Date: Wed, 15 Jun 2005 17:32:45 -0700 (PDT)
From: Stone Cold Heart <stonexcoldxheart@yahoo.com>
Subject: "Camp" / Chapter 1

                                    WARNING


This story contains homosexual material and homosexual acts that some
readers might find offensive. If you are upset by such material, or if it
is illegal to read such material in your area, please, do not continue.

All characters and events in this story are fictional. All material
Copyright Damion Michaels 2005-2006.

Any comments, questions, or suggestions regarding "Camp" may be emailed
to stonexcoldxheart@yahoo.com.

Thank you.
                                DAMION MICHAELS'

                                     "CAMP"


                              PROPER INTRODUCTIONS


Some kids go to fat camp.

Some kids go to space camp, some kids go to Boy Scout camp. Others go to
a nerdy computer camp.

Me? Kids like me don't go to fat, Boy Scout, or computer camps. No, kids
like me only go to one place.

Camp Whitaker.

Now, I'm sure is some pamphlet out there, Camp Whitaker is listed as a
fine, prestigious military camp, but honestly, that's a bunch of
bullshit. What's not listed in any pamphlet is that Camp Whitaker is a
"behavior correction institute," which is basically the milk-and-honey
way of saying "all the fucked up kids are sent here."

I guess I should introduce myself.

Name's Josh Chadwick. Seventeen, senior in high school, tall and
slender, short brown hair, dark brown eyes.

My mom and dad slit a couple years back. Mom said that things weren't
working out between her and Dad. Said that he cared more about his work
than he did her.

Honestly? She was right.

Dad's head of some law firm in Manhattan, so he's hardly ever home. And
when he is home, he's pouring over some case file, or working on some
papers that he's neglected for the past week.

My dad and I live in his apartment in New York City. It's big enough to
have fit my mom, dad, and I (even though she moved in with her sister
after the divorce) so for just my dad and myself, it's a good size; it
has two bedrooms, one guest room, two bathrooms, kitchen, and a living
room.

My dad sent me to Camp Whitaker as soon as summer started. He said that
my grades could have been better (I guess my 3.4 didn't make him happy;
he always expected 4.0s), and that going to a camp would "build
character." So, June sounded the end of my junior year in high school,
the start of my summer. Dad made me pack my bags.

Really, if you ask me, sending me away was just his excuse to not have to
deal with me.

Bastard.
                                   55 M.P.H.


The bus drives over a pothole, causing several people, including myself,
to rumble in their seats. Some mutter profanities, some even manage to
sleep through it.

As for myself, I've been sitting in the same position for two fucking
hours. The seat I chose is loosing some of it's padding, so one of the
bars inside the seat pushes into my back. I wiggle impatiently.

I hear a quiet chortle. Paying no mind, I readjust in the seat again.

"Seats are uncomfortable as fuck, aren't they?"

I glance across the isle to the seat adjacent mine. It's one of the guys
I assumed to be sleeping. By the looks of it, though, he was just
resting.

"Yeah. Fucking bar is digging into my back," I reply. The guy leans up
(he was laying against the bus window) and scoots over in his seat,
sticking his hand out at me. I shake it.

"Chase," he says.

"Josh."

"So, what'd you do to get sent to Whitaker?" he asks, rubbing sleep
out of his eyes as he yawns.

"Failed as a son, a student, and took up too much space in the house.
You?"

"Killed someone down in New Jersey." I gape at him openly. "Kidding.
Really, I was caught `defacing school property,' so my dad sent me
here, after beating my ass." He motioned to the red tinge on his cheek.

Aside from the fading bruise, Chase was what you could call attractive.
He had the whole surfer look going on--even if he was a New Yorker:
shaggy blonde hair, bright blue eyes, hemp and pucca-shell
necklace/wristband combo. He was wearing khaki shorts and a simple white
t-shirt.

Well, guess that brings up another part of my life, huh? I'm gay, well,
I don't know what you'd call...It. I've had girlfriends before, but
I've never really been that attracted to them. So I'm not straight.

But, I'm not gay, either. Or, the 'typical gay,' anyways. I don't run
around wearing make up, Prada bag slung over my shoulder. I've just been
looking at guys differently. Maybe I'm bi. Who knows.

I digress, unstable orientation aside.

"Crazy."

"Eh, nothing I haven't dealt with before. Actually, I'd rather go to
some camp than stay with him."

"Yeah. So, do you know how much longer it--" I start, cut off as some
people begin to mutter `Finally!' or `About fucking time.'

The bus rounds a corner to reveal a steel sign reading `CAMP WHITAKER:
EST. 1956' comes into view.

Copying the others I think to myself, About fucking time.