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I hope you’ll forgive the paraphrasing. There’s something that feels urgent about getting every word right, but I’m sure I won’t. Some phrases I’m sure I remember exactly, though.

“Don’t ever stop.”

Like that one. Definitely among my favorite series of words ever, and one I hadn’t heard in years. They say there are desperate and insatiable women all over the world, but lately I usually get into relationships with ones who can’t keep it up for more than twenty minutes most of the time.

“Don’t ever stop,” you repeated.

I liked the repetition. The certainty. It was probably right then, when you said that the second time, that I felt fully transported into the fantasy world, and I’ve been there ever since.

The fantasy began in Aalborg. I came down the stairs from where they put up the bands at Aalborg’s premier punk rock social center, and there you were.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

I was happy to see a familiar face from Copenhagen, unexpected out here in northern Jutland.

“One of my favorite bands is playing tomorrow night,” you responded. “But then I saw that you were playing tonight, so I came out a day early.”

I enjoyed every word of that statement. Both parts. A brief examination: the first part makes it clear that I am not the main reason for you came to Jutland. It nicely puts me in my place.

The second part largely counteracts the first part, though — going somewhere a day early to catch the other act is still a fairly significant move. I felt emboldened.

“Where are you staying while you’re in Aalborg?” I asked.

“With one of my friends, I guess.”

The phrasing there was nicely noncommittal. Key indicators were that you didn’t say which friend in particular. And then the addition of “I guess.”

“You’re welcome to stay upstairs,” I said. “There are like sixteen beds up there,” I added, feeling compelled to insert the unwelcome notion that you might want your own bed.

“If they don’t mind,” you said, motioning towards the management of the place milling about nearby, “that would be great.”

You have a sort of air of street cred about you, with the nose ring, short hair, black leather. But at this point the air cracked, and there was a brief, subtle but glowing smile that crossed your lips, and eyes, and then went away again. I tried to keep my cool, rather than falling off of the stool I was sitting on, which seemed like a more natural reaction than just staying still and keeping a straight face.

For the rest of the evening, you and I both made the rounds, talking with our various friends in the room. If we passed each other we might linger for a couple seconds and say hello, before moving on to the next social engagement.

It was only after the show was over and most of those attending it had left, that you and I were sitting alone on the bench in the smoking area outside the venue, around midnight. Once we had covered the obligatory topics of news and rumors about mutual friends, acquaintances, and politicians, we transitioned smoothly to the more salacious stuff.

“One of my lovers is around your age.”

I remember that sentence vividly. There’s so much good stuff in that sentence. You’re polyamorous. You’re comparing me to one of your lovers — that is, you’re thinking of me in the same sentence as you think of one of your lovers, indicating that you might like me. And you’re not put off by the idea of being lovers with someone who is over twenty years older than you.

“Have you always been polyamorous?” I asked.

“I tried monogamy for a couple years and it wasn’t for me. I’ve been polyamorous ever since.”

I’m often getting involved with women who are willing to tolerate an open relationship temporarily, until they end up with someone who isn’t into that sort of thing.

I laughed a bit nervously, preemptively, at what I was about to ask next. I had seen you at least once a year somewhere in Copenhagen, talked for minutes, sometimes a couple hours, smoked joints together. I think you were 17 when we first met, and now you’re 26.

“I don’t remember your name,” I said.

If I had been more tactful, I might have asked someone else who would have known, but I didn’t think you’d care, and I was right. You smiled.

“You meet a lot of people,” you said. “I’m Joanna. Or Markus.”

The plot thickens, I thought — one female name and one male name. Take your pick.

As if to make it even more clear that you not only didn’t care that I didn’t remember your name, but that you really did like me, you gradually moved closer to me on the bench, until we were all up against each other. Not quite cuddling in an obvious way, but in physical contact.

“Should we go upstairs?” I asked.


Inside the club, the remaining assortment of punks and communists were getting drunker. We might have just gone upstairs at that point, but one of them called me over to try to involve me in the conversation.

The topic related to a prominent Danish politician sexmex porno who I had never heard of. For my benefit, they were all speaking English, but I still had no idea what they were talking about. You joined into the conversation and made more points that made no sense to me. I tried to understand what you all were going on about, but soon gave up.

After this detour, we walked upstairs together. I wondered to myself what the guys in the bar were thinking as we left their company. If their positions were reversed with mine, I know what I’d be thinking. Damn, that is one lucky guy. And then I felt stupid for thinking such thoughts.

“I don’t know if that Norwegian band is already sleeping,” I said to you.

We quietly walked into the section of the upstairs where the band sleeping room is. The lights were out, and the Norwegians were not downstairs, so we knew they were already in their beds.

“We’re sleeping here,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant, feeling almost (but not quite) positive at that point that you were fine with sharing a bed with me.

You put down your pack and immediately began taking off clothing. An extremely eloquent, silent statement that you were fine with the situation.

I did the same, keeping on my t-shirt and underwear, which is the same point to which you undressed.

The lights in the cavernous room were all off. But there were no blinds on the windows, and the light from the street lamps provided a soft view of our surroundings.

Normally you wear things like hoodies and leather jackets. The kind of clothing where I had some idea of what you looked like, but not a very clear idea. The experience of watching you take off your hoodie and jeans from the corner of my eye was breath-taking, and then getting under the covers with you and feeling your body against mine even more so.

We had been spooning there for a couple minutes when you took my hand and put it on your stomach. It was a beautiful, silent gesture, as if to say, here is my body, it’s OK, you can touch it.

I think every language is beautiful, depending on who’s speaking it. Same goes with different types of bodies from around the world. But I admittedly have a thing for the Danish model of physical perfection. It’s quite different from other parts of Scandinavia, as it’s very influenced by the effect on your physique that comes from a lifetime of bicycle-riding.

Your body is long and lean in a way that seems impossible, reminding me of the incredibly sexy blue creatures in the movie, Avatar. But way better. And then along with your firm stomach and long, lean muscles everywhere else, too, there are these wonderful curvy parts — each breast just a little too big to be entirely covered by one of my hands, and hips just big enough that it’s clear you would have no big problem with childbirth, if you ever decided to do that.

But perhaps the sexiest part for me is the fact that most of the time, all these intoxicating physical features are covered by a hoodie. And the most prominent feature of your otherwise angelic, tender, young face is dominated by a large nose ring. My favorite kinds of contradictions.

We said nothing as we lay there, not wanting to wake the Norwegians sleeping in the multiple bunk beds on the other side of the room. I don’t remember if we started kissing first, or if you took off your shirt first.

“We could take the bed into another room,” I whispered after things were getting more heated, and we may have been making too much noise. There was a sort of dining room nearby that I knew would not be used until the morning.

“But this is so sweet,” you replied quietly.

I didn’t press the issue. Partly because I don’t like pressing such issues. But mostly because I agreed. It was so sweet, savoring the closeness. One of the benefits of getting older, perhaps, that even a horny, heteronormative man can learn to appreciate these things. But it was just all so good, it needed to be savored — slowly taken in, one experience at a time.

I think I slept a couple hours that night. The next day was tough to get through, with two gigs at the end of it, but I managed, mostly by floating on the high of the previous night. When I got sleepy I’d think of you, and once again I’d be wide awake.

We had already determined that the day after that I’d be giving you a ride back to Copenhagen, where I had another gig, in your hometown. I was traveling with another musician for that journey, and we picked you up at the address you gave us in Aarhus.

After having had 24 hours apart, I wondered how it would be to see you again. I guess I was afraid you’d feel more distant somehow. Maybe I had just been imagining things, I thought. But you greeted me so warmly, and then got in the little rental car, sitting directly behind me.

Throughout most of the three or so hours driving across Denmark, you had your hand on my shoulder. On the face of it, this is only very little physical contact. But it is physical contact, and the electric stranded teens porno charge that you seemed to be conveying through that little bit of contact kept me high throughout the afternoon. No way I’d fall asleep at the wheel with that going on. Even if I were tired, which I wasn’t.

“Hey man,” you said to me, your punk street cred shining clearly, “I don’t like being paraded around.”

I was worried momentarily that I had done something wrong.

“Did I do anything…?”

“No,” you said, reassuringly. “Just so you know.”

We were in Copenhagen, in the punk venue where that night’s gig was happening. I liked you that much more all of a sudden right then. More wonderful contradictions.

I whispered in your ear. “I love the fact that you were so affectionate the whole afternoon in the car, and then in here you say that.”

You smiled shyly for a second, as if to say that you weren’t aware that you were all that affectionate.

I let you take the lead in terms of how social interaction under these circumstances was supposed to work. I tried not to be obvious about it, but when I had the chance, I was observing you at different points in the evening. So impressed at the ease with which you moved from one social situation to another. Probably that much more impressed because of recent relationships I’ve been in with people who tend to be overwhelmed by such social situations. Which is tough for a musician to deal with, since I’m in social situations like that quite often.

Now and then we’d encounter each other and talk for a couple minutes, or smoke a joint together. You’d sometimes kiss me on the cheek, which felt very affectionate to me, brief as it was.

At the end of the night we left the club and headed towards my rental car. Again I wondered what people were thinking who saw that. And again I felt pangs of guilt for thinking such thoughts. I don’t consciously want to make anyone jealous, I don’t care about those things. But the thoughts are there, they happen, so I guess on some annoying level I do care.

It felt like there was a big thunderstorm about to hit, but the skies were clear. I felt giddy, but tried to act calmer than that, perhaps afraid if you knew how happy I was, you’d be unimpressed. Better, I thought, to give the impression that I have magical experiences like this every week, or at least every month.

“You can see the stars here,” you observed.

“I guess we’re far enough from the center of town,” I responded.

Lamely, I thought. I couldn’t think. I could smoke, and look at the stars, and we did that. We even managed to brush our teeth. And then we went to bed.

The shack we were staying in for the next two nights together was mostly being used to store furniture, by my friends who own the place, so actually I had to remove some chairs before we could even make our way to the bed. But then we went to bed.

I marveled at the ease with which you removed all of your clothing. There was a little space heater on, but the shack isn’t insulated, and it wasn’t particularly warm in there. But you didn’t hesitate.

“You’re so beautiful,” I said at some point, unable to avoid stating the obvious.

Perhaps you felt like you should reciprocate that sentiment. In any case your response was brilliant.

“For me, it’s not that you look so good. I just like your brain.”

The only time that I can recall a woman reacting to my naked body with noises indicating she thought I looked good, she was like twenty years older than me, and had evidently by then sufficiently lowered her standards. I’m very hairy, and sadly, my belly is big enough that there’s just nothing GQ about me. Luckily for me, there’s more to life.

In bed, for the first time completely naked with you, I was once again intoxicated by how comfortable you were with intense physical intimacy. So affectionate, and present. And, I discovered, able to be sexually aroused to a wonderful degree. That is, able to take full advantage of the humble skills I have to offer.

I remember once in that very bed where I have stayed so often over many years of touring in Europe, a woman I was very briefly involved with was put off when, on our second of two dates, I put some condoms near the bed before we got into it. I wasn’t expecting that we’d definitely have sex — I was just being prepared for the possibility. I thought about that as I again put condoms near the bed, but you weren’t put off by that at all.

For the first time, I had the opportunity to fully explore your body with my hands, lips, tongue. I don’t know if you noticed at the time, but with every new moment of exploration, I had to take a break, pause at that spot and that moment. It was just so intense that I think if I hadn’t paused frequently I might have just started crying with joy, which didn’t seem like the thing to do at the time.

Once I was inside you, you changed a bit. Rather than being calm and relaxed and affectionate, as you had been until now, you street blowjobs porno seemed to be in a hurry to get somewhere. Your physical communication was clear, you wanted to be in a certain position, with me behind you. I gathered this was the position from which you tended to derive the most pleasure from intercourse. It became clear that you were aiming to have an orgasm.

Once I figured that out, I figured I’d help you accomplish that end. I tried to find the angle, depth and pace that would make you come. Which I think you did, perhaps a couple times. And then there was that wonderful utterance.

“Don’t ever stop.”

That’s when I realized that you’re used to guys who stop too soon after starting, in which case you’ve got to get your orgasms in quick, if you’re going to have any.

“Don’t ever stop.”

“Why would I stop?” I asked, rhetorically. “I wouldn’t want to do that. So much more fun to keep going!”

I learned long ago how not to come unless I want to. I’m regularly reminded by women I get involved with that this is not a universal thing among men. I think I could teach this skill, if anybody asked me to.

(Lesson One: It has a lot in common with playing music, actually. If you want to play an instrument well, you have to be physically relaxed at all times. If you tense up, you’ll just lose it. So one learns to stay physically relaxed all the time, regardless of the circumstances, if you’re a good musician. It works the same for your penis as it works for your fingers and shoulders, etc. Also the same for singing. You can only shout on pitch, and hit the pitch perfectly, if your throat is relaxed. The trick there is to learn the difference between being relaxed and being limp, which are not the same.)

“No need to rush,” I said at some point, which I think is when you fully realized that there really was no need to rush, and you looked very happy. Which in turn made me so happy that I almost started crying again.

I began to move your body into different positions, and push deep inside you in each of them, enjoying every way our bodies could interface with each other, each one a revelation for me. You were completely compliant when I was moving you around like that, but I felt like I should use my words, too.

“Is it OK that I’m moving you around and just doing what I want with you?”

“It’s more than OK,” you replied. “Just tell me what you want, if I’m not figuring it out,” you added.

I heard that loud and clear, but was too shy to introduce any potentially strange concepts into the equation on our first night of sexual intercourse. I waited until the next night.

You had gone off for most of the day to do your thing, and I found ways to occupy myself until we were together again. This night there was no gig, and we hung out with a bunch of punks for part of the evening.

Back at the shack, there were stars, joints, tobacco, and this time also exquisite phrases like “I missed you” emerging from both of our mouths. Later in the evening, we had once again walked through the tunnel of stacked chairs and climbed into the bed. This time without managing to brush our teeth first.

“One thing I would like a lot,” I said to you when we were lying together, naked, facing each other, exchanging tokes on a vape device filled with hash oil, “is if you let me decide when you’re allowed to have an orgasm.”

I loved the way your face brightened immediately at that prospect. You seemed to know right away that this would be a good idea. Though I believe it was a fairly new idea for you as well.

I could tell you were about to come when you told me to stop. You seemed more wide awake than ever, more aroused than you had been the night before, and so was I.

The second time you told me to stop, you were breathing quickly, almost hyperventilating. I sensed how alive you felt then, how much you were enjoying the tension.

I moved inside you just a bit then, to bring you closer to the edge, and you breathed more quickly again in response, eyes wide open.

“It’s a good place to be, the edge, yes?” I asked.

You nodded in the affirmative. Quick little nods of your head, as you looked at me expectantly, a bit like a puppy being given a treat.

“This is where you should be,” I added. You nodded your agreement.

Each time I eventually decided you should come, you said, “not yet.” But then about a minute later you’d decide it was probably a good idea after all.

I was, and am, so smitten by you, this person you are — though I am admittedly focusing here on the sex, for the purposes of this particular piece of writing.

“Would you think I’m crazy if I told you that I love you?” I asked, embarrassed by the intensity of my own emotions, as you and I lay entwined.

“I don’t know what that means,” you responded honestly, but not harshly. “I love all of my friends,” you added, by way of explanation.

And when you said that, I just loved you more.

I usually find that the hotter someone is, the crazier they are.

You’re one of the hottest humanoids I’ve ever laid my hands on, and yet you would appear to be significantly saner than me. I still worry I’ll wake up from this dream, so I thought I should write some of it down. At least these words are definitely real…

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