Right after those first raw boosts cracked all things open — preluded by the pumping, electric involuntary surprise dances, every day and night at Berns Salonger and F12 Terrassen in high-end Summer-Autum 2013 — along with with NytorgsAnna, Linus, Miso, and somehow Pontus too — (I also meet the rumpnisse-army of lover Alexander Bard a couple of times on the Dancefloor) — porous corpral matter sweating into a melting fleshy blend of lifeforce — together with the coolest, most edgy, soon to be 25 kids of Stockholm, Sweden — everything osscilating the pulse of you only live once so let’s die young — I meet Tessie. Linus’s blonde on-and-off long-time Alien girlfriend: wild, sharp-intelligent, quite out-there, cool in that unpredictable way that makes you lean in despite yourself.
She shows up to a couple of boosts at the Bliss place (that raw-vegan haven on Östgötagatan, all green smoothies and chakra vibes). She digs it, but she also hates it — because she’s not the center. She storms out once, dramatic exit and all, but we keep having these great, chaotic times. Afterward she pulls me to her apartment on Götgatan in Södermalm — gorgeous spot, endless talk about aliens, abductions, her “real” name being Akasha. She shows off her crystals, spills about her messy open/closed/past-tense thing with Linus. Cookies appear, cats everywhere, food gets shared. She’s all over the map: strangely funny, quirky to the extreme, often obscene in that unfiltered way, but she looks good, lives in her own orbiting world.
I crash on her sofa a few nights — nothing happening, just practical: I need to be in town to keep the boost momentum alive. One time she invites me to her bed. We sleep, hug, it’s quiet for once — she’s soft, seeking safety maybe. No drama, just warmth. Next day we hit the swings (gunga) near Metargatan, swinging together like kids, and suddenly she’s acting like we’re a thing — unspoken, maybe to protect herself from another hurt, but weaving me in anyway.
Then Fritz enters the picture: her friend, beautiful French-Norwegian gay artist, outgoing as hell. He likes me instantly, wants to come to my Vällingby place for art collab. We do some, then he picks his favorite movie — The Dreamers (that 2003 Bertolucci fever dream of 1968 Paris, twins and an American student blurring every boundary with cinema, sex, and revolution). We watch. He says straight up he wants to have sex with me, but doesn’t think I want it. I stay silent, smile, hug him. There’s something magnetic about the guy — I like him, genuinely.
With Tessie, things escalate. One night the intimacy hits: we have sex. It’s beautiful — her most grown-up, loving side emerges. Warm, intense, volcanic closeness. Afterward she drops it: “This was definiteley the best sex I’ve ever had…” hinting under the radar that she’s comparing to Linus. (Maybe revenge for him leaving? Linus is that curly popular, good-looking guy; who knows her motives?)
Things keep moving. Open house at Bliss Café — the witch doctor rolls in, thrilled by the new energy. Tessie shows up, chats him up. He’s all over her, wants something. She notices, invites him over, pulls me along. What happens? She orchestrates a threesome setup — out-there, bold. But in the middle of it, witch doctor going for her, she shuts it down: “No, I just want David.” He’s flattened, deflated, not happy. Why did she do it? Power play? Test? Special kind of chaos only she could conjure.
