Summer Camp

The bus swayed on an uneven hill. The worn brown seats moaned deeply and let the riders lean in unison. A pink summer dress fluttered. A delicate, long hand pressed a golden straw hat firmly down onto the owner's head. A stern blow of air fluttered in through the window. The scent of corn growing, clover flowers, and rich, moist soil filled the inside with a certain summer ease.

The mood of the passengers was giddy with fresh summer clothing that barely had the tag cut off. There was a certain sleepiness from the long ride and ample moments of suspension in the air, bounced up by ancient bus springs, and caught by a soft and deep catch of the ancient seats. The Tennessee summer was in full swing and provided a comfortably warm air and delightful sun - just peachy perfect for a stroll twirling a frivolous parasol.

"Hi, I'm Nancy from New York," said my seat neighbor. She held out her pale, white hand. I instantly noticed that the hand was perfectly moisturized. The skin was exquisitely soft with every blemish carefully manicured away. Her nail polish was a five layer work, definitely nothing you can get at an average nail salon. The shine, reflection, and wetness of the clear coating was breathtaking. There was a very simple and understated ring with a circle and arrow. Considering the rest of her hand, the ring must have been a sign of feigned modesty to pick a simple design at Tiffany that still cost in the young six figures. "I love those yoga pants," she added.

I blushed. Coming from Los Angeles, I couldn't resist wearing yoga pants everywhere I went. "I know! I couldn't resist. They told us not to wear anything nice, but I got these Carbon38 fresh in the mail. I'm a platinum member. So I got to buy from the summer collection of yoga pants a week before it is released. It would have been a crime not to enjoy that special week before everyone and their grandma buys them. I'm Lucy from Los Angeles." I reached out my hand as well. The back was covered with brown Henna lines that were left over from a spiritual ceremony to prepare for my summer trip.

"I'm an accountant for KPMG. What do you do?" asked Nancy.

"Oh how wonderful, someone has to count the beans, right! I'm an entertainment lawyer," I replied.

My gaze got stuck on wrist, trying to parse the tattoo. There was a cute angel on a blue background inside of a circle.

"I'm still not fluent in reading these," interjected Nancy to pull me out of my thoughts. "Can I see yours?"

I turned my wrist over. I had a female elf with a bow and long flowing hair on a blue background inside of a hexagon. There was a yellow triangle in the hexagon. I starred at mine sullenly and confused.

Nancy broke out an uneasy laugh that was trying to set me at ease while her eyes watched me carefully. "I guess we both like girls!"

"I don't really know how this works. It's my first time," I blabbered.

"It's my first time as well, but I guess they are all clean," Nancy nodded in the direction of the rest of the bus with a specific focus on the elbow grease. All the women in the bus had a little piece of cotton taped to the inside crease of their right elbow. Before getting on the bus, a nurse had drawn my blood and put the vial into one of those instant read machines. Another nurse had held a black tattoo gun in her blue-gloved hands before she unleashed a storm of needles on my wrist to give me the temporary tattoo, guaranteed not to wash off and guaranteed to be gone in about three weeks when the layer of skin renews.

"How did you hear about the summer camp," I asked Nancy.

"My gynecologist told me about it. She is this dark brown Indian woman in a blue sari. She sings while she does the exam and moves around my lady parts. It's some Hindu chanting about a monkey god. I believe Hanuman is his name. One day, she stopped singing. I thought she was going to tell me that I have cervical cancer. But wouldn't you believe it? She told me about this place. I ran out of her office as fast as I could. But about a year later, I was getting to my second bottle of red wine in the tub, I called her number. It was around midnight on a Friday. She was on the on-call rotation and picked up. I asked her to give me the phone number to call," narrated Nancy.

The bus kludge complained as the driver downshifted to turn onto a dirt road and drive through a classical farm gate. Two gentleman with assault rifles stood next to a red Bronco pickup. They were boots, Jeans, and plaid shirts to appear like cowboys. But their stoic faces and upright posture screamed high-end private security.

A little forest engulfed them. Leaves were occasionally hitting the roof of the bus. The bus started bouncing harder as the tires ran over tree roots running across the dirt road. The native trees of Eastern cottonwood, scarlet oak, and black oak gave way to a leafier and lower vegetation - something that felt more exotic, more like a country near the equator, perhaps even with a daily tropical downpour. She could feel the energy shift in the bus. Curiosity and an inner traveler diva rose in the sullen, sleepy, long overland trip faces piquing up to take a look at those unfamiliar leafs that increasingly got closer to the bus until they were smearing along the window. An overpoweringly vigorous growth energy nourished the plants to seemingly grow faster than the caretakers could beat back the jungle. A small river about three elephants long cut through the thick foliage. A flat, wooden bridge crossed the river. No railing, barely an inch wider than the bus, it felt like it was makeshift - primitive.

"I haven't had a boyfriend for eight years," Nancy spurted out. There was a sharp pause at the end. I looked at her face to get a hint of where it was going. Her eyes had an anguished look and rigidity like her mind was racing to find a follow-up. I looked at her shocked. I felt terrorized about my own secret lack of man that somewhere must be prove about my lack of attractiveness, yet I always try to tell myself that it's the man in tinsel town who suck.

"I have all these photos of guys holding me in an embrace at the ball park and fancy restaurants. They actually fool my friends into believing that I have too much choice to pick a good one. I don't. And it's breaking me up. It's tearing me apart each time I have a quiet moment when work doesn't page me. Why do I tell you and nobody else? Going to camp I thought everyone here..." and she broke up realizing that what she was about to say next might be horrible social suicide. A tear silently dropped down her right eye, slowly crawling through the lower eye lashes like through prison bars. Her face was pale and frozen.

My mind raced on what to say next. I was frozen myself. Did she know that I carried the same secret? Had I spilled out my secret by coming to this camp? I felt conflicted open this sudden openness and my steely training to hold in that secret tighter than the US nuclear launch codes.

"I don't mean that you are a loser like me," she broke out with a quivering lip. "Oh fuck, I thought I was going to have a nice vacation. Now this."

I carefully touched her on the shoulder to see if she was going to be receptive to touch. She leaned in. I pulled her into a hug. Big wet crocodile tears dropped on my bear skin on my left shoulder as I was wearing a spaghetti strap crop top.

"It's been twelve years since anything more than a three week relationship. I don't tell anyone either. Three hours of personal trainer, one hour of pedi-manis, two hours of massage every week and the man don't see me in this town. I'm lost among the crowd of actresses and models despite a five star Yelp wardrobe coordinator and the platinum subscription to the Brazilian blowout bar. Last week, I thought I take things into my own hands and walked up to a guy to hit on him. He mistook me for wait staff. He told me his drink order and then put a crumpled up cigarette box in my hand to throw away. I felt so humiliated," I confessed to Nancy.

I could feel Nancy's bare breast under her top. She wasn't wearing a bra. That soft feel, gentle like a breeze, made me close my eyes for a moment - simply to avoid being overwhelmed and to be inappropriate at this moment.

"That's so bad," agreed Nancy.

She started putting her emotions back inside. She rose up straight and got a tissue out of her purse. I leaned back into my own space but did something daring. I let my hand rest on her thigh seemingly as casual emotional support but I had wanted to keep touching her body, feeling her skin, and remaining connected with her. Her summer skirt only covered half her thighs. My fingers were resting on her skin. I could feel the warmth and silkiness of her skin. Also the curve of her thigh was quite compact. She was a small, girly girl behind her fierce presentation when she wasn't crying. She let my hand rest there.

We fell into quiet rapport. The bus downshifted to the first gear to crawl through giant potholes and over high tree roots. Despite the walking speed, a tire sometimes still fell down a few inches to tussle the riders around. There was a singular high pitched yelp. Most of the other women reacted with rapt faces, suggesting that they were tomcats, which made sense considering the nature of the camp.

A small lake abutted the dirt road. The water was brown-green and opaque. There wasn't a ripple on the brackish water. There was no beach. The water connected straight to the big leafy trees. "Wow," rang out of a woman's mouth. A woman on the other aisle jumped up. Then a few eager women stampeded to the left window side. Three elephants were belly deep in the water taking a bath. One of them raked its trunk high into the air in that signature figure S shape. Than he splashed all of the water onto the bus right as we appeared in sight. Two windows become blurry obscured from thick streams of water running down.

I quickly noticed that the elephants kept watching one elephant in particular. On closer observation, they weren't watching the elephant but a man hiding behind the elephant's body - probably the trainer. I doubt the other women noticed that. The elephants performed a Disney musical perfect performance. They frolicked by rolling onto their backs in joy. They had little jaunts of joy when they burst into a spring splashing water. They couldn't get enough of dousing the bus with fountains out of their trunks. When they bus was almost back enveloped by the trees, I kept watching and saw the man slipping on the back of an elephant and riding them probably back to their habitat.

The women in the bus were very giddy with excitement. It did feel like we were on a safari on another continent. The bus that had seemed old and dingy at the airport pickup, now seemed to play a perfect part.

One woman kept causing me to look back again and again. She had a roaring laughter. She spoke loudly for everyone else to hear. She was very tall and had giant big round fake tits. She mansplained with abandon in the very last row of the bus, the row that goes all the way around. Her outgoing nature had collected her a small clutch of admirers who were turned toward her. I could tell that most of the women in the mid-section where Nancy and I sat were office professionals, who were a little timid and reserved. We were a little unsettled by someone breaking the rules of decorum and being so brash.

It all seemed to come to a head - well literally a head - when she grab a blond girls back of her head with her hands. Her fingers, long ones, full on duck into the hair and locked closed. The blond girl was at least a head smaller and had a dovish expression on her face. Her clothes was a little not-so-well put together as if she simply didn't have much stature in social life. The boisterous woman powerfully moved the blond head around and mashed lips together for an intense make out. The whole bus was turned around.

The bus driver slammed on the breaks, which wasn't that hard at walking speed. She turned around in her seat. She was wearing black Dickie shorts, a pair of O'Neil flip flops, and an Urban Outfitter t-shirt. She was clearly an employee, none of the other guest wore any mass consumer brands. She was black, but I must warn you, the reader, she wasn't the stereotype of an overweight and overbearing black woman. She was decently fit. Her eyes were alert. She spoke with clear standard American enunciation that had a tinge of Tennessee twang. Guessing from the way the company was run, she probably had a bachelor degree as well. Albeit, it probably was in a social sciences field, so that she had to take a job outside of her field to make any decent money or even land a job. For all I know, she could be a prodigy in women's anthropology. She jammed her feet, despite her only 120 lbs., pretty hard on the ground and steamed to the back of the bus like a steam locomotive on a mission.

"You two! Come with me! Now!" she said without a hint of anger, yet some restrained, and a definiteness that didn't want to be me. She turned around and walked back down the aisle through the gauntlet of silenced and baffled women. Heads slowly turned as she walked and disappeared down the steps. Because of her short stature, she disappeared out of vision.

"Quickly, open the window," I punched Nancy in her rib to get her attention and to make her move fast.

The window was of an old style. There was a handle on top that could be twisted to unlock it. As luck wanted it, the three women stopped pretty close to our window. I leaned over into Nancy's space. It was just enough to hear the voices.

"Show me your right wrists!" demanded the driver. I looked at my own medical tattoo that still seemed foreign.

"Good, you both have a blue background," the driver stated. "I want you to feel comfortable being intimate with each other. You both filled out the preference and consent contract to go all the way. I know this is a new situation for most people. There will be some awkward moves, but you'll figure it out. However there is one line that you cannot cross."

"I'm so sorry," stammered the shorter blond girl.

"Don't be, honey," said the driver. "We want you to live out your fantasies."

I thought there was a little pause that included a hug or some sweet caress. I am such a nosy mouse.

"The one line that you cannot cross is to involve people who didn't consent. The bus is a mixed group. Some people are very intimidated by lesbian action. When you are on the compound, you have to look for the signs at the top right of every door. Those tell you what actions are allowed inside of the room. Unless the room is approved for blue action, you cannot make out. If you are in a room for blue action, you can fuck, suck, fist, and anything and everything lesbian you want to do. Do you understand?" the bus driver spoke in a fast and courteous voice. She must have been trained in through roll playing by her supervisors. Nobody handles a situation that professional ad hoc.

"We promise," said the two women with contrition. The thing about five figure vacations is that even the bullies act very reasonable and intelligent when spoken to.

"Okay, girls. We want our clients to feel well, really well. You probably feel horrible going back into the bus after everyone thinks that you just got a lecture. So I want you to open your hands. (There was a little pause.) When you come back in, we are going to do a little song to build camaraderie. You are going to spread these flower petals among the other clients. You'll make this theme like we were simply setting up for this little surprise. Got it?" Finished the bus driver.

There was assent by the women. Then there was another pause.

"Don't feel bad," said the bus driver. The shorter, blond woman must have shown some emotion or even cried. I couldn't breathe. I had to hear. There was whispering. I couldn't believe my ears. I probably heard wrong and my wild fantasy filled in the blanks.

"Hey, I'm on the same team. If you are still sad at bedtime, find me in the staff dorms. I'm Nancy. I'll lick away your tears and anything else you want licked," the bus driver seemed to whisper in a low voice.

There was a girlish giggle that suggested that everything was all good again.

The three women came back into the bus clapping a rhythm, "We are going on a trip! We are going on a trip!" They sang with the simple melody of a children song. The bus driver waved for us to join as well. It took her a lot of cajoling to break the ice and timidity. Once everyone started singing while holding onto the seat in front to steady against the bumps of the road, a feeling sat in, a feeling like we just had stepped into a childhood picture book. The two women danced in between the rows and sprinkled calico flower petals on everyone. Even I got a drizzle of five petals floating down on my hair. Nancy got them stuck in her dark brown hair. The joy that they painted and innocence transported me back into another world. In a way, the whole bus ride had been about transporting us - getting us out of that cubicle world where we started with a faint dream into this rumbling bus through a magical African outback with loving camaraderie.

You might wonder: Who am I? How did I get here? I do like women. (I also like man. That's my main staple.) I kept discreetly looking around the bus to check out the women. If you are a guy reader, you might not like these women. It's not that they are ugly. They are very pretty and have exquisite features. I mean what do I know about man anyway being as unsuccessful in trapping one as I have been. However you guys seem to go for the straight stereotype of a cheerleader or girl next door. You like the boobs ginormous and the waists tiny. You have a thing for bimbos. You don't like the woman that has a bit of a serious look because she spends 16 hours going through legal briefs to meet a midnight court deadline. Or the woman who has to spend hours on her butt counting beans and tries her best at soul cycle to compensate, you just can't get over that big butt. You want the giggly dumb girl who gushes for an hour about the latest ice-cream. I'm sorry guys. These women would disappoint you.

I like unusual faces and features. There is an unspeakable something about them that draws me in, fascinates me, and makes me want to touch them. It's uniqueness like a strange hip bone or a tiny piggy nose that catches my eye and makes me wonder how special her life in a little way must be. I like to marvel at my women, get absorbed in staring at them, and get that mesmerized tingle of having an emotional reaction to a feature. The emotional reaction can be disgust, pity, upset, or silliness, I like emotion stirred in me by another woman. Those stamped out, uniform, and stereotypical women on magazine covers don't do it for me.

Most of all I kept checking out the wrists. I tried to read the medical tattoos as I had memorized them. There were too many rules, too many nuances, and too many details to memorize. There was one woman that I kept staring back at in disbelief - a mix of terror and admiration - over and over. Her tattoo had a black background. That's the most severe of them all. You have to go through a one hour psychological assessment before you are allowed to check that box. That's the box on the form on the clipboard that we all had to fill out at the sales office. I'll get to that later... maybe.

The shape of her background was a sixteen sided polygon. My eyes popped open when I saw that. That's plain astonishing. Basically, how many corners the shape has indicates the intensity level of the experience that the client desires. A circle is the most vanilla version that pretty much means gentle missionary sex. Intensity is a general ballpark summary of the experience. Hardcore sex, anal, group interactions, humiliation, even some pain, all make it more intense. I thought most people would be a square. I thought I was super edgy with a hexagon. I can't even imagine what a sixteen sided polygon would be like. One weird thing I can tell you is that a sixteen sided polygon is called a hexadecagon.