Scandinavian Rampage

The time had come. Punchline and I had waited a year since our summer trips of ’09 to get back on an airplane, ditch the uncharacteristically cloudy California summer, and fly to the land of green landscape, midnight sun, no religion, expensive beers, and beautiful women: Scandinavia.Denmark We arrived in Copenhagen on a Wednesday afternoon, tired and grimy from fourteen hours of flying. We’d each slept no more than two hours on the plane, so after checking into our hotel, we crashed with the intention of waking up around eleven to begin partying on the first of four nights in Denmark’s capital. There would be no wasted nights in Copenhagen, the second biggest party city in Scandinavia behind Stockholm. We spent the days in Copenhagen exploring the city with its array of gardens, and we took a boat tour through the canals. The women were so hot that at one point while sitting alone on a bench, I decided to do a study on the next thirty blonde girls (which I assumed to be Danish) between the approximate ages of 18-35 who walked by. Eleven of the thirty were hot, an unbelievable ratio. Since I was sober, I was picky, too. Two friends of mine, Harrison and Axe, had been to Scandinavia and told me “one in every three girls is hot,” but I was highly skeptical and dismissed their absurd claims. Now that I’d seen it for myself, I felt like calling them up and giggling like a circus monkey. Scandinavia is the shit. There are many theories on why Scandinavian people are so beautiful. One is that the Vikings were very selective in which women they fucked, only mating with the finest. Another theory is that in the middle decades of the twentieth century the countries incorporated a strict Eugenics program—prevalent mostly in Sweden and Norway—in which the government sterilized the mentally and physically inadequate. Whatever it was, Scandinavians—thought by many to be “some of the happiest people in the world”—had evolved well.I’d come to Scandinavia expecting a total fuckfest, with chicks flocking to my darker features and California roots. Things didn’t start well. The first two nights were a total bust. We overspent on alcohol, couldn’t find a single bar with people over the age of twenty-one, and got continuously bad recommendations on hotspots. I headed into the third night with a flashback of my disastrous 0-for-129 first week in Australia a year ago. After updating my Facebook status and informing everyone that I’d completely blown it so far, Harrison and Axe suggested I “lose the sleazy weirdness” and just talk to girls normally. I planned on taking their advice as Punchline and I hit up a popular club on the outskirts of town. It was Friday, so we expected a better crowd. To our dismay, the club was still packed with kids. I put it past me for a moment and began talking to girls “normally.” On one girl I used the line, “What are you drinking?” To another I said, “How’s it going?” And lastly, “What’s up?” They all failed. Nothing was working. I was never going to hook up with a single Scandinavian woman at the rate I was going. Punchline and I were out of there by two a.m. The night was still young. Lacking options, we had the cab driver take us back to the kid-infested bar area where we could only hope for the best. Then I remembered something Punchline had researched earlier online. Though it’s hard to trust Internet reviews on clubs, at this point we had nothing to lose. Punchline had found a “30-and-up” club called “Nord.” The webpage wasn’t too sparkling so we assumed it probably catered to wrinkly grannies and geriatrics in girdles. Fuck it. “Actually, take us to Nord,” I told the driver. Nord was perfect: hot Danish women, awesome music, and people our age. It was listed as “30 and up,” but they only checked IDs if you looked under the age of twenty-four. The majority of the people there looked between 27-35. Punchline and I ordered ten-dollar beers, and I approached the first attractive woman I saw: a 5’11 blonde dressed in all pink, big rack, slim waste, perfect skin—a 9 at least. I’d given up on being normal; I tried it, but it just wasn’t me. I stood in front of her, pointed to her feet, and began, “Are you American?” She smiled. “No, why?” “I’ve never seen a Danish girl whose toenails were painted blue.” Five minutes later we were making out. Her name was Caroline. She was thirty-three and worked at a foster home. She’d come with a busty friend of hers, also a local. This was perfect for Punchline, who I snagged while he was mid-wander, and pointed out her friend to see if she was his type. “Yeah, she’s good,” he confirmed. I introduced the two, and Caroline and I left them behind and made our bayan escort beylikdüzü way to the dance floor. After dancing, buying each other drinks (It’s actually normal for a girl to buy a drink for a guy out there), and making out a lot, it was time to escalate things. “Let’s get out of here,” I told Caroline. “Okay, one second.” Caroline walked over to her friend, who was cuddling on a couch with Punchline, and spoke in her ear.Their probable conversation:Caroline: “Hey, even though the guy may still show, I’m going to go ahead and fuck this guy. Are you going to blow his friend?” Friend: “Yes, big time. It’s too bad about your guy. He was a hottie.” Caroline: “I know. But this guy will do. Anyways, call me if his friend turns out to be a rapist or something. You know what happened with Wally and his scissors. Be careful.” Friend: “I will. Have fun.”Since Caroline had ridden ten miles to the club on her bike, we’d either have to ditch her bike or find a cab that could accommodate it. The fourth cab we tried had a bike rack. Things were falling into place. The only setback with Caroline was that every kiss had a hint of chow mein in it. Whatever. We got naked immediately and had non-smelly sex, except when I kissed her and thought about Sriracha. The next morning, she opened all the windows and walked around her house stark naked while she cleaned up the kitchen and made a fruit plate for breakfast. She lived in some sort of housing community, so at least seven different homes had clear access to viewing her naked body. The sliding glass door to her room was at least eight feet by eight feet in area, so when I fucked her that morning, I sensed a lurking pervert nearby filming us. His video is probably already uploaded onto I left just before noon and took a public bus back to the hotel. I walked into the room anxiously awaiting the details from Punchline’s night. I discovered poor Punchline had to hang around the club and dance and cuddle on the couch for at least an hour and a half after I’d left. He did finally have sex, but it was period-sex, and she was self-conscious about it. After they’d finished, at seven in the morning, she told him, “Now that you’ve tried a Danish woman, you must try a Norwegian woman and a Swedish woman, and then get back to me and tell me who was best.” Deal.We met with our fifty-person tour—consisting mostly of Australians—the following afternoon. We scanned the room for chicks, and were disappointed to find only two of them were cute, though neither was my type. The fifty of us walked into town for an included dinner, but Punchline and I left early to freshen up and prepare for the night. I’ve learned that when it comes to traveling, once you find a quality party spot, you stick with it. Getting cute and adventurous almost always ends in disappointment. When I went to Ibiza a few years ago with Vince and Jett, while walking the beach, a stunning Spanish girl handed us a flier on “The Biggest Club in the World.” Although we’d partied at awesome clubs the two nights before, we decided to give this place a whirl. The flier was right: The club definitely was the biggest club I’d ever seen, but it was also the emptiest. And we were stranded there because it was too far from anywhere else and no cabs lingered outside because they were outside clubs with actual people in them. When it comes to partying, always go with the sure thing. Which is why Punchline and I returned to club Nord. The only problem was that our tour bus was leaving for Norway at 7:45 a.m., which meant I’d be sleeping maybe two hours tops. Punchline was exhausted and went home early, but he still had this to say: “Dude, this has to be one of the best clubs I’ve ever been to—the set-up, the music, the girls, just…amazing.” He was right. After he left, I began making out with a homely-looking girl, maybe a 5 at best. I ditched her when she started playing games. “You may as well just stop talking to me, because all I do is kiss,” she told me mid-make-out, among other shit. It was a lie, of course, but settling for her would be like settling for a plate of oysters at a buffet. I ventured elsewhere, eventually spotting an attractive thirty-something blonde with a track-runner body. She was standing alone on the stairs above the dance floor. Without hesitation I approached and used my faithful line, “So why are you standing here trying to look all mysterious?” A few sentences later, she was dragging me onto the dance floor. Her name was Anja, and she worked in some sort of business. Ten minutes later we were making out. While making out with her, the homely-looking girl found escort bayan beylikdüzü me and began poking me. Gross. I can understand why girls feel the need to test guys, but when you’re a 5 in a club with 8s, 9s, and 10s, you hold onto any decent-looking guy willing to take the plunge. I grabbed Anja’s hand and led us away from Homely. Unfortunately, we ended up back on the dance floor, where we spent another thirty minutes before leaving to find a bike-rack cab. When we arrived at her house, there were stuffed animals and toys all over the place. Her two kids were at their dad’s, so we had the place to ourselves along with her four dogs. While I’m a fan of dogs, I’m definitely NOT a fan of dog chicks. I can’t stand it when women kiss their dogs and let their dogs slobber all over their face. That’s exactly what Anja did…to all four dogs. She kneeled down and made this “Hoo-joo-boo-joo” noise and let the dogs have at it on her face. After she’d finished, her face was all shiny with saliva. “Whoo! They are excited tonight!” she yelled, and then walked into another room, which I hoped was a bathroom full of sinks. I stepped over the toys, let the dogs jump on me for a bit, and went to her room. I was afraid to kiss Anja the rest of the night. When she tried, I’d give her small pecks and then start kissing her chest to avoid the dried dog slobber. Even if she’d washed it off, it was still in my mind. After some foreplay, we fucked boringly in missionary for ten minutes before she let me switch positions. After finishing, I rolled over and drifted off to sleep. In my dreams that night, Dobermans chased me through fields.I awoke to noises of Anja cleaning up her closet. I popped up instantly. “What time is it!?” I asked hysterically. “Um, seven forty.” “Fuck! I’m late. I gotta go.” I put on my clubbing clothes—jeans and black-striped shirt—in a flurry, kissed her goodbye, and took her business card (Note: I added her on a Facebook a few days later, and she sent me a message asking me if I wanted to take advantage of a business opportunity. I deleted her the next day. Who does that?). If I missed my bus, I’d have to find my own way to Norway (I still hadn’t even packed yet!). I scampered into the early-morning streets and frantically waved at occupied cabs. It took me close to five minutes to find an empty one. I threw myself across the backseat and told him my hotel name. The drive took an eternity. The bus was parked across the street from the hotel, already crammed with passengers. I paid the cabbie, boarded the bus, ignored the irritated looks flung my way, and scanned for Punchline. He always had his shit together. “Dave!” I heard someone yell. It was Punchline. “Oh shit! Is my stuff still up there?” “Nah, I got it for you.” I sat down. “Whew! Thanks, man. I owe you.” “Don’t worry about it. So what happened?” After telling him my story, I put my head back and drifted off, still dressed in wrinkled club attire. As it turned out, I wasn’t even the last one to board the bus. Some other moron had overslept worse than me, so I wasn’t the main asshole. Things worked out. I was on my way to Norway.NorwayThough the most conservative and expensive of the Nordic countries, Norway was by far the most beautiful. Only four percent of the Norwegian land was flat, giving way to the mountainous terrain and world famous Fjords. On the bus ride, I’d gaze out the window for hours at a time and never get bored. The landscape was that stunning. Our first stop was Oslo, Norway’s capitol and largest city. Since Sunday was a dud night anywhere in Scandinavia, Punchline and I stayed in and slept. Mondays weren’t much better, but our tour had planned a get-together at a bar in town. The reddish bar was in a C-shape, with tables at one end, and a dartboard area at the other. Other than the fifty of us and a handful of dudes, the bar was empty. After a game of King’s Cup, I spotted a lone attractive redhead—the dyed-hair kind—sitting at the end of the bar by herself. Other than the girls on our tour, she was the only girl at the bar. Before I even had a chance to talk to her, a large bald guy who looked like the MMA fighter Fedor approached her. I continued to drink with my tour mates. A few drinks later, I was talking with Punchline and a couple girls on the tour, when I turned around and found the redhead standing behind me, trying to get by on her way back from the bathroom. With my back still to her, I turned around and began. “Who are you?” I asked. “What?” she asked. “Where did you come from?” “The bathroom. Where did you come from?” “California. I like your hair. Is the technical kayaşehir escort color maroon or burgundy? I’ve never been able to tell the difference.” “What? It’s red,” she affirmed incorrectly. “You’re from California? What are you doing in Oslo?” Two things: First, both girls from Copenhagen asked me the same question after finding out I was from California. Scandinavian women have no idea how desirable and attractive they are, which works out perfectly for us travelers. Second, whenever talking to girls, I always try and stealthily bring into light my strengths. I never come out and say it; I find ways of getting them to uncover it. With its surfer culture and Hollywood atmosphere, California is world-renowned as a happening, fun, and beautiful land. So if I didn’t find a way to incorporate this information into the conversation, I was wasting my advantage. Back home, my main advantage is being a teacher. Since teachers are generally considered noble and trustworthy, girls are able find a comfort zone with me much quicker than if I was a businessman or something. Here in Scandinavia, I had both things going for me.She led me outside to the smoking porch to get away from the bald guy, who she claimed she was using for free drinks. Her name was Mari, and she worked at a foster care home (another one). I became suspicious when I saw her phone had a picture of a dude on it. “Who is that?” I asked. She looked down at her phone and quickly hid it from my view. “Oh, that’s my friend.” “You’re not married are you?” “No way. I’m only twenty-seven. But I told the Russian guy that I was married in case he got the wrong idea, so you’re gonna be my husband tonight.” “Okay, Wifey.” I liked her attitude. We returned to the bar to get drinks when the Russian poked his head in and began talking in Mari’s ear. “Hey! I want you to meet my husband,” she almost yelled. The guy clearly sniffed out the lie. Suddenly I feared for my safety as this giant man with sinister wrinkles in his face glared down at me. “Hey,” I muttered. He spoke in her ear briefly and then stuck out his hand. I hesitated a moment, shook it, and he left. “How many drinks did that guy buy you, Wifey?” “Like three, but whatever, he’s gone.” She stroked her hair. “So, Hubby, are you going to make love to me tonight?” “Of course, Honey, I love you.” “I love you too.” She got up, gave me a kiss, and went to the bathroom. Shortly after she returned, I asked if we could go back to her place for “a beer.” She rejected the idea—something about her fussy roommate. Instead she suggested the following: “Let’s go check out underneath the pier.” There comes a moment in every one-night-stand when you can safely grab a girl by the hand and lead her out without resistance. Often times this window is disguised in the form of “Buy me another drink” or “My friends are talking to some guys” or a pouty face or a swift cock grab. In this case, Mari had made the let’s-fuck signal loud and clear. I smiled, grabbed her hand, and led her outside. There was no pier. We walked towards the water to some bench on a hill overlooking the harbor. “I love you, Hubby,” she told me. “I love you too, Wifey,” I lied. She took off her panties as I undressed and slipped the condom on. She then began uncomfortably riding me on the rickety bench. I couldn’t even get my dick all the way in while she awkwardly bounced. “Let’s try someplace else, Love,” I said. She hopped off. “Good idea.” We had few options. Down below were boats, and on the hill was a construction zone for what appeared to be a stone fortress, tractors and bulldozers everywhere. We walked in the direction of the tractors, settling for a semi-grassy area between a tractor and bulldozer. She lay on her back while I began muddily fucking her missionary. After five minutes of this I turned her over for doggie. Her naked back was caked in mud. I was able to keep my hard-on, however, and not think of poop, as I grabbed hold of her still white ass and began plowing. With my pants down just below the balls, and my pant-covered knees digging sickeningly into the mud, we had to try something else. We stood up, and I bent her over the tractor and fucked her from behind, a prime example of John Deere’s finest. This was by far the best position given the quagmire that surrounded us. But we got bored of it after a while, so we found a grassier area by a tree and I let her get on top. With no tractors to protect us, we were now completely exposed to the main road some hundred feet down, but I doubted anyone would be wandering the Oslo streets at three a.m. on a Monday night. Suddenly light was everywhere. I saw Mari’s bouncing boobs with creamy clarity. I looked right and saw a police van a couple hundred feet away blaring a spotlight in our direction. “Fuck! The cops!” I yelled. Mari jumped up and hid behind a tree. Still in the cops’ sight, I pulled up my pants and buckled up. It didn’t matter; the light turned off and the perverted cops drove on.