Spooky, Sexy, Supernatural, Summers

1976:

I am fortunate to have grown up in South Florida in circumstances that would be considered privileged by the standards of the time.

Not the way we define privilege today with multi thousand-dollar items of technology, sneakers, clothing, and organic meat from cows being fed by hand while being gently messaged as a live orchestra plays Beethoven's Sonnet.

But fortunate enough to be sent to sleep away summer camp at the age of 10. This was in the seventies, before smartphones, tablets, and the internet, therefore, once a parent stuffed their child's trunk with socks, soap, deodorant, comic books, and those little boxes of animal crackers, other than an occasional postcard, which could have easily been forged, their "babies" were in the hands of mostly comfortably numb teenagers.

Since I was a bed wetter until adolescence, the fact that the rustic cabins had no bathrooms and the toilets were 100 yards away and consisted of a modified horse trough as a urinal, I would get up an hour before the others, and hang my damp bedsheets on a nearby clothesline. Even at 10, I convinced the other campers, and some counselors, that I got thirsty at night and kept spilling water. When a disbelieving, obnoxious camper asked me why I didn't just stop drinking so much, I told him I was sleep-drinking. When he threatened to tell the other campers I wet the bed, I told him if he did, I would tell them he yanked himself every night after looking at Veronica in Archie Comics.

It was during this very first summer away, I realized my manic brain was going to be both a huge blessing and a painful curse.

To celebrate the Friday night sabbath, the campers and staff all wore the same thing: white sneakers, white jeans, and a white T-shirt. And as hundreds of us walked along the rustic path to the outdoor temple, we were a breathtaking sea of reflected light as the sun slowly set behind us.

After the service, while they tried to keep the boys and girls separate, there was a secret place in the woods where some of the older campers paired up and escaped.

One night, an older girl, 12, invited me to join her in the secret dark garden after dinner. I blow dried my hair into two huge, swooping feathered wings, spraying enough Aqua Net to create a lethal weapon on top of my head. I drenched myself in so much Brut by Faberge, my bunkmate had an asthma attack and almost died.

The 12-year-old girl and I held hands as we strolled into the woods, sitting on a log where there were two older couples nearby. I remember enjoying holding her hand and having an impulse to kiss her on her cheek, but that was the extent of my 10-year-old desire. While we tried not to pay attention to the older couples, we couldn’t help but wonder why they were making a slurping sound. Without staring, it looked like they were trying to eat each other. One boy’s head and lips were so much larger than the girl he was kissing, it looked like he had swallowed most of her face. We couldn’t tell if she was enjoying it, or if she was even still breathing.

I leaned toward the 12-year-old who either didn’t know I was 10, or just liked younger men, kissed her on the cheek, and smiled. “That’s it?” she shouted. “Shh,” I put my finger over her lips. Because the only thing worse than the thought of slurping at her face, was the chance the older kids would think I was being a baby. She kissed me, closed mouth, leaned back and said, “Come on.” So, I did what any respectable 10-year-old boy would do and asked, “Do I have to?”

A few summers later, I was fortunate to go to an upscale golf and tennis camp located in an historic resort hotel in Sebring, Florida.

While almost 15, there was still plenty of that 10-year-old in me, about to poop in his pants from nervousness, whenever faced with making a romantic move.

I remember having lunch with the summer camp stud who was a year older than me. I had accidentally walked in on him in the process of having sex with one of about a dozen girls that he was fooling around with and asked him if he worried that he would get caught. He stared off into space for what felt like an eternity and finally looked me in the eyes, and said, "Dude, you're overthinking things."

And as the 16-year-old, over sexed, ego saturated, gigolo shoved a forkful of deep-fried cod and macaroni salad into his overactive mouth, he asked me if there was anything else I wanted to know.

“Yes there is,” I said. “How do you know what to do?” “What?” He asked, scrunching up his eyebrows. “How do you know you're doing it right?” I inquired, (which should make it crystal clear why I spent most of my adult life having fewer sexual experiences than a Victorian woman in a chastity belt.)

Despite his understandable narcissism, he was a decent guy and tried to answer me sincerely. “I don’t give a shit,” he smirked. “You think I care if I’m doing something right?”

“But what if she doesn’t like you?” I analyzed.

“Dude, why do you think we’re all here? They want it as much as we do,” he declared.

“Are any of them your girlfriend?” I asked.

“When I’m with them they are,” he laughed.

“What if they find out you’re cheating on them?”

“Dude, you are messed up,” he smiled.

I spent that summer liking, flirting with, and getting almost to third base with two girls. Coincidently, the only two girls who wouldn’t go far enough to satisfy my 16-year-old buddy.

I still enjoyed the mysterious dance. At 15, I had the desire to go all the way with a girl, but my manic brain simply wouldn’t allow it.

If I could inject my maturity and experience as a man in his fifties into my 15-year-old body, would I have behaved any differently? Maybe. But I would have likely stayed with the same girl all summer. Not because I wouldn’t have wanted multiple partners or because of some sense of morality, but with my motor-mouth, I would have constantly been confessing my infidelity, then spending the rest of the summer asking them if they forgave me.

That was the last year I went to sleepaway summer camp.

Two of the remaining three summers before college, I worked as a camp counselor myself.

And every now and then one of the young boy campers would ask me what it’s like to kiss a girl, or how they would know if someone liked them. And I would always tell them the same thing, “Dudes, you’re overthinking things.”