A week passed before I logged onto the site again, and by then I’d gotten a flood of replies. Surprised, I went through them all, one by one. An older gentleman promised me an economically carefree existence in exchange for his sexual satisfaction three times a week. A twenty-year-old wondered if I could teach him everything I knew. I sat there with my cup of coffee and laughed, but at the same time I felt oddly moved; not so much by all this appreciation (the photo was really a fraud), but because it was clear to me that they all truly and strongly believed in love, and believed that I could give them what they were looking for.
Several more weeks passed before I went back onto the site. But once I did, I noticed that many of the men who had first contacted me had kept writing. Some had written almost every day for weeks. The twenty-year-old who thought I could teach him something almost seemed obsessed, and in one message he wrote: I’ve always had girls who just talk and talk, they never seem to do anything but talk, but you feel so genuine, so free from words. Genuine, so free from words. I liked the sound of that.
I wrote to him: I guess you somehow send out the message that you like to talk. Try to send another message. Kind regards, M.
Others had sent pictures of themselves, their cars and their sailboats. One had sent a photo of his organ, fully erect. They all said something nice about my photo, and at first I was flattered, and thought I might not be all that bad. Then I realized there was nothing to be flattered about. No, this was something else, something I couldn’t quite put my finger on, that had nothing to do with me.
I replied to one of them: Thank you for your words, but don’t have any illusions about me. I am thirty-six years old, the photo is taken in a candlelit room... Here is a real picture.
I attached a photo of me that I took then and there in regular daylight, the way I was: wearing panties and a bra (although I edited out my head). Without mentioning details I can only say that this picture was not as flattering as the last one, but still I managed to laugh a little at the cooling effect it would have on the man in question. But just a minute or so after I’d sent the photo came his response: Besides the fact that your age implies that we could have many interesting conversations, and you most likely can cook a good meal (for which I would choose the wine), I’m convinced your body, which I guess has already been enjoyed by many, holds an abundance of possibilities. And your womb is surely a repository of dirty deeds that I wouldn’t mind taking part in either.
You fucker! I wrote back immediately.
But I remained by my computer. Frankly, I was curious about the man who had expressed himself like this. Curious about him, but also about masculinity itself, which I, the more I learn about, understand less and less, but despite this am still fascinated by it — conceptually, but also on a very concrete level. I seriously considered continuing my correspondence with this man. Maybe setting up a date. An adventure like this would have a strong antidepressive effect on me during the dark season we were about to enter.
So I wrote: When can we meet?
In three weeks, he replied.
What’s your name and where do you live?
My name is Calisto and I live in Stockholm.
Calisto? I wrote.
My mom was Catholic, he replied, but I didn’t see how that explained anything.
Your name reminds me of something, I wrote, but he didn’t respond. Okay, so I’ll book a train ticket and a hotel, I added.
You’re welcome to stay at my place, he wrote, but I declined.
The weekend Calisto and I had set for my visit was in the middle of December. Two days before I was planning to leave I heard there was a snowstorm on its way. It would be coming from the south, sweeping in over the country like a broom, covering everything in its way; trees would be falling over electric cables like pick-up sticks. People would be stuck in their cottages without electricity for days, maybe weeks. I compared my train’s timetable with the weather report, and came to the conclusion that if I headed north directly after lunch, which was when my train was leaving, I should probably make it before the storm. And once it poured in over Stockholm, I would be sitting at some bar, with the wind howling outside, slightly tipsy, with Calisto. Yes, that’s how I imagined it.
I took the train as planned. We left Malmö and kept going up through Skåne. Soon there were no more deciduous forests; instead we passed endless clusters of pine and fir trees, occasionally opening up to reveal dark lakes flanking the tracks. Everything was oddly still for hours, and I sat in my seat thinking about what things would be like once I reached my destination. What Calisto looked like, what he did for a living, if we were going to have sex. I fell asleep and woke up when we entered the tunnels south of Stockholm. My ears popped and right outside my window the rock face swept by at a tremendous speed.
Suddenly we were on the other side of the mountain, heading toward the city. The coach was silent and when I glanced around I saw that everyone was looking out the window. It was getting dark and the sky was tinged in orange and blue. We crossed bridges: water, rock faces, and beautiful houses with copper roofs surrounded us. The bodies of water were partly covered by ice and meandered this way and that; in the distance I caught a glimpse of the open sea. Everyone must be happy here, I thought. Healthy people, generations of ice-skating and swimming off the cliffs. They’re probably sitting there behind their big windows with fine cups of coffee, looking out over mountains, water, and city with a view unimaginable to the rest of the world.
Once I stepped off the train I thought the people looked resolute and flawless, as if they were all clones from a movie. I instantly felt implacably imperfect. I longed for home, for Copenhagen where the spokes of the Tivoli Ferris wheel are always spinning just where the train comes in, and the smells of urine, smoke, and waffles hover over it all.
I had booked a hotel in the center of town. I checked in, and it turned out my room was in the basement, without any windows. Instead, there was a sauna in the hallway. I sat in it for a long time and then took a hot-and-cold shower before I returned to my room, crawled into bed, and fell asleep. When I woke up it was nine o’clock at night and the windowless room was pitch black. I got up and put my makeup on in the bathroom where the floor was still wet. Then I texted Calisto that I had arrived and was now rested and showered and ready to meet him.
We’ll meet at Pharmarium, he texted back. Sit at the bar and look like you’re for sale and I’ll find you.
I asked at the reception desk what Pharmarium was and once I’d received directions I wrapped my scarf around my head and made my way out.
While I had been sleeping the storm had started brewing. The wind outside seemed to crawl along the ground before suddenly spiraling up into the air with gusts of powdery snow. I crossed a bridge and reached another island. The high brick buildings had beautiful copper roofs. Everything was grandiose and picturesque at the same time, and despite the cold and snow, there were a lot of people outside. I reached a square with a church. I circled it and spotted four bars; one of them was Pharmarium. It was located on a corner of the square and the entrance gave off a modest impression, but once I stuck my head inside I realized this was a place I could have chosen myself. The ceiling was low and it was warm. People were crowded together in small groups around low tables and colored fabric was hanging from the walls. As for the rest, it looked like an old pharmacy with wooden drawers that gave an alchemist’s air to the place. Sit at the bar and look like you’re for sale and I’ll find you. That was what Calisto had written. I took my coat and scarf off and sat down at the bar. I ordered a drink, told the bartender I wanted his “best,” and ended up with a smoky, sour piece of work that I drank fast. Ten minutes later a man approached me and introduced himself.