Date: Sun, 1 Jan 2017 11:16:39 -0500
From: Bear Pup <orson.cadell@gmail.com>
Subject: Canvas Hell: Canvas Hell 2

Please see original story (www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/camping/canvas-hell) for
warnings and copyright. Highlights: All fiction. All rights reserved.
Includes sex between young-adult men. Go away if any of that is against
your local rules. Practice safer sex than my characters. Write if you like,
but flamers end up in the nasty bits of future stories. Donate to Nifty
**TODAY** at donate.nifty.org/donate.html to keep the cum coming.

*****

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? 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?

***** Canvas Hell 2: Evaluation Day By Bear Pup

T/T; self-discovery; no sex yet

I awoke the next morning in the following condition: Hot, sweaty, sticky (a
brain cell named "!!!" awoke and checked: thank god, not *that* kind of
sticky), confused (my room is not green canvas), hard as a rock and
desperate for a piss. I peeled away the sopping sleeping bag (brain cell
"?!?" awoke for that one) and decided to sleep on top of it tomorrow. I
started to stumble out of the cot when I realised I was not alone in the
tent (return of "!!!" cell). Soft burbling noises were coming from my
left. A few more neurons came online and the word Karl dropped into my
head, along with Camp, Hygiene Hut, Buggerfur and PISS NOW!

I tried to make as little noise as possible. Do you know how hard it is to
extricate yourself from a sodden, cotton (it was the 70s) sleep-sack when
your boner is sticking out of your equally-damp Y-fronts? If you're going
for 'quiet', double that. Karl's breathing changed just as I tugged on my
previous-day's jeans and (naturally) fell flat on my face after tripping on
the tent brace. I jumped up, brushed off what I could and thought of a
desperate dash to the Hygiene Hut. Since a lot more brain cells were now
mobilised, the fact that I was a boy came to the fore, alongside the words
bushes and tree-trunk.

I didn't know it at the time, but I have a rare gift. I have always been
able to piss through a hard on. Admittedly, the piss emerged in a vertical
stream, but the tree didn't seem to care and a deep and satisfied sigh
escaped me. About two minutes in, I heard a similar sigh accompanied by a
splash on the other side of the tent and smiled.

The 6 o'clock clamour of triangle and bellowing erupted below, announcing
the day to a bunch of sleepy and recalcitrant boys. It seemed both Karl and
I were early birds. We apparently both finished at the same time and
rounded the tent-corner simultaneously. We both froze.

It was the I Love Lucy Harpo Marx mirror scene. We both gaped with
fear/guilt/defiance/fear, mouths slightly open and each with a foot
not-quite-touching the ground. The poses were identical. The differences
were extreme -- physique, colouring, hairiness, etc. -- but the one that
smacked me in the face was the slightly-gapped boxers. The appeared to be a
LOT more to Karl than I had realised. BAD PATRICK! No cookie! I wrenched my
eyes back up and coughed, breaking the tableau.

"I..."

"I'm..."

"You first..."

"You first..."

"I mean..."

"So I..."

"You first..."

"You first..."

"Shit!"

"Fuck!"

We both broke into giggles at that point. I recovered quickly enough to
say, "I'm sorry we didn't click yesterday. Can we start over? I'm Patrick
and I'd really like to spend the next four weeks with a friend in my tent."
I know that I was blushing into the vermillion range and didn't care. I
also pretended that I didn't see the flinch of pain flash across Karl's
face.

"I'd like that. If you agree not to hate me, I'll agree not to be a
jerk. Fair?"

I laughed and reached out to shake his hand. He responded. We were both
understandably wary; we'd both hurt the other the day before. I was a bit
self-righteous in that I'd never intended to hurt him and he had clearly
wanted to wound me with the McJackOff quip, but I did my best to strangle
that ugly thought. "It sounds like we both watered the trees. Want to start
at the mess hall or the Hygiene Hut?"

He said, "Food!" at precisely the moment that my stomach roared its
vote. Karl snagged his grubby painter's pants and shirt whilst I dragged on
the sweat-free over-shirt from yesterday (it had become a reverse-apron
about ten minutes into my hike, so it could take another day's wear). We
got to the mess hall significant ahead of the crush. All the adults and
those leaders not engaged in malicious awakening were finishing a meeting
and sipping coffee. Karl and I grabbed trays. I was shocked and offended to
find that both coffee and tea were adults-only options. They wanted me to
start a day without caffeine?!? What kind of monsters ran this hell hole?

The master chef in residence had produced a truly-impressive spread.
Scrambled "eggs" from a dubious powder, runny oatmeal, biscuits that could
only be the Tolkien 'cram' ("more of a chewing exercise than a foodstuff")
alongside a grey, lumpy gravy with undefined gristly chunks that might,
MIGHT have been related to sausage. We would come to call the later
"grey-vee". The only really edible things were those the cook could not
ruin: bananas, apples, oranges, corn-flake cereal and milk. Even the
libellously-named "orange" juice was vile. It had a duck on the front and
we decided that they evaded false advertising suits because the liquid was
undeniably the *colour* orange.

We finished our grand repast before most of the tousle-headed boys even
stumbled in. Karl and I cleared our mess and made for Tent Canvas Hell (I
had shared my name for it over breakfast). We gathered supplies for the
morning rituals. There wasn't much. The preparatory materials had been very
clear that soap, shampoo, towels, toothpaste and such were provided. All we
really needed were clean clothes and toothbrushes. Have you ever noticed
that "preparatory materials" like "brochures" and "travel tips" as simply
synonyms for "bald-faced lies"?

We arrived at the Hygiene Hut to find that there were two dispensers next
to each sink. One had a picture of a hand, the other of a tooth. The pale
goo that erupted from each was fairly indistinguishable.  It felt and
tasted like school paste and took days to wash off. The showers (a
euphemism for pipes with periodic leaky parts) were no better. Each boy
found a spot that seemed to leak more hot than cold and pretended to forget
anyone else was there. The dispensers for "body wash" and for "shampoo"
were equally-interchangeable. Both smelled like a poorly-maintained
emergency room and felt like the Grey Oozes of the Dungeons and Dragons
franchise. You could easily imagine scalp and skin melting as the goop
drained hit points and dissolved the unsuspecting Elvish Druid you'd just
managed to get to level 9.

The bright spot was the linen situation. A bin just outside the shower room
held a large quantity of hand-cloths. We found when we exited that, no,
those postage-sized rags were the *towels*. It took an average boy about
twelve of them to get dry enough to don clothing. We found later that those
who arrived late would find none available. Your choice was to "reuse" the
least-sopping ones from early birds or just sit and air-dry whilst everyone
looked askance as if you were delaying solely to perv on the other boys.

The activities pavilion, though, was the antithesis of the Hygiene
Hut. Both the adult supervisors and the late-teen leaders were helpful,
enthusiastic and fun. The equipment was top-shelf and well-maintained. Day
Two, that day, was devoted to two things: ability tests and activity
sign-ups. The two adults (we nicknamed them Land and Sea; to this day I
don't know if they had any other name than "sir" as in "SIR! Bobby's
drowning again!") roved the crowd directing boys to tables that they would
likely have ignored.

I had always been at home in the water, so I immediately signed up for
swimming, canoeing and fishing. Mr. Land steered me to archery, which I had
been dubious of but really kind of liked, and leatherworking which I never
would have considered. I love detail and close-work, so it looked like
something I might like, and I added woodworking as well. At the end of each
week, we would re-evaluate and pick new or continuing subjects. As chance
would have it, Karl loved fishing but was not confident swimming. He signed
up for canoeing, fishing, tracking, wilderness survival, archery and
woodworking. We shared three subjects and chattered like magpies about the
fact as lunch approached. Everyone had mandatory swimming and safety
evaluations in the afternoon, so we went to lunch filled with energy and
optimism.

A metaphoric bucket of ice water descended on me when we entered the mess
hall. Buggers 2, 3 and 4 were there to greet Karl (reverting to the
Buggerfur persona) and started in on raucous and ribald comments about the
adults, leaders, activities and camp. I was instantly relegated to
background. I honestly didn't mind (much) as I really loathed those three
boys. I headed to the chow line. Lunch was a train wreck of salad (edible
if you avoided the dressing), chili-mac (think bad sloppy Joes mixed with
macaroni), hot dogs (stewed into submission but otherwise edible) and a
variety of unidentifiable vegetables. The pale, washed-out, depressing
palate matched my mood. I saw Karl make a half-hearted (could it be
apologetic) move in my direction before the Bugger 3, the one composed of a
single giant eyebrow and six-foot-long arms, dragged him off to where
they'd set up their Lunch Command Centre.

I kept a very surreptitious watch and was fascinated by the pattern I saw
as I forced the abominable gruel down. The tables around the LCC remained
empty. Boys in twos and threes would sit down, but you could see B2, B3 and
B4 direct their fire at the newcomers who quickly moved to another part of
the mess hall. Those three seemed to take great satisfaction that these
triumphs, but I saw Karl acting more and more despondent as any hope of
finding a friend outside the Buggers faded steadily.

Karl seemed uniquely depressed as lunch ended and we went to the mandatory
safety training. As it happened, he and I were in the first swimming
proficiency group and the other Buggers were off on the General Fitness
course. Sea was putting us into sets; Karl and I were a couple of the first
partnered in sets of four. To this day I don't know where I got the
courage, but I turned to him in a way that the toher two could not hear.

"Why do you let them do that to you, Karl?"

He flared and started to bluster then suddenly deflated and started
breathing in short gasps. I looked round and saw that none were paying the
least attention. I dragged Karl by his shoulder behind the tree nearest.

"STOP IT! I think you are really a great guy inside. Why let them alienate
the entire camp? Don't you WANT better friends?"

Karl's head snapped up, then fell and I saw his shulderd shake as he cried.

"you can't understand. They are the only ones who'll put up with me. The
only chance I have is to be tougher than everyone else. If I'm not, If, if,
If I..." and he burbled off into incoherence. I knew we had scant moments.

"How many people have you killed so far, Karl?"

His head popped up in utter confusion. "How WHAT?"

"Did you use an axes or gut them with a fishing knife?"

"Did I WHAT?"

"Can I expect you to kill me tonight in my sleep?"

"NO! What the hell?"

"Then I don't CARE who or what you are. If you aren't gonna kill me or beat
me up... you aren't, are you?"

"NO!"

"Then we're good. Fuck them. You have a friend until you take that fish
knife to me. I LIKE you, or at leat I want to. Now let's go swim and to
hell with the Buggers."

"Who are the buggers? I don't UNDERSTAND!" he near-wailed.

"The prick-pack you run with. Never mind. Just come with me." I used my
shirt to wipe his face and Karl nearly decked me for the effort, but
cleaned the tears and snot and we re-joined the group just as Mr Sea
started sending groups into the water. We were fifth, which gave Karl time
to calm down and begin glowering at me. 'Fuck,' I thought. 'Well, no good
deed goes unpunished. I hope I swim faster than he can drown me.'

We were tasked with getting all four of our team to the buoy and
back. Within a few seconds, it was clear that Karl could take care of
himself, but the other two were hopeless. One could dog-paddle but the
other was what I call a 'victim-in-waiting'; the character in a teen
slasher film who would certainly be the first to "wander off" only to turn
up later attached to the boat's anchor. I calmed the kid that I mentally
dubbed Victim 12 whilst Karl took Dag Paddle under his wing. I decided the
easiest course of action was to lifeguard-tow Victim 12 to the buoy, and
Karl copied me. We weren't the first to return by a long shot, but we were
the only ones with two dead weights to make it back.

Mr Sea congratulated us both and scratched my swimming course, replacing it
with life-saving. Over Karl's strident objections that he really wasn't a
swimmer at all, Sea convinced Karl to drop tracking (he said it was pretty
boring) and got Karl to agree to join me.

We ended up in the same groups for the General Fitness. I was agile and had
great stamina; Karl was built for sudden bursts of strength so we balanced
each other nicely. Next was Camp Skills. If it had been scorecard, we would
have been in the range between abysmal and laughable; I managed to trap my
own foot and Karl's fire-starting skills include setting my shoe alight. We
had about two hours of free time before the triangle's siren song would
lures us with a false hope of an edible meal. We were laughing and poking
each other over various foibles at the skills assessments as we returned to
the tent to prep for a shower.

Before we got to Tent Canvas Hell, however, we were struck dumb. Buggers 2,
3 and 4 were waiting on the path.

"So, Big Man, you found a little fuck-buddy? You told us he was a wanker
yesterday; is he wanking YOU now, Karl?" The other two guffawed as Mr Wit
(he actually only had half that) smirked.

"Actually, Winston," the use of a full name drained all colour from Bugger
3's face "it turns out that Patrick here is twice as cool as all of you
stitched together. Run off and terrorise a 12-year-old. That's more your
speed. And as for Mikey (yes, I know your real name is Muriel) and Bobby,
you can go fuck yourselves. I've found friends that don't hate and don't
get hated in return. So, little bully-babies, BUGGER OFF!" The tableau
called 'still life with social awkwardness' broke only when Karl twitched
in a pretend rush. All three end up with asses in the dirt before
scrambling off.

He turned to me. "You know they hate you now more even than they hate
themselves?" I was standing in slack-jawed wonder.

"You were fucking AMAZING! Karl, you are a comic book hero! You are also a
really special person. I am honoured to be hated by that lot if it means
I'm liked by you."

We both blushed and went silent as we approached the tent.

We both froze at the tripping bar. I felt Karl's rush at offing the Buggers
fade, leaving him shaken and unsure.

"Now what?" I honestly to this day don't know which one of us said
it. Maybe both.

I do know I said, "Let's clean up and wash the stink of those three off us,
Karl."

He looked seriously defeated as we gathered our bath kit and headed to the
dreaded Hygiene Hut. Neither of us were garrulous as we washed and
rinsed. We weren't alone in the showers; frankly, I think I may have been
the last lone person in the Hygiene Hut while I was recovering from (and
preparing for more) my humiliation the day before.

Like every boy (I thought), I paid scrupulous attention to the wall and
ceiling to avoid accidental visual contact with a cock, ball, ass or pubic
patch of any other boy. Many years on, I kick myself for not feasting on
the views of boyflesh on parade for me. I learned later that the vast
majority of my peers were looking constantly, straight boys (sizing up the
competition) and gay boys (building their stable of wanking fantasies); it
was only the terminally-shy and unwilling to face their sexuality (those
like me, in other words) who abstained.

Karl and I dressed and returned to Tent Canvas Hell, having another hour to
kill. I was really beginning to like Karl, and it hurt me to see him so
downcast. I decided to make it either much better or much worse.

"I was awake, you know," I started weakly. Karl's head snapped up and I
could see a rage building at this betrayal. "I was afraid you were going to
be mean to me again and couldn't face it, and when you started talking it
was too late not to listen." Just as quickly as his face flushed, it paled
to a sickly white. I dropped my eyes to the tent floor, utterly ashamed but
determined.

I continued, "I didn't, you know. Find you useless. I thought you looked
like the person I wanted as a friend, but then you hurt me. No. Don't say
anything. Let me finish. You looked at me like you hated me, then what you,
what, what you said to those three hurt so bad. No. I said shut up! But
what you said when you thought I couldn't hear you. It all made sense. You
had to be hurting so bad, and sometimes you want, you know, others to hurt
so yours seems to hurt less. I get it. But what you did today, that took
real guts, Karl." I finally had the guts myself to look Karl in the eye. He
was transfixed, mouth slightly open, clearly not breathing and no more sure
of himself than I was.

"What you did was right, Karl. You HAVE found friends, well at least one
friend, who doesn't hate. I don't hate, well, maybe the Buggers but only a
little. I don't think I realised I had been hating before until you said
that to them. But you're braver than me. Will you, you know, let me be your
friend, too?" My voice was a small, timid little thing by the end. My lip
quivered and I could feel tears building. I had admitted to doing something
unforgivable, listening to him last night, and then left myself open for
him to destroy me. What the BLOODT HELL was I playing at?

Karl remained, stunned immobile, just staring. I don't know what I saw,
some shiver or tremor, but I had the presence of mind to snag the tent
flaps closed just as Karl dissolved in tears. I sat next to him on his cot
and he melted into me, apologising, agonising, begging me not to tell
anyone, begging me not to hate him anymore, begging me to help him.

I was crying too, but more out of relief. I shushed him and tucked his head
on my chest and hugged him like a brother would (or should) and let him cry
it out in silence for a few minutes. When the waterworks slowed, I nudged
the top of his head with my chin.

"Let's help each other, Karl. I am just as messed up. To make sure you
understand that I'll never tell anyone or do anything to hurt you, I, I'll
tell, I mean, I am terrified, Karl. Every day. All day. I've been picked on
all my life and I am terrified of people. Now, we've even. I know one of
your secrets -- that you are really a good person pretending to be tough --
and you know one of mine. We're partners, now. Fair?"

Karl looked up at me with red-rimmed eyes. I knew nothing of sexuality in
general and certainly nothing about my own, so I had no convenient label on
which to hang the elated devastation those eyes wrought in my soul. All I
knew was that I would die for Karl right then, just to have him look at me
like that again. In that golden, priceless moment, that fucking triangle
started clanging to draw us to dinner. I fucking hate that thing.

<eof>

AUTHOR'S QUESTION: I've written two chapters of this. Should there be more?