Camp Counselors Ch. 01: Lisa

Please remember, as with all my stories, should you be looking for 'Realism', just move on. I aim for the 'Plausibly Ridiculous'. All named characters in this story are eighteen or much older.

This is the first in a new, four-part series for me. I hope you like it.

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Camp Dickinger: An Adventure Camp for High School Boys and Girls is what it says on the sign and in the brochures. The sign hangs over the gate that marks the winding dirt road to our campus from a rural highway in the mountains of Virginia. If you take the turn, you will wind through some dense trees up the mountainside to an open meadow, with a large stream-fed lake, tennis courts, basketball courts, and a boat house. On one end of the meadow is the large chow hall with attached camp office, and along either side is a row of screened-in cabins. The North row is for guys, and the South is for the girls. Set back in the woods are the rifle and archery ranges, lots of hiking trails, and other activity facilities like the pottery shed.

You might find a picture of Camp Dickinger in the dictionary under 'bucolic'.

This summer would be my third as a counselor at the camp, and I felt like it was a second home. After all, I had been a camper there as well, the summers after my Sophomore through Senior years of high school. Now that I was a counselor, I, like most of the counselors, cheerfully and affectionately despised the 'worms', I mean campers. I remember being a camper, of course. I was a pain in the ass too, back then, just like these worms now.

There were no worms yet in residence when we summer staff arrived. I and three other counselors, all in our mid twenties, piled out of the van the camp had sent to gather us from the airport, dragging our duffles with us. We counselors came from all over the place, so that van, and its mate, would spend all day collecting more of us from the nearby small airport as our flights trickled in. Despite the fact that we would all be there for nearly three months, we had each packed fairly light. All we really needed were tons of shoes, socks, and underwear, our toiletries, swimsuits, and any specialty items we needed for activities we might lead, like tennis racquets. We would all, guys and girls alike, wear the uniform of the camp, orange athletic shorts and white t-shirts with the camp's name emblazoned across the front, every day for the rest of the summer.

The camp director, Carol Moscone, was sitting at a table under a portable pavilion tent, checking in each van load of counselors as we arrived. As we straggled toward the tent, she bounced to her feet and excitedly came to greet us. Carol hugged those of us who were returning staff, and enthusiastically shook the hand of Cindy, a cuteish redhead who was the only newbie in our van.

Hugs from Carol are nice. Even at forty-one, she still fills out the orange uniform shorts nicely, and the white camp t-shirt very nicely. It is always a good day when Carol decides to work the swimming hole. And if Carol doesn't know the libidinous effect that she has on the young guys, campers and counselors alike, I'll eat my hat.

She shooed us off to our assigned cabins to unpack, sending us each with a laundry pack full of uniforms. I found mine and settled in my stuff, setting things up so it was clear that I owned the place. The worms needed to know that they lived in my cabin, not theirs. This would be my first year as the head counselor in a cabin, which was nice, I guess.

I have since my camper days been considered one of the more responsible types, and for my sins, I was gifted with a cabin full of Seniors. My worms would all be eighteen, or nearly so. My job would therefor not involve a lot of comforting sniffling, homesick kids, as it had been the prior year when I was in a Freshman cabin. Controlling Seniors takes a special breed of psychological manipulation and subtle, physical intimidation. At six-three and a bit over two hundred pounds of ropy muscle, I was certainly qualified for the imposing part. The summer would tell if I could handle the manipulation.

My teammate in the cabin, Van Davidson, arrived on the next van. "Casper!" he shouted as he entered the cabin, and we high-fived. Van was my age, and we had been at Dickinger together as campers before we came back for the job. He was shorter than me and had wavy, dark hair, as opposed to my, um, none. Male pattern baldness hits my family very young, and by twenty-one, I had decided to lean into it and go all Mr. Clean. My scalp was as smooth and tan as the rest of me.

I loved Van to death, and the campers would too. As I saw it, that was a problem because Van still thought a bit too much like an adolescent to keep the actual adolescents in line the way he should. It was going to suck being the responsible one on the team....

*

That first afternoon and evening, before the worms would arrive the next day, we went through a bunch of orientation sessions, had dinner, then enjoyed a big, camper-free Campfire late into the night. I loved Campfires. You did not go to camp, as a camper or staff, if you didn't love Campfire. The smell of brightly burning wood and the flickering island of light, surrounded by inky blackness was always intoxicating to me.

And while riding herd on Van, along with the dudes that he was supposed to be helping me ride herd on, was going to suck, what was not going to suck was being around this year's crop of the girl counselors. Honestly, I've always suspected that Carol works very hard to have the best-looking young counselors she can manage to hire, and this year she had outdone herself. I don't rate women on the cheesy and useless one to ten scale, preferring a simple No, Yes, and Oh God, Please! This year's crop of female counselors had damned few Nos, and three honest-to-god Pleases.

Two of them I knew from the year before, Elaine and Wendy. Both were blonde, average height, slender, and had smiles to die for. Wendy added some serious firepower in the t-shirt area to her arsenal. I knew and liked both, but had never really had a chance to spend much time with either. Your time is pretty regimented at camp, even (or perhaps especially) for the counselors. The activities I worked and the rest of my schedule had just never matched up with either of them in the prior two years.

The newest smoke show apparently was named Lisa, and... whoa. She was probably twenty-two, with strawberry blonde hair that she wore in a long ponytail. It was hard to tell that first night, but she was clearly tall, taller than most of the other girls. She already had a rocking tan built up, even though the summer was just beginning, and that tan covered a seriously toned body. She also seemed to have deliberately chosen a uniform pack with clothes a size too small. That wasn't all that uncommon. Elaine did it too, for instance. But I thought Lisa might have chosen uniforms two sizes too small....

Her orange shorts plastered over her tight, curvy, but petite hips. The girls' uniform shorts were pretty short to begin with, but her undersized ones left acres of tanned, taut thigh to see. She wore almost dorkily high athletic tube socks, which on her were cute, and emphasized the fact that she had some beautifully shaped calves, as well. The girls' t-shirts had a fairly wide scoop neck, and Lisa had already mastered the knack of tugging hers forward to actually rock a little cleavage... or a good bit of cleavage in her case. She had one hell of a rack, with high, round tits that were the size of small grapefruit. Whatever bra she had on under that shirt, and even in the flickering firelight, and it was clear that she did have a bra on, was working overtime.

She looked like she was already making friends easily. The girls sit on one side of the fire, and we sit on the other, and she was smiling and laughing with the counselors to either side of her, each lovely girls themselves, but left in the shadows by Lisa's looks. Yet neither one seemed remotely catty toward her. She must be really nice, I thought, on top of being the whole package.

We listened to Carol and the other senior staff go over some last details about the summer, and the first session in particular, then we sang all the traditional songs, to make sure we remembered them before the worms got here. We would have to teach the noobs, and refresh the returning campers on the music, after all. I could not quite keep my eyes off of Lisa, though.

I stared at her indirectly, with my head turned in other directions, letting just my eyes point toward her. That made it easy to not get caught when her eyes passed over me. I wasn't creeping on just her, of course. I also creeped a good bit on Elaine and Wendy, but Lisa was the novel entry. Mostly however, I just sang and bullshitted with the guys around me, enjoying the evening and the company.

Still, my gaze kept swinging back to the new girl.

After most of the evening had passed, I got a little lost staring at Lisa, and I fucked up. I let my face point straight at her while I drank her in. She seemed to have pretty good awareness, and she sensed that she was being looked at. Her eyes swung toward me, and I had to jerk my head to the side to avoid her gaze. That was close, she had almost caught me.

I looked back at her after a moment, surreptitiously, and found myself staring into her eyes. She was still looking at me. Nope, I was fully busted. I smiled weakly at her. She looked archly back at me for a moment, as if mocking my temerity, but then she winked and turned back to her new friends.

*

The campers arrived for the first session of the summer in due course and things slid smoothly into the routine I loved so much. I know we call them worms, but we pretty much like most of them. It is surprising how much, actually, given that virtually all of their families run the gamut from pretty damned rich to stonkingly loaded. It is hard not to be a spoiled brat when you are born that wealthy. But get these teenagers off into a primitive environment, away from phones, symbols of status, expensive clothes (mostly), and especially their doting parents and loyal retainers, and they learn to be human beings pretty quickly. Each session was four weeks long, which was plenty of time to deprogram most of them.

The rhythm of life at Dickinger was timeless. Every week, starting with the night of arrival, the whole camp gathered around a huge, low bonfire far off in the woods. Kids sat by cabin with their counselors on huge benches, each made from half a tree trunk, worn smooth by careful crafting and years of wear and weather. The first Campfire served as an orientation, and all other Campfire nights featured announcements and awards for the week. Some 'awards' were funny or sarcastic. Not getting several of the awards was a powerful incentive for good behavior. Other awards were serious, and came with some cool trophies, expensive prizes, or simple respect.

Not everyone got a prize or award, even over an entire session, so getting one meant something. Good or bad.

The main activity during Campfires was singing. A lot of people today have forgotten the power of singing in a group, especially without instruments or amplification. It brings groups together, and makes people happy.

No, you are not too cool to sing campfire songs. Yes, I mean you.

Other nights after dinner, individual cabins would do some activity a couple of times a week, sometimes with another cabin, like owl or bat watching, night fishing, or flashlight tag. Friday nights, the night before Campfire, there would be a dance in the chow hall. Dances were as popular with the counselors as they were with the worms, but for different reasons. The campers liked the opportunity to mingle with the opposite sex, and to show off their social skills. Counselors liked dances because chaperoning was a great chance to laugh our asses off at how bad those social skills really were. And more to the point, we loved dances because only 75 percent of us had to be there. That meant that each of us got one whole night each session where we were free to do whatever the hell we wanted.

The immediate thought is that there must be a veritable orgy every Friday, but alas, that thought is wrong. The night off schedule is set in stone before the summer begins, so if you aren't already hitting it off with one of the girls who have the same night free as you, your romantic ambitions are shit out of luck, brother. My first year as a counselor was a complete non-starter, romantically. My second, I had lucked out and my night had ended with a little mutually satisfying handy action with Jessica Durango, a girl who was a year older than me and who was sadly not back this year. I was not super optimistic this year, as a batting average of even .500 was pretty rare, much less managing two out of three.

Worse for my luck, I had the very first dance as my bye. (Someone has to.) Even counselors don't spend much time each week with more than a few members of the opposite gender. And every girl I spent any time with on anything, including my activity partner that first week was either homely, or not into me, or well-supplied in the real-life boyfriend department... or all three. So the first Friday, I spent my free night doing what most of us do when we get that sweet time off—drinking the allowed three beers with other dudes, and sleeping the sleep of the just.

The second Friday, I was on duty in the barn for the dance, chaperoning. It is usually a pretty easy night, and this was mostly no exception. Counselors are encouraged to dance. It makes it easier for the shyer worms to join in, and you get a different perspective on the kids' (mis)behavior from the middle of the floor than you do from off on the side.

That night, I danced with a few counselors, though none of my favorites. I danced with Carol, too, which was a first. We grooved to some eighties song I did not know, but which she thought was the peak of culture. I decided against doing it again in the future though. You should have heard the shit I took from my own personal pack of worms from my cabin about dancing with The Boss.

I even danced with a couple of Senior girl campers, one of which, Felicity something or other, was a serious smoke show. Needless to say, getting with any camper, eighteen or no, was a nuclear-level termination offense, so that dance was absolutely all that happened.

But that view from the dance floor did give me the vantage to spot the one situation that did need handling. One of my own cabin's boys, Chip Chadwick (the Third, of course), was dancing with a very cute girl who I later learned was named Adele. In the press of the crowd on the floor, I noticed that Chip's hands had thoroughly ensconced themselves on Adele's generously shapely ass, a grope she seemed singularly okay with.

I nodded toward them to the counselor I was dancing with, and the two of us sidled up next to them. When Chip saw me looming over him (I'm a big guy), his hands slid upward to a more appropriate position on her back. "Dude," I hissed at him casually. "You know the rules! And you are a Senior this year. It is up to you guys to set a frigging example for the younger campers."

"I'm not here to set an example. I'm here to have fun," grumped Chip, the little shit, who apparently still needed some reprogramming.

"You are also here to follow the rules, which still apply to you, even if you are eighteen now," I growled back, looming some more. Chip was a good looking kid, to be sure, but I was the better part of a foot taller than he. I played my trump card. "And the example thing is important. Especially since, if the lower level cabin counselors decide that you are making their job of keeping their kids in line harder because you were feeling up (What's your name? Adele?) out here on the dance floor, they will make your ass pay the whole rest of your time here. Want to get 'delayed in conversation' by a different counselor every morning in the breakfast line long enough for there to be no more bacon? That'll be the least of your problems."

"How are they going to know that their problems were my fault?" he asked, taking pause.

"Because we all see a lot more than you guys think we do, especially things that we choose not to make an official issue of. And if anyone misses it on their own, I'll tell them all about it," I said, holding his gaze with mine.

You have to know how to manipulate 'adults'. I'm pretty good at it.

Good at it. Not perfect, as I was about to find out.

The cabins are picturesquely worn wooden sheds with bunks for ten campers, along with the two counselors' beds flanking the door. The walls are wood on the bottom half and screen on the top, all the way around. Our beds were placed at the door so we would hear if any camper leaves during the night. It is not, mostly, to ensure no one sneaks out, but so we keep track when someone has to go out to the john in the dark.

That night, Van had been off of chaperone duty, and I am quite positive that he had exceeded his ration of beer, because five minutes after lights out, he was snoring louder than any of the worms. I was pretty tired myself, so I also managed to drift off pretty quickly. When there is no electricity or artificial light, you are tired, and the night is as still as it usually is in the wilds of Virginia, even night owls go to sleep pretty easily.

Still, I woke somewhat when one of our charges slipped out some time later. I grumbled inside my head about dudes who can't remember to pee before hitting the sack, and rolled over to go back to sleep. But, I'm the responsible guy, remember? After a few minutes, whomever had left had not returned. I groaned quietly and sat up, looking around in the dim light of the moon.

Then I swore not so quietly. Fucking Chip's bed was the empty one.

It was immediately apparent what was happening. The shithead had arranged to sneak out and hookup with Adele. That sort of thing is really, really, not allowed. I groaned as I pulled on my shorts and t-shirt. Van was useless, of course, though I tried shaking him awake. He was dead to the world.

I slid my feet into my sneakers and slipped out of the cabin. The key was to find the strays and returned them to their beds without involving anyone among the senior staff. That way, I could avoid reporting the situation. If I failed to find them pretty soon and had to institute a general search, the senior staff would become involved, and the kids would both be sent home. I'd get dinged over it, which I would deserve, but the worms did not deserve getting booted just because they got horny.

I carried my flashlight, but kept it off. I didn't want to wake anyone else, which waving around a big, blazing MagLite would certainly accomplish.

My first place to look was the barn that serves as the chow hall. No one was supposed to be in there at night, and I happened to know that there was a crawlspace underneath it that was almost high enough to stand in. It made for a perfect rendezvous spot—dark, soft soiled, and out of sight.

But when I got to the barn, it was empty. Worse, I found that the camp administration had fortified the entrance to the crawl space. (Well played, Carol and Bob!)

Shit. Now, where to look?

I heard a noise behind me as I glared balefully at my empty best guess as to their location. I whirled around, momentarily thinking about bears. Bears were the main reason we could not let kids wander around in the dark.

It was not a bear behind me. It was enormously better. My first impression was of a person. My second impression was of a very female person. My final understanding was that I was looking at Lisa, holding an unlit flashlight herself.

We shared a grimace. "So Adele is in your cabin?" I asked.