It was going to be the campout to end all campouts. A group of buddies of ours had committed to a four day camping weekend when one by one they all dropped out and it was just me and Jamie left. We thought about cancelling the whole fucking thing but the site was paid for and the forecast looked good. Plus there was this tiny little part of me that thought a weekend alone with Jamie might be awesome.
Turns out I was right. We bonded over the ridiculous instructions for setting up the tent, the multiple attempts at lighting a decent fire, the frustration over things we’d forgotten to pack and, really, the sense that it was the two of us against the world.
After a haphazard supper of hamburgers and hot dogs washed down with a shared bottle of whiskey, we stumbled into the tent and collapsed next to each other, not even bothering to get into our sleeping bags.
When I woke in the middle of night, Jamie’s hand was down my pants doing something wonderful and I didn’t think to interrupt him. Before long we were kissing and confessing to months of attraction we’d both been too scared to voice. Then we gave that stupid tent the show of its life, boy. It’s a good thing we were in a pretty isolated spot because it turned out that Jamie was not a quiet lay. And, frankly, neither was I. We might have scared some bears.
In the morning we stirred up the fire, made coffee and sat blushing together in the tent with our feet in our crazy socks sticking out, watching the waves lap at the beach.