacting to being groped by another man and finding myself mesmerized by still another male.

As I stood contemplating what had just occurred, I was surprised when someone walked up right next to me, placed his chin on my shoulder and addressed me. It was, much to my surprise, John, the person rize escort who had so fully captured my attention at the lake.”

“Hey you fag, I hear you don’t have a tentmate. Neither do I. Let’s ask the head counselor to assign us to a tent together.”

Without waiting for an answer, he turned and started to walk toward the counselor’s tent. My confusion reached a fevered pitch. The word fag was the most commonly used insult among young men, but I had never heard it said in the tone he used. He said it the way you might use a secret code word once you recognized that someone else was a member of the same secret society of which you were a part. Why was he calling me a fag? And why did he think I would want to share a tent with him.

Despite all of these questions, I found myself jogging to catch up with him. We stepped into the counselor’s tent together and he did all the talking for us. He told the counselor that we realized that neither of us had a tentmate and that “we thought it would be fun” to share a tent.

The counselor looked at John suspiciously. He had been warned of the possibility of homosexual activity among the campers. In fact, in summers past, campers had been sent home after being caught together.

“What are you guys, close friends or from the same town or something.”

“No, we just met a few minutes ago.”

The answer did nothing to relieve the counselor’s suspicion. Having your own tent was considered to be a real luxury, why would we want to give that up to share. He frowned.

“We’ve got to keep the groups the same size, why don’t you guys just stay where you are.” He then gave us a look that seemed to say “But I’m keeping my eyes on you two.”

As we walked away, John shrugged and said, “Well we tried. Listen, why don’t you come by to my tent after taps and after they do the bunk check.”

I had felt completely confused since he first approached me and this invitation only added to my confusion.

“Uh, what for?”

He paused and smiled and said, “For whatever you want.”

He then turned and walked away without waiting for an answer, for the second time that day. I could not shake the feeling that he knew that I was watching him as he walked away and that I would be coming by his tent later that evening.

He was right on both counts. But for the remainder of the afternoon and throughout dinner, I kept coming back in my mind to his response “For whatever you want.” What did I want?

The answer came to me from something that had happened to me a while before which I had somehow driven to the back of my mind. It involved a former schoolmate, Vinnie. Vinnie was a complicated person who combined a number of traits not normally occurring in a single person. He was extremely smart and curious but would never be considered to be nerd. In fact, he behaved in a way that would have resulted in being called a bully had he been any one else. But although he did push people around and threaten them, it didn’t seem to be motivated by insecurity or status but rather seemed more like an experiment, an attempt to see how people would react under pressure. Although he was Italian, Vinnie hung around with older black guys and seems to have acquired the tastes of his friends. Instead of listening to the rock and roll music that other white kids enjoyed, he was a fan of rhythm and blues. He was never seen in khaki pants and polo shirts but instead wore shiny sharkskin pants and expensive looking cashmere sweaters. He considered baseball to be boring and beneath him but excelled at basketball where he would frequently be the only white person on the court in pick-up games.

But most of all, he was rumored to be the most sexually experienced person in the neighborhood. Unlike most of the kids who bragged about sexual exploits that were more fantasy than fact, Vinnie never spoke about any of his activities with any of the large number of girls with whom his name was linked. But, I remember witnessing his power directly one day.

A group of us were sitting outside of school when we were approached by Connie, a girl who had, years before been the first in our class to develop breasts and who had steadily improved upon those developments since then. Although she had only stopped by to ask about an assignment, we were thrilled about having the opportunity to speak with her and tried to draw out the discussion as long as possible. As we awkwardly tried to speak with her, Vinnie strolled over, leaned over and whispered something into her ear. She said nothing, only nodding affirmatively while he reached for her hand and lead her down the street toward a vacant house that was rumored to be the site of a range of illegal or immoral activities. After they disappeared from sight, we stood around to see how long they would be gone.

After about forty-five minutes, we saw them walking toward us, her appearing a bit disheveled and unsteady. We, or course, did not ask where they went and what they did there and Vinnie, as usual said nothing, but our imaginations ran wild.

One night, Vinnie and I were bostnews.com walking home after band rehearsal her. Although we were not close friends, I had once fought back when he pushed me around . Although he then proceeded to beat me to within an inch of my life, he seemed to be amused by my spunk and left me alone after that and even engaged me in the random conversation. As we were walking, we entered onto a street that was lined with a row of very old trees on both sides whose branches overshadowed the street and sidewalks. During the summer, this street was cooler and more shaded than any surrounding street. In the evening, the branches and leaves blocked the streetlights and the moon so that it was almost difficult to see. As we proceeded down the street, Vinnie casually unzipped his fly, pulled out his cock and, as casually as you might tell someone to hold your can of coke while he tied his shoes, told me to massage his dick. Whether it was because of the matter-of-fact way in which he said it or the fact that everything he said carried with it an implied threat I immediately complied and reached over to stroke his stiffening cock with my right hand.

Fortunately, no one was on the street, and likely could not have seen much in the dark had they been, but I can only imagine what an odd sight two young men walking down the street, one of them stroking the other one would have been. This continued until we reached the next street at which point Vinnie covered himself and zipped up his pants as casually as he had taken it out before.

He continued to walk as if nothing had happened but I, in contrast was embarrassed and horrified. Immediately after entering my house, I rushed to the bathroom and, pausing only to smell the musky smell on the offending hand, proceeded to wash my hands. No surgeon preparing for an operation ever scrubbed his hands as thoroughly as I did that night. As I joined my family for dinner, I was surprised that no one seemed to notice my lobster-red hands or comment on what I was sure was a deep blush on my face.

Later, after I had gone to bed, I struggled to go to sleep, going over again and again what had happened in my head. Continuing to experience my burning shame, I finally drifted off to sleep.

Shortly after falling asleep, I dreamed that Vinnie and I were walking down the street but that this time, he lead me into some bushes and, instead of telling me to massage him instructed me to suck his dick. As I had in real life, in the dream I immediately complied, getting down on my knees in front of him while he opened his pants and pulled out his dick But before I could place my mouth on his engorged cock, I felt myself come explosively and awoke to found my underwear slick with what was clearly the enormous ejaculation of a wet dream.

Needless to say, I was appalled. Although I had felt horrible while awake, my dream suggested that, subconsciously, the experience had not been as terrible as I had previously supposed.

And as time passed, my reaction to the dream became increasingly complicated complicated. As did many of my friends, I frequently masturbated to explicit passages of best sellers. But often, in the middle of jerking off to something like the sexual scenes in Rosemary’s Baby, I would ignore the description of the devil’s relentlessly fucking Rosemary and instead imagine I was sucking Vinnie’s cock. Then immediately after coming, I would be seized by a sense of shame and embarrassment that would last until the next time I got hard thinking about sucking Vinnie off.

This pattern of jerking off and immediately feeling overwhelmed and disgusted (immediate except for the one time that I licked the cum of my fingers the better to imagine what it would taste like to have him come in my mouth) continued until I discovered my brother’s hidden cache of Playboy magazines where I found the possibility of seeing pictures of real naked women more exciting than the fantasy of giving Vinnie a blow job.

That fantasy stayed in its hidden place in the back of my mind until it was dragged suddenly to the foreground by John’s question. The answer to “whatever I wanted “was clear. What I wanted was to repeat the excitement of stroking another guy’s cock, this time completely voluntarily and to see what it was like to have him come explosively in my mouth.

After hours of anticipation, I heard the mournful notes of taps followed five minutes later by someone pulling back the flap of my tent and shining a flashlight to confirm that I was in my bunk. I waited what felt like the longest fifteen minutes, more than enough time for the counselors to complete their rounds. I walked as slowly and as quietly as I could, my flashlight dark in my hand so as not to attract attention.

As I inched my way to John’s tent, I thought of his offer to do whatever I wanted and my plans to do just that when I got to his tent. Just then, uncertainty reared its head. What if he did not share the kind of carnal plans that I had in mind? What if he wanted to play a card game or to show me his collection of baseball cards? For the first time, as I approached I began to wonder if I wasn’t setting myself up for disappointment and embarrassment.

When I arrived at his tent, I quickly pulled aside the flap and slipped in. I turned on my flashlight on just long enough to be able to find my way around the tent without tripping and alerting the rest of the camp to my whereabouts. In the few seconds that my flashlight was on, it became immediately clear that baseball cards were not on his mind. From all appearances, he lie in front of me naked under a sheet, the area around his crotch tented by what was clearly an erection. I silently sat on the edge of the bed and, relying on the memory of the brief time the room was lighted, pulled back the sheet and, sliding my hand down his stomach located his stiff cock. He moaned softly as I proceeded to slowly stroke him up and down.

This was amazingly exciting but it was only part of what I had come there to do. I leaned over and took his cock into my mouth, marveling at how good it felt to feel it sliding past my lips. He soon began making movements with his hips, slowly fucking my mouth as quietly as he could until, with another moan, he came, shooting three long spurts of cum down the back of my throat and into my mouth. As I dutifully swallowed every drop and licked every bit off oh is hard cock, I thought that it was every bit as exciting as I had fantasized it would be.

Now, nearly beside myself with excitement, I reached down and pulled him up to a sitting position on the edge of his bed. The level of the bed was such that while sitting on the bed, his mouth was exactly at the level of my crotch. I found his face in the dark with my left hand. He immediately sucked my thumb into his mouth. It was particularly exciting knowing that I would soon replace my thumb with my cock. As I did so, he applied just the right amount of pressure with his lips and tongue as I slowly pumped in and out of his mouth. Although I would have like to have drawn out the experience as long as I could, the excitement was too much for me and I was soon filling his mouth with jet after jet of my cum. He took the same care that I had, swallowing the mouthful of come and licking my cock clean.

After our breathing had returned to normal, we discussed in whispers what would happen. Like gourmands on an all-you-can eat cruise who the second they finish one meal start planning the location and time of the next, we immediately started planning our next encounter.

Our experience earlier in the day with the counselor had taught us that we had to be extremely careful about where and how we met. We decided we would try to avoid suspicion by only meeting in secret. We would never engage in any activity publicly together, no matter how innocent. No meals, no swimming in the lake, nothing. Instead, we would take turns sneaking to the other person’s tent after lights out. We also agreed to try to arrange for a meeting in the woods surrounding our campsite during the free time that was scheduled every afternoon. In order to maintain our secrecy, we would leave the campsite separately and wait near a tree on the path toward the rifle range. We agreed that we would abort any meeting plans if anything out of the ordinary occurred whether in the woods or on our way to the other’s tent or while in the woods.

I stole back to my tent. By the time I reached it, I was already hard with the memory of how it felt to be sucked off by him just a few minutes before. I resisted the temptation to jerk off, telling myself that I would wait until the next day when we were together again.

But our plans for a stealthy meeting in the woods were frustrated by a rainstorm that unloaded buckets of rain all day. And his efforts to come to my tent later in the day were waylaid when he ran into a counselor shortly after leaving his own tent. Mumbling excuses about needing to go to the latrine, he avoided stopping by to avoid being spotted again.

The day after the rainstorm turned out to be beautiful and, as planned, we left our campsite separately and met at the prearranged site several hundred yards away in the woods. We decided to go toward a pine forest, past the rifle range where few people had occasion to go.

On the walk there, he told me a story about an experience he had just before going to camp. A group of friends, who had known each other since elementary school, were at a friend’s house. Bored with the meager offerings on afternoon television, they decided , for old times sake, to go to the “fort”, the loft space over the friend’s garage, which had formerly been a barn when the house had, years before, been a farmhouse. The fort was accessed by a rickety wooden ladder. As youths, the friends had spent hours and hours of their summers there. At first, it was the site of games of pirates and cowboys. As they got older, the fort became the location for activities which they wanted to hide rom their parents. First cigarettes were smoked there and copies of Playboy magazine, pilfered from older brothers or from the old man on the corner who periodically left piles of discarded issues. The excitement of seeing naked women outweighed any disgust that the boys felt from the condition of the magazines, pages soiled and stuck together.