I Don’t Want You To Get Raped

I was walking home from a coffee shop when I noticed a girl crossing the street in a path that would collide with mine.

“What’s that building there?” she asked, in a thick accent that made it clear she wasn’t Icelandic. She pointed to a large glass structure that was being constructed. I had asked myself the same question two weeks before, curious enough to research the answer on the internet.

“It’s the new theater house,” I said. “They’ll hold plays and shows there. Are you a tourist?”

“Yes. I’m here for two weeks.”

“Your accent is different… it sounds Russian.”

“Yes, how did you know?”

I nodded. “Where I come from, there are a lot of Russians. Their accent is easy to spot.”

It was her first day in Reykjavik and she was eager to learn about the city. It was only a couple days after I had fucked the Icelandic girl from the street, so I couldn’t believe I might get my Russian flag in the exact same way.

I said, “I’m actually about to walk by the center square on my way home. If you want, I can show you a couple of spots.” She was eager, so we started walking.

The first place I showed her was my day hangout. “This is the bookstore I spend a lot of time in. I like it because they close late at ten o’clock. A lot of the other coffee shops close much earlier.” We walked inside and went into the café, where we talked for almost an hour about Iceland, Russia, and America; a cultural conversation that comes easy with other foreigners. Her English was good, but she had to talk slowly, and I slowed down so she’d understand me.

I got a better picture of her body once she took off her coat. She was extremely thin, making her seem taller than her 5’10” height, with light brown hair that came all the way down to her stomach. Her cheekbones gave a slightly hollow look to her eyes. I had trouble identifying any obvious physical flaws. She was generic and void of anything unique, but pretty close to perfection. She had the ideal proportions to be a runway model, and with the right makeup and clothing I knew she would blow away most girls.

After some time chatting, I wasn’t convinced she was genuinely interested in me. Even though she had approached me, the interaction had almost a professional feel to it. Did she just want to practice her English? Was she trying to tap my head for information on Iceland? We exchanged email addresses after I told her of a bar I was going to the next night.

She didn’t show up at the bar, emailing me to say she couldn’t find it. I invited her to a small rock concert a couple days after that, but she didn’t even reply. I was going to give up on her forever, since I never reinitiate contact with a girl who doesn’t reply to one of my messages, but I still had a long way to go before understanding Russian women. For research purposes I decided to probe the situation and see if she’d react the same way that an American woman would (with radio silence).

I sent her an email that said: “Did you leave Iceland already?” Of course I knew she hadn’t.

She wrote back quickly, asking if I wanted to go for a walk, apologizing that she hadn’t replied previously due to internet trouble. The plan was to meet in the same bookstore at eight on Friday night.

By that time I had been in Iceland for three weeks. After I got my flag, I became temporarily disinterested in Icelandic girls because their personalities were so cold. While they look marginally better than American girls, have silkier hair, and aren’t as fat, it felt like I’d been talking to rocks. It was hard to draw them out in any sort of fun conversation since they didn’t socially respond the way women in other countries would. They didn’t seem to be curious about other cultures or other people and they had nothing remotely interesting or funny to say. I was ready to conclude that their specialty is getting trashed, acting silly on the dance floor, and fucking.

The consequence of dealing with socially withdrawn people is that you become socially withdrawn yourself. It got so bad for me that I’d go for two or three-day stretches without even having a conversation with another human being. I’d talk to myself out loud at home, just to hear the sound of my voice. Combined with the five hours of weak sunlight a day, I felt like I was in a social isolation chamber. I started to get nervous that Iceland was infecting me with some type of antisocial virus, and that I was losing my bubbly nature.

The Russian girl showed up a half-hour late. She wore knee-high boots, a short skirt paired with black leggings, and a leather jacket over a black shirt. We sat at a table and talked about ourselves.

“So what do you do?” I asked.

“I’m a model.”

“Interesting. How long have you been doing that?”

“Four years, since I was fifteen. I’m considered an old model now and probably won’t do it much longer. These days they recruit girls starting at twelve.”

“That’s weird—a girl that young doesn’t look like a woman.”

“Well, with makeup and clothing they make them look much older. I look completely different when I’m on a job.”

I became curious about seeing photos of her glammed up, later making a strong effort to add her as a Facebook friend.

“So what are you going to do afterwards?” I asked.

“I’m in school now and currently teach runway walking to girls. In Russia, you have to work very hard to get anywhere, so I’m trying to secure a good future. There’s no time to hang out just to hang out. When I spend time with someone, there has to be some sort of exchange.”

That confirmed something I’d heard from guys who had dated Russian women: “They are always playing some sort of angle.” I didn’t know what she wanted to get from me, but I was hoping for it to be cock.

A café was holding a little concert featuring a Brazilian singer from Rio. I wanted to stop by and see if there was a Brazilian community in Reykjavik I could snake my way into. The Russian agreed to come.

“Maybe we can go to a bar after the concert,” I said. “I know a couple nearby.”

“I don’t drink,” she said.

“Really? But… you’re Russian.”

“Are you saying all Russian people are drunks?” She wasn’t smiling.

I wanted to say yes, but I could sense it was a touchy subject. Maybe her father was an alcoholic and had beaten her mother when she was a little girl.

“No, but the Russians in Washington DC are hard partiers. You’re honestly the first Russian person I’ve met who doesn’t drink. That’s like meeting an American who doesn’t like cheeseburgers and french fries.” I smiled.

“I can drink Coca-Cola, juice, water, and hot chocolate.” At that moment I noticed her necklace. It had a pendant of the Virgin Mary. My hope of sex was fading.

We killed some time in the bookstore before the start of the concert, talking a lot about her life in Russia. For being only 19 years old, she had a lot of interesting opinions on the things she had experienced, offering them at will without me having to drag it out of her. She asked follow-up questions to my own opinions and even had a sense of humor that kept me laughing, something most girls I meet are incapable of doing. The funniest thing she told me was, “Reykjavik feels like the Russian countryside instead of a capital city. I’m expecting a cow to walk by any second now.”

The more laughs and stories we exchanged, the more I felt my social nature coming back. Even though I hadn’t been in Iceland long, I had almost forgotten how rewarding human interactions can be. I was a little upset to know that my new friend was leaving in only two days.

I was more upset that she wasn’t a drinker. I’ve only fucked one other girl who was a non-drinker in my life. That girl wasn’t hard to get into the sack, but it did take longer than normal. I gave myself a 10% chance of fucking the Russian, a low number, but enough for me to pursue matters.

In heavy snow we walked to the concert venue. The Brazilian singer performed and almost brought a tear to my eye, not because I could understand what she was saying (though I’m sure it was about love and heartbreak), but because I knew I could have been in Brazil instead, spending less money to be with wonderful women who were sexy, feminine, and eager to please me.

After the show, the singer came up to me and the Russian. “Thank you for coming,” she said, greeting me with a double cheek kiss. “Where are you from?”

“I’m from America, though I lived in Rio for a while. That’s why I wanted to come tonight. Do you live here now?”

“Yes. I’m trying to move permanently to Iceland. I came with my daughter and we have a nice life here.”

Is she fucking crazy? Exchanging Rio for this? Then again, she was in her 40s, and forty years of anything wonderful will make it stop being wonderful. I also couldn’t discount the fact that Brazilians really like blue-eyed white people.

The singer engaged the Russian girl by asking questions and patiently waiting for her labored responses. She spent only three minutes talking to us, but the interaction was so pleasant that afterwards I was glowing. In one day the Russian girl and Brazilian singer had made me feel more human than any Icelander had. It was that night that I knew I’d never return to Iceland.

When it was time to leave the café, I looked at the Russian girl and said, “My socks are wet from snow getting into my shoes. Do you mind if we stop by my apartment one block away so I can change them?” She didn’t mind. My plan was to make my move once there.

I walked in, but she stayed outside in the freezing cold, waiting for me to change my socks. I gave her an “Are you serious?” look. She reluctantly came inside, but not any farther than the door mat.

“Are you going to change your socks?” she asked after I had opened my laptop.

“Are you in a rush? I mean, what do you want to do now?”

“Well, I have an excursion tomorrow morning, so I should be getting home.”

“You sure you don’t want to hang out more?”

“No. I should go.”

“Well, then, I guess I don’t need to change my socks after all. Let me walk you to the street corner and point you in the right direction.”

I wasn’t upset or bitter about her decision, since I had seen it coming a mile away. She gave me a nice hug at the intersection but lingered afterwards as if she wanted to keep chatting.

I said, “You seem like you want to hang out some more. Do you want to go to a bar? We don’t have to chill in my apartment.”

“No, no. I really must go.” She leaned in to give me a kiss on one cheek, then the other. I held onto her and she smiled, then we kissed on the lips for a few seconds.

“Why don’t you come back inside for fifteen minutes?” I asked. “We can listen to some music.”

“No, I shouldn’t,” she said, then turned and walked away.

I went back home, slightly discouraged but feeling good about the night. I was content with staying in, but with only two good nights to go out in Reykjavik during the week, I’d have to take advantage of both. I watched some old episodes of Seinfeld on my computer while drinking a fair amount of scotch before heading out the door at three.

I went to Bakkus near my apartment, not motivated to talk to Icelandic girls. Time flew and the bar lights came on. Realizing I had absolutely no prospects, I started approaching in earnest.

First girl, nothing. Second girl, nothing. Then I noticed a girl who was the friend of another girl I had approached on my first night out. I had barely exchanged three words with her, so I wasn’t sure if she’d remember me, but she did. That was surprising since she was now drunk out of her mind and holding onto the wall for support. I was inebriated myself, but nowhere near the way she was.

Her friends had ditched her and left her all by her lonesome. She desperately looked for them, fiddling with her phone, but they were all gone. I couldn’t believe my luck.

“I guess I’ll walk you home,” I said. She didn’t say anything. Once she started walking I followed her.

Five minutes into the walk she fell into the snow, hiking up her skirt so that I could see her stockings almost all the way up to her pussy. Helping her get back on her feet confirmed that her body was the real deal, like a little ballerina with a big ass (my ideal type).

“Look at you, falling all over the place,” I said. “You’re a mess.”

“Fuck you!” she said. “You don’t have to walk me home!”

“It would be cruel to leave you because another man might try to do something to you. I don’t want you to get raped.”

“No one rapes anyone in Iceland,” she said.

“You sure you want to test that out right now? You can’t even walk straight.”

“Whatever, you’re such an asshole!”

I didn’t know if she was joking or flirting. She kept telling me to leave and I kept saying it was my duty as a man to make sure she got home safe. I said, “I have a sister who’s a couple years older than you. I’d want a guy to walk her home as well.” That was the first time I had leveraged a family member in the hope of building enough trust to get laid. I couldn’t decide if it was tight game or pure evil.

Then she grabbed my hand. For balance? For intimacy? I didn’t know, but I did know I wasn’t going to fuck her. I’ve never fucked a girl in her parents’ home while they were sleeping, and while there’s a first time for everything, I wasn’t counting on it. On the other hand, I did have to piss like a racehorse.

When we got to her place, I asked, “Can I use your bathroom?”

“Yeah, whatever.” Her speech was like an American girl. It turned out that she actually lived on the East Coast for a few months.

I took a leak in her bathroom, which was decorated like a ski lodge with various woodsy knickknacks and little troll figurines. I came out to find her in the kitchen, warming up a huge pot of chicken soup.

“Do you want some?” she asked.

“No, I’m good.”

“Thanks for walking me home,” she said, in what was her kindest statement of the night.

“You’re welcome,” I said. “Can I take off my shoes?”

“Yeah, go ahead.”

She was talking loud, as if no one was home, but I did notice a shut door that I assumed was her parents’ bedroom. I sat down on the couch while she messed with the soup. Eventually she sat down next to me, putting her legs over mine. Her wet feet were tiny and I compared them to my hands, which were a few inches larger. I went into horny creep mode and started rubbing her legs while talking. She placed a hand on my arm.

“Tell me something about you,” she said.

“What do you want to know?”

“Anything, I don’t care.”

“My life is pretty shallow,” I said.


“Because I’m never somewhere long enough to put down roots. I just go from place to place, and even if we were to be perfect for each other, it still wouldn’t work because I’m leaving soon.”

She leaned closer and said, “That’s sad.”

Then I kissed her. She tasted like beer and cigarettes, but now with my hands exploring her body I got more aroused in five seconds than I had with the Russian girl all night. Without saying a word, she got up, poured out a bowl of soup, and went into her room. I followed her.

It went so fast in her bedroom that even I felt weird. Clothes ripped off. “Do you have a condom?” Jam the dick inside. Barely any kissing. I was too drunk to feel anything and she was too drunk to produce much in the way of lubrication, so after five minutes we stopped having sex, if that’s what you want to call it, and lay on our backs. She fell asleep and started snoring. Her soup went untouched.

I took a short nap and when I woke up, her alarm clock said eight a.m. I figured it would be a good idea to leave in case her parents woke up early, so I ducked into the bathroom, threw the condom into the toilet, and flushed. It wouldn’t go down. I flushed again, but still nothing. I wanted to protect her honor (more like get rid of the evidence), so I fished it out the toilet and wrapped it in half a roll of toilet paper. I went back to the room and put it in my coat pocket along with the condom wrapper. Then I got dressed and left while she slept.

The next day, I heard a knock on my window. It was the Russian. I thought, “Yes! She wants to fuck! Two bangs in one weekend!” But no. She sat next to the door with her coat and scarf on, shying away whenever I got close. I tried to go caveman at the end but she just kept saying, “When you come to Moscow, I’ll show you around!”

Two weeks later I went to Bakkus again. After last call I stood outside in front of the bar, looking for targets, when the Icelandic girl I had fucked walked out with a guy in the same way I had walked out with her. She was so drunk that he was holding her arm so she wouldn’t fall over.

The above story is from Bang Iceland, an 80-page book that teaches you how to sleep with Icelandic women during a visit to the country. It contains tourist tips, game advice, and five additional sex stories that give you all the information you need to pillage creamy white Icelandic women, with extra details not released on the blog. It’s available in both paperback and ebook. Read sample pages or learn more about the book.

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