Letters from camp_introduction

One of the things that bugs me about being kinky in a non-kinky world is that I sometimes think that people perceive me as being more boring than I actually am. Monday mornings my co-workers would gather around and talk about what they did over the weekend. I would smile and nod listening to tales of beach houses, barbecues, drunken skee-ball and baby-showers. Me? Oh, I just hung out with some friends. You know, nothing special (just a small orgy, some flogging, reviewed some sex toys. Same old, same old.) Most of my weekends are just as boring and clichéd as any other 30-something living in New York. For God's sake on any given Sunday how many people are having brunch. But every once in a while, I know for damn sure my weekend was a hell of a lot more interesting than theirs. 

The other night I was chatting with a (former) co-worker at a trade show. There was an open bar and when I drink, I get... confessional shall we say. I have had many a drunken conversation that started with, "I like you. I trust you. You're cool right?" So when the conversation somehow moved from annual reports, to photo shoots, to kinky people, there was no way I could resist sliding in my very anti-Sunday brunch weekend. I always liked him. He seemed like the kind of guy who has a secret drawer himself. Besides, I don't work with him anymore anyway. So I told him about my weekend at camp. Just the broad strokes, no details. He was pleasantly intrigued and actually not all that shocked. Sometimes I think I wear my freakness on my sleeve, whether I mean to or not.

A big reason why I came to camp this year was to see if I actually enjoy it. I went to Leather Retreat last year and had a good time, but when Sunday night came around, I was ready to go. So this time I thought I'd check out Dark Odyssey thinking the broader sex-oriented atmosphere was more my speed rather than the BDSM focused Leather Retreat. And this time I would learn from my mistakes. I had a ride this time, so I didn't have to deal with lugging my impossibly heavy bag on the train. I got a sleeping bag, so in case the temperature dropped at night, I wouldn't wake up with my teeth chattering. I knew more people. I was prepared.

For the most part.

I did a lot at camp. I managed to get into some mischief and checked off a number of "to-do" items. I've found that if someone asks you if you would like to try something, it's best just to say yes. I met some fantastic people, a few I hope to see again. I kept myself busy. But when it came down to it, what was missing for me was that one person, my co-conspirator. The guy who's bed I would push together with mine to turn the two twin beds into a king size.

For a lot of people camp is a reunion, a freeing place to reconnect with a community, a place to (figuratively and literally) let it all hang out. But the truth is, the people I see a camp are people I see in the city, but without the communal bathrooms and spiders. And walking around naked outdoors is not a relaxing thing for me, if anything it's just anxiety producing. I've learned that eating lo mein topless is not a sexy thing for me. A swing through the sex-o-rama confirmed that I'm not really a voyeur. Watching people (well, watching strangers) fuck only does so much for me. I'd rather be the one being watched and getting fucked. 

But did I have fun? Hell yeah! Would I go again next year? Maybe.

Next: Day One