Where it happened: YMCA Camp
Langauge: English
Sex: Male
Rating: 5
Category: Straight
I might as well tell the story of how I initiated my physical sex life beyond perversions and wild festivals for one with a pumping teenage bicep. I was thirteen, not uncommon for my generation to have been boldly going where every other bloody person has boldly gone before and continues to at that age. It was a YMCA camp believe it or not. My parents were trying anything to stop me from breaking the car company symbols off vehicles and wandering the suburban streets snowdropping (that’s pinching clothes off people’s hills-hoists), ah what constructive ponderous ways this young writer had. It was at this camp that I met JC, those are her real initials and I’ve kept them for this story because of the obvious unrelated religious connotation, well, if one dared to connect a “second coming after the first never happened” quip into the story it might just well be completely appropriate.
Anyway, I was a gregarious cheeky lad who played the galoot, and who blunted my rather advanced intelligence in order to fit in with the rowdy hooligans that were the ninety-nine percent of the teenage population in my circles – I couldn’t tell them about Gorky, Gogol, Dostoyevsky or the countless other Russian authors I had secretly read whilst waiting to catch the train to school or my love of Aubrey Beardsley or Gustave Dore, when NWA and Aerosmith were the points of conversation, and behaving like a tear-away the posture of authority. I was coming of age, and remember that there were two blonde twin girls at the camp, our peers.
Around the camp fire they were admired by my fellow cabin rascals in only a way that brutish pimpled brats could admire, with lewd suggestions of sexual prowess that for most of them would only begin prowessing when they got drunk seven years later on their eighteenth birthdays. I played my cards cautiously and when the moment was right I decided to leap ahead of the pack. Somehow, someway, my memory only serving to acknowledge an act of pure frankness, I managed to persuade not one but both of the twins to wander into the camp hall to have a snogging session. The motives behind our rendezvous were anything but lustful, I wanted to fuel my ego and the girls wanted to drive the rest of the sneering boys crazy. So, that’s what happened, and funnily the word got around to JC, who I was much more interested in, and JC was four years older then me and a camp leader.
Now I was heading into “mature” sexual territory, the occurrence inside the camp hall had somehow impressed her. Our first real attraction happened in the swimming pool. My god she was sexy in bathers, and she had cute little freckles, of which at that stage of my life gave me romantic thrills. We ended up having a splashing fight in the pool, and this sealed our fate. I recall her telling me I seemed more intellectually mature then the other boys. I was indeed but my sad predicament meant that I had to disguise it with acts of outrageous idiocy, something that haunts me to this day, as my hang-overs reveal in more then often vivid recollection. Our first “date” as you might say was late at night, as she was monitor for the younger kid’s sleeping shed, and we planned to meet behind it. I snuck out of my cabin, much to the jeering delight of all the boys who were at once confounded and yet excited by my “advancement” in the human animal kingdom. My experience with women in pseudo-sexual ways was prolific before this moment, but had never reached the authenticity of my pursuit of physical desire from JC.
I hooked up with JC behind the large shed, and we kissed for ages, fondled and she played the “experienced” hand very well, commenting on my penis and so forth, but when I snuck my hands down her pants to stimulate her, she hushed into my ear that she had her “rags” and it probably wasn’t a good idea. I stopped, and we continued with various other petting exercises. At the same time I was enjoying it immensely I also couldn’t wait to be by myself to regale in its glorious memory, selfishly in the most hedonistic of satisfactory self-smugging ways. My quieter moments of contemplation and theatrical masturbatory activities.
I was on my way returning to the cabin when the lights were on, shit, I recall sneaking up to my window. A camp leader was inspecting the rooms, I had about one minute to fly through the window and land in my bunk, of which I managed, putting my head down in fake sleep and then lifting it in fake grogginess when the leader came in flashing his torch about. After he had gone, everyone asked me how it went, I told them what we did, but said that she didn’t want me to put my hands down her pants because she was embarrassed by the condition of her under-wear. I was immediately payed out left right and center as I was informed between raspy laughs that she was on her period. My shame as I was caught out boasting to them and that in my own mind I had devised a scenario that her family must be so poor that her under-wear was falling apart.
JC and I caught up with each other outside of camp, we would truant from our schools and head down to an isolated bush area to undress each other and do everything except sex. A bed was required for that, and the months passed, we had almost been fondling ourselves silly for a year. The time had come, JC said, and a friend, a very strange mutual friend of ours one day called me and told me that his parents were going away for the week and JC and I could use his flat for it, he would be there of course but we could do it in the bedroom. How the hell JC prompted this line of conversation with him I will never know (Maybe in her sex education class, which was the class she found the most time to write me letters), I just got the call like he was some “minder” arranging a dockyard drug pick-up. I started quivering inside as if I had just read out my lucky lottery numbers; I raced on my BMX to the chemist to pick up some condoms. I was nervous as all heck, and dumped my bike as is standard at suburban corner shopping precincts outside and casually wandered in, attempting to spy where the condoms were but failed to spot them. I took a deep breath and then marched up to the counter, “Do you sell rubbers?” my mouth bravely stamped at the chemist, doing my best to imagine myself as Graham Chapman with a pipe in my mouth. The chemist peered at me, and then said that they didn’t and perhaps I should try the Newsagency next door. Yes, yet again, but this time it was he who had misinterpreted my meaning. He must have thought me some young tike looking for stationary, how I had gotten out of that one I cannot remember, I just recall being lead to the two large boxes of bulk condoms on the shelf. Little variety, I got the cheapest, a big blue and white box of Ansell condoms, and tailed it out of the chemist looking more read then the Bible.
Once again truanting from school for finer things then the frigid un-sexy classroom drone, I made my way to the mutual friend’s flat and met up with an equally nervous looking JC. We had a drink or two, canned bourbon, and then went into the bedroom whilst the mutual friend settled down to playing his Commodore 64. In the room there was nothing to it, before long we were fucking, although it all felt very strange, the sensations and situation, the clinical nature of the arrangement. We fucked for ages, and this was because of two reasons, she was experiencing a lot of orgasms, and I was mesmerised watching her have them. It was so curious to me, this person grinning and laughing at what was happening, from so simple an action (Her ecstatic grins and chuckles at one stage had me thinking to crane my neck and look up at the ceiling in case there was something rather pleasantly humorous written or drawn on it). Afterwards we left the bedroom and oddly, the mutual friend asked me in front of her if I had came, “Of course I did” I said dangling the used condom in front of his face very quickly and then throwing it off the balcony in an expression of ultra-sophisticated-unsophistication. The truth is that I had not come. She had had her period that day too, and the mixture of blood and juices on the condom concealed its emptiness. The other revalatory event to this moment was that soon when we were lying in pools of sweat, she told me that it was her first time also, the “experience” card was dropped, straight after she could then pick it right back up again.
I don’t understand why it was important that I had come but obviously it was at that time to those people. JC and I only had sex one other time after that, we were seeing each other less often, and I was breaking out of the “bad boy” stage, and like a vacuum, seemed to be sucking into my own reclusive world. The second time was terrible, at a party, both of us filled with goon, and then I tried jumping out of a window to my imagined demise from a less then one meter drop. I didn’t die of course but our relationship did.
I spoke with her only once many years later by phone, we had both grown up so much. I was heavily into theatre and had adjusted my personality enough to have waved goodbye to those days of empty trouble-making. Our conversation was curious, we sized each other up, and she was living far away and into acting herself. I sometimes wonder what ever happened to her, I still have her notes and letters from over fifteen years ago, sometimes I read them, they make me smile in their brat like bravado and schoolyard language. She was afterall my first, as they say. The most remarkable thing about this memory, is I still can sense her smell, well smell is the strongest of the five senses, but I sense its flavour from her person, the gum she always had in her mouth and the taste of her cunt – it is true, I can conjure it up distinctly, and even can sense the odour of kissing her at the train station before she left after having given her oral in the bushes, and its tincture with chewing-gum.
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