Blown in Helsinki

Winter charged its way into our lives again, sucked away all the sun and blanketed our world in darkness. Except for when it snowed, all was gloom. That was around the same time I received a call from Deman.

Sitting across from me at Iguana café, he started with his special English.

"The police call'd me last week, man. They say they take me to jail if I come near her, even if I call her I have to go to court. Can you believe that?"

He shuddered and started sobbing with convulsing gasps. I'd never thought his eyes were capable of shedding a tear -- those raw eyes with an unflinching look as I had come to know them.

"Try to take it easy. Time will ease your pain," I said.

"But I love her, man. You know I never loved anyone," he said.

"It's difficult."

"You know how many girls I had. Maybe more than thousand. Still she had more experience than me. She knew how to fuck. Even when she was model she had two men at same times. One time she pea on me and I drink her. She make me lose my mind.

"She called me last night, ask-id me to come over. What am I supposed to do?"

"Did you go?"

"Yes."

"So what happened?"

"She just say to me 'I wanted to see if you would come if I ask you to. Now get out or I call the police.'"

"This girl can get you in trouble. I know it is tough, but try to control the situation. Just stay with me. Sleep over at my place."

"She knows how to play me man." He lit what was perhaps his fifth cigarette of the hour.

"You've been through so much shit in your life. You've been homeless, scavenged the trash for food. I know you -- you're a fighter. You'll get over this. Just try to keep yourself busy for now and you'll be OK."

He sat up and said: "I tell you one thing. Am 'ma never gonna fall in love again. Trust me. I have never felt so sheet in my life. And I want to die alone. I cannot wait till I become an old man. I wish my hairs will all go white." Those last words seemed to lift his fractured sprit.

A few days later, he dyed his hair grayish white but that did not make him look much older for he still maintained a boyish countenance, though ever so contemplative that look had become. I walked the streets with him unable to digest that he was not chasing women anymore. It was understandable, of course, only unfitting. What used to be a walking, talking hormone, the embodiment of pulsating testosterone in its purest form, a sperm that grew hands and legs and head and could walk and talk, now became a numb fig. Together with his paled out hair and resigned eyes, he felt to me like a different person. Something warm and appreciative started to take shape in him. In the past, a ruthless fire burnt through his wildness. Now he seemed somehow gentler.

"Never get attached to anyone or anythings," he said.

It didn't take much to convince him to join us on our outings, for even though he was clearly not in the mood for party, he would do anything but be alone. That night we were having our typical drinking session at Vishnu's place before going out. Joe joined us as we got all pickled and boisterous, save for the quiet Deman, and the four of us charged towards the club.

"You're not going to make me wait in line," Joe said to the bouncer.

"Joe, just wait a few minutes on the side here and you will get in," the bouncer said.

"Come-on, you know how much I love you. How can you make me wait in the cold," Joe said and started giggling. He then looked at a girl standing in line.

"Don't be jealous." And he helped himself and gave her a light kiss on the cheek.

The people standing in the long line threw at us disgruntled stares as we bypassed them and entered the joint.

At the coat check, I spotted one blonde girl in white stockings, a white skirt and white high-heels, and passed a primitive "Hola... que passa," then slid downstairs to the dungeon -- swelling ceiling and voluptuous walls, convulsing to the pounding music; a large cave, a dug out black hole where people danced, drank at the bar and rubbed against each other when it got packed and sweaty, and it always got packed and sweaty.

'Lost-and-Found' is a Helsinki landmark; a retro bohemian club with an eclectic crowd - from grungy Rastafarians to painfully attractive girls, gays to punk rockers, trend setters, Finnish celebrities, hipsters, and those who never talked, danced, or moved out of the way.

Joe was talking to one girl after another, always engaging, knows no boundaries and never short of something to say.

I didn't go dancing in the small, flesh packed dance area but negotiated my way to a spot at the bar with Joe close by. It was dark and foggy from the haze machine and the music was pumping funky tribal beats.

"I'm going to leave man. Feeling tired. Will sleep at your place tonight," Deman said.

Vishnu decided to escort him so before I knew it they were gone.

When I glanced to my left, I noticed that blonde girl at the coat-check earlier, now standing tall right next to me, giving me a most obvious come-and-take-me look. The distance between our faces closed in and our mouths interlocked in a long kiss that breathed sweet life in me.

Joe got excited and glided towards us. He looked at us as if we were mere actors in a movie of his own making.

"Mm. This is how you kiss. Yes. Nice."

He seemed to want a piece of the action, not that he is needy of it more than anyone as he gets it almost every night. He touched her hair while she and I had our arms around each other.

Remember that Joe has no boundaries when it comes to other people. He defines his own territory according to his own discretion. His good looks and shamelessness are often a deadly combination.

"I know your type—you don't know what you want. You sometimes feel lost but deep down you're a free spirit that just wants to have fun. You're like me," he said, his large brown eyes peering straight into hers. I had witnessed his demagogical talent in the past, planting doubts in many a girl's head, leading them straight to his bed.

"What do you think?" He grabbed one drunken guy that he happened upon from the shoulder before breaking into his silly giggles. Then he started pulling some dance moves not too far away, and the problem was that he was a good dancer. The moves came to him naturally.

My ex-girlfriend—Johanna's look of dismay, when I had once attempted to keep up with her dance, surfaced from my repressed memories, but I denied the weakness any pleasure.

I tried to analyze why Joe was so bent on my girl. He could have tried with any other ihana and very likely succeeded. Perhaps there was something twisted and enticing about stealing a friend's girl. Or the challenge and competitiveness lured him. I discounted the whole thing, ridiculed it with a smile, a slight laugh and Vodka Cranberries that I ordered for us three, but kept a discrete watch on my blonde. I couldn't take these things or myself too seriously. Or at least so I told myself. One thing I quickly learned about the girls at night in Helsinki was how torturously capricious they could be. They lived in the moment which meant that in another moment, they were gone. Memories are short in the night club.

In this loose, many-for-many interactive jungle, the hot blonde seemed to maintain her loyalty to me. We went up to the coat check and she put on her white fur peacoat and released her silk smooth blond hair which made her look even prettier.

When we exited the club, we lost our balance on the slippery ice, fell on the ground and slid into each other's arms. Her skirt was pulled upwards, exposing her thighs through the white stockings. She gave out a high-pitch, frivolous scream full of femininity that only made me ache more for her.

A strange feeling of immense pleasure filled me. I realized that she could have been one of the girls I had fantasized about as a child, legs and heels balancing over floating pieces of ice. Luckily we managed to disentangle from zealous Joe, a wasp that would not shun away from the honey.

"You're not gonna invite me over?" the drowsy bastard shouted in the middle of the street, then cracked a laugh. "I might follow you soon, wait for me," he continued amidst more drunken laughs. We hurried towards my place while also looking for taxis.

When we stepped into my apartment, Deman was sleeping on the couch in the living room. As the bedroom is almost completely open, with only a semi-wall between it and the living room, when you enter my place, the first thing you see on your right is a bed.

It didn't bother her that another obscure man was laying really close by. Privacy was apparently not an issue. In any case, Deman announced to us beyond a shred of a doubt that he was in his own world: he was snoring.

We got on the bed and started undressing. I could not wait to let my hands travel over her body but then my cell phone started to ring and "Joe" flashed on the phone's display screen. At the same time, the buzzer went off. It was clear that my considerate friend was downstairs, wanting to come up. What sudden disruptive noise to the sweet tranquility a moment earlier.

"Do you have a condom?" she said while not paying attention to all the buzzing. If anything, I could not but fully admire her sense of focus and determination.

"No. Do you?"

A bit frustrated at me, at my ostensibly irresponsible disposition, she took one out of her bag. Yes she wasted one on me. Meanwhile, the buzzer from downstairs was becoming more insistent. Will he give up and go home? I automatically hastened to turn the bedside light off. She turned it back on.

"I want to see," she said.

With the two of us fully nude, she held my manhood in her hand, bent down and put it in her warm mouth, but only briefly, as if to greet it and get a taste of it. That drove me crazy, crazier than the wildest blow job I had ever received. Not wasting any precious time, she bent down, stuck her ass in my direction, and with my master slaved in her hand, led him in. I couldn't wait to be fully inside.

"Slowly," she said, looking back at me.

It didn't take a minute before she was completely wet and we were completely locked in.

"It's going nicely now," she whispered, looking back at me, taking my hand and placing it on her ripe breast. I lightly squeezed her nipple. She arched back towards me, partially facing me and rapped her hand around my neck. Now, with both of her breasts in my hands, I pulled her harder against me.

The excitement was intensified because of a sense of urgency to get on with it while our time might be running out. It was as if we were hiding from the authorities and doing something naughty, illegal. There is a special existential feel to such situations between a man and a woman when a third element is involved, making the moments feel very light, fleeting; we were floating in time.

It was also nice with the lights on.

She made loud and nice sounds. I didn't know if they were fake or not, but she seemed to be enjoying herself. She may have been also competing with the sound of the buzzer and the light snoring in the background. I started spanking her while we were doing it. Somehow I had gotten in the habit of doing that.

"Ouch," she said, looking at me with a nefarious smile. I spanked again. This time, she let out an affirmative moan.

Meanwhile the buzzer and the phone did not take a break and I started feeling concerned.

"Maybe he's stuck'n not able to get home. No buses and trains now. Also cold outside," I said with her against me and her ass pounding harder as I maintained my post.

"I should let him in," I murmured, looking at her semi-closed, trancy eyes. This was Finland. People died from the winter cold.

I pulled out, put my boxers on and buzzed him in.

A smog of alcohol and smoke, he entered boisterously with "what took you so long!"

He stepped in further, looked to his right and saw her lying on her side, her breasts exposed, her lower half slightly covered by the bed sheets, with her head resting against her arm, looking at him.

"Surprise! So that's what you've been up to, huh -- very naughty," he said, and then broke into one of his annoying giggles. It didn't take him the slightest effort to make himself comfortable and fully integrated.

"So are you going to make yourself fucking useful and offer me a cigarette, or just sit there?" she said to Joe, without the slightest intention of being humorous.

As we lingered with our smoke and cigarettes, I brought some more alcohol to our thirsty systems. Deman in the background arched then switched sleeping sides which instantly quieted his snoring.

"I never had a threesome," the girl finally said, blowing some smoke.

I was in disbelief even though I told myself that I had no reason to be surprised. Still I was not prepared to hear this.

After a few minutes, Joe moved closer to her, touched her lips with his finger, let it circle around then put it inside her mouth, and she sucked it and looked at me, indicating to get closer, to join the fun. There was something foreign but terrifyingly kinky about that look.

"Mm, she's good," he said.

"Guys just enjoy yourselves, I'm really not into this."

I turned to the living room and sat myself next to sleeping Deman. TV on, beer in hand, I started hearing more giggles from both Joe and the girl. There was some movement, some bed squeaks, some moaning sounds. More movement, more sounds. What torture. Is she a bitch? Yes she is. No she isn't. She is just free to pursue her pleasures. What an asshole friend. Or maybe not. Maybe it was all my fault. Easy come easy go. Never get attached to anything, to any situation. I was silently addressing sleeping Deman. I would not do that to a friend though... But what does it matter. I am an idiot. It is all so petty. This is the nature of the beast. Don't play the game if you're not up for it.

I felt a bit weak. More sounds. Amplified with imagination, especially that I was blind to what was going on. No one to blame but the situation. Or myself. Why did I let him in. Blame it on logistics? At least I had a go with her first. Why are they taking so much time.

I gulped some more beer. I was a hostage of a situation of my own making. Did I allow myself to be deluded, to think I was special? That something about me in particular she liked? Or is the pursuit of pleasure, unbridled pleasure in its purest raw form, a virtue that rises above the self? It is all about the experience huh... I am just a replaceable tool. Am I being the idiot again - the floor mat of my own house?

I was that restless cat in the room when Vishnu was having sex with the older lady. Unlike the cat though, who had felt that something different was going on between those other alien beings, but was nevertheless ignorant, blissfully ignorant, I was not. I wish I was. I was enlightened to that something and my enlightenment meant my suffering.

I smoked a cigarette and occupied myself completely with it, as if smoking it was a special, delicate task I was to give my utmost attention: I worked hard at perfecting those smoke rings; one rising up, blurring out, vanishing, another one rising up... But the cigarette ended too soon. I double checked that my good friend Deman was restfully sleeping. Then I focused, and as if in a possessed manner, on the close-by corner of the living room, and noticed how messy it was. So I meticulously started tidying it, trying my best not to make much noise. Then I couldn't take it anymore and remembered the pledge I had taken upon myself.

"I have a good idea. Why don't you two continue what you're doing somewhere else? I need my bed!" I don't know what took over me but I stood there facing the copulating couple like a statue. Up until that day, I had never kicked anyone out of my home. That was one thing, an unspoken code of conduct, so ingrained in the culture I grew up in, that the mere mention of such a notion was unheard of, beyond shame, simply incomprehensible.

Perhaps I felt bad, perhaps a little guilty, but when I laid my head on my bed after they left and after changing the sheets, I couldn't imagine any other action I could have taken. I guess it was about this thing they call respect. I knew very well that if I had not done this, I would have had an agonizing conflict between my ego and alter ego. My head was overcharged but my action finally made me feel good and I was so ready for sleep.

Unfortunately, Deman started snoring again, and louder than ever.

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I am walking on the stage and the crowds are applauding. Enthusiastic applause! I take a bow respectfully. The crowd settles in. Now complete quietness. Stillness. Anticipation. I turn around and face the magnificent symphony orchestra. The violinists, violists, cellists, contrabassists are in my immediate front, then behind them the flutists, oboists, bassoonists, clarinets, and further behind them the French horns, trombonists, trumpeters, tuba players then timpanists and percussionists. All in order. All ready.

I look at them confidently. They have this dignified look on their faces. I eye them again from left to right. All are awaiting my sign, for the commanding movement of the stick in my right hand. Now I pluck it upwards and the solemn, pure sound of the flute plays a long, sustained, soft note that is gently answered by the oboe, and thus the piece takes off, carrying us on the back of a bird's song to the depths of sweet spring.

I look at the strings section and nod my head pleasurably. They understand. That family joins in and brings richness and warmth to that beautiful overarching flute note. The flute and bassoon flirt with each other in musical contrary motion but the flute always returns to that one note.

I am floating in the air now. I am intoxicated on this cloud of beauty. What genius, heart filled melody. I look at the three cellists to indicate to them the start of another musical phrase where they are to take the lead. They are all women. Naked women with cellos between their wide open legs. The cellos' waists are squeezed between those bare creamy white thighs and only the toes are touching the ground while the rest of the feet are arched upwards. I look at the violinists, flutists, brass section—all are naked women. The sound coming out of the cellos hugged by the legs of these women now starts getting louder and louder. These cellist women are playing their instrument with magnificent force, grinding the bows on the strings churning abrupt, staccato notes. The friction from the grinding bows causes smoke and sparks to fly off the strings.

Each of the naked women with legs wide open but the rest unrevealed by the body of the cello, each is holding her cello from its neck and dancing her body against the cellos' main body, moving her body like a wave, making sexual love to her instrument. The brass women in the middle section go into a crescendo. The breasts of the girl playing timpani swing from side to side as she bangs on her instrument in frenzy. More and more naked women are playing trombones, moving the slides back and forth, back and forth, in and out harder, more aggressively, violently. There are breasts everywhere, curves, hips, sweat dripping down thighs. All are playing to a fortissimo, louder and louder. So much air is coming out of the bell opening of these trombones. The force is overwhelming. I am no longer able to hold my position, to stay standing in my spot. The musical orgy is out of control.

The explosive wind off the trombones blasts me off the stage.

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The dream, the sought-after liberation, the reveled sexual freedom, sexual self-actualization transfigured into a fluttery, frail leaf blown by the slightest wind...