Memoirs: Hard Fails

On that occasion, I was wearing my cook's uniform, which included an apron and a floppy red chef's hat. I saw the two of them leaning toward each other and laughing, and I suddenly realized I was Bozo the clown.

In spite of these not-romantic moments, I came up with the perfect getaway for the two of us. The university owned a bit of woodland with a small lake, maybe an hour from campus. It was getting warm enough to camp out, and the place was usually deserted on weekdays, so we planned a mid-week overnight. At last we would be truly alone and could dance naked through the woodland.

I rented a tent at a local outdoor-supply place, and borrowed a two-person sleeping bag from a girl who lived in the apartment downstairs from me. The tent came with a very clear warning that if it were not returned as clean as it was when rented, the cleaning bill would be my responsibility. It's possible they had rented to college students before.

Things began to go south as soon as we got to the lake, to find the washroom (and toilets) still closed for the season. Oh, well. I was desperate enough that I just peed against the side of a tree, and she gave me another clue.

"That's the first time you ever went pee-pee in front of me," she said.

I ignored this giant bell ringing, because I was caught up in my annoyance with the people in charge of the bathrooms. Instead of listening to her, I chose to focus on the ways the situation was imperfect.

I have completely forgotten the details of setting up the campsite, building a fire, and cooking, but I do remember that it became clear long before bedtime that going swimming or running around naked--or even being outside--was a bad idea. We were in the world capital of mosquitos. And they had found us.

In the dusk, you could actually see a cloud of the little fuckers hovering just above the lake. And the lake was polar-bear cold. It was fed by streams that in turn were fed by melting snow. Alas.

We didn't want to coat our bodies with mosquito repellant, so we found ourselves huddling in the tent, well before dark.

My idea had been that we would be able to do all sorts of dirty things out in the open--maybe even fuck by the campfire--and then use the borrowed bedding for sleeping. But once we were imprisoned in the tent it became obvious that I wasn't going to be able to keep that sleeping bag clean, especially when we got each other's clothes off and I discovered a string hanging from Andrea's beautiful blond pussy.

I was perfectly willing to ignore the circumstances--I found it kind of interesting--but I was very much against making a bloody mess. I had no money, and the dry-cleaning bill was all I could think of. I imagined myself presenting the clerk with a blood-encrusted sleeping bag, and her saying, "What happened?" And of course I was also thinking of the very real possibility of getting blood on the tent.

I thought out loud about how we might put my waterproof mylar ground-cloth temporarily on top of the sleeping bag, and then when we were done, we could throw it outside and she could insert a new tampon.

She said she didn't have another tampon.

You young men should take note that this situation was extremely unlikely. She knew where we were going and she knew what we would be doing. I didn't know enough then to wonder about it, but there were only three reasons why she would have arrived unprepared:

1) She enjoyed the idea of making a huge mess.

2) She didn't want to fuck, but didn't want to tell me so.

3) She had something else in mind.

In the end, I played with her body a bit, being careful not to get carried away around her vagina, and we ended with her sucking me off. It was not great. We had a lantern in the tent, and I have an indelible memory of her face as I came. She was not happy.

Not long afterward, in the dark, Andrea said, "Have you ever done it... you know... in a girl's behind?"

I told her truthfully that I had tried it, "but it was too dry."

"You could make it wet," she said. "She could give you a BJ." (Those were her exact words.)

... Oh.

... The tampon.

She hadn't forgotten to bring a spare. She was pussy-blocking so I'd consider an alternate hole. Of course she liked smells.

We did not try it in "the behind," and that was our last time together. Frankly, I don't think she'd ever been camping before, and it was not likely she would again.

In my defense, you have to wonder why she didn't just say, "Want to try the back door?" I'll admit anal sex was still seen as dirty and extreme in those days, but I've never heard of a man refusing to try it.

In any case: Major, major fail.