Oysters and Pickled Herring: Freaking in Finnish Waters

Me so horny…

The ferry from Helsinki to Stockholm takes 17 hours, which is roughly the lifespan of a Mayfly or the duration of a torrid, rumpy pumpy affair. Mayflies do not thrive in chill Baltic waters, but willing orifices retain their elastic properties and are hungry to be filled.

I was traveling over the waves to Sweden from Finland in 2007 on a Silja Line Ferry, which sports an endearing seal’s face as a corporate logo. In my twisted imagination, the graphic evoked a swollen penis head the size of a baby’s fist, with the seal’s inimitable smile delineating the glans. I’ll admit that I hadn’t romped with the real thing in about 8 months and was traveling alone, besieged by the kind of capricious solitude that leads to nasty wayward thoughts. I believe the TV-M rating kicks in here…Or is that NC-17? Or a quaint X?

The scene was archetypal but fully real, dear reader: Night waves pounding the hull, frigid spume filling the air, the bar abandoned like a scene borne intact from Charles Ryder’s “Children of the Storm” ocean crossing from “Brideshead Revisited”…I was alone in the baroque chamber, the ceiling dappled by a fresco of virile longboats, slowly sipping a shot of Finlandia vodka and eating unnamed pickled fish when I decided to approach the other remaining figure at the bar, a very Nordic looking man in a cable sweater. He was named Aarne and revealed that he was an engineer, displaying a kind of impenetrable shyness, a reticence that evoked semiquavers of both mystique and discomfort.

I could sense wounded prey…the best kind. Yum.

We sipped our drinks in quiet solidarity as the wintry waves lapped at the hull. I wanted to lap at him, if I can make an indecent confession. Freudian images of swords, sturdy oars, and battle-lances tore at my filthy consciousness. But just as I had summoned my courage, this Nordic knight made the first move with the help of his emerging vodka-buzz.

“May I ask you something…Sylvia, is your name, yes?”

I smiled. “Proceed, dear. The night is young.” I sipped my Findlandia, which burned deliciously like hellfire, knowing that the evening had only entered its adolescence. We were in delectably dark latitudes, of course. I moved closer to him, our thighs touching. I felt a tingle of dirty anticipation.

He leaned over to my ear, making a leap of faith wider than the Gulf of Bothnia. “I wish to speak dirty to you.” He paused. “In Finnish.”

I licked my lips, laughing at the impetuous idea. “Go for it, you dog.”

He launched into a fevered string of consonant-laden syllables, conjunctions longer than the draft of a dragon-ship. It evoked a frantic, hardened northern masculinity, repression bursting forth like a cataract, steaming like a sauna under the skies of Karelia. My language-centers didn’t get it, but my loins did, and when he indelicately kissed my neck and began to stroke my mammaries, I gladly returned the favor with a protracted, wet smack to his cheek as he placed his hand on my rump and whispered: “Täyden kympin reva…”

I smiled and moved my hand up his thigh towards his straining package, now visibly tumescent. “And what does that mean darling?”

He laughed. “It means you have ‘top class ass.’”

“And you have top class c**k, I believe…” I indelicately reached for the head of his love pump, affectionately squeezing the pulsing fiend through his trouser fabric. I enjoy it when men go commando, which allows the contours of the beast to gain the visibility they deserve. I applied some gentle, but rapidly ardent frottage. I could see his head lean backwards as he mumbled, “ahhh, Sylvia…rintaa, reittä ja revää…”

My friend was harder than the rocks of Astuvansalmi, and I had a serious yen to pull out the trembling erection and let the top-notch tool tickle my tonsils until he trilled. But then I realized that his amorous monologue had degenerated into a woozy snore. The spear, once valiant, had begun to lose its battle-readiness as my new-found frick buddy descended into vodka-slumber.

What next? I slinked off to my cabin and undressed, still hornier than a Finnish Spitz in heat. Determined to finish off the romp solo, I pulled out my knobby blue vibrator and jammed into the honey pot with the force of Leif Ericson’s hull striking the shores of Greenland. I pumped myself into a cozy little orgasm, the shockwaves rocketing through my tendons and into the Northern Lights. And what of Aarne? This mischievous night spirit, this Loki of the loins, never materialized again.

Pick up your Nokia, Aarne, and drop dear little Sylvia “Top Class Ass” Lowry a line. Aural sex is at least as good as wave-tossed frottage.



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