PART FOUR

Guys,
I hardly slept a wink last night. Apparently I was assigned to the snorey cabin, where everybody else is at least twenty years my senior. I had finally gotten comfortable on the spiky, funny-smelling bedding when a bunch of people straggled in and flopped onto their beds, one by one. That, coupled with the numbing cold, meant that I was still awake by the time my cabinmates were getting up to greet the day. I was so cold and tired that I couldn't be bothered to get up and put on more clothing. Although they're more pierced and tattooed than conventional Baby Boomers, the campers still have a propensity for getting up at 6:30 on the dot. Noisily, they arose and went out onto the veranda for cigs and coffee, finally allowing me a couple of hours of shut-eye. I woke at midday feeling like hammered shit.
    "You didn't miss much," said Dan, who had come to the cabin to change into his birthday suit. "Aside from three cute submissives jerking off some guy at the pool. He took ages to come, but he didn't mind about that."
    "Um, is it warm out?" I asked.
    "Well, it's just warm enough to walk around naked, which I find is the best way to advertise," he deadpanned, giving his Johnson a wave as if to prove his point.
    Lunch was three different types of what was labeled as pizza. I sat down with Trevor and Claire, a couple from last night's monumental clusterfuck. When not "in the moment," they seemed shy. It was only Claire's second event, and she was only marginally more in tune with the scene than I was. Trevor was worried he was about to be kidnapped.
    Kidnapping is big at Leather Camp. You either have to consent to be kidnapped, or perhaps a partner or friend volunteers you for it. At some point, you'll be pounced upon by four or five assailants and receive an abduction made to order. It can be sexual in nature or just a good, old-fashioned beating. Either way, Trevor was concerned that his kidnapping would come at an inconvenient time, like on the way to dinner or when he needed to go to the bathroom. He started getting animated and waving his arms around, spilling a cup of hot coffee that barely missed my lap. I didn't know what had happened to my appetite, but I could barely eat anything. Buffet food just kind of skeeves me out.
    The weather was overcast. Glancing at the schedule of events, I decided that I would catch the two-hour "Takin' it Up the Ass" tutorial, which was due to take place at two. On the way out of the dining hall I bumped into Amanda, who was chatting to her boyfriend on the phone. He was turning up at camp tonight and she was terribly excited. Amanda was competing in the stripping contest that night, and she asked for my help in selecting a song and figuring out her choreography. Against my wishes, she picked Alannah Myles' "Black Velvet" from the songbook. We went to the pool and I watched her dance/gymnastic routine take shape. I think she just wanted an audience.
    Satisfied with her moves, we headed up to "the Barn," which is, as the name suggests, a barn. Inside, twenty people were sitting around looking bored and perplexed. "This is a lot less stressful than a lot of other SM events," explained Amanda. "Tutorials happen, or they don't. Other events are more regimented, but this is like, 'Fuck you, I'm on my vacation!'" With tonight's theme being Mardi Gras, Sandra was running a mask-making competition. We ran over to the dining hall and got busy with the glitter glue, sequins and feathers.
    While we tinkered with design concepts, the conversation turned to what other attendees told friends and family where they'd be that weekend. It was rare to hear people talk about the outside world, and I was happy they were. The premise of camp was that people could be "who they really wanted to be," meaning that, for the most part, the trappings of the real world were checked at the front gate. I, for one, love the trappings of the real world. Without them to embrace or react against, I was getting really, really lonely. With my mask complete and Amanda running off to do a photographed suspension scene, I looked around camp for familiar faces, but again found no one.
    I walked over to the lake's edge, where a fire had been lit and deserted. I don't like being alone. I'm not sure what's scarier: asking a sixty-year-old guy dressed as Pippi Longstocking to pass the Elmer's Glue, or sitting here by the lake with nothing but my thoughts. I haven't felt so isolated since I took that night job as a shuttle-bus driver at the oil refinery about five years ago. At least then I had a book, the radio and the occasional grease monkey to chat with. But having to essentially fib to these people all day about who I was and why I was here was making me feel identityless. It seemed that the more people were into it, the more I was feeling left out. I'm sure that I could have gotten into more situations, but I found it hard to have common ground with people. If you want to know the truth, I almost had a little cry.
    But apparently I'm wasn't alone. A rustling in the bushes alerted me to the presence of three medievalists — one male and two female — caressing and canoodling together. The man was wearing Cossack boots, black jodhpurs and a baggy shirt that looked like liquid chrome with a belt resting midway up his belly. The man gave me what I could only explain as a Shakespearean wave/hand flurry before turning back to his ladies and sipping some mead. Or Bud Lite; I can't remember which. Across the edge of the lake, a couple of guys — clothed and looking like civilians — are fishing for the elusive handful of big-mouthed bass rumored to be skulking around in the weeds. I take heart in the fishermen and a Cessna that flies overhead.

Love,
Grant