Chapter 23 – Being Taught Basic Human Decency By A Homophobe

Chapter 23 – Being Taught Basic Human Decency By A Homophobe

A Chapter by Oscar Blomqvist

I've been on many dates, but I still haven't made out with anyone. How do you f*****g make it happen? I'm sorry, but it seems impossible. Do you bribe them or something? Is prostitution the answer?


I didn't become the class clown until university. To be honest, I wasn’t really the class clown at university either, we had a bunch of other idiots for that, but something did change. One time, we were watching a Louis Theroux documentary about the Westboro Baptist Church in class, and of course one of these human equivalents of ingrown pubic hairs had a sign which said SWEDEN ANAL GAY SATAN HELL or something along those lines, you know what they are like. There were three Swedes in the class at this point, but out of us three, I was sitting closest to the front and also had somehow ended up with the highest-profile in the class out of us three fairly low-profile people. 

So, I took it upon myself to defend the great ANAL GAY SATAN HELL country that Sweden truly is. So I said, rather loudly: “OH YEAAAAAAAAH,” like the pitcher of Kool-Aid bursting through walls in Family Guy. It pulled down a respectable amount of laughter, even from the mid-fifties teacher, who of course was sitting right next to me. I have no idea where this confidence came from. Maybe it was from being part of an actual group of friends for the first time in my life and the gentle ribbing that occurred came from a point of mutual liking, something I had rarely been privy to until that point in my life.

At this time, when I was about 20 years old, I grew into the childishness I had never experienced as a child, and I embraced it. Although, like the nerd that I am, my version of being childish included high levels of productivity. I started several web series’ where I made fun of the news and said many, many silly, horrific things on camera and put them on the internet for any future employer with the wherewithal to google me to see. So far, not a single one has mentioned my videos to me which makes me think even though employers say they google people, they don’t.

I’ve always been bad at relaxing. I’ve done a lot of it, but haven’t gotten the enjoyment out of it that I think you should. There was even a time that I thought I was struggling to procrastinate. Creating things became procrastination. Then of course procrastination became me doing absolutely nothing because I was too scared to create anything because the fantasies in my head of how things should be and how things should turn out were soooo comfortable. They still are. 

There was a time when I didn’t play video games, I didn’t watch TV, sifting through the internet for weird, cool, and dirty things to peruse became less and less entertaining until it was just frustrating and I closed my only browser tab before it was even done loading. I should have been creating, and I was creating, but I felt like it would never live up to my daydreams because reality couldn’t stand a chance. It still can’t, but I’m more okay with it now. Reality is still far from my daydreams, but it’s less garbage now so I can stay in it for longer without freaking out.

One of the girls in the class for the two years I was in it before heading off to the states, became so comfortable around me that she put her feet in my lap when we were just hanging out and drove her hand through my hair as she passed behind me in the classroom when she arrived late for class. I’ll admit, I melted like a f*****g popsicle. At the Christmas party in first year, I spent most of the time in a happy, satisfied daze because I had successfully asked out a tall Norwegian girl in the class above at the beginning of the party. She was a stunner and I can’t believe she said yes. 

Thinking about it, I’ve never actually had a girl say no to me. They wouldn’t sleep or make out with me, but they would go out with me. Anyway, subdued by alcohol and the feeling of accomplishment, I barely noticed my classmate using the heel on her stilettos to make a mark on my arm. I didn’t say anything. “He likes it!” She exclaimed thinking she had outed me as some kind of BDSM aficionado. Jeez, I just didn’t say anything. Chill. Of course, I did rather like it. So sue me.

The first year of university was an onslaught of questions that you really don’t want to answer when you’re trying to fit into new circumstances and a new group of people, especially if that’s something that you’ve failed to do so far in your life and thusly grown up as a loner. That’s right, it’s questions about SEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX. 

I assume you had figured that out by now. The for some so easily acquired, or at least it seems that way from the outside, had for me so far proved stunningly elusive. One of my friends once asked me if I had ever had sex. I said yes. I’ve always been a great liar. You become rather good at it after having lied so often as to not reveal what a pathetic, lonely life you lead. It would be cooler to have to be a great liar to cover up a number of gruesome murders you committed.

Sex is the most important thing you can do as a teenager, and if you haven’t done it, then you’re fucked. Sadly, only figuratively. Being literally fucked is preferable. I wasn't desperate for it to happen, I really thought jerking off was okay. However, that didn't remove the public insecurities about never having done the dance with no pants.

“Hey Oscar, how many girls have you banged?”

“57…57 and three quarters.”

“What's the three quarters?”

“...A midget.”

“A midget!?”

“Well, she was 5'2 which I guess technically isn't a midget but it felt like it to me.”

“Because she could suck your dick standing up?”

“...Yes.” This conversation of course never happened but it captures how ridiculous I felt while maneuvering this subject while my insides were exploding with anxiety. It was like being eaten alive from the inside. The desperation never went further than lying alone in my bed thinking to myself You know what would be nice? A human with tits in my bed.

This might seem obvious, but let’s ask the question: Why did I lie? The answer is that if I told the truth if I chose to give an answer that was out of the ordinary, everything would stop and focus on me. Being almost 20 and not having fucked yet is not that unusual. But admitting it in front of people very much is. And quite frankly I didn't feel like talking about it. I would have to explain why and it would be awkward but moreover, their perception of me would change. 

I would go from the funny guy with the dirty jokes to the giant virgin. Because what mandate do I have to tell sex jokes if I've only had sex with myself? Over and over and over and over again. I love myself, but I don't believe girls want to have sex with me. Because I'm a bit chubby. And just generally massive. But if I somehow got hot, they probably would. I'm not complaining, because I'm the exact same way. I only want to f**k girls I find attractive and they tend to be out of my league. Or at least what I perceive to be way out of my league. 

Maybe if I had the balls to approach them, they wouldn’t be. Who knows? And it's awful. Because all I do is confirming to the stereotype. I'm even picky when it comes to porn. How can one pair of bouncing tits be different from another pair of bouncing tits? They're just bouncing tits. That's all they are. But it still matters which one I look at when I finish. 

The purpose of jerking off is to make yourself cum, how you cum is less important until you're actually about to cum. Then how, when, where and while watching what becomes vastly important. And I don't know why. It's just weird. But why did I lie about not having had sex? Well, another reason was that I was studying journalism which means every f****r in that class was a gossiping, twittering douchebag. The pictures of me passed out on the ground after a bit too much vodka spread like wildfire. I didn't want the fact that I had never pushed my penis into a vagina to do the same. And now I’m writing about it. I’m aware that it seems counterproductive.

One of those nights, when the question was asked, for a split second I was almost about to just let go and be honest. It would be a long spiel which no one either felt like hearing or had the time to listen to. And I didn’t really feel like telling it, at least not in that environment. Instead, I kept up the façade and kept lying. But I thought I could give that spiel now, away from all those prying eyes. Okay, here goes.

I lied because I didn’t want to talk about it. I make all these sex jokes, not from experience, because I don’t have any, but to make you guys laugh and that’s kind of the point, I guess. I haven’t gotten laid because I had trouble making friends as a kid. I was picked on, and it got better, but it followed me into my teens. I played sports a lot, mostly basketball, but that wouldn’t have stopped me from going to any house parties and do some illegal drinking and chatting up some ladies to bang. I simply didn’t have any parties to go to. 

And because I didn’t go to any parties, I didn’t meet any drunk girls, hence I didn’t get laid. There was a girl who made it obvious she liked me, but it took me by surprise and I shook her off, quite literally. I didn’t realize I liked her too, until a few months later when I was lying alone in my bed. That happened at least three more times. But I never took the chance. I should have done, or maybe not. I wouldn’t say I have body issues, but I have never been completely comfortable with the fact that no matter how much I exercised, my belly wouldn’t go away. I recently started eating differently to see if something might happen. 

I know what you’re thinking, sure I’m not that big, but guys I might be 6’6 and that’s great, but to some that is freakishly tall. I’ve always been a bit overweight. By now I’ve lost about 30 pounds, but I don’t see any difference when I look in the mirror. No matter what kind words you throw at me, I’ve heard them all, you can’t get around the fact that there are parts of me that aren’t very attractive. 

So I wasn’t all too eager to pull my shirt off during basketball practice like everyone else, especially like this Greek guy who suddenly got fit because puberty decided not to screw him over, and suddenly he almost always insisted on his team being skins all the f*****g time, like an a*s. 

Like so many other ab-obsessed teenage boys he used to pull up his shirt and pat himself on his magically no longer flabby tummy. I’m still in the same place I started. But it doesn’t bother me anymore. I know it should bother me, that I haven’t shoved my dick into a vagina or even my tongue down someone’s throat. That should be a source of great anxiety for a 20-year-old guy. But it isn’t. At least not in my own head. 

And I’m enjoying the fact that it isn’t bothering me. Guess what? Jerking off is okay. It really is. I’m kind of regretting being this honest because your perception of me has now changed forever. But just because I haven’t embedded my entire fist in a screaming girl, it doesn’t mean I can’t make jokes about it. Right?

End of spiel. Thanks for reading.

There have been many a time where I simply failed to act like a normal human. Jenson was a good-looking, muscular guy in my university class, but he also seemed to have been sheltered from the outside world. In his case, the concept of the okayness of being gay seemed very foreign to him. He once told the story of the initiation process of the university’s rugby team where the newbies were shut in between two soccer goals and forced to drink a bottle of vodka each before they were let out. Oh, and they were naked. For some reason, Jenson put great emphasis on this not being gay. The fact that he needed to be sure that the rest of us didn’t even entertain the possibility of this “being gay,” of course pissed me right off. 

In regards to bisexuality, he also asked “Is it true?” as in “Is it real?” Yeah. I know. He quickly retracted the question when he saw my reaction but he did actually ask us if bisexuality was a real thing. Oh boy. I thought about sticking my tongue in his mouth to communicate the concept of bisexuality but decided against it. It probably would not have ended well. When Jenson told me that he had been with his girlfriend for six years, I was silent struggling to come up with something to say. “Just say congratulations,” Jenson said. I never realized that was even an option. I can’t believe I was taught basic human decency by a homophobe who doubted the existence of bisexuals.

Men’s problem with feminism is in the end very simple. They feel excluded when women talk about women with other women and they think Hey! When does my penis finally become relevant???

In order to attend an event on gender equality, I once had to write a short essay based on the following questions: What actions have you taken to advance gender equality? In 500 words or less, submit your personal story of impact. Since I had nothing better to do one Thursday evening, I wrote the following and submitted it:

I question the linguistic decisions of my male friends when talking about women on an almost daily basis. It’s been gradual, but since their use of derogatory expressions has been quite fragrant and frequent, my questioning has increased in both regularity and vigor. Allow me to give you a few examples. A few months ago, I came home from a date (it didn’t go anywhere but it was still nice), and the first thing my roommate asked me was if we got on. Which is a fair question. The second wasn’t.

“So, did she have nice tits and a*s?” Sigh. I immediately questioned the relevancy of these attributes ahead of any attributes of the mind at which point he contested that his first question had been if we got on or not. Which was true, but I made clear that didn’t make his instantaneous objectification suddenly fine and dandy. This is the same man who constantly astonishes me by being quite feminine and very male at the same time. Loves to cook, loves interior design, and way too emotional than can possibly be considered to be healthy, he once asked me if I wanted to go to the pub with him and his female friends from home using the phrase “Wanna meet some pussssssaaaayyyy!?!?” Let’s just say I taught him a lesson on how to not allow your libido to make you into a misogynistic a*****e after that one.

For some reason, one of my other friends chose to tell the story of how he and some of his old friends were discussing what makes a good “clunge,” during a lecture at university. Being a foreigner, I asked what he meant by “clunge.” After being informed that it’s slang referring to a girl’s downstairs area, I jokingly, slightly sarcastically, asked why they didn’t use the more cheerful moniker of “vajayjay.” He said it sounded too gay. I said there’s nothing wrong with being gay. (We argue about that a lot, he doesn’t think it’s anything wrong with it, but the way he picks his words tells a different story). 

He said it sounded too… feminine. I said there’s nothing wrong with being feminine. He flustered for a bit and then the professor started talking again. But I get it, he plays rugby and uses the word “lad” a lot. Lad culture basically being a load of preppy guys issuing rape threats, it makes me sad I’m no longer a part of the world of sport if only to question all the laddish tomfoolery. (Although if I remember correctly, showering with a bunch of other guys towel whipping each other is actually quite gay. But there you are).

Last Friday I was at the student union bar with a couple of mates. One of them was constantly pulling his phone out of the pocket of his “meggings” (male leggings), texting different girls, calling them babe but only typing “b” and saying that he “looooooooooooooved them.” Today’s youth is driving me up the wall, despite the fact that I’m part of it. He kept referring to them with the collective term “b*****s” and jokingly said that you need to abuse them for a bit to get them into bed. I can’t remember exactly what I said (alcohol), but I can remember using the words “awful” and “horrible” quite a bit. I don’t know if I changed his mind, I doubt it, but at least I didn’t just shut up about it.

The last time I asked a girl out it was half because she could hold a conversation about politics, half because of her cleavage. I’m sorry, but I’m only human. (That didn’t go anywhere either, I think she liked me, she just had to go back to the states. Or at least that’s what I tell myself.)

Unsurprisingly, I did not get to be in the audience for the event, which was probably for the better. Here’s the origin story of the discussion about the relevancy of immediately asking “So did she have nice tits and a*s?” Enjoy.

I dated a few girls while I was studying in London. Two of them were Norwegian, one was Swedish and one was American. I liked all of them and they seemed to like me. But they didn't wanna bang me so what was the point really? I mean really? I mean, I get why they didn't want to because in terms of the beauty and the beast, I'm stuck in beast mode eight days a week, but still!

Didn't the beast get the girl?

Don't come here and ruin my brilliant analogy you asslamp. Anyway, the American was an Egyptian princess called Nona. And when I say Egyptian princess, I don’t mean princess like “Oh she’s so pretty, she’s practically a princess!” because people like that need to be shot. She was literally a princess, or at least that’s what she told me. She said that if she ever went back to Egypt, they would immediately recognize her and kidnap her and force her to be part of their royal family. The royal family they got rid of after the 1952 revolution. 

It’s either true or she’s a brilliant liar. I’m guessing she’s a brilliant liar because I briefly fell for it. It might just have been her cleavage, as it was truly spectacular. We talked about a wide variety of things, like how since she’s a Muslim, she only found out about Jesus two weeks ago, and if the holocaust happened today, the trains that would take Jews to Auschwitz would be the New York Subway, because the carts really look compatible with a futuristic holocaust. 

When I met her, she was able to talk about politics without sounding like an idiot, so I asked her out, despite massive amounts of makeup and that deep cleavage. I say despite because you wouldn’t look at her and think Oooohh, I would like to talk to her about politics, but you know what they say �" you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover �" and similarly �" you shouldn’t judge a girl by her tits. 

She was born in New Jersey but raised by Egyptian parents, which meant that she and the other women in the family had to serve the men at the table and more than anything else, her parents wanted her to marry rich and become a housewife. Oh, and she doesn’t like Jews. She felt comfortable telling me that on the second date for some reason. I didn’t know how to take it. I sort of laughed in shock and told her that’s not okay, and that she needed reforming, but in that playful accusatory voice because after all, she did have great tits. 

It was after one of our dates that my roommate Finn asked “So did she have nice tits and a*s?” Why is that priority number one!? Why!? It's irrelevant. I'm sorry, I'm joking, of course, it's important, anyone who says tits and a*s are unimportant is kidding themselves. But that shouldn't be question number one. Even if he asked me first how we got on, you just knew he was bursting to ask about her assets. 

Why do there have to be questions? I'm trying to have a sex life for the first time in my life over here and I know that seems odd because let's face it, I'm a large slice of a tasty-a*s cake. I’m obviously the kind of guy you look at and you just know: Yeah, he lost his virginity when he was seven, probably banged his first-grade teacher, cause he’s a muthafuckin’ PLAYA’. 

Meanwhile in reality, I'm a social outcast, hence I have zero sexual experience and just because people now appreciate the fact that I'm f*****g weird instead of bullying me for it, it apparently also means that in their minds I’m a champion of p***y when that couldn’t be further from the truth.

The guys I was living with in second year of university in the great city of London when all this took place were a couple of guys called Reuben and Finn. Reuben was a tiny gay man from central Manchester with a large personality and some emotional issues, including daddy ones which resulted in him never having told his father that he was gay and calling him “Charles” instead of “Dad.” 

Finn was a tall, lanky guy from a village outside Manchester with emotional issues which resulted in him becoming way too attached to whomever he was dating and almost buying a puppy whenever he was dumped. He also couldn’t fall asleep unless something bright and loud was playing in his face from the laptop in his bed, something which Reuben and I felt was deeply concerning. 

They both seemed hell-bent on being stuck in thought structures given to them by some kind of oily-chested Adonis. For example, it was unprecedented, unheard of, and completely mind-blowing, that I had been on three dates with the same girl and we hadn’t had sex yet. They made it seem apocalyptic, like not having sex on or before the third date was essentially worse than death. Why?! Who decided that?! The prime objective when I see a girl isn’t necessarily for me to put my penis in her vagina, although that would be nice and I desperately want to. Let’s not beat around the bush, of course, sex is the prime objective, but I don’t think it’s that weird if I fail to get there within a week of meeting someone. 

This point of view is apparently very foreign to men and boys my age. It got even worse when I dated a Swedish girl, the only Swede I ever dated, and I didn’t manage to get to a point where I put my tongue in her mouth. I usually asked, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it in Swedish, it just sounds too awkward. I also didn’t want to just go for it as I’m rather large and that might be terrifying and I’m also not the greatest reader of body language to know whether or not she’d be into it. I’m cautious, I like to play it safe, I ask. F**k me.

“So, have you kissed yet?” Reuben asked when I came home alone yet again one night.

“No,” I said, glum as I was.

“It's been three dates!” Reuben theatrically exclaimed towards the ceiling in a kind of exasperation that would only otherwise show itself on election nights when the Tories did well.

Oh, I'm sorry for being insecure about pushing my face into someone else's face without knowing if they want me to. The last time I did that I was eight years old, I'm a bit rusty, I thought but never said out loud. Reuben was a gossip artist of rarely seen skill and flagrancy, so one was advised to watch one’s tongue around the man.

At times in London, I was ridden by anxiety and insomnia. It crept up on me, I couldn't feel it coming. I would get into bed and it would be waiting for me or it would join me after a while, spooning me, never letting go. It was the worst kind of intimacy. Not that I had ever experienced any kind of intimacy except the kind provided by my own right hand, but still, I'm pretty sure this kind was pretty s**t. 

But I also knew that on a bigger scale, my anxiety-ridden, sleepless nights were few and whenever mom or dad asked me how I slept, I was honest, and simply said: “This is what it's like to grow up, it's a pain in the a*s.” Which was the truth after all. Or at least it was what I felt was the truth. You feel like you have no control even though you do, at least to some extent. But this knowledge didn't make me any less anxious because that's not how anxiety works, the devilish b*****d that it is. 

One of the reasons I was anxious was of course that elusive b***h: sex, intercourse, hanky panky, coitus, the dance with no pants, what have you. Collective group thinking and the inability of others to break free of stereotypes drove me nuts as I was peppered with questions about my sexual escapades. 

Ok, I wasn’t peppered with questions, but that’s what it feels like when you’ve got nothing to say and someone asks, even just once. A few times I actually was peppered. I had no idea what to do or say, I felt like I had missed vital parts of any young man’s life. 

I of course had missed vital parts of any young man’s life, otherwise, I wouldn’t be sitting here writing about what my young life has been like so far. Writing is just a substitute for years of expensive therapy sessions and maybe a way to turn this misery into a few bucks in my pocket. You, dear reader, are going to have to be my therapist. Good luck, you’re fucked.

Lily, the girl who I got put in charge of getting home on my first night in London and who spent the entire journey home casually groping me to stay upright, one day asked me if I had ever taken anyone's flower. F**k, I still had my own flower. But since she asked, I had to kinda look like a guy who gets laid, which is just hard to wrap your head around. 

I mean, why did she ask me in the first place? Do I look like a guy who takes peoples’ flowers? How does that even work?

“Excuse me, your virginity, can I have it?”

“You, yes you, you've been banged yet? No? Then come here!”

“Hey little lady, how old are you? 12? Then yoink. Thank you, young w***e.”

What does my flower look like? What is my flower? What is a flower? My flower is a rose growing resiliently behind a slaughterhouse, a rose which I have beaten with my right hand until all the pellets have fallen to the ground and died. I told Lily I hadn’t taken anyone’s flower, but I said it in a way that made it seem like I totally had slept with people who had lost their flowers already. I totally could have had several kinds of chlamydia, I was that experienced, at least in this lie I was putting forward. There was a time when I thought I would never get banged:

I'm a late bloomer in the sense that I'm still not f*****g blooming. I'll never bloom. Blooming is exclusively a privilege of those who peak early. Those who have the best years of their lives between 15 and 18 years old. They have all the sex and alcohol they want, but when adulthood finally comes knocking, they'll sag down into the puddle of s**t where they belong. If I finally come into my own in my late twenties (granted I haven't killed myself yet) it will not be me finally blooming, it will be the natural course of my genius.

Jesus f*****g Christ, I do not remember being such an angry dick about my own sexlessness. But there it is in writing, plain and clear. The incel tendencies are quite obvious. Luckily, I was able to nip that in the bud.

As previously stated, in my second year I lived with my gay classmate Reuben and an international politics student named Finn, an effeminate man who seemed gayer than Reuben, who was already quite gay. I mean, I could tell Reuben was gay within the first thirty seconds of meeting him, and my gaydar is garbage. Finn, who actually was straight, liked talking about sex, and painfully also enjoyed involving me in those conversations. Is this what it’s like to have friends? In that case, I think I might be good.

“I actually prefer handjobs to blowjobs, Oscar what do you think?” Finn said casually, looking at me with his sideways grin. Since I had yet to blow myself, I didn’t know what I preferred. The likelihood of someone else doing either to me seemed small.

“Well... I enjoy handjobs when I do it to myself other than that I wouldn't know I'm afraid…” is not what I said. I can’t actually remember what I said, but I’m sure I came up with some brilliant lie about my fictional sexual experiences.

“So, if you're Swedish, that means you've fucked a Swedish girl!” Finn exclaimed one evening.

“No comment,” I said. 

The asinine conclusion based on stereotypes I didn’t fit, and thinking blurred by testosterone and cum drove me f*****g nuts. But I had no way of letting my thoughts out without facing a barrage of questions about my youth and why I haven’t stuck my flag in any vaginas while exclaiming “FOR THE EMPIRE!!!” as I assume is custom for all British teenage boys. I would be fine with them knowing I grew up lonely and as a dork, but I didn’t want to have to spend the countless hours it required to explain that that’s also a life people lead to these close-minded fools who didn’t seem to be able to entertain the possibility that everyone hasn’t had at least twelve sexual partners by the time they’re fourteen.

“What, are they more difficult to get because they're Swedish?” Surprisingly, the questions got even more asinine.

“Why do you have to do that?”

“Do what?”

You're forcing me to lie. I'm not gonna tell you, and even if I wanted to, I wouldn't be comfortable talking about it. It's so easy to ask that question. I know that's what you want to know, it's what we all want to know about each other. But you're being the stereotypical 19-year-old guy and I know you're more than that, or at least I want you to be. We were having a great conversation with depth and meaning and you chose to drag it down to a level where the ordinary people are situated. We don't need to be here. We can stay up there. There's nothing wrong with that. It's better even. It's amazing. There's nothing wrong with being a bit elitist. Why is this so important to know? I like you enough not to lie, that is rare, f*****g appreciate it. I thought all of this inside my head, hiding the last shred of the dickishness I had managed to conceal from them so far. 

It was like they expected a person who didn’t exist to reveal themselves. I don’t think they saw me for who I actually was. I think they were blind to how my personality had been molded. I thought it was obvious to everyone that no one would end up being like me if they had had fun, social, and sexual teenage years. I was quickly finding out this was far from the case. Which was nice and incredibly frustrating.

“I'm not as cool as I seem,” I told Finn, imploring him not to ask any more questions. It was futile. He was having way too much fun torturing me while I was reliving my pointless past.

“But you are.”

“Thank you, but you have no idea what you’re talking about. The reasons I seem cool to you now, are the same reasons I am desperately trying to not have this conversation with you. I'm a nerd, a dork. I'm still the kid I was in school and that kid was ostracized for being different. I'm not ostracized anymore because suddenly being different is a good thing. And since it's a good thing people expect me to have had all these experiences just because I look like that kind of guy. But I haven’t had those experiences. I'm sorry. I'm still growing up. Mostly because people are finally allowing me to.” 

This conversation took place in a central London alley while we were waiting to join the queue to get into a club. It's almost as stupid as it sounds. We were waiting to wait. In the actual queue, I started to eyefuck a girl. Or rather, we exchanged a few glances and I thought about her tits. They were massive. She kept glancing back at me. I took the hint, despite having failed to do so for the first 20 years of my life. I quickly found her in the club ordering something, but when she walked past me, I just said “Hey.” 

At least I said something to someone in a club. That’s a first. Then an hour of glancing indecisiveness later I walked up to her, leaned in, and said “Do you mind if I dance with you for a while?” I'm a f*****g idiot. I can't dance. Something I can do, however, is sing Taylor Swift. I Knew You Were Trouble was on. I nailed that s**t to the floor, by which I mean I forgot most of the words but still moved my mouth making it look like it was dubbed into German and the sync was waaaay off. 

She was Norwegian. F**k, not again. It didn’t end well with the last one, more on that later. I knew it. I could see it. Ok, I guessed that she was Swedish, but what's the difference? And it's got nothing to do with blonde hair and blue eyes. She had brown hair and brown eyes... I think. You can just feel it. I told her I was Swedish. She heard Scottish. Has to be the rolling r’s. I took her outside so we could actually hear each other. We talked for a bit, I asked her out. Finn of course thought I made out with her on the dancefloor when I just leaned in to hear what she was saying.

“Get in there!” He screamed at me.

“Mm yes, because if they talk to me for thirty minutes that obviously means they want my dick inside them.” Wait, is that actually what it means? It's so much easier to go home alone than to try and make something happen. That’s what it means. We went out twice and had a couple of very awkward goodbyes. I didn’t even get to make out with her. 

My ability to get people to go out with me is only matched by my inability to get people to make out with me. It’s remarkable really. It’s like they see some potential in me at first, which just casually floats away as they get to know me more and more. But let’s get back to the headache-inducing conversation I was being forced to have with Finn in a piss-filled alley off Liverpool Street. Where were we? Oh yeah:

“I’m not as cool as you seem to think I am.”

“But you are!”

“Thanks, but do you even understand what you’re saying? All those hours I spent with my dad because he was my best and only friend becomes irrelevant when you say that I’m cool or won’t accept my own version of what my life has been up until this point. Sure, it’s nice, but those lonely years of being a nerd, a dork, are the most important years of my life because they made me who I am today and who I am today is the person you look upon and somehow don't see the lonely loser I used to be. When you’re twenty and haven’t had sex yet, people tend to think it’s a choice. Believe me, it’s not a choice. The fact that I have I tell myself that it's okay that it hasn’t happened yet over and over again to make sure I still think it is okay is less than amazing. You're so stuck in the sex-crazed stereotypical thinking of the teenage boy who only thinks in terms of thrusts per minute.” I of course swallowed a few of those words since I have the capability to think more than 35 seconds ahead.   

People who haven't experienced loneliness have no understanding of what it actually means. “I'm sorry that I haven't had sex in a graveyard, my social life up to this point has been about as alive as the people in a graveyard.” According to Reuben, he had had sex in a graveyard. People don't understand how you can possibly have avoided putting your penis in various people's various holes. And when you're trying to explain that you haven't had the same opportunities because you used to be a social outcast, they just say that “Nooooooo you're so cool.” Yeah well, thanks... I guess... but you just invalidated my entire life. Thanks for that... Twat. 

And since they won’t accept my answer as valid, they expect me to come up with another reason for feeling like a newbie in any social situation.

“I don't have another reason, I've told you already, I was lonely, that's it, I'm a weirdo. Why would I admit that if it wasn’t true?”


“Fine, okay, my dick is made out of porcelain, there I said it. I was born with a dick that'll break if you shove it into things.” They're basically forcing me to lie to end the conversation.

There were a few times when something so mindboggling or frustrating, both negative and positive, took place that I felt the urge to write it down.

19th March 2015 22:01

Tonight, Finn and Reuben were bored. Thusly, they decided to follow me around and ask annoying questions and criticize everything I did, despite the fact that I was doing nothing. They even made me leave my own room out of annoyance, they didn’t take the hint, and followed me to the living room. An impressive feat. 

The most annoying question was definitely “How many girls have you slept with?” When I declined to answer they just kept going and I had to lose my joke-ish aura for a second, something which rarely happens.

“Is it more or less than ten?”

“More or less than five?”

“More or less than two?”

“More than one, yes or no?” I feel like this behavior should clear me of any future murder charges. Six months ago, Finn said to me “YOU’RE SWEDISH, THAT MEANS YOU MUST’VE HAD SEX WITH A SWEDISH GIRL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” 

My “No comment” comment should have made him realize that what I really meant was “No, I’ve never had sex with anyone, and if you could shut up before I kill myself, that would be great.” But of course, he would never understand that. He might be very clever, but he’s still a basic b***h. Then Finn told me that Lily told him that Alina told Lily that I was the best lay that she had ever had. It was three months ago. It was my first time, more on that later. 

Alina didn’t tell Lily that it was my first time. Probably because I asked her not to when I told her. I’m surprised she kept that promise. It’s probably because she’s Finnish, they’re not bursting to tell anyone anything. And the first time we did it, I was so drunk, my dangle died before I was even inside her, so I guess the real question is: How f*****g awful was everyone else she slept with? It’s probably because of all the time I spent with my face between her legs. Some guys don’t pay much attention to that. They’re p*****s who won’t eat p***y. 

Apparently, Finn has had sex with seven girls and done everything but the penetration part with three more. Reuben has done it with nine guys. When I heard that, it didn’t make me feel bad at all. I wasn’t jealous. I didn’t feel like I had to catch up. It’s okay as it is. But apparently not okay enough for me to actually talk about it. There would be too many questions. Too much denial. 

I don’t know what people think of me, but it seems to me that the people who choose to talk to me about how many vaginas I’ve penetrated with my phallus are also people who don’t see me for what I really am. A nerd without any friends. That’s the stereotypical formula I would have to use to make them understand. But they would never understand. Because they could never see me in that light because nowadays I know how to dress and isn’t ostracized by everyone but the teacher.

“Come on, tell us!”

“I don’t want to.”

“That’s not a reason.” Finn actually said that. Not wanting to tell someone something is not a reason not to tell someone something. How fucked up is that? It’s the most legitimate f*****g reason of all legitimate f*****g reasons. Even more legitimate than “My tongue was cut out so I can’t talk.”

Yeah well you can write it down.

Shut up. Let’s make this into a rape-metaphor because it’s not like I have any moral high ground to stand on anyway.

“Have sex with me.”

“I don’t want to.”

“That’s not a reason to not have sex with me.” 

Okay that’s taking it quite far, but you get my point, Finn was basically committing question-rape. It’s that old, male, group mentality that I thought would be gone by now. Are there always gonna be dudes who never grow up and act like fourteen-year-olds when they are around other dudes? I’m never going to enjoy that. Never. 

When I say I was lonely growing up, they don’t seem to accept it and just assume I’m lying to make me seem like… I don’t know what. Humble? Sensitive? Vulnerable? If I wanted to be vulnerable, I’d f*****g tell them that I had sex for the first time two months ago. And that little nugget of information would spread like wildfire because if it’s anything people are interested in, it’s other people’s private lives. The most irrelevant thing in the world. And then people would look at me funny or something. Probably not. It probably wouldn’t change anything.

“Why do you have to butt in, why do you have to be so intrusive?” I asked.

“Because I do!”


“He’s being a journalist!” Reuben said with glee. I can’t really explain how I felt except by saying that I would be happy to tear his skin from his body with my teeth.

“Yeah, I’m being a journalist, and if you don’t tell me I’m going to make something up, like a real journalist!”

“You do that,” I said. I tried and failed to read an article about how the Republicans could win the White House in 2016 by using an old crazy tactic used by the Whigs in 1836, if the crazy tactic was racism, they were spot on. 

After starting over five times, I gave up, my mind was running wild and I couldn’t concentrate at all. So I stood up, walked upstairs, and opened my laptop to write this. Hopefully, I can read that article now. It won’t matter to you, because by the time you read this, the 2016 election will be over and Hillary Clinton will be president. Or maybe she isn’t and I’ll look like a fool, along with everybody else. But I highly doubt it. (Well, f**k…).


Reuben just came into my room to ask if I was okay. They’re all lovely, lovely people, the friends I somehow have made, but sometimes they get on my nerves in the same way that people did ten years ago. It makes you realize that if I had met these people a decade ago, most of them probably wouldn’t have been my friends, they would just have frozen me out like everybody else. It doesn’t make them any worse people though. It’s just the way it is. When we start basing human value on how many other humans you’ve been inside of or had inside you, that’s the start of a slippery slope, the end of which consists of everyone being dumb as a brick.

Now onto some rare positivity:

March 21st, 2015 01:47

So as it turns out, I’ve got game. It was St Patrick’s Day last Tuesday and I spent most of the evening sitting way too close to a band who played no Irish songs whatsoever, much to my tiny gay friend’s dismay. But after six or seven pints of Guinness had made their way into my system, I was actually enjoying myself. I had been staring at this girl all night, basically the only girl in a bar full of old men. 

She was with this guy so I didn’t do anything about it because I assumed that she was with him. But she kept staring back at me. I smiled at her because I had no idea what she was trying to achieve, and I had no longer any f***s to give. She finally walked up to my table and I stood up and we started talking about the band, well, she was asking me if I knew the songs the band was playing. 

Apparently, the guy was her university friend, and not anything more than that. Her name was Jodie. She was American, from Minnesota on exchange in London from her university in Saint Paul. Before we left, I asked her out without any hesitation or fear, because I’m not that f*****g oblivious when someone likes me. It’s not like it happens very often. Also, I had had about seven Guinness. We went out tonight, and it was quite clear to me that I was more relaxed than her. 

I seem to have stopped giving a f**k about what anyone thinks of me, (not quite true, of course, I care, but it’s a lot less than it used to be, so it may feel like nothing in comparison) so much that I told her all about these very personal things I never tell anyone else. I feel comfortable doing that on dates. You’re either going to end up together in bed or never see each other again so you might as well tell her that every time you walk down a flight of stairs you imagine that it’s the stairs of Air Force One. 

Because why the f**k not? It makes you seem interesting and slightly insane. A good kind of insane. Hopefully. Don’t tell her about the bad insanity though, that won’t get her into bed. Not that I managed to get her into bed, but it was not for lack of trying. When we were about to go our different ways, we stopped and before I could say anything, she asked if I wanted to do this again. See, being yourself actually works, if “being yourself” means being funny and engaging of course. 

If you’re boring and sad, you better not “be yourself.” Then I asked her if I could kiss her and she grabbed my coat and dragged my face onto her face and wouldn’t let go. After a while, I was getting a chubby in my pants and my left leg was shaking and I couldn’t make it stop. Which is weird because I wasn’t standing on a stage doing terrible standup.

23rd March 2015 22:33

We went out again yesterday and watched a film where Ryan Reynolds was insane and killed lots of women with a kitchen knife. Great choice of film on my part. She liked it. I liked her for liking it. It also feels like she’s fairly awkward and doesn’t really know how to act. After the film, during which I hadn’t tried anything despite the fact that she had stuck her tongue in my mouth the day before. I reasoned with myself thusly: “There’s a man killing women on the screen, don’t touch the woman sitting next to you.” 

After the film, she had to go home again because she had people over who were leaving in the morning. But before she left, we made out some more. I think I’m getting less bad at it. She’s got this ungirly voice, she’s tall and wears shoes you can kill people with. I like that. When girls laugh in a girly way, it just rubs me the wrong way. I want them to be slightly manly, some muscles and hands that aren’t tiny are always good, you don’t wanna be jerked off by a child. Maybe I’m a bit bi? Wouldn’t that be interesting? 

Alas, I believe I’m simply more attracted to women who look like they would knock out a b***h if anyone tried to harass them. Anyway, she seems a bit awkward. When we broke away from the macking, she walked two steps, turned around, and said “I had a good time, and I liked the movie,” as if she was confirming her attendance at a university open day event. She wanted to make it clear she had had a good time, like the exchange of saliva hadn’t already told me that. I just smiled and said, “Cool, see ya.” Dick move on my part, I should have said that I had had a good time too, but at least I think I’m getting less bad at smiling.

24th March 2015 20:02

When someone shows you their penis, it shouldn’t be accompanied by a burst of high-pitched insane laughter. However, when Finn decided to show me his penis, I had a look and said “Well, will you look at that. A penis.” And he wouldn’t stop laughing. Shut the f**k up. And tuck away your dick.

28th March 2015 12:28

So Jodie stopped answering my texts. I only sent two, two days apart. Not needy at all I don’t think. I actually thought she liked me. Oh well, she was going home at the end of April anyway. But that’s just the thing, that would’ve been fantastic, just to bang for a month and then part forever. Wouldn’t that have been brilliant? Maybe she was getting feelings for me and since she knew she had to leave eventually, she broke it off because she didn’t want to get hurt. Maybe her friends talked her out of it. Yeah, let’s go with one of those. It makes me seem less pathetic, doesn’t it? I like being less pathetic.

One night I was pretending to care about Finn while he was talking about this Lithuanian girl in my class who he hated but nonetheless wanted to f**k. Finn was a confused young man. My commiserating of course then meant that I needed to be interrogated, or rather, terrorized. At least that was the way it felt.

“Who do you wanna f**k?” Finn asked in his usual smirky, annoying manner.

“No one special,” I lied. I had learned by this point not to share any information which could be used for gossip. Getting through these conversations always made me feel like s**t and I wanted it to be over as soon as possible so I tried to not give an inch. Although, had I given up some info on whom I would have liked to pork, maybe gossip would have worked to my advantage, alerting the porkee to my interest, and maybe she would also be interested and make a move since I was obviously too chicken to do it myself. 

Everyone usually is too chicken to make the first move, unless you can be sure it will be received well. Some well-traveled gossip would mean that the hypothetical girl in question would be open to receiving an advance or perhaps even push her over the edge to at least wink at me or something. This entire scenario of course seems too good to be true, which it also was and continues to be, hence my apprehension to give anything up to Finn. I was also very unsure about my womanizing-abilities and sexual attractiveness.

“Really no one, who are you?” Finn pushed on with a mixture of frustration and glee. I assumed he didn’t usually have to struggle to get people to spill the beans, since it seems that is what young people talk about to each other. I’m still shocked I managed to make any friends, odd and quiet as I was.

“Well, I wanna f**k lots of people,” I said hoping to weasel out of the situation using semantics.

“Name three,” said Finn, his combative little a*s squirming with anticipation in the chair across the living room. 

There he goes again and turns into that c**t he doesn't have to be, I thought to myself and said: “I'm not gonna do that.” I had given up on coming up with reasons for keeping my private life private since they never seemed good enough for people to stop asking, resorting to just admitting that I didn’t wanna talk about it and straight-up refusing to answer.

“Why not?” said Finn, pushing forward.

“Because it's not that specific, I don't have any names for you.” Another lie. I had loads of names for him, but I would never give him a single one. People always use personal information to hurt you even if they're supposed to be your friend, they enjoy it, they think it's fun, my sorry a*s thought.

Living with Finn and Reuben was hard since we were good enough friends that they felt comfortable asking me whatever they felt like. Like for instance…

“Do you have a big penis?”

“I’m not hung like a horse,” I said, not wanting to disappoint anyone who might one day happen to view my slightly above-average-sized dangle.

“But you’re so tall! Your dad must have a small penis then,” Reuben said, making me give up on humanity for the umpteenth time in my life. 

This is the most basic thinking you could possibly have, equal to girls without brains looking at a guy’s shoes to determine how big his dick is. This ordinary way of thinking, the fact that you predict what a person is going to say before they’ve actually said it, is just one of many things that are grinding my gears when it comes to the ever so flawed human species. It’s like a script, helping people not having to think, to not have an independent thought once in their life because it’s just so easy to go with the flow of normality. Also, I don’t really get how Reuben immediately translated “not hung like a horse” to “basically dickless.”

Finn was also comfortable with saying outrageous things. He told me that my mother was kind of a milf after meeting her. I thought Heads up buddy, I wrecked her down there. I didn't tell her he said that because I didn't want to give her a boost in her sexual confidence. She's my mother, she shouldn't have any confidence, especially not sexual confidence. In my mind, she's not a sexual being, despite that being a requirement for my existence.

I don’t know why, but dating out of your league is thought to be this great thing. I’m not gonna lie, I’ve bought into that kind of thinking too. I once thought that I really wanted to marry someone genetically superior to me. And I thought I was clever and funny enough to do it. My friends had sex with girls but never dated any of them, they just asked them over to have sex. And it f*****g worked. I dated a bunch of girls but never had sex with any of them because the only thing they wanted to suck off was my f*****g intellect. 

Why can’t you just objectify me? Why do you have to like me for my personality and intelligence, what’s wrong with you?! I thought most of them were out of my league, maybe that was the problem. But when I heard from friends who I know had slept around a fair bit that they never had been on a real date, I felt my worldview warp. That’s what I wanted, the sex, not the dating. But dating was the only thing I was able to get.

One night when we were sitting in our local pub, Reuben looked at a photo of Elvis Presley above the bar and then looked back at me.

“You don't usually look like Elvis,” he said. Unfortunately, I knew exactly what had caused this, having noticed I looked completely different in the mirror earlier that day.

“Yeah, it’s because of this massive zit on the side of my nose, it makes it look wider and makes my entire face look more like Elvis as a consequence.” Reuben laughed. It was rather funny that the thing which made me look like one of the biggest sex symbols of the 20th century was a large bump on my nose filled with puss.

Finn asked why I skipped a year of elementary school. I said I was so much more mature than everyone else that I couldn’t talk to anyone my own age without going insane. Finn laughed so hard, it was like he had just inhaled laughing gas. He brought me back there in seconds. People were laughing at me and I couldn’t understand why. I seem not to be able to be normal. 

Although, I don’t want to have gone through 20 years of s**t to come out on the other side and be normal. What’s the point of that? I might as well continue to be odd, and continue to reap the benefits and somehow deal with the negatives. I’ve never really understood people, like for instance when Reuben's grandpa died. I didn’t know how he was dealing with it. In our second year, he was in love with one of the first years, and when it didn’t end well, he spent the night screaming into my chest. That was insanity. I could deal with that. I've experienced insanity, there's nothing weird about it. Genuine grief is different. I've never dealt with that. I later figured out he didn’t seem to care that much about his grandfather dying, but I couldn’t anticipate how he was going to react, because I can’t go to myself and ask “How would you react if something like that happened to you?” because my reaction to most things always seems to be very alien to everyone around me. Which makes figuring out how people actually feel a nightmare.

Whenever someone ever talks about something vaguely sexual, it feeds that nagging insecurity that you have because you're the only person in the world who has ever touched your dingle dangle, and everybody else has SEX ALL THE TIME. Everybody. You know that's not true, because you read about it on the internet, because you're a pathetic son of a b***h who needs to read stories about 32-year-old virgins to feel better about yourself, but it still feels like everybody else has done it for some awful, awful reason. And a couple of my friends told me that they've never been on a date but they still get laid somehow. 

I've been on many dates, but I still haven't made out with anyone. How do you f*****g make it happen? I'm sorry, but it seems impossible. Do you bribe them or something? Is prostitution the answer? As with everything else, prostitution is always the answer.

© 2021 Oscar Blomqvist

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Added on March 9, 2021
Last Updated on March 9, 2021
Tags: sex, dating, London, university, young adult, coming of age, growing up, funny, friendships


Oscar Blomqvist
Oscar Blomqvist

Charlottesville, VA

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..