Chapter 5 - Dryhumping On An Air Mattress

Chapter 5 - Dryhumping On An Air Mattress

A Chapter by Oscar Blomqvist
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It took Mikael approximately two seconds after the ball was once more in play, to scream “F**k him, f**k him in the a*s!!” as one of his teammates tried to steal the ball. Two f*****g seconds.

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I may have quit basketball, but there are many stories to be told about the eight years I spent with that team. I’ve been to many training camps in my life. For a few years, my entire basketball club went to Åland, the biggest island in the Finnish archipelago in the sea between Stockholm and Helsinki, where they only speak Swedish, and neither Finland nor Sweden nor anyone else are allowed to have any soldiers or military facilities. 


You see, the population of Åland wanted to be a part of Sweden because we’re so much better at everything. But the Finnish government wouldn’t let them. Having no military on the islands was a part of the compromise that was made. My basketball club rented a group of cabins for us to live in, and it was an all-around idyllic experience.


One of the last years we were there, one guy disappeared for the entire night. Adrian, a 6’8 skinny b***h with arms like a Tyrannosaurus Rex and hands like a child, however phallically gifted with a metal rod in his pants, snuck out at night to sleep in one of the girls’ cabin. He said they didn’t do anything too dirty, but I’m quite sure he has a number of sexually transmitted diseases at this point since this wasn’t the last time that he fucked someone while at camp. 


Adrian once said that he wanted to be a pornstar. He was comfortable in his own skin, to say the least. The girls would come over to our cabin and they noted that I had big shoes, which they said they liked in boys. I think you know what they actually meant. 


I didn’t make a pass at them because I wasn’t sure my shoes were that big if you know what I mean, and also, I’ve always struggled to see why any girl would be interested in me. When Adrian came back in the morning, we promptly held him down and waxed his very hairy legs with duct tape. For context, it was quite common that teams had to get up early and run in the forest for staying up past bedtime. Adrian might very well have gotten us all into trouble.


My best friend on that Nybacka team was a guy called Edvin. He was short but he had a massive penis, it was like a baby's arm. Well actually, he was so short that it was about as big as his own arm. He was about 5’6, but he was dense like a goblin. He didn’t look like a goblin, he was actually quite handsome, I’m sure he would’ve been quite the Casanova had he not been the height of a hobbit. 


I’m comfortable admitting that his dick was bigger than mine, even though he was a foot shorter, then again, I’m a grower, not a shower so I never really knew for sure. But while other guys were embarrassed about being small, he was embarrassed about being disproportionately massive, he would try to cover it up with his tiny hands in the showers, and everyone who saw it were surprised and jealous.


After a few years, it became too expensive to take the boat to Åland and rent a small village to live in, so the switch was made to Halmberg, which was a few hours’ bus ride northwards and, as, during every tournament, we slept on air mattresses on classroom floors. For an entire week. One day in the classroom in Halmberg, we were playing cards. 


In a surprising turn of events, I sat between Jeppe and Borgström while they were discussing levels of blackness. Jeppe had just screamed out loud like a pig about to get its neck cut open when I took a card from André that had just been in his pants. I quickly threw the card away in order to seem normal. I had seen the Greek’s package, it wasn’t that horrifying. 


But apparently, it’s customary to be afraid of another person’s ball sweat. I’ve never really seen the point of that. It’s not like I was about to lick his balls, or my hands for that matter, I was not taking the card and then immediately licking my fingers. What’s the big deal?? Borgström, the adopted Bahaman, thought this as good a time as any to discuss skin color.


“I’m like a nice chocolatey color, but Jeppe you’re like a blue-negro.” I had never before come in contact with such a term, that someone could be so black they were bordering on navy. I felt like sinking through the floor since my cemented whiteness meant that even a breath during this conversation would be worse than any speech by Hitler. 


Jeppe said that since he was from Bangladesh, he was an Asian/Indian type of black and the typical blue-negro originated from central and southern Africa. I stared into the wall while keeping my mouth shut, trying not to breathe. Because, and this may be obvious, but it really only is okay to refer to someone as a so-called “blue-negro,” if you yourself are black. 


And I am undoubtedly the farthest away from black you could possibly be. Whenever I tried to be cool, Borgström would call me a “f*****g Swede,” showing me that I should never attempt anything like that ever again. 


Being called a “f*****g Swede” didn’t bother me at all. I was Swedish. He was entirely correct. But for me to call him a “f*****g Bahaman” or anything ever suggesting anything derogatory about his ethnicity or anything of the sort, would of course be horrific. On the other hand, something derogatory about his personality would not only be acceptable, it would be about f*****g time. 


I loved the dude, but he could be a bit much sometimes. We had a captain who was supposed to keep us in check, but he wasn’t chosen because he was mature, or had any authority, he was chosen because he had the smallest penis. Or it may have been because he was the one who pulled people together to work out all the time. 


Peter was the guy who replaced Henrik as captain as Henrik fell further and further from the top of the team as he got more and more injuries and excess pounds under his belt. Peter was a natural leader but would struggle to keep us in check, especially since he was the one who suggested we escape the confines of our camp classroom in the middle of the night. 


He showed off his leadership skills by being the first one who banged on a window in the surrounding neighborhood and pulled down his pants and bent over for the amusement of an old couple watching television. You could say he was the captain of the team, but also the captain of mischief.


Borgström had some uncontrollable anger issues, worse than my own in fact. Once during a game, he got fouled out after five questionable calls from the referee, or at least that’s the way he saw it. I often got fouled out too, but I found it somewhat comforting to sit down on the bench, knowing there was nothing more I could do about the end result. 


After all, I had already inflicted maximum damage on the opposing team without anyone calling the police. A good day at the office, so to speak. Borgström had a different approach. One game when he got fouled out, he tore apart his shirt, left the gym, and kicked through a glass door. 


He cut up most of his calf, lost a lot of blood, and had to be taken to hospital. Kevin, one of my teammates who was a skinny dickhead who liked critiquing people’s pushups despite weighing about as much as a twig, came back from the corridor crying. I didn’t even go to have a look. It wasn’t gonna help anyone. 


Borgström liked profanities and struggled to understand instructions, or just disregarded them. During one practice, a lot of genital curse words were flying through the air. Jeppe stopped the practice and said that if he heard any more of that, there would be hell to pay. 


It took Mikael approximately two seconds after the ball was once more in play, to scream “F**k him, f**k him in the a*s!!” as one of his teammates tried to steal the ball. Two f*****g seconds. You can imagine what happened next. We ran. A lot. 


Borgström would also happily proclaim that any referee he thought was inferior was shipped here in a box of bananas. When he would get called out for it, he would say: “What!? I was also shipped here in a box of bananas, there's nothing wrong with being shipped in a box of bananas!” He liked to play the black card, Borgström did. I can't blame him. 


However, I doubt he was shipped here in a box of bananas. If he was, we really need to look over how we do adoption in this otherwise brilliant country. I once saw Borgström pull back his foreskin and put tiger balm on the head of his penis, and for those of you who don’t know what tiger balm is, it’s basically solid pepper spray, at least when you put it on your dick or your eyeball. 


It’s supposed to heal you unless you’re an idiot. Unsurprisingly, Borgström put it both on his penis and on his eyeball. And what’s even less surprising than that is that he did it for a f*****g chocolate bar. Peter then smelled his underwear for a piece of candy. I doubt his nostrils have ever been the same since Borgström was not an avid showerer.


Briggs was undoubtedly the worst player on the team that was a year older than us. However, we had some things in common. The ability to properly appreciate a view, for instance. During one week in Halmberg, some guys from the team born in 1993 decided to skip the usual school dinner and go get some pizzas. 


When they got back, Briggs found a way up on the roof of the school and decided to enjoy his culinary masterpiece as the sun was setting over the town. To me, that sounded absolutely amazing. I loved rooftops. Not only to jump off of but to appreciate views from. However, the majority opinion was that it was strange as all hell. 


They started calling him “Briggs on the roof.” Everyone thought it was so weird that he went up on the roof to eat his pizza. Maybe because he did it alone. Teenagers think being okay with being alone is something so incredibly alien. It drove me f*****g nuts. Having pizza on the roof seemed like a great f*****g idea. I should’ve done that. I would’ve joined him had it not been social suicide.


Unsurprisingly, I was a bit of a late bloomer when it came to the ladies, which of course meant that whenever someone showed any interest in me, I was completely and utterly oblivious. One night the first year we went to Halmberg, we were playing cards and some of the girls from the 1995 team decided to join. 


Joel, one of my teammates, was slightly above average height, he had been playing for a longer time than I had, but I quickly surpassed him since I was so gargantuan that just a little skill would get me more playing time. When I wasn’t the tallest, I was the heaviest, which helped, except for when running was necessary. 


Anyway, Joel had a thing with a girl on the 95-team, and while he was sitting in the middle of our classroom telling a captured, focused audience about his romantic escapades in the restroom for disabled persons which provided some extra space, I’m pretty sure she was doing the exact same thing in the girls’ classroom. 


So later, when we were sitting there playing cards, there was a little bit of sexual tension in the air, hormones flying across the room. All of a sudden, I realized that one of the girls was staring at me. I knew she shared her first name with my mom, which was unfortunate since my mom drove me crazy. 


I knew that she had, or was recovering from, cancer, there was a small circular shape poking out from under her skin on her chest that had something to do with killing it.

“What is it?” I said after a while, a bit annoyed.

“What, I can’t look at you?” She said. It took me about three months to realize that she might have enjoyed looking at me, regardless of how insane that may seem. 


It may sound pathetic, but the truth is that with my experience of hanging out with other people my own age upon till that point, I assumed that she was looking for something to mock. The possibility that she found me good-looking didn’t even cross my mind. She was quite good-looking too, with actual b***s and everything. 


Sadly, three months later when I had this epiphany, the staring had ceased. She survived the cancer. I know because I’ve done some healthy internet stalking. Shows an awful amount of cheek on social media. Did say awful? I meant glorious. The kind of cheek I’m talking about sure is daring and bold, but it doesn’t have anything to do with what comes out of her mouth or a particular side of her face. 


You know exactly what I mean, you dirty f***s. A*s. I don’t think of what could’ve been, because I don’t think it could’ve been anything at all. To be diplomatic about it, I don’t think she ever looked for guys with any kind of inner darkness and quite frankly, I think she didn’t have enough of that quality herself to not bore me once you’ve realized that a person’s physical assets are not everything. Which I assume takes less than 20 minutes.


Adrian at least knew when girls wanted the D. In Halmberg, he skipped one of the practice sessions to f**k a virgin. Or at least that’s what he told us. The thing is, he stayed in the classroom we all slept in the entire time. Which meant the girl had to take a bus into town and climb through a window to lose her virginity to this guy. Was she just incredibly desperate to have a dick inside of her, or how much f*****g game does this guy f*****g have? 


I mean, I saw his dingle dangle more than once, and sure, it’s majestic, but that can’t be it. It has to be f*****g magic. What does he do with it? Does he cum ice cream? When he’s about to finish, does he just make a milkshake in her mouth with his dick? Does he have different flavors in there? Can the girl pick the one she wants? There has to be something magical about a dick for a girl to go through that much effort to f**k a guy.


That first year, on the last night in Halmberg, the guys felt like going out on the town even though we should have been in bed. Not wanting to be the guy who has to answer the question of where the f**k everybody is when the coach comes knocking, I went with them, even though my entire teenage rebel phase consisted of rolling my eyes at teachers when I had locked myself in the bathroom. 


After mooning people who were watching TV, almost getting in a fight with some local boys who didn’t believe we were from the village even though we did our best attempts at their ridiculous accents, it was of course time for Borgström to take a s**t on the soccer pitch. He did it right in the middle, he wiped himself with some leaves and then we went to bed. 


Next year, we’re in the same place, we’re egging houses, skinny dipping, and you guessed it, taking a dump on the soccer pitch. But those b******s had learned their lesson from last year and locked the gate. No worries, just lean against the gate, it’s practically a toilet seat. This time it wasn’t Borgström, but Joel who did the honors. 


He wasn’t as comfortable shitting in front of people, so he asked us to leave for a few minutes. When he came around the corner of the swimming pool next to the soccer pitch, he had indeed just pooped, and he too had wiped his butt with a leaf. 


When you were in the middle of it all, it all seemed normal, but when I quit all sports and became a regular, ordinary person again, and looked upon it from an outside perspective, I realize that none of that was f*****g normal. Running around in tiny Halmberg in the middle of the night and shitting on a soccer pitch is not something a sane person would do.


During most of these nightly excursions, I would separate myself from the group and walk around listening to music. While everyone else seemed to enjoy the adrenaline, it just made me anxious. Whenever I would come across my teammates, they would always think what I was doing was the strangest thing they had ever seen.


“GOING FOR A WALK?! ALONE?! BY YOURSELF?!!!!!! WHY!??? OH MY GOD, WHYYYY?!!!” Their tiny minds were blown. I had never understood the pushback against spending time alone. The problem with walking alone is that you’ll never meet anyone else that is alone. Because lonely people generally don't go outside. 


Probably because they don't want to be seen alone because it's embarrassing. Not because it actually is embarrassing but because everyone else seems to think it is. In your teens, everyone is so dependent on each other. 


If someone sees you doing something, they will ask what you’re doing and when you have told them what you are doing, they will ask: “ALONE!?!?!??!!” Using the same tone as if they were actually asking: “You orally pleasured an elephant!?! What!?!?!? Why!? How!?”

“Well, the elephant was an orphan, I had to cheer him up somehow, what was I supposed to do?” 


And the reason that they ask you that with the most accusatory tone possible is more often than not because they hate themselves more than anything in the world, and so they can’t stand to be alone for more than two seconds at a time. 


They are in that very moment struggling to understand how anyone could ever spend any extended period of time alone without succumbing to the urge of popping about eighteen sleeping pills. 


If you can live with yourself, loneliness isn't something you endure, it's something you come to enjoy, however, if you hate yourself, surrounding yourself with people can be a nice distraction. Everyone seems to be so scared of loneliness while I throughout my life have most often enjoyed it.


It has been proven to me time and again, that 20 teenage boys living together in a classroom for an extended period of time can get a bit much. I’m a big guy, so I had a rather big blow-up bed for sleeping in these classrooms. And I’ll tell you this, I never thought I would have to utter these words in this order, but it is weird walking into a classroom with all the chairs and tables pushed back, only to find seven guys dry-humping on your bed. 


There has to be a giant surplus of hormones for a guy who’s being dry-humped in the a*s to at the same time be fake blowing his teammate to the left. Every single time I left my bed five guys would scramble onto it in their underwear just to grind against each other’s genitals. I spent a lot of time together with these guys tournaments and training camps all over Sweden, and never in my life have I seen so much dry-humping. 


Either this group of guys had an unusually high gay percentage or they were all just really sexually frustrated. Borgström would just masturbate in the middle of the classroom we were sleeping in, but because of the way he usually acted, when you walked past his bed and realized that Wow, he’s really going for it, you remembered what he was usually like, and then it all made perfect sense. 


Kevin was lying next to him holding a phone with porn in front of his face like they’re were going to take a selfie together. Only he wasn’t really focusing on the phone he was holding, he was focusing more on Borgström’s hand moving up and down, up and down.


Back in Åland when we lived in tiny cabins, my cabin was thankfully not the dry-humping cabin, but the other one most certainly was. Which made it rather hilarious when they had left the lights on a bit too late one evening and at least three coaches walked into their cabin and found them in the middle of a semi-clothed-pseudo-gangbang. 


They had to get up at six the next morning for a 5-mile run as a result. For staying up past bedtime. Not for dry-humping each other. Because that would be sexual discrimination. Remember kids, dry hump all you want. But stay up past bedtime, and you’re fucked. Figuratively. You’ll have to do it literally in your own time.


I’ve always done things for the wrong reasons. I never played sports to have fun, to make friends, or to stay healthy. I played sports to get to the NHL or the NBA, and get paid a lot of money, and win the big titles, like the Stanley Cup. Not necessarily because I always wanted to play, but because that is what I thought I should strive for. 


Regardless of what the goal was or why I was trying to get there. I didn’t enjoy being a soccer goalkeeper, but I could see myself as the second goalkeeper in Real Madrid. I wouldn’t have to play, but I could sit on the bench, watch some great soccer, and get paid a lot doing it. It didn’t make any sense, but since when do things have to make sense? Sense slows you down. Don’t think, just do. You’ll get there quicker, ya loser.


Quitting basketball was difficult because I lost my identity. I lost my answer to the question: “So what do you like to do?” The teenage version of “So what do you do for a living?” Basketball was basic, it was easy, it was good. It helped me to fit in when my struggles to do just that was immense and never-ending. Now I had nothing. 


Sports had been my thing since I was seven years old, and now it was all gone. I was nothing. I wasn't good enough at YouTube yet. If I said that I made videos, they would be able to have a look, realize I sucked, and laugh at my embarrassing numbers of views and subscribers. 


I could say that I write, but what I write is this, and I'm never going to show this to anyone, except a publisher who hopefully publishes it without anyone I know noticing. Hopefully, the only readers will be a bunch of strangers who will never personally know my quirks and my dad's short fuse. 


Even though it didn't define me, I had been a basketball player. And it wasn't embarrassing, I was good at it. That's how I introduced myself to people, it made me seem normal. It was how others introduced me because it was what they knew. They didn't know about the long walks I took alone or the fact that the only person I connected with in elementary school was my teacher.


“Hi, my name is Oscar and I'm not like anyone else, I don't fit in anywhere, and we probably won't be friends because that's what happened with the last few hundred people that I've said hello to.” Yeah, that'll work, that'll make me a f*****g star. 


I've been forced to say “I used to play basketball,” a few times because somehow that's better than silence or the lonely walks in the dark. It gets you through the day without you having to say too much, it gets you home to your laptop and your video games and your TV shows with all the people you imagine yourself being friends with. 


It was hard, not knowing how long it would take before you felt comfortable with yourself. I’ll probably never feel entirely comfortable in my own skin, but back then I didn’t even feel comfortable in my own personality. 


Even today, I don’t have a close group of friends around me because I’ve moved around between schools, teams, and now countries, but back then I didn’t know that my people were out there. Now I do.


This is what I wrote about that conundrum back then, all those years ago before I had found some of my people: I can keep saying “Well they have to be somewhere,” forever, but that’s not going to make my loneliness any lighter. God that sounds pathetic. I’ve never been to a concert. 


It’s because of a combination of not having any friends and not having any friends. People often say that they don’t have any friends in order to put themselves down. I never say that because of the embarrassing reality of it all. 


I mean, I like being alone, but I’ve had enough now. By normal teenage standards, I’ve had enough loneliness for a lifetime. I would like to start living now, whatever that means. But I’m having problems finding out how that is going to happen. 


It’s so hard to time and time again when people ask what I’m gonna do this weekend to say I’ve got nothing going on and to make it sound like this is a rare occurrence and not every single weekend. And my sister Clara told her friends how great my life is. HER F*****G FRIENDS!!!!! IS SHE F*****G BLIND?!?!?!?!?!?! 


This was when I had come home from university in London for the first time. She said something that made me ask her: “Do you talk about me with your friends?”

“Yeah, just about how ambitious you are and how great your life is.” How great my life is? Has she completely lost her mind? What about my life is great? 


I guess knowing what you want to do in life so you can pick what you want to study at university is better than most people at nineteen years of age. But still, most nineteen-year-olds are probably happier working in a grocery store than I would be anywhere. Actually, scratch that. Millennials are the most miserable s***s on the planet.


I would find them eventually, my people. I found them in London, I found them in the US, I found them all over the world. But it took much longer than I would’ve liked, and now they’re spread out over the globe so I can’t really see them that often. But it’s okay, at least I found them. I know they’re there. Back then I had no clue.




© 2021 Oscar Blomqvist


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Oscar Blomqvist
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Added on February 7, 2021
Last Updated on February 7, 2021
Tags: basketball, young adult, new adult, sex, friendships, novel, mental health, identity


Author

Oscar Blomqvist
Oscar Blomqvist

Charlottesville, VA



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I wrote a story. I think it's actually rather good, or at least okay. I thought I would post it here. Let me know what you think - [email protected] more..

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