The whole mad circus kicked off in the dim glow of Christian and Margaretha’s so-called ashram — that Buddhist Airbnb hotel in Stockholm where Nirvana was mostly a pose and the air smelled like incense covering hypocrisy. I was grinding away remotely on the Liquid Democracy Project with Tim, running crowd polls from Cape Town to Rågsved, while keeping the men’s group alive. Linus pushed me to lead, so I did — producing rants and rituals about what it really means to be a gentleman in this fallen age
Regulars drifted in: Håkan, older, conservative, depressed but sharp with witty cracks that cut the gloom; Dalin and the whichdoctor; and a few others orbiting the fire.
Then Håkan dragged in Jesper Sundelin. Göteborg boy, once a brilliant photographer, now wrecked by family separation — shack life to Håkan’s kitchen floor. Intelligent as hell, socially magnetic, scoring free drinks at Stockholm’s best bars despite zero cash. Intermittent dock work, self-destructive streak wide open. We met first at some Nytorget restaurant I can’t name anymore — that night birthed the friendship.
Jesper slid into the men’s movement Linus and I built. I led with gentleman content; he brought raw, flawed gold. Drunk calls at ungodly hours — most would cut him loose, but I saw the value, the past-haunted potential. Never excluded him.
Nytorget 6: Steak Tartare night. Jesper fills the life-questionnaire with zeros across the board — 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0, 0. Hilarious. Honest. I loved it.
He’d call drunk, I’d listen. Social guilt, family weights, but comments razor-smart, social skills intact. Invited me to high-end spots like Eataly on Drottninggatan — bartenders knew us, free Old Fashioneds flowed. One night he eyes my tweed suit: “Old Fashioned suits you perfectly.” We laughed like kings in exile.
Subway encounter: He turns, grins maniacally — “I’m now your Jungian shadow.” Thrilled by it. Tall, strong, resilient genes letting him drink oceans. Ex-socialist from the 70s/80s, now hating what it became — malicious, hollow tactics, soul-dead.
I dug his art love, design eye, intellectual bite. Huge potential, trapped in the gutter.
Then Stance law firm gig: logo, web concept — they loved it, needed staff photos. I pushed Jesper for the job, built him a webpage fast. Meanwhile, I’d bailed on the ashram’s holier-than-thou bullshit after nearly a year. Arvid — spiritual connection, men’s group joiner — offered his big Nacka house in nature, shared with Ting. Moved around New Year’s. Social status bump. Felt damn good.
Month later, Jesper evicted from Håkan’s. I was broke too — offered him a room. Mutual survival. Talked team: me graphics, him photos. Worried about the booze, but pushed forward.
I was writing gamification for Liquid Democracy with Tim — solid structure. Jesper impressed, asked to send to his daughter. Nineteen, estranged for years, now reaching out. Thrilled. “You should meet her — you’d get along.”
Sure, why not.
No warning: Jesper calls, Bohemian Bar Nytorget to plan Stance shoot. I’m in new tweed, hat, not at peak. Arrive — there’s Ebba. Stunning. Young. Intelligent. Humble, trying hard to impress me. Jesper shows, we talk memory sticks — he bolts to Håkan’s for forgotten gear.
Alone. Destiny-thick air.
I probe: goals, feelings, future. She wants self-confidence, control. I preach habits — daily running, interval training, tracking progress for iron grip. She’s hooked. Asks for Couch to 5K podcasts. Sent them same hour.
She models test shots. Looks phenomenal.
Post-shoot, back to Gothenburg. Jesper stays. Conflicts, but good times. Low cash, survived. Ebba wanted phone coaching — I recommended books, like the greatest sagesman in the world. Stayed in touch.
Midsummer nears. Jesper: Ebba and boyfriend want to celebrate at the house/garden. Hesitant yes.
They come.
Swedish Midsummer perfection — clear she’s evaluating boyfriend, father, me in conversations while I read War and Peace. Boyfriend leaves after days. She stays. Jesper in smaller room.
One night on the sofa: she babbles joyfully, opens up, flirts, stories laced with sexual situations, subliminal commands. She bursts out — “Fuck me fuck me fuck me” — clear voice, eyes locked, but narrative supposedly elsewhere. Indirect. Then quiet. Gazing deep, staring, focusing — surroundings turn to gold. We elevate into another dimension, archetypes shifted. Touching begins.
I say: “What are we thinking?”
She: “I’m not thinking…”
I say no more.
After she returns to Gothenburg, she calls: wants reward for good coaching. Loves everything. Decides on Stockholm spa trip — Sturebadet Marina Tower in Danvikstull Nacka area. Says I earned reward too. Come along. Reluctantly, I set it up.
Meet at Balzac restaurant: Steak Tartare for me, tweed mixed with military. Head to Sturebadet Marina Tower — Turkish/Roman-inspired ritual, hamam, hot springs, cold water, geometrical mosaics, ten-pointed stars, round rooms, steam, pools, towels, oils, luxury soap. We scrub-clean each other thoroughly with white mittens. Breathing restarts, full-body flow. Into the pool — she says she feels like a dog. I ask: ‘seen, safe, selected, sexy?’ — ‘Yes,’ she says..
After, dock outside. Small bridge over water. Silent. She leans back into my embrace, me behind her.
Guy approaches, starts laughing: “Ah, wow, that’s great, wow, so fantastic, oh God, I can’t believe it, go on man, that’s fantastic.” Laughing wild.
We blush, smile, embarrassed. Say nothing.
He leaves, returns, shouts louder: “OH WOW, THAT’S SO FANTASTIC, KEEP GOING, KEEP GOING!”
Who the hell was he? We go home. Sleep. Nothing more.
Next day:
She lay there on my new 18th-century brocade sofa, bathed in sunlight, nibbling croissants, cherries, chocolate — naked, slender as a 90s Calvin Klein model. My nineteen-year-old, in red lace panties, Jimi Hendrix’s Voodoo Child whispering low.
She wants to be spanked into being a good girl — punished until she belongs to me forever.
Guys her age? Impossible. Hates insecure men, repulsed by pedestal-putters.
“I only like older men who have reached some level of maturity.”
“Well, it’s obviously me you want,” I say.
“Yes.”
She was 19. I was 39.
(The rest too graphic to describe here.)
I worked crowdpol from South Africa on my computer in one room, but she called me back — back and forth, back and forth. Oak bathtub: hot water, cold water, hot, cold. Played chess. Watched The Lion King, Inglourious Basterds, all Stanley Kubrick, especially Full Metal Jacket. Hotels: Hasselbacken, Riesen, Old Town spots. She deep into BDSM — favorite film Nymphomaniac by Lars von Trier.
Her face like a sun among the horses, smile beyond human. They were one. She was nature living in the horses; horses the force through her. Scene still, vibrating in love almost understanding itself. My nineteen-year-old.
In bed beside me: “They didn’t choose it themselves, their fates…” Mouth trembling hard, delicate chin quivering, face dissolving — into the sun.
Last words she ever said, twice, through tears: “I love you.” “I have never met anyone like you.”
And somewhere in the madness, the raw liver breakfasts, ice baths — Ebba in school debate: “My boyfriend eats raw liver; I think that’s manly.” Told me to forgive nature.
Her feminist mother to the librarian: “Übermensch!” when hearing about liver and baths. Pontus in men’s group: “Isn’t that what the leader calls you?” Envy veiled. I dodged: “What do I know?”
If only they knew a fraction of what I’ve been through.
2020. The year I learned to know the Goddess.
Blond, horse-powered, tear-soaked, sweaty Venus-Aphrodite.
She wants me..
Then vanished like smoke over the water at Saltsjöbanan, leaving her horses running wild in my body forever.
