Date: Fri, 8 Sep 2017 19:35:42 -0400
From: Orson Cadell <orson.cadell@gmail.com>
Subject: Canvas Hell 35

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.

*****

I looked around at a small sea of wide, worried eyes, yielding the floor to
a guy a year younger who did a superb version of One Eyed Jack. Dr Eaglas
winked at me, a wink I treasure to this day. I looked around and realized,
every eye had been on me, and no one smirked or yawned or shied away. It
was... like I really had been reborn as a new person, perhaps even as Red.

*****

Canvas Hell 35: Red Letter Day

By Bear Pup

T/T; self-discovery - Saturday

*****

Larry and Willie did, indeed, sit with us at dinner. The weather had
cleared rather suddenly and we got an indescribable sunset right about
dinner time. The guys had outdone themselves, with turkey breasts roasted
over the open fire, scratch dressing, gravy, green beans and parker-house
rolls all fluffy and tender. They even had apple crumble for
desert. Everything was amazingly good.

Singing that night was frankly disastrous. It's amazing what a turkey coma
can do to overstuffed boys. Not even the Leaders seemed bothered,
though. The three of us from Tent Canvas Hell trudged back and started
getting ready for bed. Still wavering between the not-quite-gone Patrick
and the newly-fledged Red, I decided to simply say what I really thought.

"Karl?" He looked over. "I want to sleep in the same bag with Jim. Does
that bother you?"

"No, why?"

"I'd, uh, thought we might sleep... you know, nekkid." Both of Jim's
eyebrows popped up but Karl just looked thoughtful for a second.

"No. Not really." He got a sly smile. "But let me grab a bandana just in
case." Jim barked a laugh and then fell silent, looking a little
breathless. I snuggled into the bag and tossed my undies out and Jim's face
was priceless. He didn't bother with modesty; he just stripped off in front
of both of us and slipped into the bag, snuggling in front of me.

It wasn't sexual, not really, just an incredible closeness, a true
intimacy. Yeah, we were both tumescent, and the feel of his thighs against
my cock was delirious and I couldn't resist petting his own proud manhood
from time to time. I just folded him into my body, though, as if to become
his cocoon, just without the crushing and shattering effect of mine from
the night before.

I woke in the deepest black of night to the feel more than the sound of
Jim's gentle moaning. My hand, as it turned out, was on his belly and I
could feel throbbing wetness on the back of my hand. Jim was hunching a
little in his sleep. I smiled and snaked my free hand out and grabbed the
shorts I'd discarded and very carefully wrapped them around my hand and
Jim's cock.

I used his leakage to wet my palm and changed position so that his hunching
would drive his cockhead through the slick tunnel of my fist. He let out a
series of strangled groans, still in the deep throes of sleep, as he
unloaded explosively. I drifted back to sleep in utter contentment.

I woke again perhaps an hour later, just barely in time to grab the
aforementioned undies and get them between me and Jim, holding my breath
tightly as wave after wave of release washed through my body. The dream had
been vivid, intense, literally gut-wrenching. Jim, of course, figured
prominently, but not sexually. At least not actively. He was standing on a
pedestal in a museum, naked and posed with taut, flexed muscles like an
ancient marble statue, but brimming with life. He was looking into my eyes
when I lost it and woke up.

When I stopped erupting and took in my first breath, I heard Jim
giggle. "That was fun, Patrick. I've never been someone's wet dream
before." A week -- hell, a day -- before, I would have been at a DefCon 5
blush just knowing he was awake. Instead, I pulled him tightly to me
(undies keeping our combined and copious load in place), and let my hand
caress his sticky pubes, slipping back into perfect sleep in moments.

We awoke early, all at about the same time. The sky was utterly clear in
the still silence of pre-dawn. It was beautiful, even though we knew it
would be oppressively muggy when the sun started baking the mud. Karl
watered the tree on one side of Tent Canvas Hell and Jim and I the
other. When we came back around, Karl's gaze flicked down and he
scowled. Both of us looked at our crotches and cringed at the matted
mess. "You guys went to sleep!" he accused. "I waited to be sure!"

I should have been speechless with mortification, but just replied, "No,
you're right. We went straight to sleep. We both just had," I inserted a
smirk, "very, *very* good dreams."

He looked like he just ate a lemon, peel and all. "I hate you. Just wanted
you to know that." All three of us laughed as we got dressed enough to hit
the Hygiene Hut and trooped down. There were only a couple of other guys in
there, so Jim and I could quickly wash away the evidence of the night's
dreams without any comments. We again ate as a group, seven of us to start
the meal. Two of Larry's cabinmates very tentatively moved forward and we
met Mark and Marcus. Larry and Willie vouched for them as bully-haters.

Breakfast was "loaded oatmeal", a rich, creamy porridge with six or seven
additives and toppings, including butter-melted brown sugar, berries and
something called Bananas Foster that was pretty amazing. A couple more guys
came over and asked to sit with us, filling the table. When a couple more
walked up, they started to sit at the one behind us. Instead of burying
myself in the meal, I watched the guys around us.

Those who came up were the bold ones, but the ones that fascinated me most
were the shy young men who'd never approach us. They looked at our laughing
crowd with such envy and sadness it nearly broke me. They were, to put it
simply, Patrick-before-Red. Whenever I caught one such kid's eye, I'd smile
and beckon him over. About one in five tentatively approached and I made it
my mission to introduce them around and get them comfortable.

One of them, a kid named Quinn, with a stutter and the self-confidence of a
sponge, called to me. He was skinny as a rail even though he was just
starting his growth spurt. Within a few months, I knew he'd be able to go
Trick-or-Treating as a skeleton without a costume. He had thick glasses,
but also a weird kind of grace for someone whose body was betraying him at
every step. It took three tries, but he finally came over. I introduced him
around and found, even through his cringe-worthy stammer, that Mark was
from the same area and they shared a lot of interests. If I can borrow a
word from forty years later, it was an instant bromance.

By the end of the meal, we had two full tables, about twenty-four guys,
laughing and joking. The split was only slightly lopsided. Over a third
were younger, shy and breathless; they looked almost uniformly like little
kids trying to decide if a mall Santa was real.

Most of our newly-enlarged group went to the wretched, milquetoast,
not-quite-churchlike service. Afterwards we split to do whatever everyone
wanted, since the normal schedule was back. A lot of guys scrambled to sign
up for Sunday events since we'd all kinda assumed it would still be raining
and no one had pre-picked activities. Dr Eaglas pulled me aside. Jim's eyes
narrowed but he moved out of earshot.

"I have to say that Red seems to fit you pretty well." I looked down and,
for the first time that day, blushed brilliantly. "Don't look like
that. There are nearly a dozen young men who have a whole new outlook
because you got them to come to the table with you guys. That's a really
good thing, and you, RED, did it." I smiled tentatively up at him and
noticed that, actually, I was smiling down. He was probably four or five
inches shorter than I was, something I'd never noticed until that moment.

"What did he want?"

I looked at Jim and smiled, "To tell Red that he's doing a good job. You
and Karl were right. I was trying so hard to be Patrick I never noticed I'd
grown up to be Red." Jim smiled so widely I could tell he wanted to kiss
me. "Let's go wander." His green eyes sparkled like gems as we set out, not
*really* holding hands, just walking.

We headed out in a new direction this time, and finally settled in a small
depression where rainwater still flowed but was quickly waning as the day
waxed. Around us were hawthorns and holly, making this a place to which
birds would flock in winter for the berries and haws.

We sat side-by-side, watching a small troop of butterflies go after some
clumps of odd plants; the long, barren stems ending in an explosion of tiny
flowers. The insects were strange. The backs of their wings were a drab
blue-grey, but the undersides had a brilliant semicircle of bright-colored
spots. Eventually, I felt his head on my shoulder... well, my upper arm. I
pulled him into my lap and kissed him slowly, deeply, love supplanting
passion.

"What the hell?"

I turned to see a kid I knew, vaguely, from school in Hershey. Jerry
something, I thought. There was no way he could have seen us kissing since
he was behind me, , but he could sure see Jim's legs sticking out to my
right. It had to be pretty obvious that Jim was sitting either in or nearly
on my lap. He was gaping at us like we were a zoo exhibit.

Jim was always the quicker thinker. "OW! Red, you almost had the damned
thing out! Why did you stop? The thorn HURTS, Red." I looked down and he
winked at me.

"Sorry, sorry. Someone startled me. If you stop squirming, it would go a
lot quicker." My voice was strained with worry and stress. How long had he
been there? What had he actually seen?

"YIKES!" Jim yelped, reaching to his leg and giving it a vicious pinch,
leaving a welt with a tiny bit of blood. "That hurt!"

"Well, it's out now. If you keep bitching, I'll damned well put it back!"

I lifted Jim up and set him on his feet, then took a minute to brush myself
off -- and desperately tuck my boner into the waist of my shorts. Luckily,
my shirt had come untucked at some point. I turned. "You're from Hershey,
aren't you? I think I've seen you at school.

"Uh, um, uh, yeah. I'm, uh, going to be a sophomore."

"Yeah, right! You run track, right?"

"Pole vault and high jump, actually. I'm Jerry MacMillan." His voice was
neither friendly nor hostile, but overwhelmingly suspicious. He moved
forward warily. I stepped toward him and offered my hand.

"Right! I thought it was Jerry. I'm Patrick Kennedy, but a lot of the guys
call me--"

"Red. Yeah, I know. What are you two doing out here?"

"Same as you, I expect. Just enjoying the day."

"Actually," he had both a smile and hint of challenge in his voice, "I was
looking for a place to jack off."

I released one of my best blushes and stammered, "Oh, uh...? Wow. That's,
um, blunt! I-I-I-I-I'll get out of your way then."

"What, you don't want to join?" There was a hint of baiting and a sneer
underneath his smile.

"Ew. No. I mean, ev-v-v-v-verybody does it, right? I just, well, I
d-d-d-don't want to, you know, see you!"

"Come on Red, let's head down to the river." Jim scowled at Jerry, clearly
upset and worried by what was going on, but covering it by pretending anger
that I'd been insulted.

"Yeah. Yeah, good idea. So, uh, see you Jerry. Hope everything comes
out... all... right?" I plundered into the pun, trying to sell that it was
a Freudian slip. I figured it worked when Jerry flushed a bit. It gave me
an excuse to quickly catch up with Jim.

We waited until we were all the way to the water where the quick breeze
rustled the tree and masked any sound. We hadn't touched or even been
really close since that clearing. Jim's voice was worried. "You know him,
then, I mean, really?"

I was just as unnerved. "Know him? No. Seen him on the JV track
team. Never, like, met him or anything."

"What do you think he saw?" We both fell silent and I could see Jim doing
the same thing I was, trying to figure out angles and such. "I think.... I
think all he could have seen would fit the splinter/thorn thing. You with
your head bent forward, you know, to look. My legs sticking out. Right?"

"Yeah, um, sure. Yeah, you've got to be right." But he could tell from my
voice that I wasn't sold. And Jerry had that sort of weasely countenance
that made me think of gossips and grudge-holders. I shook it off, literally
flapping my hands and twisting back and forth. Jim took a deep breath and
relaxed, and we headed back in the direction of camp. We hooked up with
Larry and Willie, then Karl and Nate spotted us, both looking unusually
flushed.

The guys had gotten inventive for lunch, and the results
were... unexpected. First was something they called a Grilled Stromboli. It
was a rectangle of pizza dough with several cheeses (half of them also had
pepperoni and salami) inside, folded over and sealed on the edges, then
grilled over a low fire. The result was hot, cheesy, smoky perfection. It
was also something they could keep cooking so they didn't run out; they'd
learned that lesson well. There was red gravy (aka marinara sauce) to dip
it in, and a truly disastrous broccoli-cheese goo that probably sounded
good until it was done. The cold option was a sandwich with mozzarella,
sliced tomato and basil between pizza-dough-like slices of bread. Delish.

Lunch saw the same crowd gather. I went out of my way to sit on the edge of
the group so I could gather more of the shy guys into the Cool Kids Club. I
mean, it's what I had always dreamed of when I looked at the laughing,
'included' guys while I sat glumly in the corner. More of the bold came
over, too, but we reached about half and half by the time we finished, and
I started noticing a pattern. Every new guy who arrived was sort of adopted
by someone; a bold guy by a wimp/nerd/wallflower and vice-versa. It was a
strange dynamic that puzzled me, so I caught Dr Eaglas' eye.

He nodded me over and I asked, "Why do I keep seeing the shy kids
approaching the new, confident ones that just strolled over? What's up with
that?"

He smiled so widely that I thought his face would break. "Well, son, that
is one we *can't* credit to Red. That one belongs to Willie, who created
what I call the Legend of Jim. He told all the guys who were, well, not
real sure of themselves that Jim was sort of the glue that held Tent Nine
together, and that they could do it, too, if they just talked to older or
more-confident guys."

I followed his gaze and found several groups of three and four with a wide
mix of types, many of the bolder boys looking bemused. Kids who wouldn't
normally look at them without blushing were joking and laughing with
them. "He's right, you know, Dr Eaglas. Jim is the keystone of the three of
us."

"I know." I looked at his smiling, dancing eyes. "But I think you should
tell Jim about it."

I got my own sly smile and went over to Jim. I told him about the Legend of
Jim, stretching the tale as generously as he had done with The Buggers. His
face came to resemble a bowling ball made for a guy with enormous fingers
as his eyes and mouth turned into wide, horrified O's. He turned bright red
and spun to try and find Willie and I grabbed his shoulder.

"Why, Jim! I'd think you'd be proud. Willie just took a real story and --
what was it you said? -- 'helped stuff along? Just added color?'" His face
drained to white as the implications hit him. "And now, look at all the
guys who followed YOUR example and are hanging with the cool kids. It's all
you Jim... sorry, should I say Mr Legend?" The look on his face was
priceless and one that I cherish to this day. There is nothing like being
hoisted on one's own petard to draw out faces normally only seen in
cartoons.

The afternoon was a quiet one. My guess from the morning was more than
borne out; the hot sun on all that mud made it feel a million degrees
hotter. Four of the "core group", Jim, Larry, Trey and I, changed into
suits and went down to the dock, more to read than to swim. We found that,
unlike most days, the sticky heat had even put a damper on the
irrepressible younger boys, and only a few desultory splash-fights broke
out. We each swam for a while, then just sat on the dock, dangling feet
into the cool river, occasionally laughing at a squeak or squeal when a
fish got inquisitive about a toe.

Karl (with his shadow, Nate) and a dozen of the other guys had organized a
game of flag football. He and the other team captain, Marcus, agreed (out
of everyone else's hearing) to make each team an even split between the
"kids" and the "guys". Both ended up with eight players: four older,
confident boys and four stunned-to-be-asked younger ones. Willie watched,
beaming from the sidelines as the "guys" frequently pulled back from a
block or subtly refused to put on that extra burst of speed their older
bodies could muster. They called a very convenient halt when the score was
tied at twenty-one apiece. The older guys were thoughtful, fascinated and
felt strangely fulfilled. The younger were ecstatic, full of new confidence
and life.

Dinner, mournfully recognized as the last edible meal we'd have at Camp
Sin, was a complete surprise with five actual courses. Soup (minestrone or
potato-n-cream), salad (creamy Italian or vinaigrette), entrée
(fettucine alfredo and Italian chicken, or a giant meatball with spaghetti)
and cobbler (peach or blackberry, with vanilla ice cream if desired -- and
that muggy evening, we *all* desired). There were both hard and soft rolls,
fresh baked, to go with everything. It became common for pairs to get one
of each and split everything, making eight half-dishes per guy. It was, by
common acclamation, one of the best meals any of us had ever eaten.

Sunday Campfire was a blast. All of us were on a serious high from the
great food. First up were the youngest, least mature kids. Cabin 1,
tenanted by late-blooming thirteens, did "Hokey-Pokey" to righteous
laughter and applause. Cabin 5, the fifteen-year-olds, did a really amazing
Indian War Dance with drums and stomping and grunts driving a pounding
rhythm. Cabin 3, all fourteen, completely flubbed "John Jacob Jingleheimer
Schmidt".

Cabin 6, the cabin Karl and I would otherwise have inhabited, had a lot of
rich, lower-register voices and did a stunning "Luck Be a Lady" that had
everyone clapping along, the perfect intro for Cabin 2. The late bloomers
among the fourteens with more-mature thirteens did "She'll be Comin' Round
the Mountain", keeping the clapping going. As luck would have it, we came
last. We gathered nervously and I was really worried that Willie would wet
himself.

When his heart-breakingly-pure treble burst out with, "As I went down in
the river to pray," everyone fell into absolute silence. He was joined by
the other high voices, "Studying about that good old way / And who shall
wear the starry crown / Good Lord, show me the way!" Willie took the first
line of the chorus, "O brothers let's go down," and the rest joined.

Robert's incredibly-rich low-tenor took "O Bachelors, let' go down," and I
joined with the rest of our third. He took the first line of the chorus
which we sang along with the Brothers. Charles and his echoing basso voice
called on the Fathers in the same pattern.

The final stanza was rich with all of our voices. Charles, Robert and
Willie then repeated "Good Lord, show me the way!" Robert and Willie
repeated that line, then Willie alone. As we'd started the hymn, so we
finished it, with the ringing purity of Willie's voice that penetrated,
coaxed and finally lifted the soul, "Good Lord, show me the way!"

We shuffled a bit, horrified, when there was absolute silence, then just a
few whispers. Why wasn't anyone clapping? I think several of us might
really have gotten tiny wet spots in our undies when the applause erupted
with a force that shook the flames of the campfire itself.

It wasn't much of a surprise that we won the week, but there appeared to be
a pitched battle amongst the Leaders and adults over the other
slots. Eventually, the Major cut off debate and announced that Cabins 5 and
6 tied for second. I highly suspect that it was to clear the way so the
youngest with their delightful Hokey-Pokey could finally win. I thought my
eardrum would burst and bats fly into each other as their squeals of glee
went up and up AND UP in pitch.

Major Bachgen gave his little speech and said that the next Sunday Campfire
would be our last, so choose carefully what we would perform, as many of
the parents would be there. I think everyone (including Quinn) was shocked
when Quinn stood up and asked, "Um, M-M-M-M-Major? W-W-W-W-What if we
d-d-d-d-d-don't w-w-w-w-w-w-want to c-c-c-c-c-c-compete?" Can you even
*imagine* the courage it took for a shy, young, stutter-bound teen to stand
up and ask that in front of over a hundred guys?

"I beg your pardon?"

Mark stood up from a few feet away. "What if we want to do next Sunday as a
whole camp instead of trying to outdo each other." He sent a smile to Quinn
with a look that silently said, "You are great, but I've got this."

"Uh, well, um. Give me a minute." He started whispering with George, then
George and Lloyd. After a moment, Dr Eaglas stuck his head in with a couple
quick sentences and the rest simply stopped and pondered. Major Bachgen
turned. "Well, then, Quinn and Mark, I think we would have an amazing
campfire." A cheer went up but the Major waved us to silence. "But it has
to be a vote. Breaking a tradition like this really needs to have agreement
all around.

"All those in favor of the proposed joint Campfire, say 'AYE!'" About half
of us, including every boy that I, Karl or Jim had drawn in, screamed,
'AYE,' in unison.  I was worried; would it be more than half or less? "All
those opposed, say 'NAY!'" The sound of shuffling feet and a few coughs
were the only sounds, other than the squeaks of bats still stunned by Cabin
1's high-pitched cheer. "Without any opposition, the measure passes by
acclamation! Everyone, please thank Quinn and Mark for the excellent
suggestion!" The place erupted and Willie disappeared under a tidal wave of
backslapping and handshakes.

<eof>

THANK YOU to the incomparable Daniel as well as Tom for their edits. Also,
Jeff Moses, one of my Nifty idols, has helped make this and many more of my
stories better. You have seriously GOT to read his stuff (search for
chainedcoot).

*****

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Maybe Next Time: 5 chapters .../authoritarian/maybe-next-time/