The first of two ghey encounters from my past that make a good story, which I will relate here. No doubt you have yours.
This was about twenty years ago. I was traveling alone and had a 24-hour layover in Helsinki, which involved an overnight stay in a hotel. Though my time in that country was limited to a single day, I made the most of it. Landed in Helsinki in the morning, checked into the hotel, and right away I took a bus to the city’s center, where I walked around until evening. I wasn’t disappointed with the day. I’ve looked forward to that visit because Finland has always fascinated me, and it still does. In my preconception, I was visiting the realm of High Elves.
In a way, that’s the impression the people there made on me. Not that everyone was necessarily gracile or of noble features, but every Finn I interacted with — the hotel shuttle bus driver with whom I had a good chat, the store clerks, regular people in the streets — was young, spoke excellent English, and came across as intelligent.
I didn’t have an agenda or a list of must-see places. I just walked around, bought small stuff at convenience stores just to interact with the cashier, watched the bustling crowds of people, admired the northern architecture and the northern cast of sky. I didn’t think about that kind of stuff two decades ago, but I did make a note of the fact that everyone there was White, presumably Finnish or Swedish, as those were the only languages I heard all day in Helsinki. I don’t speak a word of either language but I can identify them by sound.
So I returned to the hotel late in the evening. I was not in the least bit tired. Instead, a thousand women danced in my fantasy. I took a shower, changed into shorts and a t-shirt, grabbed a towel and went to the hotel’s sauna. Those places are supposed to be coed in Scandinavia and I wanted to fuck a naked elf woman. Or any woman. But the sauna was cold, dark, empty. The travel caught up with me. It’s that feeling when the world suddenly feels very big.
I went back to my room, put on my street clothes, and went down to the hotel’s all-night restaurant. The place was empty, save for me and a man several tables away. I ordered a drink and lit a cigarette. Leaned back and admired the nine-story atrium. Finland really is an interesting place and you see this in every detail around you there.
After some time, the man sitting several tables away stood up and walked up to my table. A very normal-looking guy in his forties, about fifteen years older than me. Of slight built, lean face, thinning blond hair. He asked something in Swedish, gesturing toward a chair. I said OK, and he sat down. He started talking to me in Swedish, so I interrupted him and told him in English that I don’t speak that language. He paused, looked at me confused for a moment, and then resumed his effort at a conversation in the incomprehensible language.
Now feeling a bit annoyed, I asked sharply: “Do you speak English?” He shrugged that off, so I asked “Sprechen Sie Deutsch?” hoping that we could at least communicate in German. Nothing. He’s still droning on in Swedish. Buzzing on my drink, equal parts irritated with this interruption of my solitude and open to a conversation after being alone all day, I took a few shots in the dark: Gavorit po russki? Czy mówi Pan po polsku? Habla usted Español? My knowledge of French is close to zero, but I even tried that: Parlez-vous Français?
Nothing. He now looks frustrated by our inability to communicate, but he’s still talking, still trying to ask me questions in Swedish. It crossed my mind to ask the waiter to interpret, but at this point I just wanted the guy gone. I told him something to that effect in English, with matching tone of voice and gesture. My food came and he went back to his own table.
The whole time, I was trying to get a read on this guy. Right away, I determined that he is not a gay. There was none of the mannerism, none of the excited glimmer in his eyes that pings the gaydar. He was definitely not drunk or high. I didn’t pick up on anything that would clue me in to why he’d persist in talking to me in a language that I clearly did not understand. I still have no idea what that was about.
The second ghey story is about lezzie lassies on a train.