Date: Mon, 17 Apr 2017 08:40:43 -0400
From: Orson Cadell <orson.cadell@gmail.com>
Subject: Canvas Hell 21

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 dozed at times, and woke surly, cramped and tired, a state simply ignored
by my tent-mates. Saturday. Great. Chores. Yeah, like I was in the mood for
THAT!

*****
Canvas Hell 21: Two Types of Love

By Bear Pup

T/T; self-discovery; love versus lust

Jim chirped away in that bird voice and Karl grunted amiably when it seemed
appropriately as we ambled down to the Hygiene Hut. I tripped over that
goddamned tent support and went face-first into a patch of gritty dirt; Jim
and Karl very, very carefully 'didn't notice'.

My day got much better when I was lathered up and the water went from
lukewarm to COLD. I squealed along with four other boys who had just
started getting wet. Karl and Jim had finished moments before; Jim hadn't
even made it out the door to the towels. They just stood there, barely not
laughing. The four others could stand back and either wait for the warm
water to come back or just skip it for the day. I on the other hand...

I looked down at the mass of suds coating my body and knew just how
horrifically-itchy I'd be all fucking day. I jumped into the stream of icy
water and started spewing a string of obscenities, some of which I actually
made up I was so pissed off. Just -- JUST -- as I got the last soap out of
my ass-crack, the fucking warm water came back. I looked down at what used
to be my dick and balls that now appeared to be a pencil stub and a pair of
shrivelled dates. I grumped out into the larger room and snatched a handful
of the towels and began to work some feeling back into my limbs.

We got the Mess Hall to another delightful surprise. They'd run out of
cereal the previous day after we left and wouldn't have more until Chef
came back on Monday. And the fruit wasn't much better. The only things left
were some hard, tart grapes and a bunch of pears. I fucking HATE pears. I
turned back to the chow line and just shuddered at the rock-hard biscuits,
grey-vee, powdered eggs and grease-dripping little sausage links. I grabbed
two pears and walked over to where George was standing, speaking with the
Major.

He saw my approach and shook his head, "Sorry, sport. The coffee urn broke
and were still looking for the old percolator. You want some hot cocoa?" I
stared for a long while, shook myself and mumbled thanks. Over to the
counter where the Swiss Miss packets sat next to the machine that made
lukewarm water. I got to the table and was initially pleased that Karl and
Jim were in the same pear-purgatory until they started talking about how
much they love pears. I ate one and half the other than excused myself.

I had made it to the door when my grace and athleticism again revealed
themselves. I caught my sleeve on the door latch, turned and went down on
my ass right in front of a group of guys my age or a year younger, all of
whom hooted with laughter. In full nuclear blush, I brushed myself off and
made a beeline for the central campfire where the Policing crew would
eventually gather.

I stewed as I sat there, dwelling on the inherent injustice of camp. To
hell with camp, it was the evil nature of entire frigging universe! When a
member of the crew from the Centipede Monster from Hell team clapped me on
the back and gave me a cheery, "Good morning, Patrick! How is your day
going?" I think I might, um, well, might have growled a little. He gave me
A Look, muttered, "Who peed in your corn flakes?" and moved off. The words
'corn flakes' made my stomach erupt in a rumble. Yeah, that helped.

Sea arrived with a few Leaders. Because of the post-storm clean-up, this
would be the first actual Policing day. "Okay, gentlemen, this is how
Policing works at Camp Sinnemahoning. We break up into teams of two. I or
one of the Leaders will task you with an area, usually a cabin and its
environs. You and your partner scour the area -- the cabin or tent or
building, the fire pit, steps, pallets, everything -- and find things that
need fixing.

"Take your time. There WILL be repairs required nearly every area. I will
personally check each area when you say you're done. If I find anything,
you will not like the result. If I find things and you told the Leader that
there was nothing to find, you will be on Policing duty the rest of the
DAY. Do I make myself clear?" There was mumbled assent.

"DO I MAKE MYSELF CLEAR?" Some birds erupted from nearby trees as the
assembled boys jumped a foot and sang a chorus in the key of "Yessir!"

"When you find a problem, you will yell out in your best imitation of my
voice as you just heard it. You will holler one of three things: 'Repair
Canvas'; 'Repair Wood'; 'Repair Stone'! Loud and clear. Some will come to
you with the appropriate tools and materials and guidance on how to fix the
problem. You fix it then keep checking until the area is tight.

"The most common thing I'll hear over the next three hours is 'Repair
Canvas!' You will find places where a seam it unravelled or torn, often
between canvas and netting or at a point where fabric us under stress, like
corners. Because of that, I want to show you what you'll need to do."

He pulled out a couple pieces of canvas and a thing that looked like a
needle Jessica Lange might have uses to sew a loincloth for King Kong. It
was as long as my hand. He slipped a little leather thing over one thumb
and held the needle with the other, threading some sort of thick fibre
through the eye, making it look easy. He then pushed hard through the two
layers of fabric. You could see his arms clench. If it was this hard for
Sea, how the hell were *we* supposed to do that?!?

He slowly rammed the needle through, then around and back through again. He
explained the process as he worked, but it was basically normal mending
stitches. No different than when I had to sew up a seam on my shirt or
jeans. I noticed that there were only a couple guys who looked equally
familiar with the process and it dawned on me; hardly any of these kids
lived in a home where Mom didn't do that kind of thing for them. Well
doesn't that thought just put the icing on my morning.

I got teamed with a kid my age named Jack who seemed about as thrilled as I
was. We got assigned Cabin 2. We found several split seams right like Sea
had said, where canvas met the mesh. It took us a couple tries to figure
out a way that worked. Jack would stay inside and I'd stay out and we'd
take turns punching the needle through the thick, rough material. It damned
well HURT. We'd been at it over an hour when we found a six-inch tear where
the roll-up canvas 'window' attached, so it could be rolled down as it had
been for the storm and the cooler nights. That meant FIVE layers, the
folded-over hem at the top of the flap, plus the canvas and the mesh.

It also means that I had to be on a ladder. Jack dragged over a bunkbed but
that wasn't an option on the outside. We were basically two stitches from
the end when the inevitable happened. Being the dextrous and coordinated
klutz that I am, I let the butt of the needle slip off the leather
thumb-guard and it dug straight into the inner heel of my hand.

"FUCK!" Oops.

"Excuse me, Mr Kennedy. Why did you yell and more importantly why are you
using language like that?" Sea's deep and powerful voice was right fucking
behind me.

I turned to him, hand in my mouth, "thndllipped!" I wrenched my screaming
hand out of my mouth just long enough to say "The needle slipped!"

Jack peeked through the mesh. "We're sewing this really hard tear,
sir. It's tough to get the needle through all the layers and it slipped. I
think it went deep in his hand, sir. I'm sure he didn't mean to yell, um,
that."

I nod frantically, and can feel tears of pain prickle the corner of my
eyes. Sea sighs deeply.

"Come on down here, son." I alit from my perch with my effervescent grace
(landing on my ass) and he basically pried my hand away from my mouth to
check it. I was afraid to even look, but glanced down. There was a bright
red but shallow gash ending in a deep puncture.

"Okay, you get a pass this time, Red. But if I hear that word from you
again, your hand is going to be the thing that hurts *least*. Am I clear?"
My hand already back in my mouth I nod. "Do you know where George's office
is? Of course you do, after the other the bully incident and then the
storm." So he even knows about the meltdown? Greaaaaat.

"Head there now and I'll finish up with Mr Maglio here. Go, and quick;
you're not doing yourself any favour getting your mouth germs in there."

I ran off to the Hygiene Hut in what was just shy of a red rage and got
there as another kid, perhaps 13, limped out with a bandaged ankle. Another
was sitting on the bench drinking a large container of something that
looked (and from the grimace, tasted) vile. George called me in and looked
closely.

"Good news bad news, Red. You'll be fine, no permanent damage done. That's
the good news. The bad news is that what I'm about to do will hurt like
hell." I stared at him, mad, in pain and completely mutinous. "Now, the
walls are thick and I'm temporarily deaf to any, um, language you might
feel impelled to use. Yep, I mean it's gonna hurt *that bad*, and you're
gonna holler and cuss. Sorry, but I always feel it's best to warn a guy."

With that, he took a long implement that he used to clean and sterilise the
puncture. He was right. It hurt like nothing else had that I could
remember. I'd heard a pair of teachers at school talking about a book
called The Primal Scream, supposedly about a way to let off stress and
turmoil or something. It did sort of work. I poured all the confusion and
humiliation and physical crap today into that howl of pain. If I'd had
Karl's muscles, there would have been even odds that I'd have decked
George. It lasted about seven hours (seconds) and a new type of fiery pain
bloomed as he cleaned the light gash before applying a small bandage.

He then did something that I will remember forever, with both shame and
gratitude. He stood up and pulled me into a fierce hug, telling me how good
I'd done. He rocked me and spoke softly until I had some of my composure
back, then wiped my face and handing me something to blow my nose before
ushering me out. No other new patients were waiting, and he gently scolded
the kid with the vile drink to finish it.

I was shaky from the pain, and from the scream, and from the turmoil going
on inside me. Dr Eaglas came out and said, "Would you two gentlemen please
turn around for a minute?" My eyes darted to the door and it dawned on me
that he had a boy like me or Jim or Karl in there who was probably dying of
shame to be seen. I turned and glared at the other kid until he turned away
as well. I felt more than heard someone scurry around the other end of the
Hygiene Hut.

"You okay, Patrick?" His voice was gentle and kind.

I turned and looked at him for a full minute before saying, "No. No, I'm
not." My voice was shaking and weak. "Can I, uh, c-come in?" He held the
door for me and sat down on one of the chairs. I sat on the couch, facing
him.

"Do you want to lie back, Patrick?"

"No, sir, I'd rather face you when I talk about this. I'm not even sure why
I can. I hurt my hand and... I don't know. I need to talk." Dr Eaglas just
nodded and I could feel how much he truly cared about all of the boys.

"I, I, I..." I gulped a few times and fought back the tears that threatened
to steal my voice. "I told you that, that I w-wanted to kiss Karl. And
about kissing them b-both. And how I felt all sc-screwed up." He just
nodded slowly. I focused tightly on his face now, careful to look for any
clue on what I was about to say. "I th-think I love them, like, uh, really
l-l-love them?" He just nodded, encouragingly.

And I... lost it. "I s-s-say TH-THAT and you just N-N-N-NOD?!? I-I-I." I
was shouting. "Y-You don't KNOW. I'm SICK! FUCK! Something is WRONG with
me! I'm WRONG! I'm, I'm... ST-T-T-STOP NODDING!"

His voice was precisely as it always was, calm and deep and apparently not
the least ruffled. "Patrick, sit back down, please." I hadn't even realised
I'd stood up. "First off, you are far from the first man to scream and yell
in my office. I am not impressed by yelling, but I know sometimes it's
necessary. And I am utterly immune to 'fucking' cuss words, so don't bother
inserting them -- or editing them out for that matter.

"Good. Now that you're breathing again, let's hit the high
points. *Everybody* has things 'wrong with them', son. That's not what
matters. What matters is knowing the difference between something 'wrong'
that is harmful, something 'wrong' that is harmless, and something 'wrong'
that is actually 'right' but you keep denying it.

"I believe the thing that has you all worked up is the idea that you think
you might love someone who is not a woman." I nod, still staring at his
eyes. There is nothing there but compassion, and in some strange way that
hurts as much as anything else.

"There is relatively good science out there to suggest that a lot of men,
somewhere between four and eight percent, are attracted more to men than
women. Ignoring that, over a quarter admit -- admit -- to falling in love
with a male friend in their youth before going on to marry and have kids."

I just stare at him, at a complete loss.

"Patrick, did you wonder why I didn't react to your 'stunning
announcement'?" I just nod, still drained and lost. "My older brother is
one of that four-to-eight percent. He went to a man of my own profession
who claimed to be able to 'cure' his 'disease'. This was, oh, twelve years
ago or so? I actually became a psychologist because of it.

"Darren came very close to killing himself several times after that
'treatment'. When my parents finally relented and he found someone to love
-- a man to love, son -- he turned back into the wonderful big brother that
I adore. He's been happy since then, and I see him often. He is a great
uncle for my kids, and a genuinely good person.

"No, Patrick, most people don't think that way. Most think it's wrong. Even
my own profession calls it a disease, now changing the word to
'disorder'. But something to be fought and fixed. Maybe I'm wrong, but I've
seen that thinking destroy of wonderful people. I can't help but think that
things that bring more love into the world must be good. Patrick, do you
understand what I'm saying?"

I sit for a while. His face... his face had never shown anything but
openness and truth. His voice was simple and laced with the fact that he
believed what he said. But did I? I took a minute to process while Dr
Eaglas just looked at me. "I, uh, I think so. B-But I still have
questions."

He smiled then. "Ask them. I probably can't answer them and I'm betting no
one can, but I'll try to point you in the direction where you can find the
answers yourself."

"I-I..." I swallowed convulsively and decided to throw everything to the
wind and just ask. "I w-want to be around Jim. To reach out and to be next
to him, to k-kiss him. I can't stop thinking about him. B-But when I'm
around K-Karl," I close my eyes for a moment, struggling with words, "I
want to, I don't know, grab him and..."

Dr Eaglas actually chuckled at that. I was initially furious until I saw
his soft and gentle eyes. "You, Mr Kennedy, have the unenviable luck to
face something at 17 that most men don't have to deal with until much later
in life. You have crashed headlong into the difference between love and
lust. Actually, that's not really right. Between the need to give and the
need to take. You know, I can't even put it into words. How odd! One is the
kind of love that wants to treasure someone, opposed to an equally-strong,
passionate love that wants to have sex with someone. Does that sound
right?"

I slowly nodded. "Yes. I want to, I dunno, be 'with' Jim. Like, all the
time. But when I watch Karl, I... I want... I don't know what I want. It's
like Jim is oxygen, essential, and Karl is like food, a hunger. What do I
*DO*?"

"And we get to the question that I can't answer. Patrick, you may well go
on to have a big family with a wonderful wife and a half-dozen kids. So
might Jim. So might Karl. But right now, you are... free in a way you won't
be. Find out -- no, son, I don't know how -- what they think, what they
want. No one else, Patrick, can answer your questions, only you and the two
men you bunk with."

I sat and watched his face. I'd drained my soul over the last quarter
hour. I stood and Dr Eaglas just watched. "Thank you, sir. Th-That
helped. It did. I don't know why, but it did. Is it, is it okay that I,
uh..."

"Yes, Patrick. I think you should 'UH' all the way to your tent," His voice
gentled, "and please let me know how it works out. You three are... a
special treasure. I've worked with Camp Sinnemahoning for eleven years,
Patrick, and I think, I think of all the men I've worked with, you three
are some of the most, well, the most..." He sniffed and looked away. "Go
on. Head back, Patrick. And, well, come see me next week?"

I headed back to Tent Canvas Hell. Jim had just arrived. I tugged him into
the tent and closed the pulled the tent flaps and simply grabbed him into a
fierce hug. After a minutes or so he pushed me away and I stuttered,
"Y-Y-Y-You d-don't w-want me t-to-...?"

"No, Patrick, I 'want you to', but I also need to breathe occasionally." He
smiled at me and launched into his own hug.

I wrapped my own frame around his smaller body and whispered in a voice no
one could hear, "I love you, Jim."

His head popped up and stared me in the eyes, worried and scared. "Do you,
Patrick? Do you?" I hesitate and then take the plunge and nod. He clamps me
into a brutal hug and mumbles into my shirt, "I have wanted to hear that
since I met you, Patrick. Please, please, please mean it. I'd die, Patrick,
if it ever stops being true. I love you so, so, so much." I feel more than
hear his sobs and clutch him closer, enveloping him in a Patrick-cocoon,
softly leaking my own tears at his words. I would rather die, myself, than
let Jim down, to not love him, to not make sure he knew I loved him. Of all
the events and choices (good and bad) that I made, this one changed my life
more than any other. It changed me for good, and for 'good' as well.

<eof>

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Active storelines, all at www.nifty.org/nifty/gay...
Canvas Hell: 21 chapters .../camping/canvas-hell/
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The Heathens: 13 chapters .../historical/the-heathens/
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Lake Desolation: 6 chapters .../rural/lake-desolation/
Dear John Letter: 1 chapter .../military/dear-john-letter/
Brother Bear: 1 chapter .../incest/brother-bear/