Scotch by night

Paul has spent a week of his summers in Norway for as long as he can remember. It’s just a fact of life that in early August he gets on the plane with his mum to visit Aunt Kristin at her cottage just south of Oslo, close to Oscarsborg. He hasn’t really reflected much on the position of the place. There’s a fjord with a steep cliff falling into it, with a narrow flattish shoreline where there are cabins and a few villas, a narrow pebble beach, and various boats and moorings. The fjord is narrow and on the other side there is just a fir-clad slope starting at sea-level and reaching upwards a hundred metres or more.

In the evening the air comes down from the fir forests like a chilly embrace, even on days that have been really hot. Most days aren’t really hot. Paul has many memories of days wrapped in raincoats and evening swims where you jog to the sea, undress in the rain, dip quickly and job back to the cabin with the rainclothes in a roll under your arm – and there she is, Aunt Kristin, with a fire on the rusty wood stove – so much more efficient than a coal fired fireplace! – and mugs of warm chocolate and slices of “loff” with Nugatti. Even if Oslo with its blinding lights, cinemas and restaurants is less than an hour away by car, they never go there. That’s not what it’s about. It’s about the simple life. The longest they stretch it, is to cram into Aunt Kristin’s 14-foot open boat, fire up the two-stroke Yamaha, and head over to Drøbak for an ice cream, passing in front of the big guns at Oscarsborg and dodging the towering ferries going to and from Kiel and Copenhagen.

Uncle Knut is forever regaling them with the story of how the guns at Oscarsborg sank the Blücher and delayed the Nazi invasion of Oslo. Paul shivers at the thought of all the dead sailors and soldiers, freezing to death in the April-waters of the fjord, or drowning outright.

The cabin is almost dilapidated. It was built before Norway got rich, seemingly out of driftwood and whatever fell to hand. The sofa has an exposed bamboo frame and a washed out cotton fabric. His bunk has a thin foam mattress. But when Paul stumbles up the path to the cabin, stepping over fir roots and gravel at the end of a day in the sun, with sunburns that will haunt him in bed, none of this matters. His cousin Håvard is there by his side, with his ridiculously sun-bleached hair and wiry frame, a scab on his knee and a very powerful forehand for their daily stints on the old tennis court – weather permitting!

A year has passed since he first saw Solveig. The timing then was terrible, and they only had one hour together. Her family had rented a cottage nearby, and they arrived as Paul was leaving. Solveig and her father – an old friend of Knut’s – came over to say hello – which turned into a goodbye for Paul – and for an hour Paul sat next to Solveig on the bamboo-framed sofa with a soft drizzle outside the windows, a bottle of Coke and some crisps, and his suitcase just by the door. She was gorgeous. She spoke English with the typical Norwegian sing-song which made her sound as if she wasn’t really serious, and this was overlaid on US-English phonology and vocabulary, which Paul found annoying and amusing at the same time. The rest was not annoying. When she stepped over the doorstep he took in her slender, tall frame, long blonde hair and pert breasts under a short T-shirt which exposed a flat belly – indeed her belly was so flat that her abdominal muscles showed. Next thing he knew she shook his hand and dropped down next to him and laughed at the effect when Paul was thrown into the air by the impact.

Paul could feel himself reddening and quietly cursed the dimple on his nose that had appeared only this morning.
They made some light conversation, and then Paul got up and left and got the taxi and the train and the plane, and every time he thought of her the longing released a feeling of physical pain. The first few days were hell, then the intensity abated. Paul tried to stalk Solveig, but not to talk to her. Her FB-profile gave nothing he could use, and she was quiet on other channels, too. 

Håvard had little to offer:

What happened with Solveig and stuff after I left? (“did you kiss” was what he wanted to ask)

Nothing. The weather turned good so we did a lot of bathing … and some topless sunbathing, Håvard taunted him. There was a party over at Oscar’s, everyone got smashed. I think Solveig and Mats hit it off…

Mats! Mats was two years older and liked to be known as 185/85/85, referring to his height, weight and half the length of his penis in various metric units. Paul loathed him for his supercilious manners, muscular body and unbroken run of luck with the ladies.

The autumn term started and Paul tried to concentrate on his studies and release his frustration with online porn. It worked reasonably well.

Eventually summer rolled round again. Paul had grown, his acne was mainly a memory, and his mind was no longer flooded with images of Solveig’s hair and eyes and belly – but as he sat on the train on the final slow leg to the station where Kristin waited for them, the strangest sensation appeared in him. It was yearning, impatience, nervousness. In the car he asked Kristin if Solveig was there. “She’s coming tomorrow”, Kristin smiled at him.

And she did.

But she did not come to the cabin, and he could only watch her from a distance the first day. The second day Paul woke to the clearest blue sky, and this could only mean a whole day by the sea. With Håvard he prepared a packed lunch and some bottles of water, and they got the old rowing boat across a narrow stretch of water to a small skerry where the young people gathered on days like this. Soon five boats were pulled up on the cracked stone, and the sun shone down on slim young bodies, including Paul’s, and Solveig’s. She was with another group of people, and barely looked in his direction, but she was there! That was what mattered, wasn´t it? He made sure to go swimming when she did, and got out of the water with her, just behind her lovely legs – first his head was at water level as she rose out of it in the strong sunlight. Every little detail stood out as if in an ultra-realist painting.

Paul took in the water droplets on her skin, her remarkable hamstrings and the line where her skin met the edge of her bikini. As he stood up in turn just behind her he lost his footing, took a step forward, and crashed into her from behind. “Hi Paul”, she said lightly, as she turned around to face him. Her blue eyes were level with his. Her brows were plucked and painted back on. Her lips were full. Paul felt giddy – there was still only about a foot of air between their bodies, since she had not stepped away from him. 

– Better than England, isn’t it? she teased him.
– In every imaginable way he replied, hoping the message got across.

She turned and lay down with her group again. Presently Håvard was ready to go home, Paul had no choice but to follow him, into the boat, to the jetty, up the familiar path with the pine roots, pebbles and broken stones and yellow, scorched grass.

Dinner was agony and Paul sighed audibly.

What’s up, Kristin wanted to know. Håvard answered gleefully: Han er forelska! Head over heels.

Aha, Kristin smiled knowingly. It has to be Solveig. It is Solveig, isn’t it, Paul? Paul just nodded, like someone confessing to a crime.

He felt a strange sense of relief now that it was out in the open. As if the pain were less acute. He was sharing it. Kristin knew how he felt.

That night Håvard and Paul went to a party. They went through all the rituals. Shaving,after shave. Clean shirt, nervous check for dimples. Nervous talk. A furtive beer when Kristin wasn’t looking. The cabin contained an ancient CD-player with a single CD in it, and every year a single track was played on repeat – “Jenter” by Di Derre, with Jo Nesbø on vocals. Many years later Paul realized that this was the same Nesbø that wrote the grisly thrillers that his mother devoured. In the meantime, he had learnt to sing along to the chorus: “jenter som kommer og jenter som går, jenter som glipper, jenter du aldri får. Jenter som smiler en tidlig vår, jenter og en sliten matador”. This song filled Paul with a peculiar kind of longing.

Then they trundled down the path and covered the few hundred meters to the cabin where the party was already in full swing; loud music, loud laughter and whooping from half drunk girls and boys. Paul felt sick with apprehension.

Solveig was there, and not only that, she was sitting on the lap of Mats on an ancient blue  hammock with vinyl cushions. Mats was kicking the dusty ground to make them swing back and forth.

Paul headed inside and sought out the bowl of punch, determined to draw a curtain of bliss across his pain. As he downed the second glass, the sweetness being an effective veil on the high alcohol content, Solveig was there.

– Good to see you, she said. Did you remember to put on mosquito stuff?
– You mean repellent? Paul said
– yes, dumb ass.

She sniffed him out. After shave, that will not protect you! She got out a stick of disgusting smelling mosquito repellent from her purse (girls and purses!) and applied it to Paul’s neck and forearms. Then she dropped down to squat in front of him and applied some to his ankles and calves.

She got up. Her eyes were level with his, they were blue, they revealed that she was a bit sloshed, and she had drops of sweat on her upper lips. She placed a teasing kiss on his mouth, filled two glasses with punch, and she was off. Paul remained on the spot. His mind was already starting to swim. Adding two more full glasses of punch to the mix, he then poured himself a stiff GT and walked outside, downing the GT as he came out on the lawn and took in the scene.  A few minutes later he lay down on the hammock, now vacated, and fell asleep immediately.

Paul woke in his own bed. He felt a lot less hung over than he had anticipated. His calves were itching like hell – upon inspection he found a band of mosquito bites where the repellent had not been applied. He pieced together the scraps of memories that presented themselves – Solveig, the GT, the hammock, a very unsteady retreat up the path late at night, by moonlight, the feeling of the earth rising to meet him as he fell onto the old foam mattress. Oblivion.

Kristin gave him a mothering look and a pile of crispy bacon rashers. That helped.
From the room next door came Håvard’s snoring, audible through the paper thin walls.

These walls were so thin that many a secret had crossed them over the years. Paul’s first knowledge of what sex could sound like came from his summers. Auntie Kristin was very loud. She could also be very angry, and these walls did not hide that fact, either. Knut seemed to soak it all up, whether it was one or the other.

Paul felt like crying. The stress of last night collided with the love he got from his aunt and made him melt inside. Paul sighed again. Love can be really hard, Kristin said. Especially if it’s unrequited.

Paul didn’t like the suggestion, even as he pondered Kristin’s advanced vocabulary. Then he remembered that she taught English and generally had a superb grasp of both his mother tongue and its literature. This he had gradually realized – as a child you never really wonder about the world, you just take it as it presents itself. Only with time do you see patterns, and you see the things that do not fit the pattern.

Unrequited. Well then, why all this flirting? She was flirting. Even if the line between flirting and non-flirting was located in a different universe here in Norway relative to his own barnyard in Bristol. He had to reset the scale every year. The girls were direct, naive, smiling, and never coy – he had to get used to it.

But this one was playing with him. Why? He was hoping the reason was a very specific one.

It was another sunny day, and finally Håvard got to his feet, ate a bit, and they went to the sea to swim. The skerry was deserted, Paul’s stomach hurt.

Shall I tell you about Solveig? Håvard asked after a while. Paul nodded. Well after you passed out – and puked, might I add – she danced a bit with Mats, mainly, and then .. a pause.

She went home early, she said she felt sick or something. Mats tried to walk her home – I was standing just next to them – but she brushed him off. I think she even managed to hurt him, which seems quite an achievement.

Mats found someone else to help take his mind off Solveig – Nora, I believe. Good choice. Excellent, even. And later I had to help you to bed, you drunk bastard.

What about Solveig, I mean, do you fancy her? Paul felt completely naked as he asked the question. He just had to know – more competition? Me? Håvard laughed, no she’s not my type. She’s so Norwegian. Familiar. I prefer Nadia.

Nadia was half Moroccan with very striking looks, a big smile, a big mouth, big hips and loud laughter.

Paul nodded in relief. You really are suffering, aren’t you? Håvard’s teasing gave way to a moment of empathy revealing the friendship that lived just under the surface banter. Paul just nodded and pressed back a new round of tears. Seconds later he was aloft on Håvard’s strong arms and then he was flung off a low cliff into the chilly, transparent water a couple of feet below.

You just need to jerk off more!, Håvard shouted from dry land.

Late in the afternoon everything changed.

The Norskies piled into the electric car and went off to do some shopping, including new spark plugs for the ancient Yamaha. This was likely to take some time. Paul pondered whether to jerk off or get an ice cream. He was sure an old copy of “Lek” or “Cocktail” with faded pictures of hairy pussies was hidden in a crack in Håvard’s room. But he opted for the ice cream.

Paul walked the path on the side of the main road. The odd car swept past at speed on this narrow road, and it was better to stay on the gravelly verge. It was really rather hot.

The grocer’s was cool inside, Paul took in the familiar scene – notice board, fishing tackle, bananas, milk, ice cream freezer, the tabloids. Paul knew enough Norwegian to decode some of his surroundings. Today’s front page seemed to concentrate on the perennial perils of ticks … In fact, Paul had been bitten more than once…. 

Paul was standing outside in the shade, absentmindedly eating away at an ice lolly called “Lollipop” when Solveig came quickly around the corner on an ancient, black bicycle and stopped next to him. 

– I see you’re working on your hangover?

Paul nodded. A big lump in his throat made it difficult to speak – and the ice lolly, of course.

Lollipop! Solveig exclaimed. I haven’t had one in years. She took a few steps and stopped as close to him as was well nigh possible, and made to nibble at the ice lolly. He tilted it slightly towards her and she bit off a big chunk. So big in fact, that he felt some disappointment – would he have to buy another one? A few drops trickled out of the corner of her mouth.

– You’re drooling, he pointed out, trying to gather the high ground.
– I thought you british were gentlemen, Solveig retorted. Get a hankie or something.

Acting entirely on instinct, Paul leaned forward and licked the corner of Solveig’s mouth. She stood still, and so he kept licking, until their mouths met in a full kiss. Solveig’s lips parted and her hot breath flooded Paul’s senses. The kiss went on and on. Solveig pulled her head back. Her eyes looked a bit glazed, but Paul could not be sure. He did not trust any of his senses right there and then. His heart was racing and he was turned on in a way he had never felt before. Never ever.

He needed her direction, and she gave it.

I saw Kristin leaving earlier, is the cabin empty? she asked in a business-like way.

Paul nodded.

OK, I’ll see you there in ten. I have to get some stuff for mum.

With that she disappeared into the shop, and Paul looked at the melting “Lollipop”, gathered up what he could with his lips, then made his way back to the cabin.

The cabin was empty. Paul put his head into the bedroom and looked at the crumpled sheets and took in the funky smell of the place – long months with no heating on, and then the baking sun, old furniture and old wooden planking gave the whole place a particular odour. Not unpleasant, just … characteristic.

Before he could ponder what improvements could be made, time was up. Solveig’s shadow filled the door. As if to make his pain as short as possible, she closed the flimsy door with its glass pane behind her, and walked the few steps that separated them. Then they were kissing and the fire consumed Paul again. They half fell, half sat on his bunk. There wasn’t really space to lie side by side, and this influenced the turn of events. Paul had had a vision of the two of them lying side by side, kissing and fondling and getting to know each other. Instead, she was on top of him, kissing him and rubbing her body against his. Her body was quite heavy and muscular. She was pressing her groin against his hard sex. It was time to make a move, to find out what the next phase was going to be. Paul had a few ideas but did not have the courage to say or do anything. Solveig now sat up and removed her top. Her beautiful breasts appeared, but out of reach; Solveig pulled Paul’s shorts down, then removed them entirely. Naked from the waist down, Paul felt very exposed, and very erect. Solveig put her hand around his sex and caressed it. She seemed to guess what he was thinking. It’s really nice, she said, and sooo hard! Paul knew that he would ejaculate in seconds if she did not stop right away, so he put his hand on hers. Wait! He exclaimed. Solveig waited – she jumped on the floor and wriggled out of her shorts. She was naked underneath and not a hair was to be seen anywhere. She pulled him onto his feet and drew him close, and placed his hand between her legs. The feeling of her smooth, swollen and moist sex sent a wave of electric current through his body. She moaned in appreciation and grabbed his sex again, which resulted in Paul ejaculating immediately.

Once Paul had finished coming, he felt acutely embarrassed and at a complete loss. What now – would she just walk out? He stood straight up and down, and became aware of the layer of sweat on both their bodies which somehow seemed to add to the feeling of utter despondency. The worst lover ever.

Solveig wasn’t flustered. She wiped some of his liquids on the sheets and licked a few drops as if to examine its qualities. Then she pulled him down so they were lying side by side, with her back against the pine planks, and his back more or less suspended in the air. It was acutely uncomfortable, but this did not matter. She had placed his hand between her legs again, and her mouth was as hungry as ever. Now he got to caress her fantastic breasts and marvel at her hard stomach – hard and yet soft. Solveig was losing patience. Look, she said, and started to masturbate herself. You have to do it fast. Just kiss my breasts. Paul kissed her breasts while straining not to fall off the bed, and in a few seconds Solveig was reaching a loud climax before falling back on the pillow with a contented smile. Then she started to giggle. I’m sorry, she muttered, while Paul looked at her in utter admiration.

Sorry… for what?

I don’t know. For… just before.. for…It seemed that for once Solveig could not find the words – or she dared not say them.

For coming like that? For being so horny… and so loud?

Solveig just smiled coyly,

I’ve never come with anyone before. I have been close but I never dared. But I knew I would dare it with you. She kissed him, waves of emotion flowing through them both.