Date: Fri, 4 Dec 2020 03:12:44 +0100 From: James Rozo Subject: Troop 391 Ch 2 Troop 391 By James Rozo This story is a work of fiction created solely for the entertainment of adults. While based upon my own BSA experiences in Troop 391, the characters portrayed are the fictional confluence of numerous scouts, and any resemblance to actual persons is completely coincidental. Sexual interactions between scouts are natural and wholesome. Young innocence yields to adolescent curiosity as boys commune with nature and explore developing masculinity. If graphic depictions are offensive or illegal, please do not read any further. Please support nifty at: http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html - - - - - Chapter 2 - The Path Forward "Did you get permission for summer camp?" asks Tommy. "Not yet. Still working on it." "Fuck. You need to be at Wauwepex." "I know. But mom's going to be difficult." Since my crossover into the boy scouts Tommy has been teaching me everything a tenderfoot needs to know. He also feeds me as often as possible. My brother Billy was right, it's surprisingly addictive. And my muscles and orenda grow stronger every day. Camping for two straight weeks would be awesome. Total freedom to explore the wilderness and enjoy nature with the Troop. The boys are friendly and many want to fool around. I'm interested and hope to explore the possibilities. "I'll talk to Billy, he can persuade her." "Yeah, she listens to him." "We're going to have a blast. Lots of new things to try." "Like what?" "Sex stuff. You. Me. The guys." "Sounds like fun." "It will be. Of course, you'll be a summer camp virgin." "A virgin?" "Yeah, it's your first summer at Wauwepex. So an initiation is required." "What! Again?" "It's just a formality. You and three other boys." "So, no stripping and jerking this time?" "Well, I didn't say that." "Oh great." "Can't have a proper initiation without jerking a kid." Why do I get the feeling there's more to it than that? The troop seems to have invented or appropriated an Iroquois ceremony for every occasion. And for some reason they all require stripping and jerking for everyone's amusement. "Don't worry. Just get your mom to sign the forms." "Okay, okay!" - - - - - Deep breath. I can do this. "Mom, I don't want to go to CYO day-camp this summer." "Oh honey, I thought you loved it?" "I've outgrown it." I've attended Catholic Youth Organization day camp for five years. It's for little kids: silly games, bug juice and cookies, naps, childish songs, lame craft stuff with yucky girl counselors. And the tee shirts and little green & white bag with the CYO logo are so gay. "I want to go to summer camp with the troop." "What!" "I need to be with the guys." "But you've never been to sleep away camp. What if you get home sick? What if you get hurt? Two weeks in the woods with wild animals, poisonous plants, uncontrollable fire, and dangerous activities with older boys may be too much." I roll my eyes and sigh. Dad comes to the rescue. "He'll be fine, dear. See how he's growing and putting muscle on his frame? Outdoor camping will be good for him, make him a man." Thanks Dad! Between scouts, college fraternity, and masonic initiations, I'm sure he's done a fair number of crazy things. He understands that rituals and male bonding play an important role in the growth and development of adolescent boys. In men too. Fellowship is the mortar of community and civilization. Mom's not ready to relinquish control. More discussion ensues. Exchanging conspiratorial nods, dad and Billy provide arguments that I need to be with my patrol and troop. I detect cracks in her resolve. Just a little more pressure in the right place. It's time to play my aces: guilt and religion. "Mom, Billy will make Eagle soon. He doesn't have much time left in the troop. Next summer he'll be working, saving money for college. We'll never have another chance to camp together as scouts and brothers. I know you don't want to deprive us of that experience." I pause to let that sink in. She thinks very highly of Tommy and his parents. Mr. Karp is an usher at our church, Sacred Heart, R.C. in North Merrick NY, and Grand Knight of The Knights of Columbus; Mrs. Karp a volunteer coordinator in the Parish Outreach Office and Vice President of the Rosary Society. "You know Tommy is from a good family with strong Catholic values. He was an altar boy for years and still helps many parish organizations. He's an exemplary scout, never swears, and earned the Ad Altare Dei Medal and R.C. Religious Knot pocket patch." Designed to help Catholic Scouts of the Roman Rite develop a fully Christian way of life in the faith community, the Ad Altare Dei (to the altar of God) is a polished bronze cross suspended under a bar and ribbon of the Papal colors. Our parents believe a strict religious education is essential. The Diocese of Rockville Center runs Sacred Heart School (K-8). The dedicated Sisters of Saint Joseph have been indoctrinating and inculcating proper Catholic values in kids from Bellmore, East Meadow, and North Merrick since 1921. Two younger Karp boys, Michael and David, and I currently attend. Billy and Tommy graduated three years ago. Unsurprisingly, we wear dorky uniforms: dark blue trousers, light blue shirts, gold ties, and blue plaid blazers with gold `SHS' crests. It's Baltimore Catechism based education. Volume 1 contains approved doctrine in three main sections: The Creed, The Commandments, and The Sacraments and Prayers. Helping kids get ready for First Communion, there are 214 questions with answers that must be committed to memory verbatim. In preparation for Confirmation, I was recently issued volume 2. It contains longer background explanations, discussion questions, scripture references, and class projects. And, of course, another 499 questions with detailed answers to memorize. The Sisters relentlessly interrogate and punish us for incorrect answers. There's a volume 3 for high schoolers, but I hope to never see it. I want some public school normality, not more indoctrination at Maria Regina. I have two more years at SHS to convince mom and dad that I don't need Catholic high school. My whole school celebrates mass on the first Friday of the month. And mandatory confessions are held on the last Friday. I often have nothing to confess. So, I make up sins and perform the prescribed penance. The next month I truthfully say `Father, I told some lies.' Tommy suggested that I confess to impure thoughts, excessive self-abuse, and gluttonous cock sucking. Yeah, right. Not happening. He said the priests understand that boys are sexually curious. That it's natural and healthy to experiment. Perhaps, but that's way too embarrassing to confess - especially since they can see through the confessional screen and know all of us by name. What if they say something to mom? The Sisters teach us that the sacramental seal is inviolable. Disclosure of anything learned by the confessor is punishable by excommunication. And penitents can speak freely. Yeah maybe, but I'm not taking any chances. I can live with a few venial sins on my balance sheet. Besides, Jesus was a boy. Is the Church seriously claiming he never jerked off? Or fooled around with friends? Impossible. If that's a sin, then why did God make dicks so irresistible to play with? You don't see that answer in the Catechism books. Tommy delights in confessing scandalous sexual sins. He said it's an act of charity. After suffering through hundreds of boring and repetitive confessions, the priests appreciate his generosity. Eager to save his soul, demanding all the details, they must fully visualize the transgression to grant absolution. I wonder, does he tell them about feeding me? He must. It would explain why they always grin and wink at me. "Yes, Tommy is a wonderful boy," concedes mom. "Fathers Murphy and Rossi say he's the best altar boy they ever had. He's an excellent role model. You should be an altar boy too." Tommy was their number one boy for several years. In the sacristy he helped them dress and undress. Vestments are a mess of layers: lots of tiny buttons, hooks, snaps, zippers. Impossible to do by yourself. And nimble boy fingers are required. Of course, the men help altar boys dress and undress. During hot summer months Father Rossi has the boys strip down to bare essentials... completely naked under cassock and surplice. "I saw an announcement in the bulletin calling for boys," mom continues. Oh great. Just what I need... more indoctrination. Hell no. Young boys are actively recruited to replace aging ones. Based on recommendations, intuition, and inclinations discerned from confessionals, boys are interviewed, selected, and groomed to serve the Lord's earthly representatives. Father Rossi has approached me several times. The young priest is very handsome, with classical Southern Italian features: wavy black hair, brown eyes, olive complexion. Physical too. Always putting his muscular arm around me and other boys. Despite his considerable charms, I resist joining the fire brigade. Few parishioners know Tommy is a skilled firefighter. He combats conflagrations SHS imps ignite in the pious men. All the necessary incendiary ingredients are present: authoritative celibate men, temptational tinder, abundant opportunity, and sparks of desire. Tested daily, vows of chastity are often charred. Like St. Benedict and St. John the Long-Suffering, the priests are tormented. While god takes the reins in redemption, salvation is given through messengers. Brigade boys like Tommy. Exorcising demons, the celibate men take turns vigorously infusing him with the Holy Spirit. "An altar boy? Um... well, I don't know about that." I need to get this train back on track. "Tommy is the most mature patrol leader in the troop... responsible and nurturing. A natural leader of boys. And Billy is the best SPL. Together they will look after me." As the Cayuga Patrol Leader, Tommy is responsible for my development, advancement, and well-being in the troop. A graduate of the rigorous Junior Leadership Training (JLT) Program, he and the other Green Bars ensure adherence to BSA policies and guidelines. Well mostly. Some of the troop's initiations are a little unconventional. "C'mon, let me go to camp. Please." "Hmm... let me and your father talk it over." Billy and I head upstairs to our bedrooms. I run over to the ventilation duct to listen. Sound travels surprisingly well, and I hear them discussing the pros and cons. I say a silent prayer to Saint Jude, patron saint of desperate situations and lost causes. Hey, a little intercession can't hurt, right? I go over to Billy's room. Lots of NY Jets pictures, posters, and footballs. Five months ago, despite being 18-point underdogs, Joe Namath guaranteed victory and pulled-off the greatest upset in sport's history, beating the Baltimore Colts and Johnny Unitas 16 to 7 in Super Bowl III. The team's new practice facility is at Hofstra University, just minutes from our East Meadow house. Riding our bikes north on Merrick Avenue and west on Hempstead Turnpike, we watch them scrimmage and collect autographs: Namath, Boozer, Snell, Maynard, and others. "Do I have any chance?" "Sure. You pushed all her buttons." "It would be a huge embarrassment if I can't go." "Don't worry. Dad will come through." "I hope so." "I already told Tommy he can enjoy you at camp." "What do you mean?" "Just that it's okay with me if he takes the next step on the path to help you build muscle. I trust him to be gentle the first few times." "What are you talking about? I already suck him all the time." "There are other, um... ways to inject nutrients." "Huh? I'm confused." "Don't worry. You'll find out at camp." Our conversation is abruptly interrupted by a loud `caaw caaw'. A bird with iridescent black feathers is perched upon a tree limb near the open window. Responding to the greeting, I'm surprised when Billy nods his head as if in recognition. "Hello Chogan," he greets the bird. "Yes, I agree." Whoa...did Billy just have a conversation with a bird? How is that possible? And what did he agree with? Unfortunately, Dad calls us downstairs before I can question my brother. The verdict is in. "Your father and I have reached agreement," explains mom. "You're getting older and should be with the troop. I trust you. No dangerous activities, no playing with knives. You understand?" "Yes ma'am," I reply with all the innocence I can muster. She doesn't know that I already earned my Totin' Chip certification card. Authorized by the Scoutmaster, I'm allowed to carry and use knifes, axes, and saws. And dad bought me an official BSA pocketknife months ago. `Don't tell your mother,' he instructed me. Tommy taught me how to sharpen it. The key is to use a high-grit finishing whetstone with cutting oil. Holding the blade at a 15-degree angle, you cut into the stone with several smooth strokes, turn the blade, add more oil, and repeat the process. With patience, a razor sharp edge is achievable. Mom hands me the signed summer camp permission, emergency contact, and medical release forms. My ticket to summer freedom and adventure. I can hardly contain my excitement. "I love you!" hugging and kissing her. I wink at dad and silently mouth `thank you'. Two weeks of adventure at Wauwepex! With miles of trails, there's an abundance of woods, water, and wilderness to explore on unsupervised excursions. I'm excited to track animals, chop wood, whittle sticks, build fires, paddle canoes, learn archery, and shoot rifles. Nothing dangerous; just routine scouting stuff. It's also a great opportunity to accomplish advancement requirements and learn Iroquois lore and traditions. With skinny-dipping, outdoor pissing, communal showers, and after-dark games, there'll be plenty of occasions to checkout other scouts. What happens between boys at summer camp stays there. And moms don't need to know the details. - - - - - Hyperexcited, sleep has been difficult the last few weeks. I've been experiencing a reoccurring dream. Transported to a sacred place, I watch warriors perform an ancient ritual around a bonfire. Then a medicine man feeds me his lifeforce. Waking up boned, there's a distinctive taste resonating on my tongue. Initially I thought Billy was teasing me. That he was sneaking into my room in the middle of the night via the adjoining bathroom, and jerking off into my mouth. But there's no reason to sneak; he knows I'll gladly suck him whenever he wants. Besides, I know his taste. This is different. Stronger. Earthy with subtle fruity notes. Struggling for interpretation, the dream's underlying message is elusive. Getting ready for camp, I've been reading and studying up on Iroquois and Long Island tribes. Perhaps the dream is just my overactive subconscious anticipating camping with the troop and messing around with the guys, or thoughts about my impending initiation. Who knows? Some things defy explanation. - - - - - Departure day finally arrives. The troop is meeting in the parking lot of Christ Lutheran Church on Bellmore Avenue. Forty boys and their parents unload cars, coordinate with Patrol Leaders, and pack their gear into storage compartments under the charter bus. Mr. Borelli is talking with dad and Mr. Karp. His two boys, Anthony and Carmine, are in Oneida Patrol. An old Eagle Scout himself, he frequently joins the troop on weekend camping trips. He was at Wauwepex with some other dads several months ago during my crossover ceremony. A deft storyteller, he is popular with the scouts. As an oral culture, Iroquois knowledge and traditions were passed down through stories. Boys listened to, memorized, and recited them... preserving and transmitting the legends of ancestors down through time. Waving his arms about dramatically, Mr. B is recounting something captivating. Moving closer, I hear a snippet of conversation: `... and he shouted: jerk my fucking cock.' Oh my god! He's telling them about my crossover. Like a ruptured fire hydrant spraying water into the brilliant summer sky, his laughter soaks everyone around him... and dad and Mr. Karp laugh hysterically, their eyes filling with tears. I turn red with embarrassment as Mr. Karp looks at me with a wide grin. Is it my imagination, or is he envisioning me naked with his son jerking me off? Hopefully the Scoutmaster's video doesn't make an appearance at their monthly poker game. I have a feeling my crossover story will be retold for years. Thankfully, we're ready to board the bus. Dad hugs me goodbye and presses two twenty dollar bills in my hand. I can buy cool stuff from the camp trading post: fox pelts, raccoon tails, rabbits' foot, special patches, Wauwepex shirts, and essential staples: ice cream, candy, potato chips, and soda. "I'm proud of you son. Have a great time at camp!" "Thanks dad." "Try new things and trust Tommy," winking and patting my ass. Whoa... what did he mean by that? As an ex-scout, dad must have participated in many unorthodox initiations. In the old days, everything was much more relaxed... and adult leaders and older boys took extensive liberties with tenderfoots. All harmless fun. Just boys being boys. Dad thought my crossover ceremony was hysterical. He had no problem with me getting stripped, jerked, and paraded around the bonfire. Does he suspect that the Green Bars also fed me? Or that Tommy has been stuffing me full of nutrients ever since? He must. He knows tenderfoots are taught to suck. The outdoor program nurtures special bonds. New scouts depend upon their patrol leaders to teach and guide them through the experimental phase of boyhood. Joining the conspiracy, sex play is natural and required to earn membership. Tommy recently started playing with my ass... kissing, licking, and sliding greased fingers up inside. Said something about stretching it open, getting it ready for camp. But I'm not sure why. - - - - - We arrive at Camp Wauwepex. Driving past the Ranger's House, the bus parks across from the Main Office. Twenty buses arrive over the next half-hour. Scouts are everywhere... distinguishable by unique troop numbers, multi-colored neckerchiefs, and patrol flags. The camp easily accommodates 1,000 scouts plus staff. It's divided into three divisions around Deep Pond: Pioneer, Frontier, and Indian. Each division contains about 12 campsites named after famous people, places, and tribes. There are also several 20 and 40-man log cabins and some lean-tos for winter camping. The Indian Division campsites have local tribal names, including: Peconic, Canarsie, Mattituck, Setauket, Shinnecock, Patchogue, Manhasset, Montauk, Iroquois, and Massapequa. And many Long Island towns, roads, and parks are named after these tribes. It's a vivid reminder that Native Americans once inhabited all the land. There are numerous administrative tasks to accomplish: check in, environmental & fire safety briefings, archery and rifle range regulations, swim tests, water safety rules, medical screenings, planning activity schedules, dining hall assignments, etc. "Troop 391, fall in!" commands Billy. Forty scouts smartly take formation in five columns behind their respective patrol leaders. Each patrol has a guidon bearer... a kid who proudly carries the patrol's flag. Taking up the rear as sweepers, Assistant Patrol Leaders watch over the Tenderfoots. "Our first order of business is swim tests." It's hot, and a dip in the cool lake is welcomed news. Some of the younger boys look a little nervous. But not me. I'm a good swimmer. Several floating docks with swim lane dividers are located on Deep Pond's far eastern shore, a 15-minute march. Taking the northern trail around the lake, we pass Buckskin Lodge... home of The Buckskin Sons of Wauwepex. While retaining its Native American traditions and mystique, the Buckskins transitioned into a chapter of the Order of the Arrow, the national Boy Scout Honor Society. Billy and Tommy are both OA members. Nearby is a memorial plaque to F. Howard Covey, founder of the Buckskin Sons. Crossing into Pioneer Division, we pass Pioneer Lodge (one of three dining halls), and some of the campsites: Buffalo Bill, Davy Crockett, Kit Carson, and Daniel Boone. Pioneers of the American West, they forged trails, fueled expansion, and shaped the Nation. We stop briefly at the old Stone Campfire Ring. Thousands of `soul stones', brought by scouts over years, are cemented together into a wide circle around a fire pit. A dozen large stones are worn smooth by time and boys' butts. At the head is a throne-shaped stone chair and weathered Montaukett totem pole. A mystical place with spirit energy, the Buckskin Sons once held leadership council meetings and performed elaborate Indian ceremonies at the sacred ring. Listening closely, the sound of boys singing songs and telling stories echo down through time. Soon we arrive at the swim area. Hundreds of boys are already there. The Nassau County BSA Council encourages unencumbered scouting - fresh air, healthy sunshine, and natural swimming. Nudity is considered normal and wholesome. At Wauwepex, bathing suits are bothersome, restrictive, and strictly forbidden. Scouts relish the freedom afforded by the exclusive all-male sanctuary. Boys are stripping down, waiting in line for their swim test, or dripping wet and drying off in the sun. Providing leadership, scoutmasters and camp staff closely supervise the evolution. It's a sea of swinging dicks. An inexhaustible supply of inspiration waiting to be tapped. Gorging on the sumptuous visual feast, I'm dazed by the profusion of shapes, sizes, and developmental differences. Well-equipped boys strut around like proud peacocks... while underdeveloped kids transitioning through puberty try to hide their shame. It's my first time seeing ethnic boys. Living in secluded white suburbia, there aren't any Black or Latino kids in my school or neighborhood. Here in the bright sun they stand out... black and brown amid a sea of white. And I don't know where to look first. "Enjoying the scenery?" asks Doug, my Assistant Patrol Leader. "Um... I was just, I..." "Relax. Enjoy yourself. Soak it all in." "I've never seen so many naked boys." "Other than a Jamboree, this is the largest sausage parade you'll ever see." "The dark kids ... they all seem big. Down there." "That's nothing. Wait until they're boned." "Damn. Why do some look different? On the end. Where's the head?" "It's there... under the foreskin." "What's a forest skin?" "Foreskin. One word. It covers and protects the head." "How come we don't have one?" "We did... but it was cut off." "No way!" "For real. You've seen the ring around a shaft?" "Yeah..." "... well that's where it was attached." "Oh wow. Always wondered what that was." "Doctors routinely cut boys at birth." "Why?" "Mostly for ridiculous cultural reasons. Native Americans believed that foreskins were sacred and they never cut their boys. Many tribes had ceremonies where the High Priest would pierce his and make a blood offering to Mother Earth, ensuring a bountiful harvest." "Damn, that must hurt." "Less barbaric than taking a knife and cutting if off completely." Thinking about that, my dick immediately deflates. In the history of humanity, I can't imagine how anyone would suddenly think, `oh, I have a great idea, let's chop the top of every boy's dick off.' And everyone agrees, `yeah, that sounds good'. How many mistakes were made until the technique was perfected? "How... how does the skin work?" I ask Doug. "It retracts when a kid gets a boner. But sometimes it's too tight... especially if the head is large or wide. And then it needs to be manually stretched." Who knew? The Sisters don't teach us about this stuff! I bet public school kids learn all about cocks in sex education class. I've never seen an uncut one before today. Didn't know they even existed. I'm going to have to get a better look. Perhaps in the showers. In less than two hours at Wauwepex my worldview has already changed. Can't imagine what I'm going to learn over the next two weeks. - - - - - "Strip," orders Billy. Knowing the routine from past summer camps, older boys undress without hesitation. Embarrassment felt by younger boys slowly recedes as a new comfort takes hold. There's no place for modesty in a troop. Uniforms and hiking boots are removed and arranged by patrol. Naked and connected to the land, there is a strong sense of belonging. Profoundly liberating, physically and psychologically, there is a freedom of movement, excitement, and joy in living in harmony with nature. And we roister about and squeal with delight. Surrendering to primitive compulsions, we checkout each other's gear. Damn... everyone in our troop is cut. Many scouts focus on Billy and the patrol leaders. Standing evocatively with shameless confidence, the brazen exhibitionists proudly display their masculinity. Tantalizing treasures - tumid teenage shafts, thick tufts of hair, and tremendous testicles transfix the younger boys. I've seen Billy and Tommy naked tons. Doug too. Proud of his developing masculinity, his cock has grown over an inch in the last six months. He lets me measure it before sucking him in the church basement after troop meetings. My attention is focused on my Cayuga Patrol mates. Some of the Onondaga and Seneca boys also catch my eye. Anthony and Carmine too. I love Italian food... and can't wait to taste them. Joining the swim queue, we parade our collective masculinity for other troops. Testing six boys at a time, the lines move relatively quickly. Red Cross certified swim instructors, all college age Eagle Scouts or Explorer Post guys, assess each boy's skill in the water. They have amazing bodies - smooth, tan, and muscular. Only campers are naked; adults and staff members must wear swimsuits. The brightly colored speedos with collegiate logos are stretched over strapping asses and generous packages. The instructors draw as much attention as the completely naked scouts. Scantily clad, the lure of the unknown fuels the imagination. We have to swim 25 yards using the freestyle or breaststroke, turn around, and return using the backstroke. It must be completed in a strong manner without stopping. The instructors watch for strong leg kicks, fluid arm rotation, and efficient breathing technique. It's fun watching bobbing butts as boys slice through the water. And backstroke boners are on display. - - - - - After swim tests we dry off in the sun. It's remarkably rejuvenating to lay around naked, soaking in the glory of the sun as a warm breeze caresses my skin. No wonder nude recreation... beaches, camps, and naturalist resorts are so popular in Europe. America needs to chill out and embrace nudity. We stay naked since our next destination is the Health Lodge. Wearing only hiking boots we march around Deep Pond. Arriving at the lodge we join several other troops. All the boys are naked. Grinning volunteer council members and retired scoutmasters help coordinate the medical check-in process. Over decades the men unselfishly assist tens-of-thousands of scouts. And troops pose for group pictures. We deposit our uniforms and boots on the veranda and enter the lodge. Gathered in a large room, we watch as another troop is inspected. Many are sporting full sized cocks. It's Troop 123 from North Merrick NY, and I recognize a few kids from my school. Sacred Heart is a large parish. And the old church is too small. Our school gymnasium was converted into an auditorium for additional masses. So there is no real physical education program, no locker rooms, or opportunities to check out classmates and older boys. It's exciting to run across some kids from school. An amazing opportunity to check out their equipment. While jerking, I've envisioned some of them naked. But now, standing at parade rest, they're on full display for my viewing pleasure. And some are boned. So, of course I stare and take plenty of mental pictures. Who wouldn't? Hey, all boys are naturally curious about cocks. Wauwepex employs a doctor and two ex-navy corpsmen. Donned in medical garb, their authority is self-evident. Enjoying unfettered access to countless naked kids, I imagine there's no better job than working in a Boy Scout summer camp. Group physicals by troop saves time. We're all men, so it makes sense. Troop 123 finishes and departs the lodge. And we take their place, standing on lines painted on the wide-plank floorboards. "Stand at parade rest," orders a corpsman. Assuming the position, we crisply snap arms behind backs with hands interlocked and feet spread shoulder width apart. Ensuring we're fit for the full outdoor experience, focused on hearts and hernias, the medical men quickly move from boy to boy. It all seems completely unnecessary to me. Part of the camp application process was a comprehensive physical by our regular pediatricians. It could be a legal liability thing, but I suspect the men just enjoy the company of naked boys... remembering their own youthful adventures. Getting worked-over, many scouts throw a bone. A corpsman caresses my creamy skin. After listening to my heart, my hairless genitalia garner his full attention: erect 3-inch shaft with maraschino cherry head and developing balls resting inside a taut scrotum. Running fingers around the shaft and head, he examines it thoroughly. Progressing downward, he squeezes my tiny orbs between knowledgeable fingers. "Cough. Again. Any pain or discomfort?" "No sir." "Ok, you're good to go. Have fun. Don't jerk off too much." I blush furiously as nearby boys laugh. As if every scout doesn't do it 3 or 4 times a day! With testosterone surging, pubic hair growing, and balls dropping into expanding bags, our cocks are an endless source of wonder and entertainment. Why do doctors, priests, and coaches tell boys not to play with themselves, yet can't wait to get their hands on us? It's no accident that a nude young boy, armed with bow and a quiver of arrows, is the god of desire, affection, and erotic love. Ah youth, large, lusty, loving... full of grace, force, fascination. - - - - - Our troop has the Manhasset campsite. Although relatively secluded from other sites, it's only a short walk to the dining hall, showers, and trailheads. Located midway between the rifle range to the west and swim docks to the east, it's on the same side of Deep Pond as the Trading Post. Our gear is waiting for us... and we set up camp. A murder of crows watch us closely. Funny name for a bunch of birds, right? Who names these things? Highly intelligent, crows recognize human faces and are known for having excellent communicative skills. Harbingers of messages and omens, in Native American mythology they are identified with magic, shape shifting, and spiritual energy. One particular bird has been eyeing me for 30 minutes. Occasionally turning and chatting with its mates, I feel like they're talking about me. Antsy, I'm eager to explore Wauwepex. "I'll show you around," offers Doug. He selects a meandering footpath and we're off. I feel a connection to other scouts who have walked this way. Born to wander, each traveler leaves a mark... a trace, a trail, a roadmap to help guide the next in their journey. We shape the world and archive knowledge with every step. Society glorifies trailblazers like Lewis & Clark, hardy souls who strike out across uncharted territory. But followers play an equally important role. They strengthen the path, clear away obstructions, mark boundaries, and improve the journey for future generations. Native American trails did not always take the path of least resistance. They often took detours - to avoid enemy territory, to sacred sites and away from haunted ones, and to places for crossing rivers. Evolving, their trails bristle with spurs - joining and diverging. How do I select my path through life? It's all very confusing. "Never cut through another campsite," Doug tells me. "Why?" "It's disrespectful. You must request permission before entering another troop's space. Or you'll be taught proper manners. A kid from our troop was caught, stripped, paraded around, tied to a tree, and pissed on. Had to suck plenty of dick too." "Damn." I later learned the kid was Tommy. Adventurous even as a young Tenderfoot, he accepted a dare from older scouts to run across another troop's campsite. Tipped off in advance, the other troop laid in waiting for the young daredevil. In return, they sent one of their Tenderfoots over to our troop. And everyone had fun that afternoon. Doug is a veteran camper with a wealth of knowledge. He explains a dozen other unwritten rules. Stuff not found in the Handbook that tenderfoots need to know. Important things like: `don't collect firewood near another troop's campsite', `don't keep food in your tent', `piss at least 200 feet from water sources', `always offer a boned buddy a helping hand', and `good scouts always swallow'. Of course they do... why wouldn't they? Our narrow path converges with others. The new well-worn trail, with painted trail markers on trees, leads to some place frequently visited. Every scout must demonstrate the ability to identify and interpret trail blazes, cairns, and ducks (small stone stacks). Three hundred feet later we emerge from the forest into a wide clearing. "This is Indian Hall, our dining facility," explains Doug. The impressive structure has massive timbers that support a 20-foot vaulted ceiling. A large stone fireplace, hearth, and chimney dominate one end of the building. A sea of five-foot square tables and benches, accommodating over 300 scouts, fill the central hall. Just to the south are the Division's showers. The large open-air 25 x 25 foot group shower has thirty showerheads along three interior walls. The fourth side has benches and pegs for hanging clothing and towels. With no dividers, there's no place for modesty. Scouts can freely checkout kids from other troops. Crows are sitting in an oak tree overlooking the showers. I sense their spiritual energy. One is particularly strong and vaguely familiar. Perhaps it's my imagination, but I think they're following us. Doug looks at me with an enigmatic, knowing smile but doesn't say anything. Naturally inquisitive, the birds enjoy watching naked scouts. Passing down knowledge and hunting tactics from one generation to the next, they take advantage of easy opportunities to steal a kid's sock or underwear to pad their nests. A faded sign indicates different shower times for scouts, adults, and camp staff. "Ignore that. It's not enforced." As SPL, Billy is responsible for troop hygiene. He ensures that Patrol Leaders get their boys into the showers on a regular basis. No shorts allowed. Scouts must be naked to get thoroughly clean. Older boys supervise and routinely help wash the younger kids. "Staff often watch, but let boys be boys," adds Doug. "You can checkout other kids, play a little grab ass, have sword fights, and jerk off... but no sucking. There are other more discrete places where boys can hook-up for a little fun." Damn. I'm boned just thinking about that. Adjoining the showers is a small covered building. The latrine. Constructed of 2 x 4 studs and plywood sheets, the walls and roof are designed with large gaps for maximum ventilation. For good reason. The stench is overwhelming. Upon entering there are sinks and a large stainless-steel urinal trough. Twenty boys can stand around the trough and piss simultaneously. That would be something to see. Of course, most scouts just use the woods like wild Indians. It's less embarrassing than whipping it out at the trough, putting on a show for other boys. The large latrine is a five-holer. No partitions. No privacy. Scouts sit side-by-side doing their business while chatting with kids from other troops. I can't imagine doing that. Way too embarrassing. Unless absolutely necessary, I'll try my luck instead with the two-holer located near the Montauk and Iroquois campsites. Four of the holes are boy sized; the larger one for adults. Using the facility at night, in the pitch black I imagine a skinny kid picking the wrong hole and falling into the pit. Over 10 feet deep, cries for help would go unnoticed as he drowns in excrement. "Bring your own TP. The camp stuff is like sandpaper." A large bucket of white powder with ladle is nearby. "What's that?" "Lime. Helps reduce odor and flies. After you're finished, pour a scoop down the hole. I recommend emptying your pockets before sitting down... you don't want to drop anything into the pit. And never drop a lit match down there." "Why?" "It can explode." "No way!" "There was an incident a few years ago at the Valley Forge National Jamboree." "What happened?" "Official story was spontaneous combustion due to improper ventilation from thousands of scouts using the latrine. Wasn't designed for the volume. Somehow methane gas ignited, a fireball erupted and exploded. Shit everywhere. Burned for days." "Damn." "But that's not the whole story. The local BSA Council conducted its own internal investigation. A confidential report was distributed. I saw a copy at our Scoutmaster's house, after a Green Bar meeting. I stayed late to, um... work on a special merit badge." "So what did it say?" "A Life scout from Atlanta, Cooper something, was smoking dope while watching boys at the trough. Thought the stench would cover the distinctive smell. He panicked as a Leader approached. Threw the lit joint into the pit. And the gas ignited." "He get in trouble?" "Yeah. The kid had to visit dozens of troops and discuss the evils of drugs. For his Eagle Project he helped create a special cock sucking merit badge. Conducting research and defining requirements, he serviced countless Council Members, Scoutmasters, and Green Bars." "Wow. Didn't know that badge existed." "Some special ones aren't listed in the Handbook." "Like what?" "You'll learn about them when the time is right." Damn. Secret badges! Who knew scouting is so awesome? - - - - - There's a faint path behind the showers. Doesn't look very promising. And calling it a `path' is overly generous. Hidden by dense undergrowth, if you didn't know about it, you'd never find it. Following requires luck and a leap of faith that there's someplace worth reaching at the other end. "Where are we going?" "To a secret place." I love secret spaces, unknown hidden places in need of exploration. Wauwepex provides a grand adventure with every path, hill, stream, ravine, rock formation, and cave. More possibilities than a curious boy can reasonably navigate in two short weeks. Doug's memory is our compass. We advance deeper into the wilderness. Pine needles crunch underfoot as we pass uprooted trees rotting with clutches of wild mushrooms. Traversing timeless tranquility, a profound sacredness resonates and I'm filled with peaceful mindfulness. Crossing our path is a small languid stream. Whispering its wisdom, a billion drops meander together towards the Long Island Sound and Atlantic Ocean. Stepping carefully on algae covered rocks, we cross the stream and continue our journey. "Pay attention to the land," commands Doug. He's taught me that it's not what you look at that matters, it's what you see. Carefully scanning the surroundings, I notice two small rocks stacked upon each other. A natural occurrence? Or perhaps a trail duck? Three rocks would increase my confidence. But two? I'm sure many scouts have been made fools by nature. "Over there... those rocks?" "Yes. Exactly. Remember this path... you'll be traveling it often." And I think about the implications. Tall broadleaf deciduous trees... oak, maple, and dogwood reach skyward forming a canopy, while smaller evergreens... pine, spruce, fir, and undergrowth... shrubs, ferns, wildflowers, creeping vegetation, and grasses compete for sunlight. Years of detritus carpet the ground - decomposing leaves, needles, twigs, bark, animal waste, and other organic matter. Broken down by time and microorganisms, vital nutrients return to the soil. "How did you find this path?" "Billy showed me when I was a Tenderfoot." After another few hundred feet we reach an impasse - thickets of prickly bushes with intimidating needles. I'm disappointed by the unexpected terminus. Unfazed, Doug searches for a way forward and locates the entrance to a secret enclave. Slipping carefully past the thorny sentinels, we climb down rocks into the dried bed of an ancient kettle hole lake. Created by glacier moraine deposits on metamorphic bedrock, sculptured by receding melting ice and erosion, boulders encircle a large flat depression. I sense a powerful presence transcending time. There's living spiritual energy here. A wondrous web of invisible threads connect everything to the land. Protecting. Nurturing. Empowering. And I feel a strong sense of belonging to something much greater than myself. Weathered petroglyphs are everywhere: animals, geometric patterns, and spiritual symbols. Blackened stones are arranged around a well-used fire pit. Nearby, the remnants of several totem poles lie on the ground burning in slow decay. "What is this place?" "A portal." "To what?" "The spirit world. The Montaukett, related to the Algonquian-speaking Mohegan and Shinnecock, lived on this land for at least 8,000 years before Europeans arrived. They performed sacred ceremonies here and communicated with animal spirits and ancestors." Movement catches my eye. We're isolated. But not alone. At the far end in a shadowed niche, several scouts are gathered around a boy on his knees. Ominously quiet, the only sound is of leaves fluttering in the gentle breeze, boys whispering gentle words of encouragement, and a kid choking on cock. "Is he..." "Yes." "But in the open?" "Sure, why not? We're all brothers here." For the last six months I've been sucking Tommy and Doug, taking nourishment and building muscle. And my orenda has grown stronger with each infusion of concentrated masculine energy. Except for my crossover initiation, however, I've always sucked in private. "Montaukett warriors believed their manitou was sacred. Never to be wasted. When not implanted in a squaw, they fed boys to make them strong... just like they were fed, and generations before them. It's a vital sharing of life-forces connecting them to their ancestors." "So, hundreds of blowjobs took place here?" "More like tens-of-thousands over millennium." "Damn." "This place serves the same function today." "What do you mean?" "The traditional sharing ritual was revived by the Buckskin Sons. It's no accident the Indian Division's showers are located nearby. Exchanging secret hand signs, boys from different troops meet here to celebrate brotherhood and share spiritual energy." "Whoa. Who knows about this?" "Only select boys. You have to be shown the path." Sharing secrets is the way boys express friendship, intimacy, and confidence that they will not be betrayed. Invited inside the world of older boys, it provides me with a sense of self-worth and validation that my hard work is paying off. "Why me? I'm just a Tenderfoot." "True, but the Green Bars believe you have potential." "For what?" "Leadership. You and another boy with strong orenda have been chosen for special training. While nothing is guaranteed, with years of hard work and sacrifice you could be a future patrol leader. Perhaps even elected SPL someday. Only time will tell." Patrol Leader. SPL! Did Billy, Tommy, and all the Green Bars take this path? I'm excited, humbled, and frightened by the confidence and awesome responsibility of leading future scouts. Intensely focused, I'm determined more than ever to learn the Iroquois and Montaukett way and strengthen my spiritual energy. "Don't worry... I'll help you." Doug unzips and extracts his cock. He's boned. Without hesitation I kneel. Leaning forward I kiss the soft head. My tongue instinctively traces familiar contours across the succulent acorn-shaped glans. Leaking clear juices, the sweet taste of teenage masculinity resonates as exquisite layers of flavor... peach, pear, honey. Connected to cock and continent in this special place, an all-encompassing life-force surges around me. Kitchi-Manitou. The magnificence of existence stands out overwhelmingly, while beyond all, and in all, dwells the Great Mystery, unsolved and unsolvable. Opening wide I welcome Doug inside. The malleable shaft advances in one unhurried fluid motion. Every inch is offered accommodations. Savoring undeniable perfection, I close my eyes and concentrate on the amazing taste and texture. There's truly nothing else quite like cock. A consciousness brushes against my mind. Standing on the threshold of a dream I hear a voice. Primal and eternal, it speaks the universal language of interconnectedness. It's the amalgamated essence of ancestors and descendants yet to be born, animals and plants, water and fire, earth and sky, stars and galaxies. And it says, `We are one'. Existing beyond time, past and future are meaningless in the extradimensional spirit world. Mesmerizing movements of spectral energy meld rhythmically in dancing harmonies, graceful refrains, and wistful variations... composers and interpreters of the great mystery. Interacting with the physical world through dreams and visions, spirits impart wisdom and communicate messages to humans. Especially at pivotal crossroads. A spirit with iridescent black feathers coalesces. My animal spirit guide. A crow. Doug taught me that prior to reaching puberty Native boys journey into the wilderness to connect with the Great Spirit and discover their life path. Venturing on a vision quest, aided by a spirit guide, attainment of self-awareness is essential for the ascension to manhood. A loud `caaw caaw caaw' resonates. Selecting a thread in the infinite tapestry of existence, my guide commands me to follow. Embarking upon a spiritual journey, geometry twists and at superluminal speed I'm transported back in time. To the Montaukett portal. A large ceremonial bonfire burns. Warriors are performing the `Sacred Elders Dance'. Wearing deerskin breechcloths, moccasins, and beaded headbands, they have shaved heads with scalp locks - a single lock of hair on the crown. Progressing around the fire, they dance and hypnotically chant to the rhythmic beat of drums and rattles. Kehchisog peantamwog wutche pashpishont; Kehchisog peantamwog wutche wayont; Nuppeantamumun wutche kehchisog; Kehchisog nissimun peantamook wutche pashpishont; Kehchisog nissimun peantamook wutche wayont; Nepauz pashpishau; Wayau; Kehchisog peantamwog. Their lean bodies - broad shoulders, muscular chests, rippling abdominals, and corded arms and legs are decorated with animal tattoos, tribal symbols, and geometric patterns with spiritual significance. Swollen shafts and beefy balls bounce in bountiful bags as they gyrate to the beat. Dozens of boys sit around the bonfire on split logs. Spellbound, they watch the mesmerizing movements. A deific medicine man is in a trance. He's communicating with spirits and manipulating manitou. For thousands of years secret spiritual, ceremonial, and healing knowledge has been closely guarded and passed down from father to son. Living a communal existence, elders and warriors awaken the sleeping gifts within the tribe's most precious resource: their boys. Forging strong connections to the land and their ancestors, the sharing of spiritual energy is their most sacred ritual. The excited boys join the warriors. No words are necessary as they kneel between muscular thighs. They have taken nourishment many times. With steady hands they unfasten the breechcloths, reverentially grasp the spirit-engorged ukkosue pompuchaí, roll back the foreskin, lean forward and pay homage to their ancestors. Straddling the physical and spiritual world, the medicine man turns and looks directly at me with intense black eyes. A knowing smile crosses his weathered face. Tattooed on his forehead is a black bird - a symbol of keen vision and keeper of healing knowledge. "Cowequássin kaukontand nunnaumon wunnaumonoh." (Greetings Great Winged Spirit and grandson.) "Nunnaumon keihtánit wunniyeu wutohtimion," my guide responds. (The Great Spirit smiles upon those that live on this land.) Although they are speaking the Mohegan-Pequot language, a highly inflectional dialect of Algonquian, I somehow understand their words. Experiencing convergence and oneness, our spirits are bound together with the living energy flowing in the sacred portal. "I am Askuwheteau - he who keeps watch. Respected Winged Spirit, my people offer songs of thanks for your guidance and wisdom. You and your brethren spirits educate, heal, and protect us in this great journey beyond understanding." He focuses on me with wise, penetrating eyes. "Young one, I've been expecting you." Around the fire boys are feasting to the beating drums. Writhing in ecstasy, the warriors are in a trance... their consciousness heightened, dissolved, and merged with ancestral spiritual energy. Transcending physical boundaries, a rising primordial wisdom springs forth... and grateful boys swallow repeatedly to get it all down. I have an epiphany and understand what I must do. Taking position on my knees, with nervous hands I unfasten the leather tie and lower the deerskin breechcloth. Askuwheteau's swollen essence smacks my face. It's huge. Meaty. Uncut. And the intense masculine aroma is intoxicating. Without hesitation I explore the foreskin. Sliding it up-and-down a few times, off the crown and behind the ridge, I'm fascinated by the fleshy mechanics. Licking the juicy head, an intense earthy flavor resonates on my tongue. Savory like a morel mushroom. Opening wide, my lips stretch around the succulent cap. Working downward towards the thickening base, applying lessons learned from hundreds of hours of practice, I'm determined to take it all. And it advances towards my throat. Tommy taught me how to properly suck a cock. The objective is to always take the whole thing. Balls deep. Proper breathing and alignment are essential. Opening and stretching the throat, getting it used to being stuffed increases everyone's enjoyment. Taking measured breaths, I relax my throat. Swallowing hard, the cock pops inside and continues its downward journey. Askuwheteau is pleased. Holding my head in powerful hands, thrusting hips rhythmically to the beating drums, his manhood is alternately withdrawn and stuffed back down my throat. The percussion of his pendulous balls swinging and battering my chin vibrates through my skull. Time stands still as I suck for eternity. Eventually reaching the pinnacle of pleasure, he thrust deeply, stiffens, and injects sacred manitou. Spiritual energy and ancestral knowledge surge through me - a tsunami of Montaukett moments and memories. Connected, we are of one mind. Nursing on the deflating shaft, I recognize the rich, earthy, fruity flavor from my dreams. Structured, refined, and masculine, it's a product of a diet rich in corn, beans, squash, strawberries, black cherries, blueberries, black currants and wild meats... deer, rabbit, turkey, duck, and turtle. In awe, I kiss the head and give thanks. "Young one, you are on a glorious path. Many will help... teaching everything important so you can take your rightful place in the council of men. Seek and savor sacred seed, grow physically and spiritually strong, and be one with Mother Earth, Father Sky, and the Great Spirit." My vision begins to blur as time snaps back. `Our paths will cross again' resonates as the tether breaks. My guide also departs with a farewell `caaw, caaw, caaw'. I know he will always be watching, helping, protecting me. Hurling through the whirling void I'm suddenly back in Wauwepex. On my knees. Still sucking Doug. And I sense a powerful but familiar presence. Startled, I open my eyes and freeze. "It's alright. Keep going... I'm close," commands Doug. Standing next to us is a mysterious older boy. Glancing sideways, I scan his uniform for pertinent clues: Eagle Scout with Arrow of Light; Montauk, NY council strip and 136 unit numerals; position patch with three green bars on the left sleeve; a Buckskin OA patch on the right pocket flap. There's a natural resonance between him and the portal; a profound connection transcending time. My orenda is inexorably drawn to him like metal shavings to a magnet. Reaching and connecting, I recognize aspects of his energy signature. Askuwheteau's presence is strong. The boy's life force is orders of magnitude more powerful than anything I've ever encountered. A shimmering aura of truth, balance, and harmony. There's no doubt noble Native American blood flows through his veins. Montaukett and Shinnecock. I would greet my spirit brother, but my mouth is still stuffed with Doug's cock. Knowing the telltale signs, he's about to blow. Ascending the peak of pleasure, he stiffens. Gasping, a sing-song groan escapes his lips as a torrent is released. Gulping repeatedly, I consume the creamy gift. It connects and resonates inside me like never before. Newly awoken, I now notice something for the first time. Doug has some Montaukett in him. A small but perceivable amount of tribal energy. This would explain his deep connection to the land, his wellspring of knowledge, and uncanny ability to locate edible and medicinal plants, berries, and herbs. What is the source of that energy? Perhaps his spirit guide transported him to a Montaukett tribe performing the sharing ritual. Did he kneel before a warrior and drink deeply? The Great Mystery is truly complex and beyond understanding. Extracting the last few drops, I kiss the cock and offer thanks. "This is Chogan," Doug explains. "He knows me," the Eagle Scout responds. I suddenly realize our paths have crossed many times in the physical, spiritual, and dream world. Different shapes and forms embarked upon an entwined journey. Chogan, black bird in Algonquian, is my protector and advisor, guiding and aiding me on the path forward. In this manifestation he has a lean body wrapped in exquisite swarthy skin. I'm captivated by his long flowing black hair, prominent cheekbones, radiant smile with intense white teeth, and mysterious obsidian eyes. And he possesses the cumulative power of countless medicine men. My attention is drawn to the bulge in his khaki-green scout shorts. He gives it a leisurely squeeze while talking with Doug. Their conversation is rendered meaningless as I'm focused exclusively on the power radiating from between his muscular thighs. I remain down on my knees in awe. And beg for a taste with pleading eyes. Answering my prayers, he unfastens his belt buckle, grabs the brass zipper tab, and pulls it downward... unlocking all the teeth. Parting the flaps, reaching inside, he extracts potent Montaukett masculinity. Seductively stroking the shaft, Chogan accentuates its rapidly growing length and girth. Transfixed by the view inches from my face, with foreskin retracted over a large dark head, the majestic cock beckons, commanding attention and veneration. There's a small birthmark... looks like a crow in flight. "It's amazing, right?" asks Doug. Speechless, I can only nod in agreement. Mesmerized by the immense power surging within the tumescent cock, I'm captured by its gravity... like the planets by the sun. Absorbed in the moment, everything else is inconsequential. Time and space swirl around it. All that matters is tasting his manitou. "Go ahead, enjoy yourself," Chogan tell me. Salivating, I reverentially lean forward and kiss the head. Leaking natural juices, it's rich and earthy like a dry-aged prime porterhouse steak basting in truffle-herb butter. Opening wide, the umami flavor, tenderness, and texture melts in my mouth. Experienced at feeding younger scouts, his hands tilts my head back... ensuring proper alignment for deep penetration. Reciting ancient chants, he pushes forward, reaches the throat's precipice, and tunnels downward... only stopping when fully housed. He's visibly protruding in my neck. And my nose is buried in the thick pungent pubic hair. The shaft rhythmically thrusts in-and-out. Conjoined by destiny, the primal dance transcends the boundaries of the physical and sprit world. And I see Askuwheteau, warriors, and many other ancestors standing beside Chogan smiling with satisfaction. "He's well trained for a Tenderfoot." "Thanks. Tommy and I have been teaching him," Doug proudly claims. Enveloped in an aura of glowing energy, we writhe together in immutable pleasure. Celebrating an ancient rite, dropping into timelessness, our spirts converge. United in ecstasy, acting and acted upon, we are of one mind and indistinguishable. "I'm close... get ready." Chogan explodes with unexpected force. Consuming the precious offering, pure energy flows through me. Overwhelming my senses, I'm connected to the land and Montaukett people, immersed in their history and stories. Mumbling prayers of gratitude, I thank the Great Spirit for the gift of connectedness. Regaining awareness, I notice three new boys have gathered around us. Where did they come from? Moving stealthily through the forest, as only Native Americans can, they materialized out of nowhere. Or did they glide down from above on iridescent black wings? Possessing strong energy, they're Chogan's spirit brothers. And they're all stroking large, meaty, uncut cocks. "Can I?" looking hopefully at Doug. "Sure. Just don't spoil your appetite. Save some room for the patrol. All the guys are looking forward to feeding you tonight. And Tommy has some special plans." Transformed, I can't help wonder where I'm bound. No doubt somewhere glorious. - - - - - Comments and readers' experiences in the Boy Scouts or on camping trips are always of interest. The author may be reached at JRozoNavyDoD@gmx.com Additional military stories include: USS Independence CV62: https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/military/uss-independence/ A Brat's Peregrination: https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/military/a-brats-peregrination/ Special Weapons: https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/military/special-weapons/