This episode is part of a series of illustrated Travel Tales, about Jason’s backpacking trip across Europe in 1995.
On a sunny day in western Norway, the fjords twinkle with the magic of mermaids. Or so I imagined. My first full day in Norway, in the western port city of Bergen, had instead gone from a cheerful early sunrise to an overcast rain shower. I was a bit miserable, and feeling a bit homesick, wondering if coming to Europe on my own like this wasn’t the stupidest mistake I’d ever made.
Don’t get me wrong: Bergen is a cool, interesting city. There are things to do, and places to see. The setting is beautiful, even in rainy weather. But a tourism and cultural capital it was not. On a rainy day in Paris you can take refuge (with the crowds) in the Louvre. If the North Sea lets loose in Amsterdam you can lose yourself for the day in a hash shop. If you’re in London and the weather’s lousy, you just do whatever you were going to do in London, because the weather’s always lousy. But Bergen’s setting is its main attraction, and it offers fewer obvious foul-weather diversions.
I started my day at the fisketorget (fish market) at the harbor, where I flirted with the fishermen and had smoked salmon on bread and a couple apples for breakfast. The weather by then was a little overcast, but it didn’t look like rain, so I hadn’t worn my rain gear. Travel Tip: Don’t assume that your home weather forecasting skills will be of any use in other parts of the world. As I explored the city center, the clouds darkened. By late morning, it had started to sprinkle. My coat was back at the hostel, which was a substantial hike from the city center, so I toughed it out. Which is a cocky way of saying that over the course of half an hour, I got soaked.
I thought about retreating to a bar and getting drunk, but I remembered my guidebook warning that alcohol was heavily taxed and expensive in Norway. And I was already wet, which would be just as miserable (and unwelcome) inside. I sat down on the sidewalk, leaning against a building on a side street and (just between you and me) started to cry a little.
“Unnskyld meg, er du OK?” a woman’s voice above me inquired. I don’t speak Norwegian, but I made a point of learning to say a few key phrases in the language of every country I’d be visiting, so I recognized “excuse me”, and the sound-alike of “are you OK” was clear enough.
“Takk”, I thanked her, wiping the… rain from my face and smiling confidently. “I’m just… wet.”
She was in her mid 20’s, blonde of course (but brownish), with a kind smile. “You are traveling?”
“Ja. American,” I sighed.
“Do you need a place to….?”
“I’m staying at a hostel.” I didn’t want her to think I was a hobo.
“But to get out of the rain?”
“Um… yeah, I guess….”
“My flat is just down the street. I can dry you up.”
Her name was Berit. which I succeeded in saying well enough after three attempts. She got Jason right away, despite Norwegians pronouncing J like a Y… though she said it almost like Dyason.
Her place was a few rooms on the second floor of her building, above a bookstore. She showed me to the bathroom, handed me a towel, and told me to take off my wet clothes. I took them off, wrapped the towel around my waist, wrung out my clothes as well as I could, and took them to her. She had a nifty little washer/dryer combo unit that fit in her closet. She set it to dry my clothes and we sat down in her kitchen.
“Can I make you a cup of kaffe?”
I don’t drink coffee. I tried it once in high school, and hated it. My father laughed and predicted that when I went to college, I’d learn to love it… like he had. I resolved at that point to prove him wrong, and turned to Diet Pepsi for all my caffeine needs. Although I’ve occasionally accepted coffee as an emergency caffeine delivery system, I’ve never developed a taste for it.
“Sure, I’d love some!” I answered, for the sake of American-Norwegian relations… and the hope that they might develop further.
She made two cups of coffee, and served them, black. She started drinking hers, and noticing that I was a little tentative about mine – that shit was hot! – embarrassedly asked if I needed milk or sugar. “I’m fine,” I lied. But for coffee it was actually pretty good… almost fruity in flavor rather than tasting like the burned-vegetable taste I remembered from 10th grade.
“So, you are from America. Which part?” She nudged her chair a little closer to mine.
You hear a lot about how Americans are total idiots about European geography, and that’s true. I studied up on it before my trip, and was surprised by some of the “new” countries that had popped up since the Soviet Union fell apart. But most Europeans are equally bad about North America. They know Canada, USA, Mexico, and two or three random Central American countries, but couldn’t find Oklahoma on a map to save their lives. They know Florida and California, and can place New York City somewhere between DC and Boston, but that’s it. In my short time – but many attempts – answering this question, I’d tried “Michigan” to blank stares, followed by “the Great Lakes”, and finally just went with “next to Canada”, which is what I said to Berit.
“Minnesota? I have cousins in Duluth!” She put her hand on my arm, just long enough to make it clear that she was in fact flirting with me. I noticed. So did my dick.
“Michigan, actually… east of Minnesota. But I’ve been to Duluth!” I’ve actually never been to Duluth. But Duluth is on Lake Superior and I’d set foot in Lake Superior, which I figured was close enough by international standards. We had a brief argument about who had the harshest winters, but she was intent on downplaying Norway’s, and I exaggerated the severity of winter in the upper Midwest, so I won.
All this time, she was gradually edging her chair closer to mine, and I made no effort to move away. In fact, I probably narrowed the gap as much as she did. It was taking a bit of effort to hide the boner under my towel, and before long, she stopped pretending that she couldn’t see it.
“So what do you do when the snow covers your front door?” she asked, pretending to believe my lie. Her hand was on my thigh, gently stroking the towel.
“We… keep each other warm.” I put my hand on her arm, and kept it there. Her hand was under my towel.
“Like this?” She smiled, then planted a wet kiss on my lips.
“Yeah! Like that!” I grinned back.
She pulled her hand out from under the towel, causing it to flop open and expose my stiff cock.
“Oooh! I do like that!” she purred. She stood, then pulled a condom out of her pants pocket and placed it on the kitchen table. It hadn’t been in her pocket long. She squirmed just enough to put on a bit of a show as she pulled her shirt over her head, and slipped her pants down to her ankles and stepped out of them.
I took the hint, and hastily wrapped my cock as she unfastened her bra and slipped out of her panties. Blonde, obviously.
I was ready to go at it right there on the kitchen table, but she sashayed down a short hallway to her bedroom. She didn’t need to ask me to follow.
The bed was already in disarray – I appreciate someone who doesn’t bother to make their bed, either – and she laid down on her back. As I approached the bed, she had her legs apart, fingering her clit gently – I also appreciate someone who doesn’t waste time getting to the main event.
“Fuck me, cowboy!” she snarled playfully. OK, so much for knowing her geography. But at that point I didn’t much care.
I got on my hands and knees between her legs, and I crawled up to her, my cock swinging left and right. I paused when my face reached her pussy, and gave her lips a few quick licks. She moaned quietly. Proceeding, I probed her belly button with my tongue. She giggled. Reaching her breasts, I nuzzled my nose against each one. I sucked on her left nipple, which elicited another quiet moan. I just barely placed my teeth on her nipple, and she moaned more loudly. Switching to the right nipple, I sucked it harder, then quickly bit down on it, just a little.
I dropped my hips to the mattress, and slid upward. The head of my cock bumped somewhere between her legs (I couldn’t see). Putting my weight on my elbows, I slid upward again, and with her hand she guided me inside her.
I melted. At least I felt like I had. She was so warm and wet and smooth. I gasped. She tightened on me. I gasped again! I was afraid I was going to shoot right then, so I tried not to move inside her. I kissed her neck, then worked my way across her cheek to her lips. She licked my lips, and we locked in a prolonged kiss, probing each other’s mouths with our tongues.
She started to rock her hips, but I’d stepped back away from the edge, so I was OK. Ending the kiss, I matched her rhythm, pushing up inside her at a steady, slow pace. I looked down where our bodies met, where my dark pubes rubbed with her sandy blonde ones.
“You feel wonderful!” I told her. She kissed me, wrestling with my tongue as we continued our gentle rocking.
She reached her hands under my arms, hanging onto my shoulders. First with her right hand, then following with her left, she traced her fingernails down each side, finishing on my ass, where she dug in just a little. I lost my rhythm, and fumbled briefly.
Repositioning myself, I deadpanned, “So do you take a lot of sad-looking American tourists home like this?”
She reached down to massage herself, running her fingers thru both her pubes and mine together. “No… mostly Germans, a few Danes. Denmark has no landscape, so a lot of them come here in Summer.” She giggled. “I haven’t had an American boy yet all week!”
“It’s Tuesday,” I pointed out.
She put her free hand on my hip, and started tugging it toward her, slowly. “Just in time!”
I followed with the pace she was setting, pushing deep inside her with each cycle. I raised my eyes to look at her face. Her eyes were closed, her lips pursed, shallow breaths coming rapidly.
She bit her lower lip, and whimpered quietly. I picked up the pace, and she responded by gripping my ass more firmly with her free hand, pushing me to go even a little faster. Her eyes flickered open, and met mine. She smiled for two seconds, then gasped. Her eyes blinked slowly, then locked back onto mine.
I felt my balls tighten, and I knew I was on my final approach. I kissed her clumsily on the lips, and she kissed back with the same distracted intensity. I knew I couldn’t last much longer, but I locked into a steady pattern, trying to hold out as long as I could.
She reached up with her left hand and pinched my nipple. Her eyes closed, and her lips quivered. Her breaths were quick and shallow. “I need you to cum!” she gasped. “Cum in me!” she added for emphasis.
I didn’t need any emphasis.
“Oh Berit!” I grunted, as the jizz welled up in my balls. She squeezed my nipple hard. “Ow!” I wailed, and the jizz let loose. She squeezed again, and didn’t let go, as load after load gushed into her.
My balls empty, I slowed down, but she pleaded, “Don’t stop!” as she furiously massaged her clit. My cock was as sensitive as ever, and I really wanted to see and feel her get off, so I put it back into gear. I wasn’t going to let this hard-on go away without that. As much for my own benefit as hers, I started talking grunting and moaning. And instead of fading away, my cock started to get harder again.
“Oh god… oh god… oh god…” I growled. I wasn’t going to cum… I’ve never been able to do it back-to-back like that. I was play-acting the almost-going-cum-(again) noises for her, but I wasn’t totally faking. My cock was the movie monster that wasn’t quite dead. And that was enough for Berit.
From deep in her lungs she let out a grunt, as her head tilted back. I was as hard as ever, and felt her spasm around my cock. She gasped and grunted again, trembling a little. I slowed my pace to match, pushing in all the way, then pulling half out as she inhaled, then pushing in again. This continued, gradually winding down, and she caught her breath. I leaned in and kissed her, wriggling a little inside her… she giggled.
I wanted to keep going. My cock was up for it, and given some more time, my balls could’ve delivered another round. But there was the loaded condom to deal with, and once I’d sat up and taken it off, without the gasping urgency of Berit’s impending orgasm to inspire it, my cock deflated. I turned to smalltalk.
“You have fun?” I smiled, stroking her leg.
“Oh yes!” she ran her fingers thru my hair, playfully.
“I can probably go again…” I suggested.
“No, that was enough,” she grinned. “Besides, I need to save my energy in case I find a Danish boy to fuck!”
“Good point,” I conceded. My dick started to grow again with the words “Danish boy”, but I took the hint. I put on my dried clothes, and seeing that the rain had stopped (temporarily) headed to the hostel to get my raincoat, and continued exploring Bergen.
The rain did finally stop for good that night. It never quite managed to get sunny during my time in Norway, so I never got to confirm how the fjords look in the sunlight, but I did do some hiking in the area around the city, and took a boat tour of some of the fjords around Bergen, and they really were worth the trip!