My Camping Trip

You're lucky I could only use one hand, as it's enough to reveal a buttcheek and the curls of your hair. I am laughing at my success as you struggle to decide if you should let go of me since it will take both hands to yank your shorts back up. You try to do it one handed, and I try to yank again, so you give up on your shorts and decide to grab me with both hands.

One hand clutches my side, crushing into my ribcage, while the other one that was around my halter strap goes down to my hip. That hand curls around my bottom, effectively holding me still as you pin me against you. I'm giggling breathlessly, as you're panting, calling me a little shit.

You started it, I say. A statement that will become more relevant in just a few seconds.

We are trying not to smile, trying to feign our anger, but the longer you hold me like this, the less it feels like a battle. I have not stared into your eyes this long before, or at least not while you held me. And you've hugged me and held me before, but not while I'm nearly naked. And wet. And you're wet, and warm. So very warm. Your hands are melting through the freezing layers of my skin, going through the friendly façade that was just horsing around. Your hands are holding me and touching me just as I would like to be touched. The touch that is making my hands wish for the freedom to move from where you've pinned them between us.

I know you are glancing down at my lips, and I know I'm doing the same. You have to know this is where we should kiss, yet I can see you trying to reel back, taking a composed breath. You pull away, gently setting me down on my feet and letting me out of your arms. And I am crushed. I'm more hurt than I can put words to, so hurt I wish you would just fling me back into the icy water.

You try to chuckle in this weird phony way, and stagger back towards the shore, cinching up your shorts.

I must stand there for a good 60 seconds, numb to the pain of cold, numb with shock. I don't know why you are doing this to me, why you are playing this game that you don't understand.

You look back to see that I haven't moved, and it starts to click that I am upset. I storm back up the beach, and grab my towel. I brusquely rub myself dry as you try to talk to me. You say you're sorry, you didn't mean to hurt me. But really, you have no idea how you've hurt me.

I'm trying to shove my feet into my flip flops when you come right beside me, leaning down to look into my face.

I'm sorry, amiga. Really.

I say nothing, but only glare at you. You keep walking after me as I head back towards camp, and I tell you to go away.

Please, amiga, don't be angry.

You call me amiga one more time and I will throw your shit in the lake.

Fine, do it if it will make you feel better.

FUCK OFF AND LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE.

You are shocked by my anger. I don't want to go in the tiny tent and I don't want to be near you. I don't want to be here anymore but I have no idea if I could hike back to the car by myself and I don't want to hitchhike my way back home for a 3 hour drive.

Wisely, you take a step back and watch me walk back towards the beach. I go some distance to the east of our camp and around a hummock of a sand dune that will obscure you from my view. I put my towel down on the sand and collapse on top of it, feeling too furious to cry as I bury my face in my arms.

Enough time passes that I am dry and warm, warm enough that I'm probably getting a sunburn as I lie on my towel. I know I need to go get dressed, but I have no idea how to face you again.

When I come back to camp, you are dressed again and quietly making a fire. You start to say something and I just duck into the tent and angrily zip it closed. I'm stripping off my swimsuit when I hear your footsteps plod across the dirt. You clear your voice and tell me you're sorry. You're really sorry, you never want to upset me. You're so sorry that you ruined our first camping trip.

Your voice is hushed and soft, repentant. It's the voice you used to apologize to Kelly when she was fighting with you, the one I heard as I sat outside your apartment while your roommate was trying to make me take a bong hit so I would sleep with him since I was already there. Kelly was mad at you because you wanted to go see a band that your friend was playing guitar in, instead of going to the movies with her. Your friend that you hadn't seen in a year, he almost died in a car wreck. But Kelly needed to see that dumb rom-com movie and how could you not know how important that was to her.

I'm angry at you and I'm angry at stuck-up Kelly for ruining you, for making you think you would mean something if you had the pretty and perfect blond girlfriend. For making you think that was love. When all this time I had been there. All this time I was the one who went to concerts with you and waited in line at divey convenience stores with you and walked up the hills to see the sunrise with a 40 so we could make a wish for a better day after we were hung over and heartbroken. I am your best friend. But I'm also in love with you. I can be both things. And I wish you knew that.

You are still outside, as I'm naked and feeling my body want something more when it knows you are inches from me. Finally, I begin to cry. I know you can hear me and it makes me cry harder.

You apologize in Spanish. You call yourself a bastard. Or maybe you called yourself a donkey. I get them mixed up and as if you read my mind, you say you're a bastard and a donkey.

I barely chuckle. You call yourself a stupid donkey who doesn't know how to make the pretty girl smile anymore.

For a split second, I want to let you in. I think of turning and unzipping the little door to the tent and letting you see me as I am, hoping it will make you see more than the friend you think I am. But I lose my nerve.

You say you're going to start making dinner and if I can stomach seeing the stupid donkey anymore, he would like to feed me.

I quietly utter back an Ok, and hear you walk away.

After I've combed out the wild tangles in my long hair and I'm dressed in a long-sleeved t-shirt and a pair of leggings, I emerge from the tent. You are boiling water again, crouched over the fire when I walk out. You look up at me with eyes wide and a little red; you were crying too.

You grab one of the little tin cups and fill it with what looks like hot cocoa again. You then take a step towards me and kneel, turning your head down while holding up the cup like an offering of peace.

I take the cup and say thank you. You look up at me with the sweetest smile, and I swear I feel something inside my chest snapping and twisting.

You go back to the fire and say it'll just be a little bit to boil the water. You've got another pouch of dehydrated food, this one is beef stroganoff. It will be our "fancy meal" when you add onions and garlic to it. The wind is picking up as the sun is going down over the hills, gusts that come up and blow things over, including my little cup. My cocoa goes running into the dirt and you quickly jump up to try to catch it. But in the process your elbow knocks into the little kettle over the fire, and the hot water goes spilling out onto the ground. We are both cursing and trying to help each other prevent the calamity that already happened.

I can only laugh at the miserable end to a miserable day and you chuckle too. You refill the water kettle and go to put it back on, and I tell you I'm not that hungry. No, you need to eat, you say. Food is good for the pain inside us. It seems like a corny thing to say, but only you can say it with that little lilt of your accent and make it sound wise. The part of you that is older than I am. And the part of you that thinks I'm too young.

We sit in silence as the sky grows darker and the wind continues to gust. We've now placed rocks and heavier items like your hiking boots on the tarp and the green army blanket that is our table. We can only choke down a few bites of the salty mush that comes out of the pouch, each of us chuckling at our bad luck.

When dinner is done and safely dissembled to prevent further messes, we huddle by the fire trying to stay warm. The sky is now black and the stars shimmer in the windswept sky. I feel myself inching towards you to create a blockade from the wind, and also to stay warm. I'm already wearing my sweatshirt and you've got your denim and shearling jacket on. You've even pulled up the army green blanket and folded the dirty side inward, placing the clean side over our laps. After I begin to shiver from the cold, you take off your jacket and wrap it around me.

I try to give it back, but you insist, patting it down around my shoulders. I sigh deeply and feel too many things. I close my eyes and stifle the urge to cry, turning my head down into my curled up knees. You keep your hand on my spine, feeling the vibration of my sniffling.

Please don't cry, ---.

For once, you say my actual name. And it makes me want to sob. You wrap an arm around me and turn my shaking form into your chest, you gently rest your chin on the top of my head. I untuck a hand from beneath the blanket and place it on your chest. I hold onto your shirt, feeling you put your warm hand on top of mine. You squeeze my hand and rub my cold fingers, your other hand rubbing my arm.

I want to look up at you, I want to turn my head, but I'm afraid. I'm afraid I'll see your pity, I'll see your brotherly attention doting on this lost little girl. So I squeeze your hand back. I nuzzle my nose into your chest. You let go of my hand and stroke my hair, going across my scalp, down my neck. You do this a few times before I feel brave enough to look up.

I tilt my head up and look into your face. You give me a sad smile, a consoling smile.

My heart breaks and I can't take it. You know you are hurting me, but I don't want your guilt. I need to know why you don't want me. Why you don't want me the way that I want you.

I begin to slowly pull away, and your mouth opens. There is confliction on your face, but not enough to say what I need to hear. I drag your jacket from my shoulders, and drop it in your lap. I say that I'm tired and I am going to bed.

You silently watch me get up and go to the tent. I unzip the little door go inside, and zip it back up. I'm too tired to cry anymore, my body just numb with heartache. When I kneel down on my sleeping bag, I yank my hand back. The material is freezing cold, just like everything else in this fucking camp.

I'm angrily muttering about this when I hear your footsteps on the crinkly tarp. You quietly say my name, and I don't answer. You say it again, a catch in your voice. I don't move a muscle, listening to the wind shake the tent. Then I hear the zipper making the circuit around the tent's door. I feel the cold wind rush in as you open the little door, I see the dome of the tent flexing as you budge your way into the tiny space.

Suddenly you have knelt down, your legs next to mine. Your hand is on my right arm, you're turning me towards you. My shoulders go with the movement, but my head refuses to look at you. There have been so many moments between us that I no longer believe that this is anything but consolation.

You force me to look at you, pulling my chin up. I finally see the tortured reflection in your eyes. I see a hungry unspoken need on your lips. You hold me and gaze into my eyes, seeming to search for something I've been showing you all along. Now convinced, you tilt your head down and gently kiss me.

I know I'm trembling; I'm almost in disbelief that this is happening. You pull away just slightly, another look of assessment to see if I'm offended by this. I can't even smile yet, I can only lean in and kiss you again. A longer pucker, a breathy sigh. Please tell me you know how good this feels.

You're still holding my face with one hand, when the other hand wraps around me. My hands were down by my sides, so they are tucked beneath your arms until I wrap my hands around your middle. We end the kiss for a collective breath, and I turn my face down and rest my head against your chest. I just cling to you, afraid you'll change your mind, afraid to speak. But you were always the talker, always the one to break the ice.

You're kissing the top of my head, kissing above my ear, you whisper another apology. I don't want your apologies, I want your affection. I want to drown in it, I want to be filled with it. I want you to be exhausted by it.

Emboldened by your sweet words, I turn my head back up and see a hopeful sort of happiness in your eyes. My kiss is acceptance of your apology, the flick of my tongue saying I need more. The kisses are longer, your breathing interrupted by my impatient lips, so much that I garner a little chuckle from you. My hands were clinging to your flannel shirt, but they're grabbing hold so I can press myself up against your chest. You're curling a hand around my hip, the other hand going up into my tangled hair.

I can feel your breath coming up short, I can feel the way you sway as I tilt myself into your hips. I'm so desperate for this but I'm paranoid again that this is just a very passionate consolation. It takes more kisses while I work up the nerve, telling myself I need to ask this.

"Do you want me?"

You pause, a separation to look at me. You tilt your head, a frown of earnestness. Tears in your eyes when you reply that you've always wanted me.

I choke back a sob as you continue to gaze into my eyes, holding my face. You want to make sure I believe it, the way you make sure I'm listening to you when you've told me something important, to make sure I'm paying attention. A technique that's a little teacher-like and annoying at times, but just what I need right now.

I kiss through my tears, I mutter what took you so long? You chuckle breathlessly and cover me with apologetic kisses on my forehead and cheek, you whisper back that you were a bobo; an idiot. We keep chuckling, feeling more at ease, feeling more like the way we've always been with each other.

I resume the more passionate kisses and feel you grip me tightly, your left hand tucking itself just under the bottom of my bulky sweatshirt. A convenient placement if you want to go beneath my shirt, which I want you to do. Your fingers inch up a little higher, finding the narrowest part of my waist. But you just keep kissing, being far too gentlemanly.

I release you and grab the bottom of my sweatshirt and pull up. I yank it off my head, immediately hit by the cold air, but also enjoying how it hardens my braless nipples that are only covered with my thin shirt. Your eyes bulge, your lips twist with surprise.

I go back to kissing you, using the movement of my arm wrapping around your neck to pull the collar of your flannel shirt down. You chuckle with a little anxiety, shrugging out of your shirt as I assist you. We kiss again, I feel you brush up against me, I feel how my body responds when I realize you're hard.

I know I will have to keep undressing myself to lead you to the inevitable conclusion, but it's ok. I brace for the cold when I start to shove down my leggings. There's another gasp you hide by swallowing hard, another look of disbelief as I maneuver around in the tiny space of the tent so I can pull my leggings off my feet. I'm now seated on the sleeping bag, in just my underwear and my long sleeve t-shirt.

I flick my hair over my shoulder with a coy bite of my lip. You said you want me, so how much do you want me. A blast of cold wind shakes the tent and I shiver violently, interrupting my seduction of you. We both laugh, you tell me to get in the sleeping bag before I freeze to death.

Not unless you get in with me.

You lean down to kiss me, curling an imposing hand around my shoulder. You'll keep me warm just fine, you promise with a flick of your tongue. Pulling away with a simmering look that makes my insides ache with want, you begin to unzip the sleeping bag. You briefly lift my bottom up so you can fold back the top of the bag and lay me in the middle of the fuzzy orange interior. You instruct me to lay down. On my back.

I'm not sure what's going to happen seeing as you still have your jeans on, and your t-shirt. But you're on your knees, backing up until your feet hit the edge of the tent. You wait as I lie down, expecting you to unzip or do something to facilitate the joining of our bodies. Instead, you just keep grinning at me, kneeling down lower. Between my legs.

I'm watching as your hands glide up my thighs, reaching my panties, then taking hold of them. You slowly tug them down, down, until they are off. A bizarre moment to see you set them aside, as if I'll come back to them later. And suddenly I feel my face flush with pink as you crouch down lowly, getting your arms under my legs, tugging me into position.

I've never had anyone do this to me. I've heard some girls say that only lesbians do this. I'm holding my breath, terrified. Until you gently flick out your tongue. Like the soft lapping of a cat as you nose your way to find my clit. Three or four licks, gentle and careful, a tiny kiss. You pause to give me a devilish grin, enjoying the speechless state of shock you've thrown me into.

Part of my mind is saying how could you want this; I haven't showered in over a day, I was swimming in a murky lake. But the pure delight on your face tells me how much you are enjoying this, and you want me to enjoy it too. So I try to silence my recriminations, I lay back and give myself over to the way you are tasting me.

The little kisses and licks are just the warm-up, your tongue is now traveling south and going over my labia. Somehow this is better than my clit, less ticklish, and already wet. You make long passes with your tongue flattened and wide, repeating this until my lips seem to unfold, and you go even deeper. Oh, oh my...

Swirling, lapping torture has found my pussy. For the first time, I actually moan. A real moan, not a faked moan. I've only slept with two other guys. The first guy was just a hasty pump and dump that did nothing for me. The second guy was my ex. He was trying, and I felt some stimulation and some squeezing but I never climaxed. I've only orgasmed by myself, and it usually takes some doing. Except for when I've been flirting and horseplaying with you, my body already stimulated by your playful groping. Some of my best orgasms came indirectly from your hands. A trend that seems to be continuing in the freezing tent.

You've found this spot below my clit but above my opening that is like magic. Your tongue is flicking up and down but the moment it starts going side to side, quickly flicking back and forth, my body convulses. Oh my god, oh my god, Bear. Bear... Bear... fucking jesus christ Bear.

I grab your hair as my cunt spasms, as I cry out in this high, whiny moan. And you're chuckling, gripping my thighs as I ride out the waves of pleasure. When I quiet down, breathlessly cursing at you, only then do you relent your torture and pull away after one last kiss. You tell me how delicious my "little peach" tasted, you hope I liked that. I roll my eyes at you; I know you need no further praise beyond my body's response.

Now that you're no longer draped over my legs, I shiver in the cold even though I'm still wearing my shirt. But I'm quickly warmed by the image of you unzipping your jeans. You give me a bashful grin, an adorable pink on your cheeks as you shove down your pants. I'm practically salivating; I can hardly wait to get my hands on you.

Once you get your feet freed, you lay down beside me. I roll onto my side to kiss you and taste my flavor all over your lips. It's strange and tangy, a flick of your tongue teasing me. Your hands go over my bare thighs, you feel the goosebumps on my skin as the wind wails across the tent, another violent shake of the blue walls.