If you've never had your parents call you a whore to your face, say you're going to hell, and dump you at camp to be rid of you, let me tell you it sucks.
Camp Huckleberry, affectionately nicknamed Camp Fuckleberry (or Camp Fuck for short), is five acres of underwhelming woodland, eight shoddy cabins that look like they were made out of Lincoln Logs, and a lake straight out of a Friday the 13th movie. The only possible upside I can see to being forced to counsel there is that it's co-ed, and as I look around on the bus, I can definitely see some potentially cute guys. The one I'm seated next to is particularly attractive, with shaggy blond hair and a smile that would surely cause a lesser woman than me to crumble.
He's checking me out, and honestly, who can blame him? I'm wearing a miniskirt, a tank top, and killer makeup if I do say so myself. My light blonde hair is in a messy bun on top of my head, and my nails are crimson red to match my lipstick.
Let's get it out of the way: I'm hot. Like ridiculously hot. I get looks from everyone, and I can, will, and have turned girls gay.
I meet the blond boy's eyes and bite my lip, slowly and subtly moving my leg over to his so our toes our touching, then calves, and finally our thighs. I know exactly what I'm doing and he seems to pick up on it, but seems unfazed, like he's seeing my bet and raising me.
So I raise. I slide my fingers to the hem of my skirt, teasing it up and making sure to graze his thigh as much as possible. I have the window seat, so his body blocks me from view as I go high enough to expose part of my panties. Not that I would have cared if people saw. I also let the strap of my tank top fall and am now in what I call the Courtney Love pose.
He's staring at me now, and I can see him mentally undressing the rest of me. By now he's figured out I'm not wearing a bra.
His eyes don't leave my body for the rest of the bus ride, and I must say I'm enjoying the attention. Sorry, mom and dad, camp will have a pretty opposite effect on me this summer.
The bus lurches to a stop and then we're at Camp Fuck. The counselors pile off the bus with me and the blonde boy in tow. I ignore him during the director's welcome speech, and I ignore him as the camp's attendees arrive. While the director is talking to the younger kids, I feel a tap on my shoulder.
"I don't think I ever got your name," the boy from the bus whispers in my ear.
"Chelsea," I murmur back. "El for short."
"I'm Ben," he introduces.
"Well, Ben, I'm bunking alone, so if you can slip away later tonight... I'd love to get to know you."
"Really?" he says calmly.
"Mhm." Being counselor number nine has its advantages. No annoying bunkmates to kick out or symbolic articles of clothing to hang on the doorknob like a sorority girl.
If I play my cards right, this could be a very fun summer...
