LOG TWO: WHEN I KISSED THE CHESS PLAYER

In the second Notes From Anywhere: second first kisses, Swedish insecurity, and Taylor Swift.

Me after rejecting the hot chess player

I am lonely and horny in Stockholm. No one wants to have sex with me because I am a big loser with no friends. I keep losing my deodorant, so I smell kind of bad all the time. I do not own an Acne Studios coat, and I don’t even know if they sell coats at Acne Studios. I am unfuckable in the Nordics. I am undesirable in Scandinavia.

I am fucking terrified of opening up my body. 

Like, what do I do once we get to that point? When I’m at their apartment with my tits out. Can I go pee and wash my hands before we start making out? Am I meant to not get excited when I’m offered alcohol for free? There’s so many factors to think about. Did I want my first ever hook up to be in the suburbs of Stockholm? Did I even want to go through the ordeal of sex? We might get naked, and we might fuck around for a bit, and we might kiss without aim, and after all that, I might not even cum. Because I never cum. 

I am lonely and horny in Stockholm because I am a fucking chicken. 

It’s November. I am not good at November. All I do in November is wear sweaters and forget major things that happened the week prior. November isn’t a month that is considered as transitional, but I wanted to usher in change. I wanted my November to be messy.

As previously mentioned, I am a chicken. I wasn’t ready to enter this slutty Newton era that I so desired, because I am a big goofy chicken who can’t pick a gender. How can I be a heartbreaking evil slut when I can barely eat pastry without shitting myself?

I almost got some. I think the logical part of my brain understands why I didn’t go home with the nice local I went on a Bumble date with, but if there was ever a time to be logical then it wasn’t this bloody trip. I pussyfooted around getting pussy. I dropped the ball that makes you a super cool chick magnet.

I went on a date after roughly 12 shared messages between myself and a mysterious chef who worked in the city centre. It felt risky. I didn’t ask for any supplementary pictures, I didn’t obsess over receiving a voice note. I just arranged a time and a meeting point, and I got on the subway with my safety alarm bulging in my pocket. My fingers were hooked against the trigger. I hadn’t managed to eat anything, hadn’t consumed any caffeine, so I was running on 5 hours of sleep and the fear that I’d crafted in my head. She ended up being real, and very nice.

I don’t remember very much of our conversation. She took me to lunch at a buffet restaurant somewhere away from the city centre. I don’t remember the name, all I remember is that it was a pan-asian, Scandinavian experience. I was too focused on making her laugh to really consider my geographic location. That’s my main hook, I think. I’m funny, and if I cant put an ache in your front for any other reason, I can sure do it with my hilarity.

We were wading through three language barriers. I think I got a couple of sincere chuckles, but she seemed to be rather serious. Nevertheless, my hilarity and I pushed on.

There is so much to consider on a first date that includes food. What do I look like? Do I have food directly on my cheeks? What does she think of the buffet items I selected? I don’t know if you can look cool at a buffet. I think you’re mostly running the risk of looking like an absolute tit depending on what food you’re allowing to mingle on your semi-warm plate. I had both dumplings AND some sort of poorly cooked beef sitting beside each other. 

We talked about our romantic failings, our reasons for being in Sweden. She’d been living here for a while, but had plans to go home to the Philippines at some point to start a restaurant of her own. I nodded whilst I wrestled with my beef, trying not to let it slap my face in the middle of our conversation. 

I liked that she was slightly masculine. I hadn’t dressed up as theatrically as I usually would. Honestly, I can’t remember why. I’m not one to turn down the opportunity to impress someone with my impressive colour coordination.

She asked me lots of good questions. I probably talked about myself too much.

The date was on a timer, as she had to start her shift at the restaurant soon. I can’t remember what cuisine the restaurant was because I never saw the front. We started our route to her workplace, taking the subway.

An hour to kill led us to a library in central Stockholm. It had 5 floors, and wasn’t terribly busy in spite of it being the weekend. Flushed and nervous, I kept feigning that I had no preference for what we did, as we wandered up and down escalators, getting lost in the grandeur of the building. It was modern, all glass walls and intuitive design, which didn’t feel very intuitive as we stumbled into an empty events space, holding hands. 

Eventually, after an elevator to the 3rd floor, we stumbled upon a group of men playing chess. My date got visibly excited, and mumbled something about not previously knowing this was here. The majority of the tables were taken, but there was sufficient space for two.

“I played chess back home.” She said, shared like a secret.

“Oh, really? I don’t know how to play chess.”

“Yeah. I actually won championships and played tournaments in college.”

“...how come you didn’t start off with that?”

I think she laughed. And then she asked me if I wanted to play. I echoed that I didn’t know how, and said that I would if she taught me. We sat down opposite each other, and she explained how the pieces worked for about 2 minutes, not that I was listening. I was still revelling over holding hands with a pretty girl. 

Making her first move, she did not tell me what to do. I had no idea what to do. I just picked up a random piece and moved it, grinning at her. For the first time that whole afternoon, she was coy. She moved confidently, and I moved like a dog with opposable thumbs. There were a couple of instances where she took my hand and showed me where to put a pawn, a knight, and I was human goo at that point. A gooey human in a sea of old Swedish men, grunting and moving their pieces. A pretty girl was holding my hand, half teaching me chess and half curing my touch starvation. 

It was soon time to go. We picked each other's hands up again and wandered out of the building. When she kissed me goodbye at the back entrance of her restaurant, I kissed her back. And then we were making out. How do you make out? Is it a battle? Am I meant to win?

When we pulled away, she told me that she should have done that sooner, and when I turned to leave, I stopped in my tracks, long after she’d closed the door. 

On the walk home in broad fucking daylight, I listened to Taylor Swift and revelled in a weird mixture of guilt, shame, joy, and more shame. When she asked me to hook up later, I said no.

Mostly because I’m a fucking idiot. Or something like that.