1995. Whitmore Lake, MI
“The Cool Thing To Do” when you’re a camp counselor and you’re on your day off with the other camp counselors is to go to the beach and go skinny dipping. The only problems are that it’s co-ed, and that I am a fat teenager with major body issues who doesn’t even like taking his baggy sweatshirt off because the tee shirt underneath doesn’t really fit right. As the sun goes down, we build a bonfire and everyone else gets naked and runs into the surf. The peer pressure to “relax and just zen out, man” is incredible. It’s really stressing me out.
Tank (the other counselors call him that because he’s built like one and because the other counselors are terrible coming up with creative nicknames) is not in the surf, however. No. Everyone tried - with no success - to get me to take off my clothes and go in the water, and Tank is the last person still trying to convince me that “dude, just do it, it’s awesome”. Undercutting the awesomeness of being naked is his penis, which is about 8 inches from my eyes. It’s looking into my face; into my soul. I can’t help but think that police interrogators could learn a thing or two from Tank. Good Cop, Bad Penis.
I look past his non-tank-size dick to the surf beyond, squinting to try to better see Claire - this summer’s unbearable crush - who is in the water. Naked. I curse the brackish Michigan water and the falling dusk for not letting me see her more naked. At 19, I am great at getting boners from pretty much anything about Claire - the line of her blue skirt across the tanned skin of her thigh; the soft curve of her neck down into her ratty grey “DARTMOUTH” sweatshirt; the way the morning sun gently caresses the side of her face as she purposefully chews her oatmeal - but it is impossible for me to get a boner from just the back of her head floating on the water next to Tank’s penis. I sigh and look up, past an enormous amount of tangled pubic hair, to his face. Okay, half his face.
Is it weird to reblog other people’s farts?