If the American high school experience could be extended past graduation and spread out across an entire country, that country would be Sweden.
The Swedes function in a giant clique resembling a society. Large groups of tall, good-looking Swedes prance from restaurant to restaurant, from bar to bar and club to club. Nothing wrong with that I guess… Most of them are older, with loads of boomer types in perfect suits and nice cars ambling around the old city, with not a care in the world.
Mostly its this feeling of benign neglect that gets to you after awhile. Greg and I have both noticed how absolutely no one looks at us here. Not even a passing glance. Even when we order food from the Swedes, they seem to just barely give us a glance while they dutifully fill out the order.
We’re like ghosts here. The city of Stockholm has an elaborate little dance ritual that it seems to go through, and we have no place in it whatsoever.Â They all know English, but I’ve had less luck chatting with Swedes than when I would stumble with my broken Russian to communicate in St. Petersburg years ago.
The only success we had was on Friday night, where we approached a Swedish 6 sitting alone by the city hall. She was very reluctant to talk at first, but bit by bit we sussed out of her that she had just finished exams and was a computer science major. She said she prefered the company of men, and considered herself laid back.
I could feel my eyebrow shooting up involuntarily. How lucky we were to find a “laid back” Swede…
I chatted with her incessantly for about 15 minutes and then asked if she wanted to go out into the town with us. She hesitated, then agreed. Greg took a backseat in the cultural exchange, and it was left to me to continue the conversation, and after running out of the usual bland chit-chat rapport establishing topics, I switched to talking about the city of Stockholm.
As usual, I did 80% of the talking, dropping little hooks here and there for her to bite on and participate in the convo… But she passed on most of them. Still, she smiled at me enough to make up for her lack of conversational skills, and she claimed she was taking us to a cheap student bar, so we stuck it out.
We hopped on the metro and everything changed. The sleepy little village ofÂ stockholm that we had been wandering around that day evaporated. It smelled like piss and the POZ suddenly hit us right in the face. There were so many 3rd world apes, fat brown mullattoos in very revealing attire, loads of frumpy Swedish girls with their tits hanging out and interspersed among them were hipsterish skinnyfat Swedish males.
The Swedish women looked…trashy. (Greg’s opinions about their peasant genetical predisposition to stockiness nonewithstanding.) I have heard claims that Russian women dress provacatively before and found that to be true in my time abroad there. But Swedish women took the cake in terms of revealing attire. It was this bohemian/hippy look that dominated the scene, with girls vying to show off as much cleavage as possible in the most revealing way possible. And all around them were loping third worlders. Blacks and Arabs coexisted peacefully as they loped around the station, the platform and settled into seats on the train carÂ with us.
We popped out by the student bar at a metro station that I will never be able to remember or pronounce and immediately had to present our documents to a very butch lesbian working security at the door.
She let us in without a fuss and we settled in at the bar. It was predominantly white, which was a relief. It felt like any other preppy, SWPLy bar from the East Coast that Greg adores and that I loathe with the utmost intensity.
A curious little experiment followed. I half-offered to pay for her drink and slipped in the question, “or is that not ok here?” She shrugged and said it was fine. But when she ordered in Swedish, she immediatly paid for herself and grabbed her drink without considering the offer. I wasn’t complaining, the beers cost 9 dollars each, and this was supposed to be a “cheap” students place. Besides the spirit of Roosh would have been profoundly disappointed in me if I had.
We grabbed our beer and headed over to a table by the door, it was the only one with available seats, but two of them were already occupied by Swedish girls. We politely asked to share the table, they politely acquiesed…and politely ignored us for the entire evening, no matter how cleverly we tried to engage them.
Ah, high school all over again…
American preventative politeness mixed in with Swedish snobbery and alluring tits just hanging right out of reach- what a combo.
The evening began to proceed more or less normally at that point, until Greg got tapped to step outside by the Arab security guard. I didn’t really notice what happened, and the Swedish girl and I were discussing Russia, and how it was an Orwellian state. Ah, the delicious irony. When Greg came back, I was wrapped up in aÂ game of Truth or Dare,Â so when the tap came on my shoulder to step outside, I was taken aback.
He pulled me out in front of the whole bar, and just stared at me with his black eyes and kipped his chin up in silence as if waiting for an explanation. I stared at him and imagined the chimneys at Aushwitz billowing out smoke and human debris into the cold Polish sky.
“How are you?” He finally said. “Are you ok?”
“Great” I said.
He just stood there nodding his head and smirking. I began to feel a grin crawling up my cheek too.
The Ordnings Vakt security guard, an ethnic Swede with a viking beard and a massive build Â stepped in and told me to drink some water. He spoke in a very soft voice, had baby-blue eyes and had no bone to pick with me. I nodded and he nodded me back inside.
I sat down, puzzled, just as the next round of truth orÂ dare was starting up for our company of 3.
“I’ll do whatever, like literally anything. Seriously. I’ll fucking do it.” I said, feeling my inner Slav awakening.
She giggled, hemmed and hawed and finally told me to go over to the table nearby us with 3 chatting girls and tell them that I was voting for Donald Trump because he would build a massive wall. (I suspect Greg must have brought the topic up while I was having a staredown with the kebab)
I immediatly complied. And was met with a rousing chorus of laughs and taken very very well. They loved it. A great opener. I quickly improvised, trying to capitalize on this unexpectedly great reaction and started cranking up the Jerkboy game. I motioned at the blond’s chest and cupped some air boobs as I complimented her personality. That got an even better reaction, and I felt elated. The rush and thrill of closing in on something tangible gave me that little high I always chase when cold approaching.
But as we talk, I realize that none of them are Swedes. The exotic looking one was obviously not Swedish-she was Kurdish it turns out. The blond looker with the big tits was Finnish and Russian. The third one was fat and I didn’t care.
I tried an escalation move and demanded that the Finn kiss me because of the compliment I paid her. She stood up and planted one kiss on each cheekÂ asÂ the girls whoop-whooped.
“Time to isolate!” I thought. So I asked if she wanted to let me bum a cigarette off her and come outside for a smoke. Her Kurdish friend stridentlyÂ cock-blocked and demanded that I go out with her instead.
“Bummer.” I sighed internally, but decided to step up to the plate and face this shit testing shiva down. And I wanted that smoke.
She immediatly started talking about the Finn’s boyfriend. (Who was on his way, as they always seem to be.) And then about her Swedish boyfriend, who was “amazing, just amazing.”
I grin and play along. “Swedish men are so sensitive aren’t they?” I tease. “Women love that.”
She detected the sarcasm and laughed. “He’s such a pushover,’ she said and rolled her eyes. A Swede overheard us and started mouthing at me, “Swedes are pushovers, huh?” He taunted. ”
Yeah,” I said back.
I didn’t really want to start a fight, I just wanted to tease the Kurdish girl and get her to say something un-PC to start developing rapport, I meant no insultÂ to Sven, who happenedÂ to overhear the remark. Either way, he just shook his head and sauntered off.
Thank god he wasn’t half Russian.
I turn my attention to the girl again and start pressing. “Girls like a man that can be a man sometimes, don’t you agree?”
Her body language immediatly changed as she bobbed her head furiously in agreement. “Wait I have an idea,” she said. “My boyfriend is coming to meet us now, why don’t you flirt with me in front of him to see how he reacts…Don’t worry he’s really nice, ” She added.
By that moment, Greg and I had downed 2 airplane-sized bottles of some 40% alcohol that we had found lying around the apartment. I tossed it down in the interum after I finished my first beer.
And the cigarette was starting to kick in with that sweet nicotine rush you only get if you’re a casual smoker. As I looked up all around me, I saw the kebab that were milling all around the street, the sloppily dressed frumpy women smoking with us, and realized with amusement thatÂ I was chatting with another half-decent looking kebab about how it would be fun to cuck Sven…
I was saved from having to answer because of a timely interjection by a white knight who had overheard our conversation and rushed in to cockblock. He took issue with the comment about manliness or something. I didn’t really catch his complaint, I was riding that first nicotine shudder. Either way, he claimed to be a Swede, and I didn’t push back on it- despite the fact that he was clearly brown. Might have been South American actually.
They started chatting in Swedish, completely cutting me out of the conversation, which allowed me to saunter back inside the bar after having to present my documents again to the Ordnings Vakt.
I got back in and decided to push my success. Â I didn’t get far, the Arab security guard immediatly pounced on me and pulled me out again.
This time he didn’t stare me down, he just dropped me off back to the same Swedish Ordnings Vakt. The viking looked at me calmly and I waited, feeling my indignationÂ start to boil. “Drink some water,” he calmly told me and let me back in.
I stalked over to our table and started promptly bitching. As I swiveled my head, I saw the Arab security chatting up the same table with great success. He would do the same with just about every girl that entered the bar that night.
“Unbelievable.” I thought to myself and kipped my head over to Greg. He shrugged, and wandered back to chat with the swole Ordnings Vakt, leaving me alone with the swedish girl.
“We can go skinny dipping in the fountain,” she said unexpectedly.
I eagerly pounced and said, “well that would be a story to tell the grandkids. Lets do it.”
Big mistake. I fell for the beta bait hard I suppose. She demanded my Facebook, unexpectedly gave me a smooch on the lips, and then just bounced out of the bar.
Greg rejoined me soon after and we began to discuss our plans to rally and save the night. We decided to go clubbing and try the nightlife again.
Thats when things decidedly took a turn for the worse and left us reeling with disgust.
More of that in Part 2: Miscegenation, Mullatos and the Eternal Swede