This story takes place in the 1970's, when the drinking age in the state was 18.
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Chapter One: Skip turns 18.
Mercifully, the infamous song always sung to commemorate birthdays was as brief as possible, and I was grateful to Mr. Langer and his son and my best friend Greg for omitting the superfluous choruses about how old are you. I was 18 and we all knew it, and I was anxious to get to the business at hand, which involved the consumption of beer.
Genesee Beer, to be precise, and while it was certainly not the first time I had drunk beer with my pal Greg, it was the first time I could do it legally. Drinking with my friend's father was a little weird, but since I had known Mr. Langer most of my life, after a couple of beers we were all cool with it.
Greg's parents had divorced a couple of years ago, which was tough on Greg, but he did see him every other week. I was surprised when I got invited on this camping trip to Lake Durant, but being a fixture at the Langer house forever, I suppose I shouldn't have been.
"You're as bad as Greg with this hair," Mr. Langer had said, pulling on my hair which I wore a shoulder length, much like his son. "It's like going camping with a couple of girls, only without the fringe benefits."
"Dad!" Greg groaned, recoiling at his father's attempt at risque humor, but I thought it was funny.
Not something my father would say, but then again my old man wouldn't have trucked me and a friend up in the godforsaken wilderness for a few days of camping either.
The fact that it was my birthday was reason enough for the party to become more adult, so I was happy that Greg's dad had packed a couple cases of good old Genny with the camping gear.
"At least I won't be contributing to the delinquency of minors," Mr. Langer noted, since his son was two months older than me.
So that's how we ended up sitting around the campfire on a muggy June evening in the Adirondacks, swatting the occasional mosquito and drinking. In my friend Greg's case, drinking too much too soon, as was his custom, and before long he was falling asleep in the lawn chair.
When a nearly full beer can feel out of his hand when he nodded off, that was the final straw for his father, who escorted him into the tent we would be sharing. After getting Greg safely into the tent, Mr. Langer announced that he would be turning in right after hitting the comfort station, and he seemed pleased when I told him I would join him.
"Gorgeous night," Mr. Langer said as we reached the somewhat primitive bathroom, which had running water and toilets but not much else.
"It's cool that not many people are up here," I noted.
"Thanks to you having a birthday that falls on Monday this year," Mr. Langer said, slapping me on the back. "By the weekend this place will be packed."
By then we would be home, but I was happy to be with Greg up here, spending the days swimming and hiking, and now drinking beer. We had been told a while back that it didn't take as good when you could drink it legally, but that was bull.
It tasted damn good, and as I tapped my kidneys into the toilet loudly, I heard Greg's dad doing the same thing in the next stall.
"You only rent beer," Greg's father said, and I laughed in response.
Greg was lucky to have a father like him, I thought to myself. I was always jealous of Greg, because compared to my old man... well, there was no comparison. Mine had no time for me. Business was all that mattered, and he had no more time for me than he seemed to have for my mother.
As I washed my hands and began brushing my teeth, Greg's father came out of the stall and joined me at the sink. He looked like Rock Hudson, or so I always thought. About 6'2", which made him about a head taller than me, a muscular physique and wavy black hair. He also had the hairiest chest and legs I had ever seen, and I always hoped that someday I would end up looking like him, but that wasn't going to happen.
I could never figure out why Greg's mother had divorced him, because if I was a girl - hell, even being a guy I knew he was good looking.
Greg was much like his father, only in a smaller version, and girls loved him too. Me, not so much, because I was a little twerp. Even now at 18 I still looked like Dennis the Menace on that TV show. Worse yet, my real name, Chris, had been long forgotten by everybody.
I was Skip, or even worse, Skippy. That was my Mom's fault, the Skippy nickname, and I cringed every time somebody would use it. How would I make it as a doctor someday with the name Skippy? At least Greg and his father called me Skip.
"You can call me by my name if you want, you know Skip," Mr. Langer had told me earlier.
I had tried to use his name a couple of times, but saying "Rich" felt strange, and I found myself reverting to Mr. Langer after a time. So after Mr. Langer and I finished brushing our teeth, we walked back to the tent, with only the crunching of twigs beneath our feet and the chirping of crickets breaking the silence that surrounded us.
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Chapter Two: Hand.
I woke up at some point during the night, disoriented because of the beer and the total darkness of the tent. I was on my side at the end of the tent, and there was a body right behind mine, pressing right up against me.
The warmth of the body was comforting, but I was shocked that Greg would be cuddling up like this with his father in the same tent. His hand had slid under the elastic of my underwear and had nudged it downward while grabbing my cock. The was a fairly common past-time of ours - the jerking off each other - especially when Greg was between girlfriends, while I was usually unattached myself.
As my cock got hard, the hand became a fist, and while the tempo increased, I reached behind myself and groped around for Greg's dick. It was right around that time when I realized that something was amiss. Greg hadn't been sleeping next to me, he had been on the far side, and the dick that was rubbing against my ass certainly wasn't Greg.
I determined that when I grabbed hold of the stiff dick, but before I could react I heard a gasp, forced out by the feeling of warmth as it spat cum on to me.
The fist wrapped around my dick began working with more intensity, pumping my cock quick and hard. I was stunned at the realization of whose hand this was, and whether this intensified the orgasm that came washing over me, I could not tell, but soon I was cumming like a machine gun. So hard that I could feel my cum hitting the vinyl tent fabric a couple of feet away from me, and after I had gone limp the powerful hand still kept milking my flaccid dick for several minutes more before letting go of me.
I felt something being used to wipe the semen off of my ass cheek, and after that the tent got calm again with only the sound of deep and slow breathing filling the air, while the scent of cum hung around as well.
