I Still Think About My Camp Crush From 8 Years Ago

I’m a 26-year-old woman. I have a grown-up job. I live in a big city. I’ve had multiple long-term relationships in my adult life. But for some reason, I still think about my camp crush from eight years ago.

How is this possible? Maybe it’s because I never let anything go (Scorpio rising, present!). Maybe it’s because I lost my virginity and fell hard for this man. Or maybe camp crushes have an entirely different DNA altogether — some kind of je ne sais quoi that makes them feel straight out of a coming-of-age movie. I’m not certain I’ll ever know the answer, but one thing’s for sure: I can still recite the story by heart.

His name was Eli Bennett*, and it was my first summer as a camp counselor at the eight-week Jewish summer camp I’d grown up going to. He was tall, somewhere between athletic and lanky (chef’s kiss). He had golden ginger hair, freckles, and a warm smile that made me weak in the knees. You may have heard of something called “camp goggles,” where you find someone attractive simply because they are one of the only acceptable options at camp. But I didn’t need goggles for him. I thought he was the most attractive person I’d ever seen.

Me, on the other hand? I was a virgin who felt slutty at heart, with simultaneously delusional confidence and intense insecurity (Pisces sun, present!). I was freshly 18, going off to my first year of college at the end of the summer. He was two years older, with plans to study abroad in Europe for his whole junior year. From the moment we locked eyes across a cringey counselor icebreaker, I wanted him bad.

As with most things in my young adult life, I approached our potential love affair with 0% patience and 100% Taylor Swift “Mastermind” energy. I was on a mission — so when he gave me an inch, I took a yard.

He asked to share my umbrella, so I secretly requested to be his co-counselor in the basketball club so I could spend an hour with him every day. He told our mutual friend that I was cute, so I rearranged my entire sleep-in schedule to be aligned with his, so we would be free on the same nights. He asked me if I wanted to go on a walk, so I flashed him my tits and asked him to make out with me on said walk because he wasn’t making a move.

Safe to say, your girl made it happen.

From that moment on, we were an item. During the day, we’d flirt from afar, because the campers were never supposed to catch on to any counselor romance (making it 100 times hotter). He’d grab my waist sneakily when we passed each other in the kitchen. I’d catch his eye and wink while making announcements.

At night, we’d exchange sexual favors in the art closet. Or he’d go down on me in a hammock. Or I’d go down on him in the back of my parked minivan. After, we’d hold each other tightly and chat until our eyes nearly fluttered closed, discussing everything from college to camp drama to which Alvin and the Chipmunk we’d want to kiss, kill, and marry.

A few weeks into the summer, I told him, “I know I seem super slutty, but I’ve actually never had sex before.” His response was warm and unwavering, letting me know that he was the right amount of surprised and entirely unfazed. The next night, I said I was ready. In the comfort of my older sister’s bedroom (she was a unit head with her own space she’d lend me for ~special occasions~), I had sex for the first time.

He was gentle at the start, getting more intense as my enthusiasm egged him on. I felt taken care of, desired, and seen all at once. I remember blurting out, “So this is why people have sex,” as waves of pleasure pulsed through me. I always knew that Jewish summer camp would be my sexual education — I’d spent years coming home with juicy intel about blowjobs, 69s, first kisses, and who hooked up with whom, all while somehow remaining the only person in my bunk with no firsthand experience. Now, at 18, I was finally getting my turn.

Over the next six weeks, I fell in love with him as everything fell apart. The summer was ending and we would never see each other again — or at least not for an entire year. But everything inside me ached to fall anyways, knowing it wouldn’t go anywhere, knowing I couldn’t be with him in the way I wanted.

With a camp crush, you never have to find out if it would have worked — you only have to remember how badly you wanted it to.

He drove home with me on the last day of camp, and we had one final sleepover. I sobbed as we said goodbye, and we FaceTimed that night, and the night after that. We kept in touch as I went off to college, but our communication fizzled out when we entered opposite time zones — me in Ohio cornfields, him on the other side of the Atlantic.

Though we fell out of touch and I developed other crushes, Eli has stuck in my brain like the smell of bug spray on a sweatshirt. I think part of the reason our romance felt so special is because everything at summer camp feels more intense — you’re away from home, you’re off your phone, and you’re living in a fantastical place. Outside the confines of real life, love feels easy.

Maybe if we met at college, I’d get the ick from how he sang along to “Mo Bamba.” Or I’d beef with his roommate. Or I wouldn’t have met him at all, because I’d still be in my lacrosse team phase. But with a camp crush, you never have to find out if it would have worked — you only have to remember how badly you wanted it to. (Also, it’s just super horny. Who doesn’t want to do hand stuff in the art closet?)

In a twist of fate, my story with Eli didn’t actually end that summer. Years later, I woke up next to him in a hotel room after a happenstance meetup — a bizarre little coincidence that gave us one more night together. I was home for the summer. He was visiting friends in my city and texted to ask if I wanted to meet up. I don’t think my thumbs have ever moved faster.

But waking up that next morning, I knew it was a one-time thing. Nothing had changed: We’d be returning to our separate coasts, separate lives. And he would remain my summer camp crush forever.

As I nestled into him, I said for the very first time, “I think I was in love with you that summer.” He didn’t miss a beat as he replied, “Of course, so was I.”