Letter from Oslo
Dear Vincent,
Your inquisitiveness moves me to write yet another letter. I had thought the last was quite long enough to soothe all your enquiries until my last day here in Norway. But very well, I will be indulgent towards you at the risk of spoiling you for future travels abroad, because it is without question that my adventures will be quite unsurpassable both in fascination and enchantment. Why, it was just the other day that I saw a gnome, or as some people call them: a lawn ornament.
It was on the Universitetetsgata where, when I was minding my own business, all of a sudden a gnome bounced merrily into my field of vision. She was quite excited about something, speaking in a most magical language a quite incomprehensible dialect of Norwegian. Of course, all Norwegian is incomprehensible to me, but it appeared that she wasn't making sense to the man she was talking to either.
Her nose drooped down in a most lazy fashion almost to touch her lips. I imagined that if she would shake her head, her nose would dance a little jig. The picture was completed by a bright scarlet hat that adorned her little head and her colourful mittens were of knitted wool. The shoddy craftsmanship suggested that it was home made. "How cute.", I thought.
On closer inspection it turned out that this woman was worse for wear. Grime covered every part of her face in varying degrees, an elastic strand of yellowish mucus swung from her nose and the slurred speech was affected by drink and the absence of several front teeth. As the situation dawned upon me it was clear the man only feigned misunderstanding, hoping to be rid of her as soon as possible.
A tactic I employed not many seconds later as she quite nearly touched me. If it hadn't been for my natural skittishness towards women, I'm certain I would've contracted some infernal disease. It appears that gnomes are filthy drunks, incapable of decent conversation. It is best to avoid them.
Nevertheless, my stay in Norway has been very pleasant so far, albeit somewhat boring at times. There is only so many hours I enjoy reading and in the absence of other entertainment I'm condemned to wander the nearby streets in Sogn - which is the area of town I'm staying - as if I'm some penniless vagabond.
Yes, you read correctly, I dubbed Oslo a town. Although certainly larger than many a city, the whole thing is built so spaciously that at any time you suspect sheep to surprise you around the corner, with the sheepherder in pursuit lest his livelihood would wander beneath a carriage.
Now it was on Saturday that again I was fed up reading "Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrel". An entertaining book I might say, but not a remarkable work, although the cover suggested otherwise. It seems by virtue of some unknown law of nature that covers describe the books they cover to be quite different from what they are. Such is apparently the nature of book covers. Cheating and lying things.
But I digress, because I do not intend to discuss literary matters, but wish to inform you of the wonderful evening that my little stroll initiated. The fact that I was somewhat thirsty after a few minutes of walking inspired me to have a drink in Amatøren. I lightly stepped up the stairs and was surprised to find myself in the middle of a party that afterwards proved to be a private party, the warning signs of which I had happily ignored outside because it was in Norwegian. Silly really, considering all the foreign students there. The whole party consisted of Vietnamese.
I walked up to the bar and ordered myself a beer from the bartender, who was of the greasy sort. Whenever this man would bend over, his sloughing pants would part ways with his shirt, showing not only his unimaginative white briefs, but also the palest of cheeks. I imagined he powdered his arse with cosmetics, because it was of a quite unnatural hue. His matted black hair was also thick with an unknown substance. I dared not investigate further.
In order to avoid losing my evening meal, I quickly chose to forget the sight and set myself to enjoy the various Vietnamese women in the room, because, although Im confounded by the sounds that they make pass as language, they are quite enigmatic creatures when silent. Their eyes are of an intense dark quality that make them seem almost liquid. Soon I was quite entertained and sipped my beer slowly so as to prolong my stay.
All this time I was being ignored by my surroundings, which I'm not sure was due to their drunken stupor and they simply hadn't noticed me or that they chose to ignore me. Either way, I was neither inclined nor likely to strike up conversation tonight until I noted a dark man standing not far off from my right side. He too looked upon the gathering with some reservations.
"Another lost and lonely person in the room", I thought, "perhaps we can share our misery due to the poor treatment these fellows give us". I slid from my chair and patted his shoulder. "You sir, are most certainly not Vietnamese", I proclaimed. To which, of course, he could only agree, because this was an obvious thing. But, the first secret to small talk is to state obvious things. And this is rather unfortunate, because the obvious regularly bores me to no end.
Setting my own discomfort aside, he and I resumed exchanging many obvious remarks: apparently I wasn't Vietnamese either nor was I Norwegian, whereas he was of a Norwegian and African parenthood. After some time we reached, what I dare say is the second secret of small talk: there are only so many obvious things one can say before repeating oneself.
Luckily, it is only natural and good that before you come to this point you have found some common topic to discuss. If not, the well-known awkward silence quickly introduces itself and sort of hangs about like a bad odour. As it was, the silence never quite got a chance to settle in and he soon suggested we go to a place more lively to us. Not wishing to offend my new acquaintance, who went by the name of Nicholas, I readily agreed. He quickly introduced me to Tom and Pau, surprising me with the fact that he was with Vietnamese friends.
Tom pretended to be a pimp but he failed miserably when I found out he lived together with a woman, who had put him out of the house for the evening. His credibility as a man of the shadier side of town flew out of the window with that little revelation. Everybody knows pimps are both single, highly free giving with their bodily fluids and hit their many women on a regular basis. Hardly the type of man that would listen to a woman at all. Pau, on the other hand, was a rather silent fellow.
The four of us set out to a bar called Boogie Nights in the centre of Oslo. One beer and thirty minutes was quite enough of that place, so off we went to find something more entertaining. It must be mentioned that the three of them were previously proclaiming that Tom had a sixth sense for the best parties in town, which frightened me dearly after our visit to Boogie Nights, thinking I was doomed to four months of drudgery in Oslo. This ability, however, turned out to be as fake as Tom's attitude.
Nicholas luckily was a rather carefree man; rather pleasantly impulsive and on friendly terms with everyone, including his ex-girlfriend, who bothered him with "I still luv u" messages for the duration of the evening. Naturally he made her wait. For three hours. Outside.
In those three hours, we danced a little, chatted with some women whom we promised to call but never did, because when we turned around we saw two girls even more beautiful than the previous two. Around two o'clock another woman, who was from Namibia, showed up. Glorious chocolate-coloured Gloria. She spoke Afrikaans to me and we chatted for a while. The memory of her makes me smile. Quite a few lads tried to futilely seduce her but they weren't even allowed to touch her. At one point a man, the confident, slick type that I expected to be her type, tried to put his hands on her hips when I just returned from the bathroom.
You dont own me; she admonished him sternly and turned her head slightly towards me as I couldnt resist taking in her full beauty. She was stunning; long legs accentuated by a short red dress. Her shins and thighs were composed of soft, elegantly curved and elongated lines. Neither skinny nor voluptuous. Regal and composed as a queen. I realised I was irresistibly drawn to her. When I passed behind her, I moved my hand around her waist and pulled her gently away from the scoundrel, who now wore an astonished look on his face.
As we moved onto the dance floor she placed her hand on mine resting on her flat tummy. I gently took her soft right hand with my left and I turned her around to face me, placing her hand on the back of my neck in one supple motion. She briefly let her left hand wander over my chest before she also settled it on my right shoulder. We swayed gently from left to right on the undulating African rhythm, one leg against the other's.
I moved my hand down with the appearance of confidence, my heart thudding with excitement, purposefully slow, from her velvet dark shoulders past her waist onto her soft and round hips and finally rested it on her firm posterior. Tacitly, I led us into a more circular motion with our hips. By now I was drowning in her dark brown eyes whose mischievous twinkle had only increased during the last minute. Her moves were sensual, her looks darkly exotic.
We were talking about nothing special when I drew her even closer, locking my hands and resting them on her lower back. As our slightly excited bodies pressed softly against each other I gazed into her eyes. A few seconds later I gently rested my forehead against hers. A slight self-conscious smile played on her lips but we did not lose eye contact. I smiled wistfully back - as if to sensitively respond to the gentler phases of her beauty.
She reacted by closing her eyes half way and parted her lips ever so slightly; again a timid smile played across them. Her stare turned seductive as she continued to look at me through her long lashes. No longer able to resist her, my warm breath brushed her lips and she closed her eyes as our lips locked. Soft sounds of pleasure escaped from us. I must stop there, because a gentleman never tells.
Suffice is to say that the night has left me with good will for all and a happy disposition that has lasted up to now. Truly, there is nothing like the company of good women to dispel your doubts and irritability. Not only can their good looks improve my mood as if I were looking at veritable art but invariably our conversations must be of a different nature than sports, movies or cars and often touch lightly upon the questions of life to which we all seek answers out of necessity. Sometimes I even derive pleasure from the little nothings they pronounce about their clothes, hair or make-up, so that I may lose myself in the insignificance of this life; not from a cynical sense of fatalism but from a light-hearted laissez faire.
Love, or what you will,
Roland
Your inquisitiveness moves me to write yet another letter. I had thought the last was quite long enough to soothe all your enquiries until my last day here in Norway. But very well, I will be indulgent towards you at the risk of spoiling you for future travels abroad, because it is without question that my adventures will be quite unsurpassable both in fascination and enchantment. Why, it was just the other day that I saw a gnome, or as some people call them: a lawn ornament.
It was on the Universitetetsgata where, when I was minding my own business, all of a sudden a gnome bounced merrily into my field of vision. She was quite excited about something, speaking in a most magical language a quite incomprehensible dialect of Norwegian. Of course, all Norwegian is incomprehensible to me, but it appeared that she wasn't making sense to the man she was talking to either.
Her nose drooped down in a most lazy fashion almost to touch her lips. I imagined that if she would shake her head, her nose would dance a little jig. The picture was completed by a bright scarlet hat that adorned her little head and her colourful mittens were of knitted wool. The shoddy craftsmanship suggested that it was home made. "How cute.", I thought.
On closer inspection it turned out that this woman was worse for wear. Grime covered every part of her face in varying degrees, an elastic strand of yellowish mucus swung from her nose and the slurred speech was affected by drink and the absence of several front teeth. As the situation dawned upon me it was clear the man only feigned misunderstanding, hoping to be rid of her as soon as possible.
A tactic I employed not many seconds later as she quite nearly touched me. If it hadn't been for my natural skittishness towards women, I'm certain I would've contracted some infernal disease. It appears that gnomes are filthy drunks, incapable of decent conversation. It is best to avoid them.
Nevertheless, my stay in Norway has been very pleasant so far, albeit somewhat boring at times. There is only so many hours I enjoy reading and in the absence of other entertainment I'm condemned to wander the nearby streets in Sogn - which is the area of town I'm staying - as if I'm some penniless vagabond.
Yes, you read correctly, I dubbed Oslo a town. Although certainly larger than many a city, the whole thing is built so spaciously that at any time you suspect sheep to surprise you around the corner, with the sheepherder in pursuit lest his livelihood would wander beneath a carriage.
Now it was on Saturday that again I was fed up reading "Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrel". An entertaining book I might say, but not a remarkable work, although the cover suggested otherwise. It seems by virtue of some unknown law of nature that covers describe the books they cover to be quite different from what they are. Such is apparently the nature of book covers. Cheating and lying things.
But I digress, because I do not intend to discuss literary matters, but wish to inform you of the wonderful evening that my little stroll initiated. The fact that I was somewhat thirsty after a few minutes of walking inspired me to have a drink in Amatøren. I lightly stepped up the stairs and was surprised to find myself in the middle of a party that afterwards proved to be a private party, the warning signs of which I had happily ignored outside because it was in Norwegian. Silly really, considering all the foreign students there. The whole party consisted of Vietnamese.
I walked up to the bar and ordered myself a beer from the bartender, who was of the greasy sort. Whenever this man would bend over, his sloughing pants would part ways with his shirt, showing not only his unimaginative white briefs, but also the palest of cheeks. I imagined he powdered his arse with cosmetics, because it was of a quite unnatural hue. His matted black hair was also thick with an unknown substance. I dared not investigate further.
In order to avoid losing my evening meal, I quickly chose to forget the sight and set myself to enjoy the various Vietnamese women in the room, because, although Im confounded by the sounds that they make pass as language, they are quite enigmatic creatures when silent. Their eyes are of an intense dark quality that make them seem almost liquid. Soon I was quite entertained and sipped my beer slowly so as to prolong my stay.
All this time I was being ignored by my surroundings, which I'm not sure was due to their drunken stupor and they simply hadn't noticed me or that they chose to ignore me. Either way, I was neither inclined nor likely to strike up conversation tonight until I noted a dark man standing not far off from my right side. He too looked upon the gathering with some reservations.
"Another lost and lonely person in the room", I thought, "perhaps we can share our misery due to the poor treatment these fellows give us". I slid from my chair and patted his shoulder. "You sir, are most certainly not Vietnamese", I proclaimed. To which, of course, he could only agree, because this was an obvious thing. But, the first secret to small talk is to state obvious things. And this is rather unfortunate, because the obvious regularly bores me to no end.
Setting my own discomfort aside, he and I resumed exchanging many obvious remarks: apparently I wasn't Vietnamese either nor was I Norwegian, whereas he was of a Norwegian and African parenthood. After some time we reached, what I dare say is the second secret of small talk: there are only so many obvious things one can say before repeating oneself.
Luckily, it is only natural and good that before you come to this point you have found some common topic to discuss. If not, the well-known awkward silence quickly introduces itself and sort of hangs about like a bad odour. As it was, the silence never quite got a chance to settle in and he soon suggested we go to a place more lively to us. Not wishing to offend my new acquaintance, who went by the name of Nicholas, I readily agreed. He quickly introduced me to Tom and Pau, surprising me with the fact that he was with Vietnamese friends.
Tom pretended to be a pimp but he failed miserably when I found out he lived together with a woman, who had put him out of the house for the evening. His credibility as a man of the shadier side of town flew out of the window with that little revelation. Everybody knows pimps are both single, highly free giving with their bodily fluids and hit their many women on a regular basis. Hardly the type of man that would listen to a woman at all. Pau, on the other hand, was a rather silent fellow.
The four of us set out to a bar called Boogie Nights in the centre of Oslo. One beer and thirty minutes was quite enough of that place, so off we went to find something more entertaining. It must be mentioned that the three of them were previously proclaiming that Tom had a sixth sense for the best parties in town, which frightened me dearly after our visit to Boogie Nights, thinking I was doomed to four months of drudgery in Oslo. This ability, however, turned out to be as fake as Tom's attitude.
Nicholas luckily was a rather carefree man; rather pleasantly impulsive and on friendly terms with everyone, including his ex-girlfriend, who bothered him with "I still luv u" messages for the duration of the evening. Naturally he made her wait. For three hours. Outside.
In those three hours, we danced a little, chatted with some women whom we promised to call but never did, because when we turned around we saw two girls even more beautiful than the previous two. Around two o'clock another woman, who was from Namibia, showed up. Glorious chocolate-coloured Gloria. She spoke Afrikaans to me and we chatted for a while. The memory of her makes me smile. Quite a few lads tried to futilely seduce her but they weren't even allowed to touch her. At one point a man, the confident, slick type that I expected to be her type, tried to put his hands on her hips when I just returned from the bathroom.
You dont own me; she admonished him sternly and turned her head slightly towards me as I couldnt resist taking in her full beauty. She was stunning; long legs accentuated by a short red dress. Her shins and thighs were composed of soft, elegantly curved and elongated lines. Neither skinny nor voluptuous. Regal and composed as a queen. I realised I was irresistibly drawn to her. When I passed behind her, I moved my hand around her waist and pulled her gently away from the scoundrel, who now wore an astonished look on his face.
As we moved onto the dance floor she placed her hand on mine resting on her flat tummy. I gently took her soft right hand with my left and I turned her around to face me, placing her hand on the back of my neck in one supple motion. She briefly let her left hand wander over my chest before she also settled it on my right shoulder. We swayed gently from left to right on the undulating African rhythm, one leg against the other's.
I moved my hand down with the appearance of confidence, my heart thudding with excitement, purposefully slow, from her velvet dark shoulders past her waist onto her soft and round hips and finally rested it on her firm posterior. Tacitly, I led us into a more circular motion with our hips. By now I was drowning in her dark brown eyes whose mischievous twinkle had only increased during the last minute. Her moves were sensual, her looks darkly exotic.
We were talking about nothing special when I drew her even closer, locking my hands and resting them on her lower back. As our slightly excited bodies pressed softly against each other I gazed into her eyes. A few seconds later I gently rested my forehead against hers. A slight self-conscious smile played on her lips but we did not lose eye contact. I smiled wistfully back - as if to sensitively respond to the gentler phases of her beauty.
She reacted by closing her eyes half way and parted her lips ever so slightly; again a timid smile played across them. Her stare turned seductive as she continued to look at me through her long lashes. No longer able to resist her, my warm breath brushed her lips and she closed her eyes as our lips locked. Soft sounds of pleasure escaped from us. I must stop there, because a gentleman never tells.
Suffice is to say that the night has left me with good will for all and a happy disposition that has lasted up to now. Truly, there is nothing like the company of good women to dispel your doubts and irritability. Not only can their good looks improve my mood as if I were looking at veritable art but invariably our conversations must be of a different nature than sports, movies or cars and often touch lightly upon the questions of life to which we all seek answers out of necessity. Sometimes I even derive pleasure from the little nothings they pronounce about their clothes, hair or make-up, so that I may lose myself in the insignificance of this life; not from a cynical sense of fatalism but from a light-hearted laissez faire.
Love, or what you will,
Roland
Comments (19)
I was hoping for it to go somewhere else though, and felt a tad let down by the Gloria section and the ending.
Nice.
Quoting Benkei
Fascinating.
Quoting Benkei
An odd and colourful detail, economically conveyed.
Quoting Benkei
Haven't read it but I read her recent book, Piranesi, which is great.
Thanks for the feedback. What were you hoping for in the ending?
The whole thing actually happened except that I was so nervous around Gloria and inexperienced that I never kissed her but all the way up to the kiss is a faithful recollection. One of my biggest regrets in life.
Something weird, interesting, or curious, something more involved and convoluted, which I'd been led to expect by the story up to that point. I guess I just found the Gloria stuff a bit boring. Maybe that's just my taste.
Quoting Benkei
I read some writing advice recently:
"Have regrets. They are fuel. On the page they flare into desire."
Dear Vincent,
Your inquisitiveness moves me to write yet another letter. I had thought the last was quite long enough to soothe all your enquiries until my last day here in Norway. But very well, I will be indulgent towards you at the risk of spoiling you for future travels abroad, because it is without question that my adventures will be quite unsurpassable both in fascination and enchantment. Why, it was just the other day that I saw a gnome, or as some people call them: a lawn ornament.
It was on the Universitetetsgata where, when I was minding my own business, all of a sudden a gnome bounced merrily into my field of vision. She was quite excited about something, speaking in a most magical language a quite incomprehensible dialect of Norwegian. Of course, all Norwegian is incomprehensible to me, but it appeared that she wasn't making sense to the man she was talking to either.
Her nose drooped down in a most lazy fashion almost to touch her lips. I imagined that if she would shake her head, her nose would dance a little jig. The picture was completed by a bright scarlet hat that adorned her little head and her colourful mittens were of knitted wool. The shoddy craftsmanship suggested that it was home made. "How cute.", I thought.
On closer inspection it turned out that this woman was worse for wear. Grime covered every part of her face in varying degrees, an elastic strand of yellowish mucus swung from her nose and the slurred speech was affected by drink and the absence of several front teeth. As the situation dawned upon me it was clear the man only feigned misunderstanding, hoping to be rid of her as soon as possible.
A tactic I employed not many seconds later as she quite nearly touched me. If it hadn't been for my natural skittishness towards women, I'm certain I would've contracted some infernal disease. It appears that gnomes are filthy drunks, incapable of decent conversation. It is best to avoid them.
Nevertheless, my stay in Norway has been very pleasant so far, albeit somewhat boring at times. There is only so many hours I enjoy reading and in the absence of other entertainment I'm condemned to wander the nearby streets in Sogn - which is the area of town I'm staying - as if I'm some penniless vagabond.
Yes, you read correctly, I dubbed Oslo a town. Although certainly larger than many a city, the whole thing is built so spaciously that at any time you suspect sheep to surprise you around the corner, with the sheepherder in pursuit lest his livelihood would wander beneath a carriage.
Now it was on Saturday that again I was fed up reading "Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrel". An entertaining book I might say, but not a remarkable work, although the cover suggested otherwise. It seems by virtue of some unknown law of nature that covers describe the books they cover to be quite different from what they are. Such is apparently the nature of book covers. Cheating and lying things.
But I digress, because I do not intend to discuss literary matters, but wish to inform you of the wonderful evening that my little stroll initiated. The fact that I was somewhat thirsty after a few minutes of walking inspired me to have a drink in Amatøren. I lightly stepped up the stairs and was surprised to find myself in the middle of a party that afterwards proved to be a private party, the warning signs of which I had happily ignored outside because it was in Norwegian. Silly really, considering all the foreign students there. The whole party consisted of Vietnamese.
I walked up to the bar and ordered myself a beer from the bartender, who was of the greasy sort. Whenever this man would bend over, his sloughing pants would part ways with his shirt, showing not only his unimaginative white briefs, but also the palest of cheeks. I imagined he powdered his arse with cosmetics, because it was of a quite unnatural hue. His matted black hair was also thick with an unknown substance. I dared not investigate further.
In order to avoid losing my evening meal, I quickly chose to forget the sight and set myself to enjoy the various Vietnamese women in the room, because, although Im confounded by the sounds that they make pass as language, they are quite enigmatic creatures when silent. Their eyes are of an intense dark quality that make them seem almost liquid. Soon I was quite entertained and sipped my beer slowly so as to prolong my stay.
All this time I was being ignored by my surroundings, which I'm not sure was due to their drunken stupor and they simply hadn't noticed me or that they chose to ignore me. Either way, I was neither inclined nor likely to strike up conversation tonight until I noted a dark man standing not far off from my right side. He too looked upon the gathering with some reservations.
"Another lost and lonely person in the room", I thought, "perhaps we can share our misery due to the poor treatment these fellows give us". I slid from my chair and patted his shoulder. "You sir, are most certainly not Vietnamese", I proclaimed. To which, of course, he could only agree, because this was an obvious thing. But, the first secret to small talk is to state obvious things. And this is rather unfortunate, because the obvious regularly bores me to no end.
Setting my own discomfort aside, he and I resumed exchanging many obvious remarks: apparently I wasn't Vietnamese either nor was I Norwegian, whereas he was of a Norwegian and African parenthood. After some time we reached, what I dare say is the second secret of small talk: there are only so many obvious things one can say before repeating oneself.
Luckily, it is only natural and good that before you come to this point you have found some common topic to discuss. If not, the well-known awkward silence quickly introduces itself and sort of hangs about like a bad odour. As it was, the silence never quite got a chance to settle in and he soon suggested we go to a place more lively to us. Not wishing to offend my new acquaintance, who went by the name of Nicholas, I readily agreed. He quickly introduced me to Tom and Pau, surprising me with the fact that he was with Vietnamese friends.
Tom pretended to be a pimp but he failed miserably when I found out he lived together with a woman, who had put him out of the house for the evening. His credibility as a man of the shadier side of town flew out of the window with that little revelation. Everybody knows pimps are both single, highly free giving with their bodily fluids and hit their many women on a regular basis. Hardly the type of man that would listen to a woman at all. Pau, on the other hand, was a rather silent fellow.
The four of us set out to a bar called Boogie Nights in the centre of Oslo. One beer and thirty minutes was quite enough of that place, so off we went to find something more entertaining. It must be mentioned that the three of them were previously proclaiming that Tom had a sixth sense for the best parties in town, which frightened me dearly after our visit to Boogie Nights, thinking I was doomed to four months of drudgery in Oslo. This ability, however, turned out to be as fake as Tom's attitude.
Nicholas luckily was a rather carefree man; rather pleasantly impulsive and on friendly terms with everyone, including his ex-girlfriend, who bothered him with "I still luv u" messages for the duration of the evening. Naturally he made her wait. For three hours. Outside.
[alternate from here]
In those three hours, we danced a little, chatted with some women whom we promised to call but never did, because when we turned around we saw two girls even more beautiful than the previous two. I can't remember how I got home but I did exchange numbers with Nicholas.
Last Saturday there was another party Nicholas invited me to. It was an African party, organised by four African girls at one of their homes and I was one of the few white men there. The atmosphere was
good, because due to the limited size it was very personal; the girls were playful and teasing but not pretending to be interested. In the absence of false pretensions it was great to dance in an outrageous fashion to Reggae and African music. One of the better moments was where I got sandwiched between Juliette and Celian. My first real grinding experience was with two girls whose butts were such that all I can say is that Sir Mixalot was right.
Around two o'clock another woman, who was from Namibia, showed up. I opened the door and introduced myself; her name was Gloria. She quickly switched to Afrikaans and we talked for a while that no one understood but the two of us. I suspect she wanted to throw me off balance when she said she wanted to fuck every Dutchman she met and not much later described in detail exactly how wet she got during sex (the details were very entertaining). She was a tease but a funny one at that.
The memory of dancing with her makes me smile. Quite a few lads tried to futilely seduce her but they weren't even allowed to touch her. At one point a man, the confident, slick type that I expected to be her type, tried to put his hands on her hips when I just returned from the bathroom.
"You dont own me; she admonished him sternly and turned her head slightly towards me as I couldnt resist taking in her full beauty. She was stunning; long legs accentuated by a short red dress. Her shins and thighs were composed of soft, elegantly curved and elongated lines. Neither skinny nor voluptuous. Regal and composed as a queen. I realised I was irresistibly drawn to her. When I passed behind her, I moved my hand around her waist and pulled her gently away from the scoundrel, who now wore an astonished look on his face.
She was the first woman I had met in Norway that was an accomplished salsa dancer. Needless to say, I enjoyed myself immensely; especially since she was better at it than I and only too happy to point out my mistakes. Pointing out mistakes on my part seemed to be her favourite pastime for the evening. She certainly took any opportunity to be disagreeable.
As we moved on the dancefloor she placed her hand on mine. Gently taking her right hand with my left I turned her around to face me and placed her hand on the back of my neck in one supple motion (standard salsa material but it certainly looks suave). I moved my hand down with the appearance of confidence, my heart thudding with excitement, purposefully slow, from her velvet dark shoulders past her waist onto her soft and round hips and finally rested it on her firm posterior. Tacitly, I led us into a more circular motion with our hips. By now I was drowning in her dark brown eyes whose mischievous twinkle had only increased during the last minute. Her moves were sensual, her looks darkly exotic.
We were talking about nothing special when I drew her even closer, locking my hands and resting them on her lower back. As our slightly excited bodies pressed softly against each other I gazed into her eyes. A few seconds later I gently rested my forehead against hers. A slight self-conscious smile played on her lips but we did not lose eye contact. I smiled wistfully back - as if to sensitively respond to the gentler phases of her beauty. She reacted by closing her eyes half way and parted her lips ever so slightly; again a timid smile played across them. Her stare turned seductive as she continued to look at me through her long lashes. Between those two moments I saw the girl behind woman... and the first moment of uncertainty on her part.
Characteristically, I didn't kiss her and what a regret it is now. I tell myself she was too overbearing, that I'd just be her plaything. But I think honesty commits me to say I was simply scared of the power she had over me. I didn't dare to kiss her. I knew I wanted all of her and I haven't felt such attraction to a woman before. And that scared me - losing control like that. It was a fantastic night but I couldn't help wondering the past few days what would have happened if I had kissed her.
Love, or what you will,
Roland
I admit I was hoping for trolls though.
Dear Roland
Hey, bro! Wish you were here :wink:
Thanks for the Extra Extra Large Post-Card.
You do realise that your love life is now out there, open to all and sundry!
Sis got to it before I did. Snorts and giggles woke me from my dream-filled siesta.
How she managed to read the tiny, crisscrossing squiggles, I will never know.
Ah...she removed her specs. Got it.
The Magic of Convergent Strabismus.
To cut a long story short, I luvd it. You sure got away with wurds.
I was right there wiv ya'. Yuckety yuck at the Inglorious Gnome.
But hey, I thought the garden variety were all wee beardy guys with red, pointy hats.
Maybe you shoulda stuck around. Frogs and Princes.
You know how appearances can be deceptive; can't tell a book by its cover, an' all that.
Yeah, man you had a ball with Gloria. But I don't get it. You go on a bit about the boring repetition of small talk but then you go and interrupt a perfectly fine seduction by talking about 'nothing special'!
You need to know when to zip and unzip it, bro'.
Like here:
Quoting Benkei
Huh. This is coitus interruptus. Again! :groan:
Quoting Benkei
This. This is what's wrong with you.
You think too damned much. Stuff the philosophy.
The Gnome awaits...under a starry, starry night :sparkle:
Keep on rollin'
Your ever-luvin' friend Vinnie xxx
Yes, I do too.
Or at least I thought I did.
However, I can't remember reading anything else, other than 'Daddy-Long-Legs'. A long time ago :yikes:
I think I owe @Benkei an apology in the way I responded. But the story gripped me so.
I remember that 'Daddy-Long-Legs' was a monologue correspondence.
So, I should have respected that your short story was a one-way, one-off...
Quoting Benkei
A magic spell was cast. The curious spirit of Vinnie invaded me.
Or at least the Vincent that came to my mind...I wonder what others thought...
I loved Gnome girl.
Is that 'magical realism'?
I was first introduced to that term via the short story contests.
I've learned so much and continue to be intrigued. Thanks, guys :sparkle:
An aside:
[ Reading some of the feedback, I'm still puzzling over what it is to 'Read Like A Writer'.
I guess the difference lies in the knowledge and expertise of technical aspects.
Great to read all the writers' thoughts.]
And then...'Travels with My Aunt' - Graham Greene (not in letter form).
So it's all about enjoying the experience of being abroad, even if vicariously.
I am missing that; the feeling of adventure and change.
Never been to Norway...but now I've caught a glimpse:
Quoting Benkei
Love it. Even getting lost in Sognefjord...
:fire: :flower: :clap:
No apologies necessary. Your comments are always welcome. I'm also reworking my spacebug story to be more historically accurate following your and 180's comments. I'm still a little sad my last entry "Small Gods" didn't garner more actionable feedback so I'm really happy with your and @Jamal's comments. I did a rework in this thread on the ending actually, where I didn't kiss Gloria (as conforms with what really happened). This is a slightly reworked e-mail I wrote in 2003-2004 when I studied in Oslo and I wrote 3 or 4 of them. This one was by far the best but I'll see if I can salvage more from the other ones and send "Vinnie" a second one. :-)
Thanks. It's a relief to hear from you!
When it comes to reading and writing, I'm a bit rusty - been listening instead, solo.
Ah yes, spacebug story. The great surprise of Comp1 :fire:
https://thephilosophyforum.com/discussion/11530/were-not-alone-by-aibenkei
Quoting Benkei
Wow. Just checking what year I'm in. 2022. You keep your emails from 18yrs ago?!
I wish I'd kept all mine. Unfortunately, or fortunately, my life notes have been deleted. :sad:
Some people, like @180 Proof, are really good at filing and retrieving previous writing, even TPF posts.
Or connecting fragments of dreams with real-life elements, as in Comp3's winner. Nod to @Tobias.
I admire that.
'Vinnie' looks forward to hearing more from his best mate.
As a matter of interest, did you keep the replies from the originals?
:sparkle:
Your sexy, seductive salsa pulled me right in.
Hot stuff :fire:
Adding the music would have hit yet another sense...or spot :kiss:
You still got the moves?
Dance With Me - Dance Scene Vanessa Williams & Chayanne
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GQa10n21YIw
Or more like this :wink:
CUBAN FURY - First Dance Class - Film Clip
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4pcMg7jB4NU
Looking it up on wikipedia, I guess so. Truth is I have neither purpose or method to my writing. But am enjoying it more and more and I'm starting to write more often.
:smile:
It's the way you move to the music that counts! Or how the music moves you...
The rhythm of the soul.
And what music... :cool:
Yeah, my imagination is working overtime.
----
The music played on your link, but the video stayed static (for me, anyway).
Hope this works:
Buena Vista Social Club - Chan Chan (Official HD Video)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tGbRZ73NvlY
That surprises me.
Quoting Benkei
:starstruck: