Growing up in England, I'd seen plenty of historic sites - enough to roll my eyes whenever an American called a building from the early 1900s "really old" - but Þingvellir was another thing entirely. The Alþing met there from 930 to 1798, where the assembly made laws and settled disputes.
Sören and I started at the viewing platform admiring the giant sundial and looking out across the park, then walked hand-in-hand down the sloping path of the Almannagjá fault, through the narrow gorge between huge cliffs. A frisson went through me at the knowledge we were walking between tectonic plates. It was an overcast day and the silvery mist made the land feel enchanted, like entering another world.
We hiked our way to Öxarárfoss, with rocky dirt paths. Though summer tourist season had ended, we weren't completely alone, but the wild beauty of the little waterfalls leading up to Öxarárfoss was distracting enough that I didn't mind. Öxarárfoss wasn't the biggest waterfall in Iceland, but it still impressed me, so much so that I was glad I had a camera. Sören and I took some selfies, then a few candids of the two of us together - and I was as glad of getting photos of him as I was to get photos of the waterfall. I didn't just want to remember the magic of this place, I wanted to remember the magic of him.
Sören not only had his cell phone camera but he also had a spare water bottle. I watched as he walked up to the waterfall and filled the bottle. Then he came back and offered me the bottle. I hesitated, then I figured the water must not be all that polluted here, and I drank. To my surprise it was the coldest, freshest water I had ever tasted. It was like drinking the sky.
Sören and I took turns sipping from the bottle, and he filled it again once it was empty, keeping it in a pouch on the side of his messenger bag. We spent a little while longer at the waterfall - I felt so much peace watching the rushing flow that I was reluctant to leave - but at last we took the footbridges so we could get a look at Þingvallakirkja and its cemetery of thirty graves. We got some photos of the church, as well as Þingvallavatn, where the volcanic origin of the lake was obvious. We sat there for awhile, looking out at the waters mirroring the sky, the lush greenery and the blue mountains in the distance. We drank more of the still-cold-and-fresh water of the falls, and leaned on each other.
Being out in nature with such a gorgeous man made me feel randy, but I knew we could get caught out here with the occasional tourists wandering about. But I was determined to fuck Sören at least once in the outdoors before my trip was over.
I put those plans in action the next day when we visited the Ásbyrgi canyon, east of Húsavík.
"People say this is the capital city of the huldufólk," Sören said, his voice hushed and reverent.
I could see why, with the 100 metre basalt cliffs forming a ring around a horseshoe-shaped forest of birch, willow, spruce, larch and pine. We hiked to Botnstjörn, a small pond in the trees, where fulmars screeched at us. Everything was so green.
My eyes watered at the serene, otherworldly scenery, feeling a tight ache in my chest. Feeling what the Welsh called hiraeth, longing for a place called home that may have never existed. I had seen something very much like this place in my dreams, just as I had seen a man very much like Sören in my fantasies. I felt like I had stepped through some kind of weird temporal gateway, and everything felt... sacred and vulnerable.
Sören seemed to sense I was getting choked up, and gave me a tight hug. "You OK?" he asked.
I nodded vehemently. "This is one of the most gorgeous things I've ever seen in my life," I said, my voice shaking. Then I touched Sören's face and looked into those sweet brown eyes. "So are you."
Sören's face lit up like the sun that had come out to shine over us. I squeezed him and he gave me a deep, passionate kiss, and that was when the little bells went off in my head. I gave Sören a smirk and added, "You know what would make this place even more breathtaking? You, naked."
It was a cool day but not too cold for Sören to humour me, quickly getting out of his clothes. Unlike Þingvellir I hadn't seen any other tourists today, so I imagined we were safe. Once Sören was naked he made a "give it" gesture and said, "Your turn."
I stripped, and Sören wolf-whistled at me when I was naked too. I grinned, laughing, my face on fire - it felt euphoric rather than objectifying for Sören to appreciate my naked body. I felt good about myself...
...and life was good. After so many months of anguish this past year, this was exactly what I needed, to frolic naked in the forest with an incredibly hot guy. Sören took my hand and we skipped and pranced around, laughing, before he pulled me into another kiss.
I kissed him back hungrily, and ran my hands over his sleek body. My fingers traced the path of flames on his right arm, and the waves on his left. "I want you," I whispered. I licked his neck and my cunt throbbed at the sound of his breathy moan. "Right here, right now."
"God, yes." Sören and I kissed open-mouthed, tongues teasing, and then his hands were on me, exploring, caressing, making me shiver.
I started kissing and licking his neck, and then I cleared my throat, not knowing how else to bring this up. "I brought my strap with me and I would love to give you a good, hard fuck."
Sören's response to that was a "mmmmmm" as he kissed me hard, then he said, "Go and get it," giving me a shove and a giggle. I scampered over to where my clothes and backpack were on the ground, took out the strap-on, and stepped into the harness. I walked back over to him and Sören bit his lip and gave a little growl that made my cunt throb again.
We kissed some more, and Sören reached down to play with the dildo, wanking it like it was a real cock. Now it was my turn to growl, and I nipped his lower lip before sucking on it, then I was kissing his neck again, my hands playing over him. I wanted him so much.
I also wanted him wet as fuck. I knew that he was probably pretty tight, even if he played with toys, and that he had a trauma history and needed to be as comfortable and relaxed as possible. He needed to be hot for it; I wanted him begging. I reached between his legs - he was already wet, but I knew he could get wetter. After a few more kisses, I got down on my knees and started lapping at him.
Sören held onto me as he shuddered and moaned. I groaned into him and my tongue lashed harder, faster. Then I sucked on him, making him cry out. I slurped away, savoring the way he panted and whimpered, almost coming untouched as he rocked his hips, fucking my face. I mashed my face into him and clamped my lips down on his cock, tugging at it, and he cried out again. "Oh god, Anthony," he pleaded. "Please. Oh god, fucking fuck me, please, I want you in me so fucking bad, I need it, fuck me... fuck me, dammit, fuck me..."
I moaned with my mouth full and kept suctioning, kept him begging, and when I felt him twitching a little and knew he was close, I pulled back. My breath hitched at the sight of his thick cream, like a cis guy's cum, and I took a few playful licks, making streamers as he watched, eyes riveted. Then I came up to kiss him, and slapped his ass. "Ready to get fucked?"
Sören immediately dropped to the ground on all fours, like a dog, sticking his lovely pert arse out at me, spreading so I could get another look at his dripping cunt. I grunted, then got on my knees again, behind him. I scooted forward and poised the tip of the dildo at his meaty cunt lips. "If it's too much and you need me to stop, tell -"
"Put it in me," Sören panted, looking over his shoulder.
I pushed into him slowly. Sören let out a broken cry and I gave him a moment to adjust, then he looked over his shoulder again and whimpered. "Please," he begged.
I grabbed his hips and started thrusting. Our hips smacked together and the sloppy squishing sound of his cunt taking my cock drove me fucking wild, making me slam into him harder. Sören bucked his hips, fucking himself desperately. "Oh god, that's so good," he called out. "More..."
"Fuck." I heard myself growl. "You are such a hot little bottom bitch."
Sören went crazy, rocking his hips violently. "More, more, fuck me... more..."
I growled again. I smacked his ass then I grabbed a handful of his hair. The stroker part of the custom strap gripped my t-dick, mimicking the feel of being inside him. I watched the cock slide in and out of his cunt, slick with his juices, those thick cunt lips kissing it again and again. I felt that rush of conquering this gorgeous Viking, making him bottom for me. Having gay sex with another man. It felt right for our first penetrative fuck to be out here in the forest, honouring our true nature.
I felt myself getting closer, overpowered by the sensation of the stroker, the sight of his cunt taking my cock, the sound of his moans and his sloppy boypussy, that feel of losing myself in a primal animalistic fuck out in one of the most intoxicatingly beautiful places on Earth. I wanted him to come too. I reached around and my fingers found the nub of his cock, rubbing it until he was shaking, making strangled noises, and then at last I felt him contract against my palm and under my fingertips and his howl echoed through the trees. My climax hit me seconds later, undone by feeling him get off, and I threw my head back and let out a fierce cry of my own.
We both needed a few moments to recover. I exhaled and exhaled - the world spun, and I felt like I was on a giant swing, flying, falling, then the deep, deep relief. I pulled out and Sören turned around. Sören laughed as I whistled at the sight of the dildo completely coated with his cream. "Wow, goddamn, boy," I said.
Sören smiled, and then, still on all fours, with me still on my knees, he crawled to the strap-on and I watched as he started sucking on it, cleaning up his mess. That got me worked up again, even more when Sören licked at it, long slow strokes with his tongue. "God, you're so fucking hot," I said, tousling his curls.
Sören licked his lips. "Want to go again?"
"Fuck yeah."
This time Sören got on his knees too, both of us facing each other. We held onto each other, looking into each other's eyes, as I fucked him... more slowly this time. At least at first. After some passionate kissing I was fucking him hard again, and Sören's hips matched my rhythm. When we both got closer, trembling against each other, breath in shuddery gasps, I started playing with him, enjoying the sight of his swollen little cock sliding in and out between the V of my fingers. We rubbed our tongues together and when Sören came we kissed deeply, and a few thrusts later I came too, shattering. The power of my orgasm and the beauty of our surroundings and the connection between us broke me and I cried a little.
"Oh, elskan." Sören's arms tightened around me.
"Thank you. Thank you, thank you," I babbled, like a prayer. "Thank you. Thank you..." Then I couldn't make words anymore, only sobbed on his shoulder.
I felt embarrassed - I wasn't used to crying like this after sex, and I wasn't used to letting my guard down like this with someone I'd just met. But Sören took it completely in stride. Once our clothes were back on we sat at the pond for awhile to take a rest and Sören held me and rocked me, which was as nice as the orgasm had been.
That afternoon we went to the nearby Dettifoss - the second most powerful waterfall in Europe. Watching the rainbow in the falls at golden hour and sunset was more magic, and I thought to myself This is the best day of my life, taking Sören's hand.
We took turns cooking - Sören grilled lamb burgers and we had a salad - and when we curled up together in the camper van bed, watching one of the Avengers movies, Sören started rubbing my hair and petting me. "You OK?"
"Yeah," I said. I smiled and gave him a kiss. Then my cheeks burned, remembering how emotional I got after our second round of sex at Botnstjörn. "I'm sorry I got all soggy earlier -"
Sören waved his hand dismissively. "I'm not into that 'boys don't cry' shit."
"...Good." I felt a wave of relief - I was sure Steve, wherever he was, would judge me. Of course, Steve hadn't exactly been good at making me come, either.
"Actually, hearing that T makes it harder to cry made me pause and think about going on it, because sometimes crying is good for the soul," Sören said. "Sometimes when I've told people I started transition at nineteen, they act like I rushed into it and didn't know what I was doing but I insisted I was a boy when I was small, I never grew out of it - I got all kinds of shit about it from my aunt and uncle, and my uncle tried to, um, correct me..." He didn't need to elaborate; I felt a surge of murderous rage. Then Sören continued, "But I did think about things first, including whether to just identify as non-binary."
"You definitely seem like a dude and not like a they/them," I said.
Sören's accent got heavier, his rolling r's more pronounced, and his flow of speech slowed down as he translated complicated thoughts into English. "You think that now because you just met me but I'm a sensitive guy, I'm an artist, I like plushies, I like flowers, I like cottagecore, I'm a nerd and I don't do sportsball. I don't believe in any of that 'pink and cooking is for girls, men have to be like Arnold Schwarzenegger' shit. I've done drag at the Pride parades in Reykjavik and once in awhile I paint my nails because it's fun and I wear lacy knickers to feel sexy because I don't really think makeup or clothing has a gender. I've had people challenge my gender online because of this and tell me to identify as something other than male, and it gets tiring, and I thought about just saying 'fuck it' and going along with the non-binary label so I don't have to keep fighting with other trans people who want to take my Man Card away... but I also don't think it's very progressive to say only tough macho guys who work out and like sportsball can be men and everyone masc-aligned who isn't like that has to be 'other'." Sören shrugged. "That doesn't mean non-binary people don't exist, or aren't valid, it just means the label doesn't fit me."
"No, I get it," I said, nodding. "And anyway, my brain registers you as a dude." I was being honest; I didn't care much for macho bullshit myself. Then I had a thought. "Gender is like the Matrix. No one can be told what gender is. You have to see it for yourself."
"Ha, exactly." Sören laughed. "So já, I started doing research on transitioning when I was seventeen and it took me about two years for me to say, yes I want T. I had to think about the bullshit expectations that would be on me when I passed as a man and whether I was man enough, as they say, to just be like 'fuck that shit, I'm my own kind of man.'"
"I really had no idea you were trans at the club. I couldn't clock you at all. T turned you into the Viking stud of my dreams." If anything, I found that Sören being confident enough in his masculinity to not feel the need to do the macho overcompensating gender performance I'd observed with most trans guys online - which was why I hadn't sought out "my own kind" much - made him even more appealing; I was definitely here for Sören being a "soft Viking". I was practically drooling on myself, my stomach fluttering again, cheeks on fire.
Sören laughed harder, then he said, "You should see what I looked like before."
"Do you have any pictures?" I was curious about him, and that curiosity was growing all the time.
"I do, yes." Sören raised an eyebrow. "I'll show you mine if you show me yours."
"OK." I had never shared mine with another person before, as it felt as intimate as sex if not moreso, but we'd had a lot of sex the last few days and even though this was just a fling, I still felt enough of a connection with him that I hoped I'd made a friend for life and we would keep in touch when I went back to the States.
The thought of going back gave me that heavy feeling again. I pulled up the gallery on my phone, eager for a distraction from... that.
Sören went first. "This is me when I was Sigrit. Four years ago."
I startled a little at the lack of beard, the softer features... the same full lips and sweet brown eyes, the same glorious mane of dark curly hair. Sigrit was wearing a red and green lopapeysa and the background was a sunset sky.
"Very pretty," I said honestly. "But you look better now." It was amazing how he'd transformed in four years.
Sören smiled and nodded. "I feel better now. More myself."
It was my turn. I showed Soren a picture of myself from 2010, about two years before my transition journey began.
I watched Sören study the black pixie cut, the green eyes behind black frames, the plain charcoal grey turtleneck jumper... the uneasy slight smile of someone who didn't feel confident in herself at all.
Sören let out a low whistle. "You were such an egg, holy shit."
"...Egg?" It was my first time hearing that term in a trans context, and I was confused.
"Oh, jæja, on Tumblr and on trans forums on Reddit and other places, egg is a word for someone who's very obviously trans and doesn't realise it. When you figure it out, your egg cracks and the real you hatches."
I sometimes visited Reddit but I stayed away from Tumblr, and wished I'd heard the word before because... that made a tonne of sense. I looked at the short hair again, how I didn't wear much makeup, how pre-transition me dressed in a very androgynous style. "Yeah. I was. Shit, you're right. It's funny because at the time I thought I was just being a feminist and, you know, not going along with the patriarchy's expectations of beauty. I got mistaken for a butch lesbian all the time and I'm not into women at all. Honestly, I went out with my husband just to make people shut the fuck up."
Sören nodded along with me. "You were cute, though." Sören cocked his head to one side. "What was your deadname?"
I normally didn't disclose this, and I would have been offended if it was a cis person but from a fellow trans bro - one I was fucking - it didn't make me bristle. "Antonia. I went with the male version of my name, very original I know." And then I was curious again. "You went with Sören and not... Sigurð?"
"Sigurð's my late father and it felt disrespectful," Sören said. "I went with my great-grandfather's name. Sören isn't a common name in Iceland anymore but he was born when the country was under Danish rule. And he was a Lutheran pastor from a long line of Lutheran pastors, his father named him for Kierkegaard - I've been depressed since I was a kid, so it felt appropriate."
I put an arm around him and kissed his cheek. "I'm glad you're still here."
"Hi Glad You're Still Here, I'm Sören -"
I facepalmed and groaned loudly, but also shook with silent laughter: I loved it. I found his corny jokes ridiculously endearing.
That was dangerous territory.
Sören let out a deep breath, as if sharing the pre-transition photo and talking about gender had been more emotionally intense for him than he'd let on. I couldn't blame him for that - I felt like he'd probed someplace deep I normally didn't allow others access to, and for some reason I trusted him, and that was... unsettling. "You want to step out of the van for a few minutes and get some fresh air?" Sören asked.
"Yeah."
We put on our jackets and hopped out of the camper van.
I was unprepared for the most magnificent sight of all - when I looked up I gasped, a shiver down my spine, hair standing on end, gooseflesh under my clothes, and then I broke down weeping, even harder than I had in the forest earlier that day.
I'd spent most of my life in London, and the last four years in New York City, which were heavily light polluted. So was much of continental Europe, and even the Scandinavian peninsula; there were some dark sky sites in Norway but they were all remote and outside the range of my bicycle tour.
This was the first time I'd ever seen a clear night sky with its seemingly-infinite stars. The first time I'd ever seen the Milky Way with the naked eye. I thought of Carl Sagan's tiny blue dot, and how very small we were among the billions and billions of stars... one human family, who had once looked up at the same sparkling sky in different lands on different continents, who probably felt the same wonder and terror that I felt now, beholding a miracle of the universe. One human family who fought each other, who had built machines that could destroy each other, or unite and explore these stars together.
"Oh my god." I heard myself babbling. "Oh my fucking god. Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my fucking god. Holy shit. Holy fucking shit, oh my god..." I sounded like an idiot, and realised I was on my knees on the ground, rocking myself, shaking and crying.
Sören dropped down beside me and put his arms around me. "It's amazing, isn't it?"
That made me cry harder. At first I was embarrassed that he was seeing me blubber like this, ugly crying - all the T in the world could not get in the way of the overwhelming surge of emotions in the presence of the galaxy. Then I reminded myself Sören wasn't an insensitive arsehole like Steve. He was getting choked up too, in fact.
"No matter how many times I see it, it's still awe-inspiring," Sören said softly, looking up at the sky. "And now I get to see it through your eyes, like I'm seeing it for the first time."
I cried even harder, leaning on him. "God, I'm sorry -"
"No elskan, don't be sorry. It's OK. You need this."
I did. I felt like a wound in my soul had been lanced and was being flushed now. Several times after the stabbing last year I had thought to myself that the cruelest part of the attack had been that I survived - broken and afraid. But I lived to see this. I had survived a suicide attempt and a stabbing and I was here to see the stuff that myths were made of.
I was sharing it with someone with a beautiful, sensitive heart. I still didn't know Sören well yet, but I knew this was who he was.
We held each other, gazing at the stars in awe, and I felt profoundly connected to him, witnessing something sacred together. When it started to get too chilly to comfortably be outside, I helped Sören up and we hugged and kissed. Then I said, "Thank you."
Sören touched my face. "Thank you for... getting it." He gestured at the sky. "This is why I paint." Then he smirked. "This inspired my magnum opus." He meant the Starry Night Snoop Dogg street art mural in Reykjavik; he began to dance like Snoop Dogg, swaying back and forth, rolling his right arm in circles. "When the pimp's in the crib ma, drop it like it's hot, drop it like it's hot, drop it like it's hot..."
His accent made it even more delightfully absurd. I fell over laughing. Laughing and crying. Laughing so hard my sides hurt, my face hurt, snorting. "OH MY FUCKING GOD." He was so ridiculous, and the laughter made me feel higher than Snoop himself.
And then I knew, I could fall in love with Sören too easily, and I was already most of the way there.
chapter 17 | return to A Place Called Home | return to Original Works | return to index
