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RN_Spanky
March 18, 2007

Sex Camp

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For the Smut Challenge. :)

Sorry about the scan-- I tried to stitch it but the new software I downloaded is giving me fits!!!


Journalling Reads:

People laugh and snicker when I tell them that I went to Band Camp in high school, obviously thinking about the not-so-subtle cultural reference. But what they probably don’t know is that I also went to Sex Camp.
Oh, how I hated Nan when she said I had to go that first time in 1994. I was fourteen years old, in the 9th grade, and here she was telling me what to do. And she wasn’t even my stepmother yet! She and Dad weren’t even thinking about getting married at the time! The nerve of her!
“I went when I was a kid and it was good for me,” she said. “It’ll be good for you, too.”
“Sorry, there won’t be any labs,” my dad added. Was he trying to be funny?
What kind of girl did they think I was?
The official name of it was “Christian Faith and Human Sexuality” and it was hosted every March in Leesburg. It was a weekend of fun, food, and fellowship for teenagers from all over the state. Except instead of normal camp activities such as crafts and canoes, we’d talk about parts, protection, and why we should wait. Everyone, including the pastors there, called it “Sex Camp.”
One time, at Sex Camp, I first met Pastor Brenda Lewis. She was Jan Richardson’s college roommate (the pastor who married Bryan and me) and was a hoot. She wore a t-shirt with a picture of dogs in church. Underneath the picture it said, “Hellfire and Dalmations” and the dog who was the “preacher” was saying, “And I said unto you, bad dog! Bad dog!” Brenda ended up being the Chaplain at Florida Southern College and was one of my favorite college professors.
Another time, at Sex Camp, I met a guy named Ralph. He was from Haiti so he had this cute French accent and I liked him a lot but was afraid to tell him. Six months later accidentally ran into each other in Miami of all places, and we were friends for a while after that. There weren’t any labs with him.
Perhaps the funniest time at Sex Camp was my senior year. It had become quite the family tradition, and my dad even joined in on it by becoming a camp counselor. There was one activity where all of the small groups got together and split up the boys and the girls. The boys were given a list of girl parts that they had to draw and label, and the girls were given a list of boy parts to draw and label. Every single year, I was the group artist. This year, I proudly showed off the poster to dad (and everyone else) in the middle of the mess hall. “That’s my girl!” he’d exclaim.
One time (not during sex camp) Dad was going to the store and my monthly visitor was there. I hemmed and hawed as I tried to use as many euphemisms as I could to tell him that I needed some “supplies”, and he indignantly yelled, “FOR FOUR YEARS I’VE SENT YOU TO SEX CAMP, AND YOU CAN’T EVEN TELL YOUR OWN FATHER THAT YOU NEED TAMPONS?” I wanted to sink into the floor. Not because of what he said, but because he was right.
My senior year was the last time there ever was a Sex Camp. After thirty years, the Fundies came and shut it down, saying that it was too smutty to be talking to kids about sex. Which is kind of funny, because Sex Camp was where I learned to make my own decisions based on that sensitive subject, which is a lot better than learning it from some random hormone-crazed high school boy. I am now recently married to the right guy and I have a successful career because I made those right decisions. It’s amazing what kids can grow up to do when you tell them the truth.


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