A Love Story from Norway

If you've never visited Trondheim, Norway, you should, particularly if you're a student, more particularly if you're a gay student. It is a beautiful, rocking university town about 500 k from Oslo on the west coast. During the summer, there's almost no night; during the winter, the climate is surprisingly mild. It's filled with history and home to one of the country's great universities, the Norwegian University of Science and Technology (NTNU)

I'm was there, doing graduate work in musicology on the influence of Edvard Grieg on American music, after graduating from Boston University. Last September, as an exchange student who knew nobody, I attended a "Meet your Fellow Students" event hosted by NTNU at the Studentersamfundet, a large, circular red building in the middle of campus that's something like a student union. There I met Tør.

A computer had paired us up as supper partners at a table for two in a huge central hall, eating fiskeskuppe, drinking akevitt, and watching slides about Trondheim. The soup was a sort of chowder, not something you'd want to eat, certainly not something that's going to appear soon on a Legal Seafood's menu. But the akevitt was smooth and relaxing. So was looking at Tør, who is pure eye candy: tall, handsome, blond haired, blue eyed—everything you think of when someone says "Nordic." From the questions we had to ask each other that were printed on a card, I learned that he is a skier, from Lillehammer, a city between Oslo and Trondheim that hosted the 1994 Winter Olympics. He's studying elementary English, hoping to go back to Hammer to help his dad, who owns a ski lodge, once he becomes fluent in English

If Norwegian food isn't great, you have to give them credit for something much more important. They're open and frank about sex in a way Americans aren't.

We had barely gotten through introductions and just started our second akevitts when he put his hands over mine, staring at me with his baby blues. "You very cute, Charlie" he whispered. "I like fook you. You like get fooked?"

My heart skipped at least one beat. Did want to be fucked? Did the sun rise in the east and set in the west? I had been a total bottom since a freshman in college when my roommate Josh put his dick in my ass after a fraternity party. It felt so good that I screamed with pleasure when he unloaded in me. I bottomed for him for the next four years. There were many reasons I had wanted to leave the United States but I also had one big worry in coming to Norway: how was I going to find a fuck buddy in a country where I knew no one and couldn't speak the language? Here was this Nordic god telling me that he wanted to fuck me fifteen minutes after we had met. No pretense, no beating around the bush, just open and honest. For me, it was like breaking the bank in Las Vegas. What did I have to lose?

"I'd love to have you fuck me."

"You come to my house and I make white juice in your ass" was his answer.

I went home with him. It wasn't a house, but a comfortable apartment, right on the scenic fjord. Obviously, his parents had some money because he owned it and it was furnished with chairs, tables, and a bed in that expensive blond wood you see all over Norway.

He turned out to be just as beautiful naked as he was with clothes on. A skier's body with a great six pack and a with blond patches of hair around his nipples, in his pits, and on a happy trail that extended from his belly button into a big yellow nest above his cock. His legs were stunning, muscled and covered with golden fuzz. But from the front it was his balls that were the biggest turn-on: huge low-hangers that dangled below a totally suckable dick. It got even better when he turned and wiggled his butt at me. It was a thing of beauty, great cheeks dusted with that same blond hair as in the front. Then he leaned over, spread his cheeks, and showed me bright pink hole that seemed to winking. "You like?," he asked. "Very smooth very tight, and not used much. Yours whenever you want, Charlie."

"Thanks Tør, but I'm really not into that."

"Then you lick my hole, make me hard, and I put my sausage in you."

That sounded like a good idea.

I went to work on his pucker. It was a little sweaty, but tasted sweet, smelling of the sandalwood soap he had obviously bathed with.

When he was totally hard, he turned around, lifted me up, tossed me on the bed, and disappeared down below The next thing I felt was his tongue in my butt, opening it wide with just a couple of nibbles. When I looked down all that I saw was this mop of blond hair bobbing up and down between my thighs. The sun rising over a farmer's field, I thought, making it warm and ready for planting.

Tør's words "time for sausage and white juice" broke my reverie about farming. He rose and slid into me just like a knife going through soft butter. He wasn't huge, but he completely filled me and did he know how to fuck. When he hit my magic spot, I gasped with pleasure.

"Close, very close," he warned after a couple of minutes and pulled out, resting his butt against my very hard dick. His hand went to work to finish the job. The first blast landed in my hair, trailing down across my face, ending on my chin. The second and third weren't quite as strong. They only made it to my chest, pooling in my belly button.

"White juice everywhere." Tør sounded concerned. "I clean."

Like a cat, he licked every drop off my face. "Tastes so good," he announced. "Here, Charlie, you see." With that, he stuck his tongue in my mouth. He was right. his cum seemed like the nectar of the Gods to me. My dick throbbed.

"Now I make you happy," he promised as he dipped the middle finger of his right hand into the pool of jazz in my inny, rubbing the rest all over his left hand. His finger slid in where his dick had been, pushing right into my prostate. At the same time, The left stroked my shaft once, twice, three times. Out of control, I slammed down on his finger, saw this huge jolt of cum rise out of me like a water fountain, and then my lights went out.

"You like Tør fuck?" he asked later as we were getting dressed. "I loved it," I confessed, "but let me help you with your English. It's not your sausage, it's your prick."

"Prick, like I prick my finger?"

"No, that prick is a verb. It's spelled the same way but this prick is a noun. Another word for it is dick, but it's your penis—and I touched his.

"Prick, dick, don't understand."

I tried again. "It's not white juice in English, it's semen."

"My cousin in seamen first class in Norwegian navy."

"No, Tør, that's s-e-a-m-a-n. This is a different word. It's spelled s-e-me-n. It's what comes out of your prick, I mean penis, when you fuck. Another word for it is cum."

"Koom? Like I koom to your house?"

"No. They're the same word but they're spelled differently. I come to your house is c-o-m-e, sex cum is spelled c-u-m."

"English is a very strange language."

The first month of school passed for me like I was a kid in a candy shop, sampling everything until I was exhausted and actually dried up.

He introduced me to his friend, Sven, who frequently played with us. Three mouths, three holes, three dicks and ten fingers exploring each others' bodies in a land where freedom of self-expression and minding your own business trumped all gender stereotypes. If you can imagine a sex act, we probably tried it. This included me being spit-roasted on a bench in the Sjetnemarka, Sven in my mouth and Tør in my ass. We did it to show off, but nobody stopped to look or say anything except for one very well dressed man walking a dog. "You young men should be doing that in private," he said. "It's illegal in public. If the police see you like that, you will have to pay a big fine." Pay a big fine, I thought, instead of going to prison for thirty years? You're not in Kansas, or anywhere else in the United States, any more.

But it was just fantasy, I later realized. Great sex, but without meaning. We were thinking with our dicks, not our minds, building sand castles every day that got that didn't last through the night in terms of emotional bonding.

It was Tør who led me off this path to nowhere beginning on the night that marked the one month anniversary of our first meeting.

When I knocked on the door to Tør's apartment that evening he opened it, not half naked from the waist up as usually, but immaculately dressed. He pulled me inside and kissed me gently on the lips, but that was all. "This evening very, very important to me. Hope for you too. We make special drink. I show you how. You watch what I do and do same after. O.K? "Here what I use," he said, pointing to the dining room table where he had laid out a cocktail shaker, a strainer, a little cream pitcher with some sort of cloudy liquid in it, a bottle of akevitt, pitcher of ice, and two glasses.

"Now we jerk." Saying that, he unzipped, pulled out his dick, and masturbated into one of the glasses.

"You do it too." It was a simple instruction. I followed it.

"Now give me your glass and watch me." He took the glass and drained the the contents into his mouth but didn't swallow. Instead he rinsed them around like he was using mouth wash, back and forth so long that you could see his checks expand as the content did. Then he let the frothy mixture slide froths mouth into the shaker.

"Do exactly same," he told me, handing me his glass. I did.

Tør took the shaker, added the contents of the cream pitcher (the exact recipe for is at the end of this story), a generous jolt of akevitt, and shook it. He added, shook the mixture again, and poured the contents through a strainer into two glasses. Then he did one of the sweetest things imaginable. He reached into his pocket and brought out a box of those heart-shaped candies you see sold in stores around Valentine'd day, dropping two candies into each glass where they floated on the surface.

"Sit on my lap and we drink," he said, handing me a glass. Once I was sitting on him, he sniffed his drink like a wine taster and took a small sip. "Our cum very different. Mine thick and tastes like ocean. Yours thin and very sweet. Together, they are delicious. "This," pointing to his glass, "not me, not you. It's oss." We had just given the drink a name.

At that moment, the light went off and I realized what Tør was trying to say. We had taken something precious, something that had belonged to each of us as individuals, out of our bodies and mixed them together. Now we were about to return them to our bodies, but as something very different from what had left. It belonged to both of us. "I really, really love you, sweet Charlie," he whispered. I started to cry for the first time since when I was fourteen and my grandfather had died.

As the days grew shorter, lust mellowed into passionate love for us. We were still fuck buddies in every sense of the word, but we were also becoming lovers. Sven sensed this and backed out of the relationship, although he remained a close friend to both of us. Touch replaced thrust in our love making. Fingers lightly feathering up and down my spine when I was riding Tør. Nibbling, not sucking, when I took him into my mouth. Best, our mouths and tongues learned to say "I love you" over glasses of oss that soon became one bigger glass because it seemed so right. If you asked me today to describe the most loving thing that Tør does, the answer would be simple. He scoops a bit of oss onto the tip of his tongue and then paints my lips with it, thrusting into my mouth at the end. When he does this once, I get an instant erection. If he does it three or four times you can imagine what happens.

What was even more important than our redefinition of sex was our discovery as lovers of how much we liked being in each other's company. Time apart began to seem very unhappy. He took me to Oslo to see "The Scream" at the National Gallery, taught me the fundamentals of skiing, impressed me with how much he knew about electrical engineering, taught me basic Norwegian, and unsuccessfully tried to convince me to keep an open mind about fiskesuppe. Even in love, I drew the line at that. "It's vile." I almost shouted, "and I never intend to intend to put it in my mouth again. It smells bad and tastes worse. End of discussion."

Part of my contribution to our relationship was teaching him to appreciate Grieg. He can now whistle parts of "In the Hall of the Mountain King." We also worked on his English, I without the embarrassing arrogance and condescension I had previously brought to the table, and I introduced him to Boston through tapes we borrowed from the Trondheim library. Unfortunately, my explanations of baseball didn't seem to get anywhere. More annoying, he refused to understand the concept of Red Sox Nation, although he started to call me that because he knew it made me happy.

The night he asked me to marry we had just finished an oss. He was holding me in his arms, running his finger over my lips as I curled in his lap. "God, yes" was my answer almost before the question had finished. "But there's something very sad about the future," he said, growing a little misty. "We'll never have children and we would be such good parents." "Don't be so sure," I answered. "We could find a surrogate mother to carry a child made of her egg and your sperm. Technically, there wouldn't be any me in the baby, but there'd be you. You're beautiful, the sweetest person I've ever known, and we're really," tapping the glass, "us now."

Early last December, we went to Lillehammer to talk to Tør's parents. Sitting together in their living room he announced that "Charlie and I are going to be married; he's going to be my wife." "What good news," said his mother. "He was a beautiful baby, but when he went to Trondheim he was all fuzzy and...big. The girls and boys in college have all been after him. It was just a question of who he was going to fall in love with. You're a lucky man, Boston Nation." (There had obviously been some preplanning, as you'll see.) Then she got up and walked over to him. She started rubbing his back and stroking his hair, and this wasn't preplanned. " You know, what's more important than his body is that Tør also has a beautiful soul. All we ask is that you love our son as much as we do." "I will, I promised, holding kiss hand and kissing it.

"I love you, Boston Nation," my husband-to-be said, putting his arms around me.

I think his father was afraid that we were going to act out our love right there in front of them. "We've made up the big bed in the carriage house so that you can be private later, but now let's talk about one thing we'd like. We hope you'll have a church wedding. I don't think it bothers God one bit that you both have penises. What's important is that you love each other. We need more of it in this world. Besides, we'd like to invite our friends to celebrate with us and I think you would too. Now let's have supper."

I should have known from the Boston Nation comment that something was afoot, but I didn't. When we were at the table, his mom stood up and said that she had prepared a special dinner in my honor, "something that Tør tells me you love. It is one of our national dishes and mine is one of the best in all Norway." She disappeared into the kitchen, reappearing moments later with a steaming tureen of the dreaded fiskesuppe.

The three of them started to laugh so hard I thought they were going to have convulsions. "I was just having fun," she admitted when the laughter died down "That's for us after you go back to Trondheim. I did make something special for you, however." Out came a whole, filleted salmon with dilled potatoes, baby carrots, and a bottle of chilled white wine.

A wonderful start to a wonderful weekend.

We were married in the Lillehammer Lutheran Church in the presence of several hundred of Tør's parents' friends, his whole ski patrol, my parents, Sven, and Josh. My father and mother seemed to like Tør very much and certainly enjoyed themselves. Sven and Josh danced together to the cheers of the crowd. For our honeymoon we took a train north to Bodø and watched the Northern lights while sipping our oss.

Since then, two great things have happened. First, and this won't surprise you, I've applied for Norwegian citizenship. Second, Tør has thrown himself into the project for us to become parents. Last week he had a doctor who specializes in artificial insemination to dinner along with Ilga, a member of his ski patrol and an old friend who had attended our wedding. It goes without saying that she was gorgeous, as all Norwegians seem to be. After the doctor finished explaining the procedure, Tør asked her if she would be our surrogate mother. "I'd be honored," she said,. "but I have to be honest. I'd like doing it even better If it meant that Tør was going to give me white juice. I'm sure you know this by now, Boston Nation, but he has a beautiful dick and those balls, oh, those balls. I've wanted him ever since I saw him for the first time naked in a shower at the lodge. Of course, if he were doing that I'd probably cheat, wear protection, and pretend that I couldn't understand why I wasn't getting pregnant. So this plan is better."

You have to love Norwegians, don't you?

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Here is the recipe for oss. If you make and drink it we hope that it means as much to you as it means to us.

It is important to follow the steps in exact order. If you don't, the semen, which is heavier than the other ingredients, will fall to the bottom of the glass and you won't enjoy its taste until the end, when that's all you will taste. Note that the recipe doesn't work well with a liquid that contains bubbles: champagne, beer, or seltzer water, for example.

Charlie, a.k.a. Boston Nation

Engage with your partner is your favorite foreplay activities. For us it's rimming, but it could be nipple play, prostate massage, whatever. When precum appears on the tips of your dicks, STOP.

One after the other, masturbate into a glass. (There are obvious other methods for filling the glass—a blow job or 69ing—but they're not recommended. They're awkward and besides, the sight of your partner's penis shooting streams of cum into a glass is very arousing given what is going to happen.

Take your partner's semen into your mouth as he takes yours into his. DO NOT SWALLOW. Swish the cum around for fifteen to twenty seconds the way you would mouthwash. Deposit the mixture of cum and saliva in a cocktail shaker.

Add the alcoholic and non-alcoholic ingredients for your favorite mixed drink. We've tried aquavit, aquavit and water, gin and vermouth, scotch and water. Any combination that isn't fizzy works.. The amount of this mix you put in the shaker should be based on 1) the buzz you want and 2) how much the taste of you and your partner's semen is going to excite you.

Add one or two ounces of the LIQUID contents from a can of chick peas and dry shake (without ice) for half a minute. Shake hard as the chick pea liquid, which is virtually tasteless, is what emulsifies the ingredients and gives the drink its frothy look.

Add ice, shake again, and pour the contents through a strainer into two chilled cocktail glasses.

Garnish with the heart-shaped candies. (optional, you should)

Sit together, sip very slowly, leaving plenty of time for kissing and tongue play, and think about how much you love each other.