"You can make me go, but it sure as hell won't change a thing." I said icily from the back seat.
"Oh, Kyle, just wait and see. This is just a—a stage! Yes, you'll be through it very soon, especially thanks to this camp." This had all begun last week when my mother barged into my room, catching Stan and I red-handed—or shall I say red-assed—finally knowing what just about every other person in town already knew. Needless to say she was fucking pissed. She, of course, thought that my being in love with my best friend was a serious personal flaw. So, off she dragged me, three and a half full hours away from good, ol' South Park to Camp New Grace, to "pray the gay away." Sure, I'd tried to tell her that it was a Catholic thing, but she just shot me down. She'd said that the Stoches had highly recommended it—they'd sent Butters there six or seven years ago (little did they know that he was not "bi-curious" at the time as they thought he was. He is now, though). And here we were, pulling up to the summer camp-esque prison where they'd try to brainwash me using psalms, bible verses, pastoral speeches, and who knew what else.
Super.
Immediately upon arrival, we were swarmed with counselors and what looked like the most depressing welcoming committee I'd ever seen. An overly excited man flanked by two serious-looking teenaged boys opened the doors for both my mother and I, while the boys grabbed my luggage.
"Everyone say hello to our new camper, Kyle!" said the cheerful man, who I assumed was the head counselor, whom I'd come to loathe in during the summer I faced.
While the group of boys murmured their monotone "hellos," my mother began thanking "Jerry" as he profusely encouraged us to call him. She kissed my goodbye, wished me luck, and was gone.
Jerry went over rules and regulations as we walked into the building to my room. They were your average camp rules with a few exceptions. Instead of "Purpling," as most camps tend to call girl-on-guy action (red and blue make purple), there was to be absolutely no Dark Blue at any time on the premises. Anyone found doing anything along the lines of that would be sentenced to some monotonous task as punishment. All the while, Jerry assured me that I could change how I felt through the power of Jesus Christ, which would make me "normal" again.
Psh.
"Now, just to make sure you don't slip up while in camp, we assign every camper an Accountabilibuddy." He said, walking to me room, Room 69. "Your Accountabilibuddy is also a new camper, so be sure you guys keep each other away from any impure urges you might have. He can show you around the rest of the camp." And Jerry was gone with a smile.
This, of course, left me to face my new roommate alone. I picked up my bags, sighed and opened the door. The room was empty, except for two beds, two dressers, a bookshelf stacked with what looked to be bibles (and other religious books), and a desk with chairs. It did not, however, hold the person who was to be my Accountabilibuddy.
I flung my bags onto the bed closest me and stared out the window, wondering how I was to face this long, hellacious summer without Stan. God, I'd miss him. I already did. I must have been deeply distracted with my fantasies about him, since I didn't hear my roommate open the door and walk inside over to me. I sure felt it when he slipped his hands around my waistband, trying to reach my crotch, though. Boy, did I ever.
"Why, what do we have here? Hello there, Accountabilibuddy," a voice whispered in my ear (though you don't technically need to use your tongue like he did to consider it whispering), sending a shiver through my spine and making my knees jiggle a bit.
Stan.