We only have four hours of sleep. My arm is around John, the palm of my right hand on the soft blond fur of his chest and my cheek against his neck. How wonderful it feels to hold him like this! His arms and shoulders muscular. There’s a sharp tan line on his biceps where the sleeve of his tennis shirt stops. Obviously, he enjoys being cuddled. He snuggles up closer against me as I stroke his nipples. We both grow hard and for a minute I think he’s finally come around. But he pops out of bed, hard-on and all, and says he doesn’t want Jurgen to find us making out when he comes home from his night shift, which he says is quite soon.
He won’t shower together for the same reason. He takes one first. Jurgen comes home while I am having mine. I join them when I have dried off and dressed. Jurgen and John speak in English, as much for John’s sake as mine. Neither one are very talkative. Jurgen looks like the kind of fellow who’d crack open a beer when he gets up. I suppose if he did, it would be an after work beer. He puts on a pot of coffee instead and switches the TV on. We watch a re-run of Dame Edna’s TV Christmas show, supposedly up a ski lift on Mt. Edna. She is interviewing
Mel Gibson in her sauna. He won’t leave the sauna because it is too cold so she follows him in. She complains to the audience that Mel Gibson has entered my hot box and he won’t come out. During the interview she rubs his naked thigh and says, “I know no one is going to touch your little Hamlet!” John seems content spending the day watching TV with Jurgen, though Jurgen has to hit the sack soon. I suspect John is afraid showing affection in front of Jurgen, even though Jurgen is obviously comfortable around gay men in discos. John doesn’t even give me a hug in front of Jurgen when I am saying goodbye for the last time, even though we walked arm in arm and kissed on the street last night.
It’s John’s homophobic issues, not mine, but I believe is saying proper goodbyes. An exit like this makes the time he spend with me feel insincere, and my heart is aching a little as I walk back to Kersten’s. Kersten is doing his dishes when I come in. He asks how my night went and I tell him. It’s strange that men are usually most insecure about their looks when they are at their most attractive, I say. Kersten believes North Americans are more body shy than Europeans. He’s probably right, but I came out on a nude beach and I’m quite used to it. Kersten makes us a snack and we spend the afternoon nude sunbathing in Assistens Cemetery.
I have given Kersten’s phone number to John in case he wants to call me, but he doesn’t. I go out to PAN one last time before I leave tomorrow, half hoping to run into John or Jurgen there. I don’t. I meet two other Danes in their 30s, Mads and Bjarne. They are interested in my travels and what I think about Denmark. I am not as enthusiastic as John would have been, but I have nothing bas to say about it. I reflect the question back, asking them what they like most or least about Denmark. The main thing they don’t like is the increasing number of immigrants, which seems to be about 2% by now from what I’ve seen. By immigrants, they generally mean Turks, who they say are diluting the Denmark they had when they were younger. I remind them that I am a foreigner too. They say that’s OK because I look and think like they do. On no, I don’t, I tell them. Canada has the highest rate of immigration in the world and we only talk of increasing it. I love our multi-cultural population. It is our strongest feature, so you see, I tell them, I think the opposite way and wouldn’t fit in at all. They are not sure how to take that, but it’s true. Perhaps I only said it out loud because I am mentally preparing to leave Denmark tomorrow and I am reminding myself that this isn’t home.
PHOTO 1: the Chines Pavilion, Tivoli Gardens
PHOTO 2: the Marble Church
PHOTO 3: the Royal Danish Theatre
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