Camping. Jim wanted to go camping.
Dennis hadn’t been camping since he was thirteen. So almost a decade ago. He associated it with screaming former drill sergeants and forced push-up regimes. He didn’t associate it with nature. Fuck no.
He was thinking about how he didn’t like Jim’s idea during the silent part of the AA meeting. Dennis was an incoming sophomore at college. His school required him to go to these meetings if he wanted to stay an incoming sophomore. That’s what Dennis had been warned about at the very end of the previous semester. Go hang out with the kill-joy adults every week or don’t come back to school. It sucked for them that his grades were so good. They couldn’t just kick him out under an academic pretense. So he sat in this weekly AA meeting, thinking about how he didn’t like camping.
“Dennis, what’s on your mind?” Stan, the leader of this chapter, spoke.
“Tequila,” Dennis said. It wasn’t quite untrue. Those of the darker humored persuasion laughed.
Stan gave him a look that asked why he couldn’t ever just…
That many dots.
“Actually, it’s camping,” Dennis said. “I just don’t want to go camping this weekend.”
“Who are you going camping with?”
“Did I say something about actually going through with it?”
Stan was quiet.
“Just a buddy of mine.” Dennis said it a little quieter.
After a pause, another guy, Tom said, “There’s no good camping in Illinois anyway.”
“There isn’t any good civilization in Illinois,” Dennis said. He picked up his tiny cup of coffee and took a sip. Cold and dull.
“What do you associate camping with?” This from Stan again.
Dennis sat back.
“The correctional I was sent to when I was thirteen.”
“What’s a correctional?”
“A youth camp. For fucked-up kids. The full-metal-jacket type stuff you hear about that should be violates basic human rights, blardie blar.”
Everybody was looking at Dennis.
“And you were sent to one of these camps at thirteen?” Tom again.
Dennis nodded.
Stan leaned forward.
“Dennis,” he said. “I know how it is. I was sent to one of those camps too.”
Dennis and Stan looked right at each other for a little while and Dennis thought, If that’s what I’m going to look like when I’m like forty-five, I won’t be getting any pussy.
He almost felt bad for Stan as he thought it. He wondered how much Stan’s face might lighten up if Dennis were to send him an audio recording of he and Charlize some time. He’d made a few.
Dennis was glad to leave the sausage fest of a meeting at four and head over to the bar to meet Dirk. He’d stopped drinking for three weeks, sure, but that had been two months ago. His new fake ID worked just fine. It was late August, the fall semester was about to begin, and he was almost in the clear.
Later that day, in the evening, as the sun set through the shaded windows of his shoebox bedroom, Dennis found himself fucking the brains out of Charlize, who lay sideways on his bed because that was her preferred position. Charlize’s head bobbed up and down on the pillow like a long saw moving across a tree’s body. But her motion was vertical, not horizontal, and she was complicating the symmetry by arching her chin upwards, meaning her black bun—Dennis had forgot to untie it—tamped down the pillow just enough so that it didn’t fall off the bed. Dennis wanted it to fall. He liked the view in this position better when the Charlize’s head was completely bent over the bed’s edge and her tits jangled around in the lower frame of his vision while in the upper frame her jaw became ever wider as she kept crying out, “Yes! Shit! Yes! Shit!”
While she practiced her new form of spoken word poety, Dennis briefly relocated his brain waves to his junk. His un-tethered junk; his bare-skin erection slopping back and forth down there; not as fast as he could give it to her, but fast enough to qualify as fucking Charlize’s brains out.
Dennis’ junk felt sloppy-wet. Wet in the way his feet used to feel as a young boy in rural Illinois, his bare foot moving in and out of the sucking mud and Dennis thinking of how strangely pleasing it felt. Had that been his first sexual experience?
Dennis focused back on Charlize’s face as she started in with the chorus: “Shit! Yes! Shit! Dennis!” She had changed it up a little in recent visits.
Dennis wondered: had Charlize had a comparable sexual experience with the elements of the wild as a little girl? When she had been a truly little girl, of course, he hadn’t been born yet. Did she ever wonder how old this instigator of her swampy vaginal wetness really was? Surely she couldn’t still believe that he was just three years younger than her.
How insulting, Dennis thought, and with that thought in mind, pounded her harder. He lay flat on her chest. He simply stared at her gaping mouth, her moans that doubled as breaths, feeling wispy and meaningless against his nose and eyes. They calmed the feeling in him that he had to make use of these moments Charlize had before he shot off inside her. He had to be honest with her.
Charlize’s arm moved in a circle around Dennis’ spine as if it was dough for a pizza pie. He took a break from her mouth and looked to the side. Beyond Charlize’s shoulder he could see the rumpled outline of a yellow pair of panties. They were not Charlize’s. They shriveled against his wall like a disgusted creature who couldn’t believe him. He looked back in to Charlize’s face.
In one swift motion, Dennis did it. He undid her purple hair bun. Charlize’s black hair spread everywhere. A 31-year old career woman with reddening cheeks, an open mouth and squeaky vocal chords, her head sawing up and down vertically on a green pillow, as a backdrop of her hair fanned out on both sides of her. A strand of Charlize’s hair flopped up and down on her cheek and landed just inside her mouth. Charlize was starting to bear her teeth. Dennis puffed and suppressed a grunt. He held back the tingling load dying to splurge out. With the same careful hand that had placed the pillow under Charlize’s head, that stroked her earlobes in the breath-catching or snuggling times they had, and that had undid the purple lace of her bun, he brushed the hair out of her mouth and let himself release.
The swamp went: suck suck suck.
Post fucking, sometimes they cuddled. Other times Charlize was all business. She worked from home, shooting numbers and statistics in to cyberspace and getting paid a commission to do it. Dennis sometimes wondered if whenever he came inside her she was reminded of the e-mails and financial figures she ejaculated in to the web and if this made her feel good or took her pleasure down a notch.
Probably neither.
Today, Charlize was all business. Her black slip was pulled tight over her legs. She stood with her back to Dennis, swabbing her groin with a tissue.
Dennis dug under his pillow. He felt the crinkly plastic of the dime bag he’d almost used up and lifted it out. The broken light that flashed on the ceiling illuminated the remains of pot sliding around in the bag. Dennis thought about smoking it and at the same time glanced back at Charlize, still swabbing at something in her nether regions?
“Lots of clients to deal with, it seems,” he said.
“Why do you say that?” Charlize said.
“Don’t you think you should maybe send out a mass e-mail to all your rich people telling them you’re out of the office due to a yeast infection?”
Charlize dropped the tissue. She sighed. She turned towards Dennis.
“Stop being offended by the fact that I have a job.”
Dennis hoisted himself up and took his bowl from the bedside table. He fumbled for a lighter and lit it. As he lay back down, he admired his abs. Charlize had said something about them weeks before, in one face-flushed moment in the middle of coitus. Dennis took a hit.
“Get high with me before you go,” Dennis said, blowing out smoke. He looked upside down at Charlize. She was buckling up her pants. She reached down and picked up her pink tank-top. It was the same shade of pink as her labia.
Charlize shook her head.
“Dennis,” she said. “You’ve been stoned since I got here. How long has it been since I’ve seen you sober?”
Dennis stood and walked to her.
“What’s with the “Mother’s Against” stuff?” he said. He put his hands on her shoulders. She was tense.
“You used to laugh at my jokes. You haven’t been laughing a lot recently,” he said.
“Are you all right? Are you about to start menstruating?” he said it softer.
Charlize pulled away.
“Okay, I’m going to go now, Dennis,” she said. “And you can call me again when you don’t feel like being a stoned asshole.”
She picked up her purse.
“By the way, looks like you’ve got some extra clothing on hand? Maybe donate it to the salvation army or something?” She gestured to her right.
The yellow panties.
She left.
Their first fight. Well, it was nothing. Dennis knew that. He took another hit.
Charlize’s tissue lay on the floor. Dennis picked it up. He sniffed it. It smelled like…over-chlorinated water. Yes. That was what her pussy smelled like.
That night Dennis, blitzed out his mind, watched a series of amateur jackass videos on the Internet and cackled hysterically because every single one went horribly wrong. Then he listened to a voice message left the previous day from a lawyer claiming to represent “Sophia Moore and her family,” who were choosing to proceed with charges against him; something something failing to help pay medical bills something something aborted pregnancy. Since it was so late, Dennis figured he’d call back. He left a message after the beep:
“Hey. You have no fucking evidence. Seeya.” He hung up knowing it was true and that the lawyer knew it, too. There’d been that tone of resignation to the wishes of his client even in the scratchy cell phone message.
Dennis took another hit after hanging up the phone—this time a long one—and coughed. And coughed. He dropped the bowl and the faintest sprinkling of ashes fell out. That was the end of the dime bag.
Weed: Dennis’ anti-alcohol.
He stood in the bathroom, not sure how he’d gotten there and feeling like he’d just eaten something, staring at his erect cock. It actually looked bigger than it had a year before. And Dennis felt like this wasn’t just the pot; every time he glimped his own erection recently, it just looked like his dick had grown a little. His dick, after being immersed in a host of women’s mouths and vaginas in the past year, had finally gone through puberty. He had started measuring his dick at age thirteen and had done it every year since, to no avail. Now, there was no need for the measuring tape; boot camp was over. The dues had been paid. No STDs, no infections: a perfect record. Eh, one pregnancy apparently, but otherwise perfect. His dick deserved some kind of award. A medal of honor. A video game named after it! Holy shit! Should he suck his own dick? Was that the answer?
Dennis asked it to himself out loud:
“DENNIS TOMINSKY, IS THE REWARD YOU WISH FOR THAT OF SELF-FELLATIO?”
Without answer himself, Dennis bent over and, glad that all the acrobatic workouts at the gym had paid off, took himself in his mouth.
Source: reddit.com/r/sexystories/comments/4e3cqe/dennis_goes_camping_part_1_the_swamp_mf