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The bush camp was an annual Cub and Scout ritual. It was supposed to teach the boys some of the survival skills of a bygone era, such as pitching a tent, making a fire and cooking breakfast on it, reading a compass, following a trail and shitting in a hole in the ground. It was also supposed to be great fun, and generally was.
It’s 1973 and I’m nineteen.
I knew Peter wouldn’t thank me for it, but I hoped that the essentially leaderless Browns would find a better role model in Peter than they had with Cam. At twelve going on thirteen, Peter was now the oldest Cub in the pack. This was his last year.
Well, I did need that shampoo desperately and he was just a kid after all, though more muscular with his shirt off than Id imagined. Not that I’d really spent any time imagining him with his shirt off, or anything else for that matter. “OK,” I said, “it’s a deal.”
...
I pulled Peter down so that we were both sitting on my camp bed, still locked in what was now a passionate embrace. Peter’s hands cupped my breasts gently, hesitantly. When I didn’t object, he started squeezing, but clearly wasn’t sure what to do next.
Peter swears that the next thing that happened was totally unplanned. Or at least that it had no more than half a second’s planning behind it and that if he’d given it the full second, he’d never have done it. But spur of the moment or not, Peter suddenly stood up, stripped off his shorts and jocks in one motion and said “Look what kissing you does to me.”
Hesitantly, as if it were a bird that I might frighten away, I reached out and touched it. Peter jerked, then was still again. Neither of us had uttered a word. Now I stroked along the underside with my fingertips, then touched one finger to the little hole in the middle. “Do you like that? Is that good?” I whispered. Peter just nodded. I had an overwhelming desire to take his penis into my mouth, but didn’t know how he would react.
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