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European kids don't go to summer camp. From age fifteen onward, they spend two weeks frying their minds and pasty complexions on the beaches of Ibiza. Nerve suggested that I complete my assimilation to the U.S. by taking part in a very American rite of passage. Although I knew there were camps for fat kids, Christian kids, arty kids and sporty kids, I was surprised to learn that there was a retreat for SM enthusiasts. Imaginatively enough, it's called Leather Camp, and it's held in the Pennsylvanian wilderness every year. The organizers were fairly brusque with me when I tried to sign up gratis with the offer of free publicity. "We sell out every year," grumbled one of the organizers. "We don't need publicity. Reporters are not granted admittance." Undaunted, I dug deep into the back of the Nerve sofa, came up with the admission fee, and incognito, I camped among them. These are my letters home.
PART ONE
Hey everybody! Well, here I am at leather camp. Before I forget, I just wanted to thank everyone for showing such concern about my travel arrangements. Michael, your suggestions, insistence, then outright demands that I take mass transit were much appreciated, but in the end, hitching a ride with Manflesh was a really good idea. For a guy I met on the Leather Camp website, he sure was a courteous driver and a cheerful, informative traveling companion. He picked me up near his parents' home in deepest, darkest Brooklyn in their brand new minivan. "Hey, for a minivan, this thing can really move," he assured me before observing the speed limit the whole way down. Manflesh is a thoroughly nice chap. We're the exact same age!
In a high, soft-ish voice, Manflesh astounded me with tales of Leather Camps past — this year will be his sixth — until we were well into Delaware. Like the time he and all seven of his cabinmates kidnapped a bi-curious male (consensually, of course) and wouldn't release him until he'd fellated them all. I imagine that his curiosity was quenched after that. Manflesh took a satisfied drag on a Parliament. "It was intense," he said.
We didn't speak for miles. Somewhere in Amish country, Manflesh resuscitated the conversation by exclaiming that camp was both the best and worst thing in the world. "It's great because, for four or five days, it's life as it should be: no rules, no judgments, no limits. But after four or five days, the weekend is over and — BAM! — it's back to reality." Manflesh spits out the word "reality" as if it were a mealworm in a mouthful of salad.
At a typical BDSM event — that's "bondage, domination, sadism and masochism," for all you weekenders — Manflesh probably gets more action than I have in my entire life. He tells me that he's been whipped, flogged, pissed on, shat on and generally interfered with countless times since he discovered the scene at the tender age of nineteen. In fact, he is scheduled to give a two-hour tutorial on pissing this weekend. Last year, ten and one-third women showered him with degradation: "One of the girls was three months pregnant," he explains cheerfully. This time around, Manflesh has rallied fifteen through a BDSM website; he assured me it's not to be missed. I took my Blimpie sub from my lips and gazed out of the window, ruminating upon what the weekend would have in store.
Manflesh then told me that last year's other big hit was the "merry-go-suck-and-fuck," in which eight women assumed prone positions on a merry-go-round, while a corresponding number of men stood around the circle's perimeter. Condoms were changed with every spin of the wheel.
As we headed closer to camp, the clouds cleared. In the final mile of our journey, we passed through a quaint little village that listed the times of church services on its welcome sign. Here I was, driving in with a man who made the Marquis de Sade look like Pat Boone. Did Littlebrooke's residents know that four hundred more of us were on the way?
We slowly pulled up the gravel driveway to the checkpoint, where two fifty-year-old Midwestern women checked our credentials. "Let's see your penises!" one of them yelled. "We gotta check that you ain't vanilla!" After three hours with Manflesh, I was feeling more vanilla than at any point in my life. He was poised to unbuckle his belt when a car came up behind us and we were waved into a parking area. About twenty-five yards from our car there was a fifty-year-old man dressed as a little girl, with a bright red wig, pink dress, white knee-high socks and Mary Jane shoes. He looked like a dry-cured Strawberry Shortcake. He skipped along the dirt road before hopping into a buggy and taking the reins. "HYAH!" he squealed, jerking his steed into motion.
The steed was a sixty-year-old man. He wore a harness, black boots, blinders, a bit for his mouth, a butt plug with faux horsetail and a cock ring. He pulled Strawberry Shortcake a few yards before SS called out "WHOA." Horseyman obligingly came to a halt. While Strawberry buckled his shoe, his horse whinnied loudly, thrashed his head back and forth and dragged a foot along the ground.
Manflesh put my mind at ease when I confessed that I hadn't brought any fetish wear whatsoever. "That's fine," he said, "about half of people don't. Leather isn't a literal term. Leather is a state of mind, an umbrella term that covers all sorts of people who are into all sorts of things." I felt incredibly relieved. The day before, I was entrusted with the company credit card and sent to Leatherman in the West Village, Manhattan's premier shopping locale for leather fetishists and Judas Priest. With $500 worth of leather goods piled on the counter, I got buyer's remorse and ran out of the store. It was good to know that my gut feeling is right from time to time. I was going to have a hard time explaining how shorts and t-shirts could be fetish wear.
As we loaded our luggage into a golf cart, I heard what I thought was a busy rifle range in the distance. As we trundled over the brow of a hill, I saw a large meadow dotted with several crucifixes. Attached to each was an individual being whipped, flogged and/or beaten. It was just like that final scene in Life of Brian. But instead of looking on the bright side of life, the whippees were emitting the most bloodcurdling screams I've ever heard. The air was laden with sounds of agony. (I wish I had pictures to bring back with me, but I was told in no uncertain terms that taking photographs was strictly, strictly forbidden. When you register, you are given a blue or a purple wristband that signifies whether you've consented to have your picture taken by one of the professional photographers on site. Incidentally, one of the photographers is Barbara Nitke, who has published work on Nerve.)
The camp is flanked by three hills and a small lake. There are two sets of cabins on opposite hills, a swimming pool, dining hall and administrative area between the hills, and a pavilion, basketball courts, amphitheatre and two dungeons. The surrounding woods look pretty in the golden afternoon sunshine.
Manflesh and I registered, got our cabin assignments and went our separate ways. (He had already secured a private cabin with several of the scene's luminaries. Their cabin is called "Oink" because, as my new friend explained, "We're all fucking pigs.") I am assigned a cabin on the opposite end of the camp. The the interior was an austere sight to behold. I'm looking around it now. It's about twenty feet by thirty, with ten stripped twin beds around the perimeter and some cubbyholes in center of the room for personal effects. Until a second ago, I thought I was the first to arrive, but in the far corner of the room is a rotund blonde-haired woman in a pair of a terrycloth shorts and one white ankle sock. She is laying topless and facedown in a noisy slumber. I wonder who my other cabinmates will be. I'm feeling a bit lost and alone. I'm going to see if I can find Manflesh. Perhaps he'll introduce me to his crew. More later!
Missing you already,
Protek yer neck!
Grant
Tomorrow! "Manflesh produced his 'new toy:' a 10,000-volt cattle prod designed for cattlemen involved in carrying out 'close work.' I swallowed hard."
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