Date: Fri, 30 Dec 2016 17:13:46 -0500
From: Bear Pup <orson.cadell@gmail.com>
Subject: Canvas Hell: Canvas Hell 1

This story and its characters are fiction. It is a personal fantasy which I
am sharing with you. If any character resembles you or someone you know, I
WANT DETAILS, you lucky fucker, preferably with photos! It is, of course,
copyrighted by the author with all rights reserved and very, very
negotiable. Also, keep the cum coming -- Donate to Nifty **TODAY** at
donate.nifty.org/donate.html! I'm an old guy (>30). I know what it was like
when you had to BUY porn. Five miles uphill both ways in the snow just to
GET to the XXX store. You whippersnapper don't know how good you've got it.

This involves sex between consenting (>16 yo) males; if that is illegal for
who/where you may be right now, fuck off and get thee to a monastery (where
you might just find scenes similar to some below). Also, please note that
all my stories exist in a world where STDs are neither common nor
deadly. Don't be a fucking idiot; use protection. 'To die for' sex should
never lead to your actual death.

I like hearing from people but I also hate spam. If you get off on flaming
people, please know that you will HATE the results. I will read your
missive and weave you and your comments into my next story to the point
that you cry like a little girl. Bullies get as bullies give.

*****

NOTE: This is a story of teen (>16) self-discovery. Thus, sex will arrive
far later. If you are looking for a quick stroke, you really are not going
to enjoy this for several chapters. It is absolutely infested with awful
things like "plot" and "dialogue" and the inevitable teen angst. Apologies
in advance.

Canvas Hell 1: Arrival of the Damned
By Bear Pup

T/T; no sex this chapter; self-discovery

Camp Sinnemahoning was a Boy's Camp in the highlands of Pennsylvania for
not-quite-rich teens, 13 to 17 years of age (18-year-olds could return as
"leaders"). All the kids called it Camp Sin, though there was precious
little opportunity for sinning (or so I believed when I was a stripling). I
had been to camp in the summer of my 13th year, but the last three summers
were pre-empted -- the first by the untimely death of my grandmother, the
second by my father's promotion and move to a new city, and the third by
Mom's paranoia about the Swine Flu in 1976. So unlike the rest of the kids
around me, I was a 17-year-old semi-novice.

When it came to anything other than the camping aspect, I was certainly NOT
a "semi"-novice. I was a complete one. I was about as impenetrably-naive as
it was possible to be; in the 70s, that was quite a lot. My parent were
children of the 60s Cultural Revolution and were thus fully aware of all
the wonderfully-sinful things from which I needed to be protected. They
came to Faith a bit late in the game, so they had a win-win -- a decadent
youth and a pious adulthood. Basically, a recipe for a miserable teenager.

So... me at barely-17? I was late to my growth. I matured about normal with
the startling appearance of hair *down there* at 12 that spread to *you've
got to be kidding* by 14. What I didn't get in a timely manner was the
growth spurt. Apparently, I'd plateaued at 14 and stayed in a
nightmarishly-in-between holding pattern until my 16th year. I then grew
fast enough that Mom complained of having to buy new pants and shoes every
weekend (an exaggeration, but not by much). I went from soprano to baritone
to tenor and back more often than a Broadway musical, settling in the lower
register just a few scant months before this tale ensues. I was now an
utterly-awkward 6' 1" and my weight had yet to catch up to my height. Add
thick-rimmed glasses (were there any others in the 70s?) and at 160 lbs I
looked more like a praying mantis than anything else.

I also had (okay, HAVE) the self-esteem of oatmeal.  So I climbed off the
bus at the Camp Sin main gate, a head taller than most (I tried to slouch),
bespectacled (I stared at the ground) naive and intimidated man-child. All
I wanted was to find my cabin, stow my crap and hide in the crowd of
orientation lectures. Fate, as always, was NOT on my side.

"LISTEN UP campers!" a camp aide bellowed. His voice didn't carry; it
hoisted with a winch. I wasn't the only one to jump. Everyone congealed in
the inevitable circle. "We are, for the second year running,
OVERBOOKED. Some of you lucky campers will have the bonus of a REAL camp
experience. You won't be stuck in a stuffy and crowded cabin. NO! You'll be
rooming with only ONE other guy in your own private TENT!" A few
half-hearted cheers greeted this announcement. I was a connoisseur of
hiding in a crowd; the idea of trying to vanish in a group of two undid
me. The aide started reading the names of the "lucky" guys sharing
tents. The first name was...

"Kennedy! Patrick!" Sigh. Me. Did I mention that I was Irish Catholic? With
flaming orange hair and more freckles than body hair (a fact true to this
day)? Sorry, forgot that juicy detail. Bonus: When I blushed, I turned a
shade of red that clashed stunningly with my hair and made my freckles glow
like nuclear waste. The first name called. Singled out when already
terrified. My face lit up like Times Square.

"Mueller! Karl!" A head snapped up about a third of the way round the
circle. I had always envisioned German guys as the Nazi Youth poster-child:
thin, tall, blonde, rosy-cheeked, enthusiastic, chipper. Karl had the rosy
cheeks and nothing else. He was a furrow-browed, surly, short, dark,
wider-than-tall, hairy, muscle-bound tank. "Patrick and Karl - Tent 9 - See
George at the mess hall! OFF YOU GO! Abrams! Eugene..." and the roll-call
to hell proceeded as Karl and I fought our way to the back of the crowd.

We drew abreast and fell into rough step and Karl finally looked over at
me. I hesitantly smiled, an expression that faded to a vacant grimace as I
watched him assess me. The final verdict? He gave me the look you'd save
for the man who had impregnated your pet poodle. Fucking GREAAAAT! I
returned my eyes to close observation of my converse sneakers and plotted a
variety of ways to kill myself during classes on macrame and
basket-weaving. Some of those had started to flesh out into actual plans
before we reached the "Mess Hall", a tent-thing of cavernous
proportions. The posts and roof were like any real building, but with
netting instead of walls to maximise the breeze. I think it was to disperse
the stench of camp cooking, but could never prove the hypothesis.

We collided at the door as Karl assumed he would go first whilst I was
blithely unaware that a doorway was involved. I think I was somewhere
around 'carmine' on the colour scale at that point. George, though, turned
out to be a spritely and effervescent youngish man who actually seemed to
want to put us at ease. As far as I could tell, that only increased the
surly quotient for Karl, but it did wonders for me. My blush faded to
crimson as we got the location of our new, four-week home.

A bit about the layout of Camp Sin. The primary camp occupied a level
clearing overlooking the river with a mess hall; boxy and air-conditioned
administrative building; "Hygiene Hut"; gargantuan, open-air activity
pavilion; and six large dormitory-cabins with canvas-and-mesh walls. Just
above the main camp was a series of smaller cabins for the staff. Tents, we
found, were scattered on flat (or kinda flat) spots within hailing distance
of the main encampment, each atop a double-bed of shipping pallets to keep
the tent above rain runoff and deter the less-dedicated creepy-crawly
critters.

Tent 9 lay about 40 yard into the woods behind the shower/toilet/medical
cabin euphemistically called the Hygiene Hut. It was between three towering
beech trees with branches intertwined above it. We had a clear view to the
"lake" (widening of the river) below us, but rapine quiet plus privacy from
the main camp. The air was clear and scented with woodland flowers and dry
loam on the zephyr breezes that shook our leafy ceiling. Looking back now,
it was heaven on Earth.

Looking at it then, it was Siberia, an inescapable prison that would force
me together with this, this troglodyte! I hadn't started out with a lot of
hope when assigned to the tent. Every one of his glances at me, though, put
another puncture in the limp balloon of my enthusiasm and it reflected in
my own assessment of my cell-, um, tent-mate. As I stumbled over every rock
and root on the path, further humiliating myself, I whiled away the short
hike inventing nicknames for Karl. Knuckle-Dragging Nazi was too
obvious. As I was an aficionado of Tolkien (actually, an adolescent
addict), a new Thorin's Company brother of the dwarves Bifur, Bofur and
Bombur named Buggerfur was the leading contender for Karl's nom de
pits-of-gehenna.

It wasn't until we got to Tent 9 that the true horror of the reality hit
home to both of us. Apparently, Karl was as experienced an outdoorsman as
myself. We envisioned a "tent" as the kind of thing shown on M*A*S*H, open
and spacious with a cosy central camp-stove and flaps that you raise to
create a light and airy space. Um, not so much. This was a Canvas
Hell. Tent 9 was a wedge nominally eight-by-seven (size dictated by the
dimensions of the shipping pallets beneath). Simple geometry, though meant
that the usable width at cot height was ever-so-slightly wider than the
cots themselves, giving us about a foot of "hall" between and about eight
inches at the foot of each cot.

Buggerfur didn't even look at me as he hove his backpack onto the left cot
and started to untie his sleeping bag. I didn't think to object to his
presuming which to take; first off I didn't care and second, on the rare
times we'd walked abreast, that was the side on which he'd walked. I looked
over our new gulag as I copied his movements, setting up my own kit. The
frame was nine barked striplings, a triangle at each end connected by a
slightly-heavier ridge pole and stringers on bottom of each side. A single
panel of canvas ran seamlessly as floor and walls, a sort of triangular
tube with flaps on each end. The back was sewn shut with a mesh "window"
that could be covered with a flap and the front had both mesh and solid
flaps that could be tied closed or rolled to each side.

One bonus of this was a nice, two-inch-thick "tripping bar" at the entrance
with a delightful six-inch drop to the forest floor, a feature that I would
make good and humiliating use of over the four weeks of residence. I
proceeded to do so before I even finished sorting my kit; my heel caught
and back I went onto my bony arse. A barked laughed and sneer showed Karl's
distain. I took that as my cue to exit-stage-mortify and spun toward the
Hygiene Hut. I thought I was about to sick up, but once inside a rather
fetid (and door-less) cubicle, I felt a bit better as I rested on a
commode. My breathing slowed a bit and the tiniest fraction of perspective
came back to me.

No, I was not some precocious wunderkind. So for me as with all boys, four
weeks was an eternity and the slightest misstep was a disgrace that would
utterly poison my entire future. However, Karl was the only boy who had
treated me like an outcast; others had smiled and even waved as I made my
way through the camp. Yes, I would have to interact with him more than any
other human (using the term loosely enough to include Buggerfur), but he
was the only guy amongst the horde to have seen me humiliate myself, and
the only one who even seemed to care. Slightly more at ease, I started to
feel a bit more human.

Since I was in the Hygiene Hut already, I decided to take piss before
leaving. I was just shaking off the last drops when Karl and a trio of
other campers he seemed to know (I provisionally named them Buggers 2, 3
and 4) came into the facilities.

"If you're finished fisting yourself, McJackOff, me mates and I need to use
the pisser."

Every ounce of breath left me at this stunningly-unfair attack. The fact
that I *had* actually considered a quiet wank to relieve the tension would
have made me blush anyway, but the twin humiliation and fury of Karl's
insinuation and his pals' raucous laughter left me in a crimson rage. I
made a rush on the door, shouldering Buggerfur into his bum-buddies,
leaving them to thrash in a pile as I made my escape.

I will admit to some wander-weeping before the triangle started to peal out
the call to food. We'd been told that it would take until dinner to get
everyone sorted and settled. As the first to be called for Tent Canvas
Hell, Karl and I had the longest to get ready. I had not returned to Tent
9, instead making a several-hour rambling and random exploration of the
trails up the hill and down to the river.

Camp Sinnemahoning was on a long spear of land between the current path of
the Sinnemahoning River and a long lake connected at the downstream end
that had once been its ancient riverbed. Between was a series of three
hills, each with its own peak. The tallest and most-upstream was high
enough to have a tiny rock-strewn bald patch at the peak; between this peak
and the next was the area on which the camp was centred. The other two were
simply forested slopes with flats and vales caused by stony creeks and
seasonal rills.

I found stands of close-packed junipers, scented like rich gin and neatly
poisoning the ground around it to provide a foothold for its
seedlings. Later, a mockingbird erupted from a bramble; having taken
serious offense at my presence she chased me, dive-bombing, until I'd
gotten far enough from her nest. On the other side of a ridge, I found a
tiny dell, rich in ferns and flowers with a spring-fed cascade. I was as
close to a Middle Earth idyll as I would ever find unto this day. The
highlight was rounding a large boulder and startling a deer who leapt like
a gazelle before vanishing like a magician's trick into the undergrowth
without a single leaf-ripple to mark her escape. All in all, I was as much
at peace as I think I'd ever been when that clang-a-ring-a-bong called
everyone to mess.

I was neither first nor last to the mess hall, but a bit before the
crush. Others had ranged further afield or been wrapped up in other
activities (some quite illicit, I would later find) when the triangle
called them. In addition to being the first meal, this was also the
orientation lecture and the first chance for the Camp Sinners to interact
as a group.

I guessed there were well over 100 people there. Later, based on the camp
and staff I learned about, I would guess roughly 148 men and boys; 120
campers, 20 "leaders" (late teens returned to help run the show) and some
permanent staff like the doctor, nurse and councillor. Regardless, there
was plenty of chaos and cheer to go round that night when the voice of the
aide that had brought us to heel earlier rang forth.

"OI! Oi! Quieten down, you lot! Yes, even you Quincy! Don't you snicker,
Lawks, you've been no better than you should be! SIIIII-LENNNNN-CE!!!!!"
That shut up all but the rowdiest; those were suppressed by the combined
weight of the ringing silence and the disapproving glares of their
tablemates.

An older man stood and smiled at the aide, "Thank you, Lloyd." He turned to
the assembled boys, "I am Major Bachgen. I lead Camp Sinnemahoning. You can
call me Major (my rank whilst in service) or Mr. Bachgen or even 'HEY,
Mr. Whoever!' {laughter}. The soft and dulcet voice you just heard was our
Dean of Boys ironically named Dean.

"George is our Activities Master -- you'll never be bored with George on
the job -- and he's our registered nurse. Find him for anything where the
bleeding is not excessive and the patient can walk. If that is not a good
description, you need The Doc {pointing to his left}. For issues less
physical, see the Dr Eaglas {further right}; he handles everything from
homesickness or problems adjusting to the camp lifestyle to serious issues,
and he reports to *no one*, not even me. Not a soul will know what you tell
him, I swear. Our two games-masters, one for water and one for land,
complete our adult contingent.

"You've already eaten dinner, but growing boys need more." A couple of guys
rolled up the shutters on a range of pastries and jellies. "there are your
desserts. Do your worst then retire for the night. You'll be up at dawn
(trust me) and you'll want plenty of sleep beforehand. However, I know that
none of you will pay a lick of attention to that warnings, so your
gruelling Day Two is on your own heads. Good night, boys. See you in a few
short hours."

I was replete with both a thick and rich dinner and a delicious dessert. I
staggered to Tent 9 and barely noticed that Buggerfur was close
behind. Even after the idyllic ramble and rich meal, I just couldn't take a
confrontation. I stripped quickly, dove into my bag and rolled toward the
tent wall. I heard Karl come into the tent and undress more slowly. Some
animal instinct told me that he was watching me carefully throughout, and I
wondered why. I pretended to sleep (I'm good at that; mom always checked
that I was asleep before my rents went to bed. If I wanted a satisfying
wank, I needed to convince her I was out cold then start after they went to
dreamland).

Karl settled in then tossed and turned. It seemed his body was as restless
as my mind. I kept replaying the day, every humiliation and mortifying
episode. I cry easily, but silently. I don't really know why that is. No
choking sobs for me, but a soaking pillow instead. I kept coming back to
twin questions: Why did Karl take such an instant dislike to me? How can I
make friends with other if he keeps after me?

I froze for a moment when I heard his voice, and it took a massive effort
to return to my fake-sleep breathing. "Patrick?" Karl said in a
whisper-voice. "Patrick, you awake?" Needless to say, I kept 'sleeping'; I
didn't need or want a scene.

"Patrick? Okay, good," he sounded relieved, "I don't know if I could say
this if you were awake. I'm sorry, Patrick. Today was a horrible day and I
took it out on you. I know you think I'm useless; I could see it when you
first looked at me. Then I tried to man up in front of people who I
shouldn't even call friends, so maybe you're r'r'right. I'm, I," I heard
his voice catch and rise in pitch, "I'm real sorry and I promise to do
better. I pray to God that you'll let me and it's not too late. I really
need a friend and... Never mind. You can't hear me. Good night, Patrick."

Even if I hadn't been fake-sleeping, I would have been struck dumb. My
entire worldview just crashed in flames. *He* thought that *I* didn't like
*him*? *He* was desperate for a friend? My eyes really did drift shut on my
spinning universe as I dropped into a fitful sleep filled with dreams where
I was an accidental bully. I think Scrooge's Ghost of Xmas Past came into
the story someplace and escorted me on a tour of innumerable times that I
came off as a complete dick, hurting others without even bothering to
notice. Most of them not real memories, thank god, but dream torments; I'm
actually a pretty caring guy when I pull my head out of my ass. How do I
fix this? More to the point, how do I fix this without him knowing that I'm
a sneak and a faker and listened to what he obviously thought was an
intensely-private confession?

<eof>