February 17, 1996
My birthday was yesterday, and Eric’s was a week before, on the ninth. To celebrate us both turning 14, Eric’s parents took us up to the mountains to camp. It was an unseasonably warm and dry winter: Normally the campground would be a foot deep in snow in February, but now the high temperatures were creeping up to 60° at noon, and down to freezing at night. Eric’s dad was conflicted about it — he was excited to use his new set of snow cables for their Volkswagen Westfalia pop-top camper van, but he was also relieved he didn’t have to figure it out this year. We would drive up today, Saturday, and come home on Sunday. Monday was the President’s Day holiday, so we had an extra day off afterward.
The drive up was pleasant enough, with Eric’s parents in the front seat, and Eric and I belted into the bench seat in the very back. Eric’s parents were going to sleep in the camper van, and our challenge (according to Eric’s dad) was that we were going to set up our tent on our own, without any help. Whatever we were able to set up we were going to sleep in. I would find that Mr. Watanabe delighted in giving Eric challenges like this. I think Eric liked it too.
The campsite was actually two campsites next door to one another. “Happy Birthday, guys,” Eric’s dad said to us when we realized we had a quarter of an acre to ourselves. The way Eric’s dad smiled at us was … I don’t know … strangely emotional. His boy was growing up, I suppose. “Now hop to it,” he said, handing us the nylon bag containing the tent. “That looks like a good level spot over there.”
“Is there a booklet?” I asked as Eric emptied the bag, separating out the stakes from the flexible poles connected with elastic cables. The tent was a bundle of synthetic fabric, stuffed deep in the bag.
“I don’t think so,” Eric said. “Have you put a tent together before?” he asked.
“No, but I saw one like this at Sears once,” I said. “Are there two sets of bendy poles?” I asked.
Eric laughed. “Bendy poles! I have no idea what they’re really called, but I know exactly what you mean — yes, there are two bundles of bendy poles,” he said, putting one in each of my hands.
“This is going to be easy. The poles just go corner to corner, and they stuff into little pockets at the bottom.” Eric and I made a good team. We spread out the tent, upside down at first, but then right-side up. We found the pockets, and we threaded the bendy poles through the loops up the edges, like putting a belt on. First one, then the other. We missed the loop at the apex for the second set of poles, and had to re-thread it, but eventually got it right.
“Nice! Tent complete,” Eric said, satisfied. “Which way do you want it to point?” he asked.
“Let’s … hmm.” My mind started to think about privacy. Eric and I both knew we were going to have to be quiet, but no matter which way the tent was pointed, it wasn’t going to keep the sound in. “Wait, which way is east,” I said to myself. It was cloudy, so looking at the sun didn’t help much. I looked down and found a rock. There was a side of it that was pretty green. “Moss grows on the north side of a rock, right?”
“Uhh,” Eric said, unsure. “Is there even moss here?”
I pointed to the rock. “It looks like it’s been there for a little bit. Well, let’s pretend that’s north, so that way’s east. We can watch the sunrise that way.” Eric and I picked up and turned the tent, light as a feather, and staked it down.
“LUNCH,” we heard Mrs. Watanabe say sing-songingly, calling us to the picnic table to eat. We walked over, and saw that she had put together some sandwiches, chips and milk — Mr. Watanabe, a dentist, didn’t approve of soda.
“Thank you for inviting me,” I said, sitting at the campsite’s picnic table, “and thank you for lunch.”
“Of course,” Mr. Watanabe said. “How’s the tent coming?”
“Done!” Eric said proudly. “We just finished staking it down.”
“Did you lie down inside first?” Eric’s dad asked.
“Oh, uh, no,” Eric said. “Why?”
“There could be a huge rock under there, or a root! When you’re finished with lunch, go make sure you’ll sleep comfortably in the spot you picked.” He waited a beat. “We’re going on a hike later — there’s some Indian artifacts that your mom wants to look at,” he said.
“Kumeyyay grinding stones!” she said excitedly. Eric’s mom was interested in local history, and volunteered at the town museum as a docent. She told us how they made bowl-shaped pits in large rocks, and used them to grind acorns from the oak trees to make a kind of meal they used to eat.
“Did they make bread with it?” I asked.
“They made something called shawii,” she said, spelling the word. “It was kind of like oatmeal.”
“How could they live on just oatmeal?” Eric asked.
“They also hunted rabbits and deer,” Mrs. Watanabe said. “Fruit and nuts, too.” Eric and I nodded, giving ahhs of understanding.
After the lunch-and-learn, Eric and I verified that there were no uncomfortable rocks or roots under our tent, and put on our hiking shoes and thick socks. Mrs. Watanabe led the four of us, her husband, Eric and me. When we could walk side-by-side, Eric would take my hand briefly, or sometimes just a pinky, when he was sure his mom and dad wouldn’t turn around. After a mile and a half, we found the stones, roughened by weather, but clearly dents that were made by people many hundreds of years ago.
There was one other stop on our tour, up a long incline to a hill that overlooked a wide grassy valley. At the top of the hill was a boulder that looked like someone had buried a football halfway, pointy-end up, and then taken a huge scoop out of it near the base. Either Eric or I could easily stand inside the scoop, and we did. It was covered in graffiti.
“The legend was that the man who led his tribe here, at the end of his life, walked to the top of the hill to look out over the valley. It was said that he didn’t die, but instead turned into stone — this stone, forever looking over the land,” Mrs. Watanabe said.
“Whoa,” both Eric and I said simultaneously.
“Hmm,” Mr. Watanabe said, suspiciously.
“It’s a legend,” his wife said, and gave him a little smirk. “It might be partly true, he might have come up here and died, but this is how his tribe wanted to remember him. It’s poetic.” Mr. Watanabe raised his eyebrows briefly in a glance that said well, I guess.
Back at the campground, Eric’s parents made an early dinner, as sunset was at 5:30 or so. We sat around the fire and cooked hot dogs and smores until about 6:30, when Mrs. Watanabe announced she was cold, and was going in the van to warm up. “All right boys, see you in the morning,” Eric’s dad said, leaving us beside the fire. He collected up the plastic trash bag and hefted it on top of the Westfalia’s cab, over the driver’s seat.
“Want to go to bed?” Eric said quietly, after he heard the van door slide shut.
“No,” I said, giving Eric a sly smile in the flickering firelight. “But yes.”
We walked back to the tent, noticing the intensifying chill in the air. We both took off our shoes at the entrance to the tent and climbed inside. I took off my jeans, and Eric did too, but I kept my thick wool socks on. “Hey, I have an idea,” I said, whispering, even though we were a hundred yards away from his parents in the van.
“Yeah?” Eric said, pulling off his jeans and folding them neatly.
“So, I was in the shower the other day, uh, jacking off,” I started, and Eric interrupted.
“Oh, you’re finally jacking off now, cool,” Eric said, pulling off his underwear. “I was beginning to think you liked having wet dreams,” he teased.
“Shut up,” I teased back, sliding my underwear off too. “Listen, so I was in the shower, jacking off, and I sort of, like, stopped half way.”
“Okay,” Eric said, not quite understanding why this was a big deal.
“Well, and so I started to get soft, but then I started again, and it felt really good. So I thought — maybe if I kept going, sort of stopping before the point of no return, it would feel even better,” I said. “But I haven’t gotten a chance to try it.”
“So,” Eric said, “you want to jack off now?” He gave me a wry smile.
“No, like — OK, so here’s my idea. I straddle you, and jack you until you say … um … acorn. That will be the word to stop,” I explained.
“Acorn,” Eric repeated, amused.
“Right, acorn — and then we switch — you straddle me and jack me off until I say acorn. And we switch back and forth until we’re so … I don’t know, we can’t take it anymore, I guess,” I said.
“And then we get to cum?” Eric asked, and I nodded. “How?”
“Any way we want, I guess,” I said. “The normal way?” I waited a beat. “I mean, it’s what, 6:45? I’m not even tired,” I said.
“Me neither,” Eric said, thinking. Finally he nodded. “I like it. Let’s do it. Wrestle for first top?” I nodded and grinned.
In the tent, Eric and I started off on our knees. Eric charged at me, aiming for a headlock. I saw it coming and ducked underneath him, laughing quietly. He tried again, but this time I managed to grab his wrists and flip him over onto his back. He landed with a soft thud, his face flushed from exertion, the frigid night air, or both.
Eric sprang back up, his eyes gleaming with determination. He lunged forward, aiming for my legs. I jumped back just in time, avoiding his grasp. Then, before he could recover, I grabbed him around the waist and awkwardly lifted him off the ground. With a mighty heave, I slammed him down onto the sleeping bags supported by foam pads, his arms pinned beneath him. Eric let out a laugh, trying to squirm out of my grip. But I held firm, pinning him down in a classic schoolboy pin.
Breathing hard, we looked at each other, and Eric nodded. I scooted back, straddling his thighs, and spit in my hand. Eric was half hard, and it didn’t take long to bring him up to full mast. The goal for tonight was stamina and longevity, so it was only a minute or so of stroking before he smiled up at me and whispered the word acorn.
“I brought lotion,” he said as I let him up. He rummaged through his backpack at the corner of the tent, and found a travel size bottle of Lubriderm. He squirted a tiny bit out on his hand. We didn’t have to wrestle this time — I rolled over on my back and Eric straddled me, his cock waggling in the air in front of him. It was even less time to make me hard, with the lotion doing a lot of the work there. I made sure to squirt some out on my hand while he was working. “Acorn,” I finally whispered, safely well away from orgasm.
“Do you have your watch on still?” Eric asked as we switched positions.
I climbed on top of him. “Um, yeah,” I said.
“Let’s try it this way,” he said. “stroke me for ten seconds, and we’ll switch. Ten seconds for you, switch. Fifteen seconds, switch, and so on. Make sense?” I nodded. Eric heard my watch beep, and I timed myself, stroking him. “Ten seconds,” I said, and I stopped.
“Nowhere near acorn,” Eric said, as we switched positions. His watch beeped as he timed out a ten-second stroke. It seemed easy so far. His watch beeped and he climbed off me.
I straddled Eric’s thighs again, started my watch, and began to stroke. I used a light touch, because I genuinely wanted the both of us to last as long as possible. I heard the sticky lotion sounds as I rifled my fingers up and down his shaft. A — acorn, Eric said, finally.
“That was right at 15 seconds,” I said, and Eric took a little more time climbing on top of me, as if he had to concentrate a little. He finally sat on my thighs, started his watch, and began stroking. He took a light touch, but not as light as I thought I was doing. “Um,” I said.
“Five more seconds,” Eric said with a grin. I think he was enjoying himself. I tried casting my thoughts elsewhere. “Done. Fifteen seconds,” he said, and released me. “Let’s take a break, maybe,” Eric said, and I nodded. I found my water bottle and took a drink, Eric did the same. Our cocks were shiny and angrily hard in front of us, as if they were almost frustrated to be left in that state. In a way, I suppose, they were.
“Ready?” Eric asked. “Is it 20 or 30 seconds this time?”
“Um, I was going to do 20, do you think you can do 30?” I asked.
“Do 30. I don’t think I’m gonna make it,” Eric said, grinning.
I straddled him, and he took a deep breath. I slowly encircled his cock with my hand, and stroked very lightly and slowly, and started my watch. “You can do it. Think about something else,” I said. “What are you reading for your book report this month?”
“Aah, um … Jurassic Park,” he said. “It’s different from the …” Eric took a second to breathe. “From the movie. There are these little chicken dinosaurs, pro … procomp … procompsagnothus,” he said. “Crap, unnnh —” he moaned.
I released him a second early. “30 seconds,” I whispered. Eric shut his eyes tight. I knew he didn’t want to just erupt all over himself. He measured out his breathing and kept his orgasm down. I watched his cock twitch, and I thought I saw it throb maybe once, but, amazingly, he didn’t cum.
I climbed off him and laid down, and he straddled me, his hips high in the air. I could tell he was concentrating hard on not cumming. His watch beeped, and he lightly started to stroke me. I feel like I might have had it easier because I had a break and 30 seconds of no contact with my cock, but as soon as he touched it, it got super sensitive, super quickly. “Nnnnngh,” I moaned, feeling like I was a breath away from the point of no return. Oh no, it’s coming, I thought suddenly. “Acorn, acorn,” I whispered, and Eric released me. I was five seconds short. I groaned, and pushed myself up on my elbows, watching my cock. I flexed my thighs and core muscles to the max, and I thought I felt my cock throb, just once. A bead of white was forming at the tip. “No,” I said. “Ungh, no, I — did I cum?” I asked Eric.
“It’s like one drop, it could be precum,” Eric said. “Did you orgasm?”
“Ungh, no, it feels … I feel like I’m gonna pop,” I said, grunting. “I can’t take another round. You win, I can’t last another five seconds.”
Eric raised his arms triumphantly over me. “Winner!” Eric whisper-shouted to nobody in particular.
“Nnnngh,” I grunted. “I can’t hold it,” I said. Eric collapsed on top of me, and I wrapped him in a hug. Our cocks found each other immediately, and the blossom of pleasure was like a bomb going off — intense, radiating in waves into my core and thighs. I pressed up against Eric, and came instantly. I definitely hadn’t cum before, because this orgasm felt like it was multiplied by 10. I groaned as my cock throbbed angrily, finally able to release all the energy it had stored up. Eric’s body jerked on top of me as he came finally, his cock pushing hard into mine.
In that moment he did something he’d never done before — he bit my clavicle. Not hard, not like drawing blood or anything, but he bit it in a way that felt … well, not bad. It was like how I could bite my thumb hard, but it didn’t hurt. But I was surprised, and I must have made a little aah sound.
We were both breathing hard, and Eric finally relaxed all his muscles on top of me. “Sorry,” he said. He came up to cobra position, which made us both shiver again because it renewed the pressure on our cocks. He looked down at my shoulder. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, biting you like that … I just … I thought I was gonna scream or something it felt so good,” he whispered.
“No, it’s OK — it felt kinda … good,” I said. I pressed my hips up into Eric. “I don’t believe this, but …”
“What?” Eric asked.
“I think I’m gonna cum again, just …” I started humping Eric from below, and I gripped hard handfuls of his butt cheeks. He kept the pressure on my cock. I whisper-moaned, and my cock erupted again, a smaller wave of pleasure followed, with fresh throbs of cum.
“You came twice!” Eric said. “I made you cum twice,” he added, with no small amount of pride in his voice.
“If you count that first bead, three times,” I said.
“I don’t,” Eric said puckishly, still rubbing his softening cock against mine.
“I think my body is confused,” I said. “You can’t cum, you can’t cum, OK now you can,” I whispered in a jokey voice. “Now I can’t stop! No, I think that’s the last one,” I admitted.
Eric climbed off me, and we cleaned up with a towel, and put our pajamas back on. We zipped our sleeping bags together and snuggled up tight, and finally drifted off to sleep as we talked and giggled, our energy finally sapped. Just before he fell asleep, Eric mumbled “I love you.”
“I love you back,” I whispered, falling asleep.
We woke to bright sun spilling into the mesh front door of our tent, the sound of skillets on the camp stove, and the smell of bacon. Mr. Watanabe, as it turns out, thought the best part about camping was cooking breakfast. Camp breakfasts were his thing. Do not get in the way of a Mr. Watanabe camp breakfast. It was not just bacon: Pancakes, scrambled eggs, butter-fried bagels with jam, coffee (for the adults) and hot chocolate (for us boys). It was all delicious. The feeling of eating a hot — not warm, but legitimately hot — breakfast in 38-degree weather under a clear sky at the top of a mountain would be a core memory I would cherish forever.
I wanted to stay another night, even though I knew we had the campsite for just Saturday into Sunday. I asked if we could ask the ranger about staying longer, but Mr. Watanabe the Camp Chef reminded me we didn’t bring enough food. On the drive home, I was melancholy — Eric would have held my hand, but there was a big space between us in the back bench of the Westfalia.
Mr. Watanabe found his moment. “Hey guys, before we get too far down the road, I wanted to talk to you about something important. Eric, and Bobby, your mom and I both know that you’re both, uh, gay, and that’s OK.”
“Oh no, uh, Dad, no,” Eric started, but we were captive in the back seat. His dad held up a hand, just a silhouette against the bright landscape outside the windshield.
“We’ve known for a while. Your mom does your laundry, after all. We want you to know that we’re happy for you. We love you — both of you — unconditionally, and we want you to feel safe and supported in our home and in our lives. But, we also understand that this might be a difficult journey for you. Please know that we’re here for you every step of the way. We’ll always be your parents and protectors, and we’ll do everything we can to help you navigate through life with love.” It felt like Mr. Watanabe might have rehearsed this a little.
I was shocked. At the beginning of his speech I was afraid, a bit like at Cory’s church. I didn’t know what to do or say in that moment, even though deep in my core I knew it was true. But, at the same time, I felt a new kinship with the Watanabes — something safer, more profound and tighter than the energy I got from Cory’s family. “I, uh,” I said, not really sure where to begin. “Thank you.”
“Honey, you’re welcome. You’re always welcome with us,” Mrs. Watanabe said.
“Does, um, do my parents know?” I asked, as my brain whirled.
“We haven’t said anything to anyone. If your parents know, they’ve figured it out on their own. I’ve talked with your mom, and I know she’s really happy that you’re friends with Eric,” she said. “I’m glad you’re friends with Eric too — more than friends.”
“Mom,” Eric said, somewhat protestingly, but with a tiny smile on his face. I couldn’t stop looking at him.
“OK, OK, we just wanted you to know that we love you,” Eric’s mom said.
Eric waited a beat. “I love you back,” he said softly, a strange mixture of pouting and excitement, looking at me with his little smile, the smile I loved, the corners of his mouth turning down instead of up.
Author’s note: I am fully aware that the use of “Indian” to mean “Native American” is unacceptable, but that was the term we used in the 90s. I mean no offense, but wanted to make the story true to my sheltered-and-white, suburban, lived experience, as racist as it was: I understand it was wrong then, and it’s wrong now.