Lesbian Summer Camp Stories

Lesbian Summer Camp Stories

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Looking for a steady supply of lesbian short stories? Every week thousands of writers submit stories to our writing contest.

We'll send you 5 prompts each week. Respond with your short story and you could win $250!

Submitted by writers on Reedsy Prompts to our weekly writing contest . Love is love, and our collection of lesbian short stories takes pride in its identity. From rom-coms to everyday narratives about life and love, you’ll find all the newest lesbian short stories here.

Lesbian short stories have been around since the beginning of time, but throughout history and across the world, their voices have often been silenced. Our collection aims to unbury your gays and bring these stories to life in all their glory.
From historical fiction to contemporary romance, to genre stories featuring lesbian protagonists, you’ll find all manner of sapphic short stories here. Whether their sexuality takes center stage or is merely a character trait, any lesbian story is welcome!.
It can be difficult to find lesbian short stories, we feel you. So our page aims to make it easy. Collected from our weekly short story contest , the lesbian stories on this page represent some of the newest voices in short fiction. You’ll find shortlisted and winning entries at the top of our list, but each of the stories here represent the breadth of diversity that lesbian fiction has to offer. If you find one you really love, don't forgot to "follow" the author so you never miss one of their stories.
So settle in and get ready to read about love, life, and the lesbian experience. There’s no shortage of the variety you’ll find in our collection of lesbian fiction. Who knows, you may even discover one of the next great lesbian writers at their beginning! And if you're a writer who fancies a chance at the prize for yourself, consider entering our current contest.

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And Now, Your Finest and Filthiest Stories About Summer Camp
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My most vivid memories of summer camp all feature me being a teenage shithead. Take soccer camp, for instance. We were at soccer camp in Faribault, MN. I don’t remember playing any soccer whatsoever at that camp, but I very much DO remember the camp was at a boarding school, and that we got to stay in the dorms all week, and that the dorm had a pay phone that was the only phone in the whole joint. So, at night, we snuck down to the phone and started dialing random 1-800 numbers, hoping to either get a live operator or a live girl at the other end of the line. And whenever a real person answered the phone, we would scream I’M A MOTHERFUCKER WITH A BUFFALO BUTT, hang up the phone, and then run away. I’m not quite sure why we ran from, you know, a phone call. Then again, I’m not sure why we did anything.
My oldest kid hasn’t gone to sleepaway camp yet for various reasons, and I have implored my wife to send her for at least one summer because (A) I want these kids out of the house, and (B) as one of my friends said about his kid at camp, “I know they’ll come back a different person than when they left.” Summer camp is an indelible experience for so many kids because it represents the first time they’re really, truly out on their own. You get to shed your overbearing parents and liberate the dipshit teen within. It is 3-10 weeks of pure peer pressure, made from concentrate. And it’s a valuable rite of passage, even when you’re screaming obscenities into a payphone like a complete moron.
These readers know what I’m talking about. Gather round the campfire now as they regale you with their strangest, horniest tales of unbridled youth in summertime…
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For parents, sending a teen to summer camp must be a deal with the devil: You get a break from caring for your angsty kid, but in exchange, you live with the knowledge that little Madison might suck a dick this summer. Communal sleeping, shared showers, and minimal supervision — often at the hands of slightly older and even hornier youths — add up to a pressure cooker of hormones, humiliation, awkward fumbling, and memorable discoveries. To kick off the Cut’s Summer Sex Week, we collected ten people’s most vivid memories of summer-camp sex — and sex gone awry, and confused preteen discoveries, and other strangely nostalgic humiliations.
1. Fake Orgasms Sweep Horse Camp When I was 11, there was a fake-orgasm craze at Camp Rim Rock’s horseback riding camp for girls. It started when Lauren Petersen* asked if anyone else had “tickling feelings” while grinding on a Western saddle. Lauren was the alpha girl of my cabin. She was cool and tough and came from New York and had a Beastie Boys cassette. When she stole my pink training bra, I was kind of honored. If Lauren Petersen felt tickles on horses, then feeling tickles on horses was cool. Soon everyone was feeling tickles, or trying to feel them, or faking them. It was like the Salem Witch Trials. I will never say whether my horsegasms were fake.

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Published March 24, 2013 1:00AM (EDT)

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Names and identifying details have been changed.
Over the years, I have called it an "inappropriate relationship." I have called it "an incident with an older man." Most frequently, I have called it "the thing that happened that summer." As in -- remember the thing that happened that summer?
I never called it sexual abuse, because it felt like an overly dramatic Oprah-ization of what happened. The word "abuse" seems to imply victimization and has always made me uncomfortable in this instance. Until now, I have been far too politicized to admit the chief reason I never called it sexual abuse in spite of the fact that it would be considered as much from both a criminal and a clinical perspective. The real reason is because I believed I asked for it.
The summer I turned 12, I went to sleepaway camp. I shaved my legs for the first time, dumped Sun-In in my hair and tanned with baby oil. I had my first boyfriend -- a skinny, freckly arrogant kid a year my senior who took me for two paddle boat rides and then broke up with me, declaring me a prude and, I was sure, ruining my romantic life forever.
I turned from real life to fantasy, and eschewed the hazardous boys my own age in favor of a secret crush on Nathan, the 20-year-old swimming counselor. Nathan was sarcastic and slouchy and unusually stylish for a camp full of spoiled East Coast Jewish kids. His dyed black hair spilled over one eye and he wore his shorts low on his hips. Trumping all, he was from New York City, mecca of all things wild and wonderful. I spent countless hours imagining myself into a future in which I strolled through Washington Square Park with Nathan, preferably on a fall day in between college classes.
Nathan didn’t quite fit in and there were all kinds of rumors circulating about him. He was bisexual; he was friendly with Morrissey; he was a model for the United Colors of Benetton. I, too, felt like an outsider, never able to summon the same gung-ho camp spirit as the other girls. I imagined Nathan understood me in some fundamental way, he just didn’t know it yet.
One morning in the chilly lake, Nathan swam up behind me to correct my stroke and an electrical charge passed between us that was unlike anything I had ever felt before. My whole chest seemed to tighten around it. I was flooded with the exquisite realization that I was not alone in my desire. After that, my crush flowered into something more raw and persistent. I plotted and preened and placed myself in his eyeline at every possible moment. I gave myself asthma attacks and stomachaches with the anxiety of it all.
This went on for weeks before I finally found the courage to seek him out alone. I was asking for it, to be sure, but what exactly was I asking for? I wanted to kiss him; I thought about it constantly. But ultimately, I was asking to be loved, without grasping the possible manifestations that love might take.
The night I snuck out to see him, I slept carefully on my hair, set my alarm clock under my pillow and stationed my white Keds at the ready by my bedside. It was a long walk across camp and the darkness outside my flashlight beam seemed alive and threatening. I was covered in a cold sweat when I arrived. Nathan’s bunk smelled like feet and mold and was strewn with the detritus of the 8-year-old boys for whom he was a counselor. I tread silently, aware that the stakes were very different than those of any of my previous transgressions.
I found his bed and stood over him, trembling with adrenaline. What if he sent me away? What if he didn’t? Finally, I reached out and touched his bare shoulder. When he opened his eyes, he didn’t seem surprised at all. A bright moon hung in the frame of the window behind him and he was only a silhouette when he cradled my face in his hands and leaned in to kiss me. I closed my eyes and tried to memorize it, figuring that it was my first real kiss and I would want to remember it someday. When his breath started to get ragged, he whispered in my ear, “Do you even know how I feel when I have to look at you running around in your shorts all day long. You're so pretty and I can’t even tell anyone. Do you even know what you do to me?”
I didn’t know what to say. Of course I didn’t know. How could I have known?
Over the next couple of weeks I went see him every night until I was exhausted and confused. I wanted it to stop and I wanted it never to stop. Eventually we were caught and he got fired. I found myself crumpled in a chair in front of the camp director’s desk, bombarded with impossible questions like, “What were you thinking?”
The director responded, “You’re 12 years old, you don’t know what love is.”
Which is foolish, of course. I’m a grown woman now and I can say without reservation that I did. I loved him truly and with all the audacity of youth, which is to say with absolutely no sense of consequences.
I don’t remember it with anger. I still remember the initial deliciousness of getting what I wanted, of feeling truly desired for the first time, and in such a transgressive and erotically charged way. And yet, upon closer inspection, I’m not sure I asked for "it" exactly. I was just asking for my longing to be answered, for the suffering to be relieved. I asked with all of the need and chaos of a burgeoning sexuality I did not yet understand.
At the website of the Department of Health and Human Services, one of the qualifiers for the clinical definition of sexual abuse is a “knowledge differential.” It states, “An act is considered abusive when one party (the offender) has a more sophisticated understanding of the significance and implication of the sexual encounter.” This is certainly true about my "inappropriate relationship," my "incident with an older guy."
Whether or not I feel comfortable identifying as a victim, I acknowledge the profound and lasting impact that my relationship with Nathan had on my life. My first kiss was not about pleasure but about power and for a long time those two things became indistinguishable. I learned to trade sex for affection. This was a dangerous lesson for a young girl, and I believe one that ultimately kept me from deriving much authentic pleasure from my body for a long time. And while it would be too reductive to say
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