The upward trend: sex & flirting included

“I have a favor to ask. Hint: it involves sex with me,” I kind of sort of flirted.

“Ha, that sounds nice. What’s up?”

“So, I got a job in Beverly Hills, but the commute is killing me and I feel a little weird asking you because I know Swedes like their space, but maybe I could crash at your place one night a week until I move permanently?”

“Yes! Absolutely!”

“Sweet! I get a shorter commute and you get to put your penis in me!”

Wow, I am really bad at flirting.

Anyway, I had sex very recently.

Now, this is not normally the sort of thing I would announce publicly like this, but given my acrimonious break-up two months ago, I’m quite proud of this.

Because, yes, it beats staying at home and crying.

So yes, on top of the many job offers rolling in and my going back to school, I AM HAVING SEX AGAIN.


[cue Peter Gabriel’s “Big Time” and me dancing in my underwear]

And yes, it’s been two whole months since my life as a Swedish housewife got upended.

Okay, I admit it: I had sex on a few different occasions after the break-up, including the Sunday night before I flew out of Stockholm back to LA (and no, not with my ex), as part of the cleansing ritual I’d previously written about.

The first time on American soil was with — wait for it — a Swede, which was amazing and nice, but I didn’t want to continue seeing him as we were looking for different things. That was also part of the cleanse and merely an effort to get out of the house.

And the most recent encounter was with — wait for it — a Swede.

Man, I’ve been with more Scandinavians in the last two months than in the last eleven years combined (one Swede in 2006 and one Dane I met in Vegas for a single evening in 2008 whom I still think of while I um, you know).

Anyway! I had mentioned in another post that I had yet again signed up for a popular dating site and my popularity with Swedes in California has grown tenfold because:

  1. I lived in Sweden.
  2. I can speak Swedish (albeit poorly).
  3. They love Asian women, and I happen to be one with a nice rack and an ass. Lucky them.

I’d received a nice message from this fella (we’ll call him ‘Johan’) in Swedish and we exchanged several messages entirely in Swedish — it was a pretty normal conversation with not much flirting (except for him telling me I am very beautiful — I mean, yeah, thanks, I try!) and a vague promise to meet up for dinner whenever I was in the LA area as I’d been staying with my parents in the Long Beach area which may as well be two different states in LA terms.

At one point, I had a job interviewed scheduled in Santa Monica and stayed with my sister the night before. I gave him a few days’ notice and he agreed we should meet for dinner.

It was nice! Again, nothing flirtatious — just a normal conversation over a Himalayan dinner in Culver City.

Admittedly, I was a little nervous as I’d been out of the game for so long and Swedes being Swedes are a little difficult to read.

Johan moved to LA to attend grad school. He was much cuter in person — came off as a little shy, a little nerdy, but very polite (as Swedes do) — and VERY new to the US. It turns out he moved to the USA right as I ‘permanently’ moved to Sweden and lived not too far from where I was in Stockholm.

We had a quick dinner where we talked about our lives in Stockholm and the things we missed greatly, including fika, Svensk grekisk jogurt, and filmjölk.

He also remarked how strange it was to speak Swedish in America with an American.

Meanwhile I was thinking, “How am I going to approach going back to his place?”


We paid the bill, and took a short stroll down Venice Blvd. I mentioned there wasn’t much else to see in this little gritty Brazilian neighborhood.

Johan: Well, what shall we do?
Me: Can you think of anything?

I inched closer and so did he and there, I caught, this twinkle in his eye. You know, the one where you know it’s totally the right time to kiss that person because you know they’re thinking about it, too.

But I didn’t go for it.

“I really only know Westwood,” he said.

Silence and a long look at each other.

“Do you wanna go back to your place?” I smiled, shyly.

He was delighted.

On the sofa we sat very close to each other, under a bright lamp in his over-priced campus-housing studio apartment; photos of his blonde-haired, blue-eyed family and friends adorned the otherwise bare, white walls.

We talked about nothing special, including my inability to pronounce “sjuksköterska,” which is what he did for a living in Sweden before attending grad school, and my inability to understand the Göteborg accent.

Me: Jag har en vän som växte upp i Täby utanfor Stockholm men han flyttade till USA när han var 7 år. För han besöker ofta hans familj i Umeå och Göteborg, he speaks Swedish with a Gothenburg accent so I sometimes don’t understand him very well.

He was telling me something, like, “Blah blah blah shook-skreeven.”

Jag sa, “Vad sa du?”

He said, “SHOOK-SKREEVEN. SHOOK-SKREEVEN. You know, sick leave.”

I said, “Ohhhhhh, H-WOOK-SKRIVEN.”

Ten points for Swenglish.

We talked about vaccines and my catching chickenpox last summer. He didn’t believe it.

“Show me your scars,” he said.

I flipped my hair back and pointed to my neck and a small pock mark beneath my eye and on my arms. He touched them.

“You can’t really see them.” He leaned in closer.


I placed both hands on his face and leaned in to kiss him.

And that led to the kind of sex that makes up for two years of really, really bad sex with someone whose sex drive only exists when that person is manic (and even when he was manic, it was still shitty).

Boy, did that skinny, nerdy, quiet, kind of shy Swede know how to throw down.

I got plowed like a field. A FIELD. WHO WOULD HAVE THOUGHT?

And apparently, I hadn’t lost my touch either. Throughout the whole thing (all two hours of it), I was thinking, “I still know how to fuck! Yes!”

And because I wasn’t used to this kind of sex, I required repeated breaks, throughout which he’d massage my back or my hair or give me long cuddles that I really, really needed.

Cue getting plowed again and me calling out for every holy deity in the universe.

Then me thinking, “Those condoms are from Sweden. He probably hasn’t had sex in a while, either. I guess he needs this, too? Oh, he’s saying something.”

“Do you like it fast?”

“Yes,” I exclaimed! Then getting drilled like a greedy American politician looking for oil.

I’m pretty sure at some point, I shouted “YOU FUCKING ANIMAL!” at him, which drew a cheeky smile on his face, and I think I chucked a few pillows across the room in the throes of interracial, dry-spelled passion.

More of this and a realization that it was getting late and I had to go, and go I did with a shit-eating grin on my face.

I slept well that night and while I didn’t quite ace the interview the following morning, I still felt pretty good. Of course, it helped that he texted me to tell me he “loved it, had a wonderful time, and would love to see [me] again.”

Naturally, I bragged to a few friends — mostly about me being surprised I still knew how to have sex.

“It’s a lot like riding a bike,” they said.

Well, see, the difference is that when you’re riding a bipolar bike, it’s a lot like a normal bike except the bike has given you this false assurance it’s been repaired enough to seem stable, but then it’s not actually stable and you fall the fuck off and then you’re led to believe that everything you knew about riding a bike was false and the bike makes you feel like you’re a failure, a shit rider, and that the reason the bike isn’t stable is you.

Anyway, it’s been a couple weeks and tonight, I texted him with the request at the beginning of this story, to which he agreed and that segued into heavy flirting/sexting in both Swedish and English (during which he told me I am “wonderful in bed”). I AM SO PROUD.

And now I get to see this gentleman once a week until I move, permanently, back to LA for my high-ish paying job and to be closer to school.

Yesssssssssssssssssss! I am really, really going to be OK!

I’m on my way, I’m making it!