Manville, Summer 1973
Every summer from 5th through 10th grade, I spent a week at Manville, the Nazarene summer camp. Actually five days: drive in Monday morning, leave Saturday afternoon (so you could be home for church Sunday).
Up every morning at 6:00 am for breakfast, Bible study, chapel, and lunch, followed by jump quiz practice or music practice, sports, dinner, rap groups, a fire-and-brimstone sermon, an hour of free time, and lights out.
In the most horrid cabins imaginable.
One bare light bulb, screens but no glass in the windows, bare board floors, 10 rusty, squeaking army-cots with paper-thin mattresses, placed so close together that you could reach across and touch your neighbor, with a double bed at the front for the counselor.
The only thing I liked about them was:
10 boys and the counselor bedding down in pajamas or, more likely, their underwear.
The counselor was usually a member of the gospel singing group or an adult volunteer, with a muscular physique and the promise of an underwear bulge, but for some reason in the summer of 1973, when I was twelve years he wasn't either of those. Titus was tall, thin, and boney, gawky, with big, sweaty hands and clodding feet, not at all the outdoorsman-type you expect as camp conselor. He was a college boy, a "music ministry" major at Olivet, but unlike most ministerial students, he didn't have a wild side; he was a Johnny Nazarene, one of those super-devout types who follows every rule in the Manual and makes up some of his own.
He didn't have breakfast with us, or come to any of the morning activities. He showed up at 10:00 am chapel, yawning, as if he just climbed out of bed.
I found out why Tuesday night: he didn't sleep. He stayed up all night, reading his Bible or a book on soulwinning or Nazarene history by the light of a desk lamp. Plus every fifteen minutes or so, he got up and walked slowly down the aisle between the beds, shining a flashlight.
Not at our faces. At our crotches.
What could he possibly be checking on?
I found out on Wednesday during the "rap session" before the fire-and-brimstone sermon. Titus was talking about the need to keep ourselves pure before marriage, so of course premarital sex, touching of private areas, or kissing was out of the question. But you also had to be careful to not look a girl in an unchaste way. It could lead to self-abuse.
I had never heard the term before, so I asked: "What's self-abuse?"
Titus looked down at his hands. "Well, you know, it's not because you're wasting your seed -- that's a Catholic superstitution. It's because in God's eyes, thinking about doing something is just as bad as doing it, and when you do...that, you have to be thinking unchaste thoughts about girls,right?"
That didn't answer the question, so later I asked one of my friends: when you think about a girl "unchastely," your penis gets bigger, and if you're not careful, you can have sex right there, even if no girls are around.
They get bigger? I had no idea! I heard some of the older boys talking about "popping a boner," but I thought they meant your wiener accidentally pushing through your underwear, not getting bigger and bursting out!
So Titus was shining a flashlight on everyone's crotches, he was checking to make sure that no one's wiener was getting bigger in preparation for "self-abuse."
I wanted to see that, too. So on Wednesday and Thursday nights, I tried to stay awake, checking the bunks on either side of me for bulges under the thin sheets, or maybe even a rhythmic movement as a boy had sex "with no girls around." And when Titus walked down the aisle, shining his light on crotches, I watched, as far as I could, discretely, pretending to be asleep.
I never saw anything, but after two nights without sleep, I was a zombie. On Friday morning I made it to breakfast, then went to the nurse's office with an upset stomach. She prescribed 7-Up and "rest in bed" until I was feeling better.
So I walked back past the classroom building and the tabernacle, to the cabins, deserted and off-limits during the daytime. I walked up the stairs slowly, still with an upset stomach, and trudged toward my bunk. Titus was still in bed. His white t-shirt was the same color as the sheets.
I briefly thought that it was unfair to let counselors sleep in when we had to get up at 6:00 am. But he was a volunteer, not getting paid, so...
Then I noticed the bulge at crotch level.
His wiener was pushing out of his underwear, bursting up against the sheet.
I carefully slid out of my shoes and pants and climbed into my bunk, never taking my eyes off the bulge. It trembled a bit, moving with the rhythm of Titus's breathing. His hands were both under the covers. "Self-abuse"?
Suddenly Titus's eyes opened. He sawme watching, and quickly rolled over onto his stomach. "What are you doing here?" he asked angrily.
"Sick. The nurse said I should go to bed. Don't worry, I didn't see anything."
"See what? There was nothing to see." As if to demonstrate, he kicked off the sheets. He was wearing pajama bottoms -- no crotch bulge. He quickly drew his pants on and pulled on his shoes. "Gotta go to the bathroom. I hope you feel better."
I've seen a lot of morning wood since then, and watched a lot of masturbation. But I'm still not sure what Titus was doing under the sheets.
Here are some nude photos of 1950s Physique Pictorial model John Manning and at least one of his brothers.
