Early in our relationship, Ally and I went camping at Palmiet. We were young, smitten, and—after a few days in the fresh air—feeling particularly adventurous. Late one night, while the rest of the campsite was still gathered around the dying embers of the communal fire, we retreated to our tent for some "private" time.
We were being incredibly careful. We spoke in hushed whispers, moved with what we thought was ninja-like stealth, and made sure our "naughty action" didn't make a sound that would alert the neighbors.
The next morning, my best friend Russell greeted me with a look of suppressed, agonizing amusement.
"What is it?" I asked, sensing I was the butt of a joke I hadn't heard yet.
"Oh, no," he chuckled, shaking his head. "I can’t say. It’s far too embarrassing."
"Oh, come on," I pressed. "No secrets between friends. Out with it."
He leaned in, his eyes dancing. "Alright, let me give you a little tip for the future, Graeme. If you and Ally are planning to get 'jiggy' in a tent, for the love of God, switch the internal lights off first."
My heart sank as the basic laws of physics—specifically backlighting—hit me.
"Otherwise," he grinned, "you’re not just having a private moment; you’re broadcasting a highly detailed shadow-puppet show to everyone at the campfire. It was a five-star performance, Graeme, but I think the audience is expecting an encore."
I went into that tent a master of discretion; I emerged the accidental star, director, and lead cinematographer of the Palmiet Adult Film Festival.
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