Danish Man's Weakness Ends in Come Flow
… “I am Tue,” he said on the first day of class after a Christmas break. “You know, like, one, two, three—well, I am Tue.” And he laughed, the lanky tall Danish kid who enrolled in my Intercultural Communication in the Gay World class. Soon we were friends—he showed me his art, crazy drawings of angular people in vibrant colors, Picasso simplified yet exaggerated, and I helped him organize an exhibition of his crazy cockerels, hugging men and dancing women in all colors of the crayon rainbow in the Student Center. He was brokenhearted in May, sobbing on the shoulder of his Canadian boyfriend, who promised to come to Denmark as soon as he could, and forgetting all about Tue as soon as his plane lifted…
We kept writing to each other, and he sent me several parcels of his new paintings, now strangely cubic, like Picasso was living his life inside of him… When I told him I was coming to Denmark to the Christiania Art Festival, he sent back a set of 100 exclamation points and an invitation to stay at his loft in Christiania.
… He met me at the airport as the sun rose lazily; he was dressed as a free artist should—an oversized t-shirt and loose sneakers that scuffed softly against the polished floor. He grinned without ceremony, tugging my bag along with one hand while keeping the other in the pocket of his worn jacket. “Straight to the apartment first,” he said, his soft Danish-English carrying the easy rhythm of someone accustomed to moving slowly through life, “before the city wakes.”
The morning air outside was sharp and moist, fog curling in silver coils around lamp posts and over the canals, muffling the usual clamor of cyclists and early deliveries. Even inside the airport, the sense of quiet felt deliberate, a pause before the day began.
The walk through Christiania was almost surreal. Mist hung over the cobblestones and the painted walls, softening the bright graffiti and the rough wood of the sheds that lined our path. It smelled faintly of wet earth, wood smoke, and something richer—linseed oil or turpentine, I couldn’t be certain. Tue unlocked the door to his apartment, a two-room space that smelled of coffee, wood polish, and quiet mornings. His roommates were awake: Søren and Mikkel, a gentle-eyed couple, already moving around the kitchen, slicing rye bread and brewing tea.
Tue introduced me and I felt enormous pride just beneath the casual tone of his voice. “This is Dr. Auguste du Pont for you, Augie for me,” he said, and Søren and Mikkel rolled their eyes, smirking at me with friendly yet cheeky openness. “Augie for you, too, guys,” I said, we shook hands and sat down.
The apartment was snug but alive. Sunlight spilled through a small window, glinting across scattered brushes, sketchbooks, and half-finished canvases stacked against the walls. One room served as a studio, the other a combination kitchen and living space, where a sofa sagged slightly under the weight of years of sitting and laughter. Everything bore the mark of hands that worked constantly—painting, carving, moving pieces of a shared life into place.
We sat for breakfast on mismatched chairs, sipping black coffee so strong it left a heat at the back of the throat. Tue spoke softly of his art, the ways Christiania’s quiet chaos fed his work, of the choice to remain independent rather than chase galleries downtown. Søren joked about having to “steal him away for chores later,” and Mikkel passed me a plate of warm cinnamon rolls. Watching the three of them interact, I realized how effortless their intimacy was: a glance, a small smile, a hand sliding across the table, and the air itself seemed to bend around them in careful balance.
After breakfast we left Søren and Mikkel to their own devices, and stepped out again into the city still half-asleep. Tue led me past narrow alleys where murals glimmered through ivy, stopping to point out small details: the way one artist had layered colors to mimic the movement of water, the carved initials left by a friend years ago on some other mural, a set of tiny fledglings painted under a water chute so that only who knew could notice. Then we paused at a kinetic sculpture outside a workshop, the wind spinning it slowly, catching the mist in flashes of metal light. It was a mesmerizing view, and we lingered there for a few minutes.
Then Tue turned into a small gateway, and we found ourselves in a small courtyard with an exhibition of the most amazing marble, clay and plaster statues of men I have ever seen. “Rodin! Gay Rodin, squared, cubed!” I exclaimed, and Tue looked proud.
Sunlight poured over the sculptures, tracing every curve and hollow until marble and clay seemed to pulse like warm, aroused skin, shadows pooling in clefts and ridges that mimicked the most intimate folds of male desire.
The first pair stood upright, close enough that their shoulders nearly merged, their naked bodies frozen in a moment of raw initiation—one figure's hand cupped the other's heavy balls, fingers splayed possessively, while the recipient's cock—veined and semi-erect, the foreskin pulled halfway back—brushed the inside of his partner's thigh. The tilt forward suggested not just confession but the brink of a kiss, lips parted as if exhaling a moan, the sculptor's chisel capturing the subtle twitch of arousal in the marble glans.
Another, cast in rougher clay, was unpolished and visceral—two bodies turned toward each other, hands finding purchase where words might have failed: one man's palm gripped the base of the other's thick shaft, thumb pressing the frenulum in a teasing hold, while the other guy's fingers dug into a firm ass cheek, spreading it slightly to reveal the shadowed promise of entry. The surface still carried the sculptor’s fingerprints, like evidence of frantic touch, the cocks aligned and leaking imagined pre-cum in glistening clay drips.
A third piece lay half-reclined on a stone plinth, the figures twined in quiet exhaustion after climax, foreheads touching, one man's spent cock draped soft and slick across the other's thigh, a trail of sculpted semen arcing from the tip to pool in the navel below. Their legs intertwined lazily, one knee hooked high to expose the relaxed pucker of an ass still wide from recent use but with the calm that follows something deeply felt etched in the subtle sag of balls and the faint smile on parted lips.
One sculpture, smaller and more delicate in polished alabaster, showed a man lifting another—the lifter's thighs corded with tension, his erection buried halfway into the lifted man's ass, the receiving figure's legs wrapped around his waist, ankles locked, his own cock trapped between them, rubbing against his abs. The tremor in the marble forearms suggested the strain of holding that mid-thrust ecstasy, both tender and unflinching, the veins on the penetrating shaft bulging as if mid-pulse.
The fifth was pure movement: two figures spiraling around each other, caught in an embrace that might also be a struggle, cocks grinding, one head nudging the other's navel while hands clutched hips, pulling closer in a grind that promised friction-born release. From certain angles it was impossible to tell who held whom, the sculpted pre-cum trails linking their shafts like silver threads, muscles rippling in marble waves of impending orgasm.
The last stood apart—one solitary man, his gaze turned toward the others, hand wrapped around his full erection in a self-caress, fingers mid-stroke along the veined length, balls drawn tight in anticipation. The line of his back spoke of longing, but also of peace in having witnessed it, his free hand extended as if inviting touch, the tip of his cock glistening with a single, eternal bead.
Tue lingered at the center, hands in his pockets, his own body taut under his loose shirt as he watched me—gauging, teasing, the reason for this detour clear in his knowing smile. “They make stillness look alive,” he said quietly, voice low with that Danish lilt, stepping closer to brush my arm. I answered, my voice steadier than I felt, delight bubbling up like champagne despite the heat in my cheeks, “That’s what love does when it’s honest—it holds still long enough to be seen... and touched.” The light slipped lower, turning the marble the color of bone and honey, shadows deepening the explicit grooves. For a few minutes, neither of us wanted to leave, our fingers intertwining as if echoing the statues' eternal grasp…
… Lunch found us at a floating café along the canal, the water lapping softly against the wooden hull. Tue ordered stuvning, a stew of fresh vegetables from the local market, fragrant and earthy. I went again with smørrebrød, an open sandwich on crisp rye bread beneath a generous slice of smoked salmon and droplets of sweet mustard sauce. Tue told me about his project to create a series of collector postcards based on Andersen’s fairy tales and his cooperation on a garden of metal profile sculptures mimicking famous paintings… He looked inspired, and in the middle of the conversation he grabbed my hand and placed it against his chest.
The afternoon drifted into exploration. Tue guided me across bridges, down narrow alleys, past tiny bookshops that smelled of dust and ink, and into Nyhavn, along the back streets that had never seen tourist crowds. He pointed out walls he had painted himself, introduced me to a group of funny street musicians, and a friend sculpting metal in a sunlit courtyard. I watched him talk, hands moving lightly, shoulders relaxed, the kind of effortless charm that comes from belonging somewhere without needing attention.
By evening, we returned to the apartment. Søren and Mikkel were already preparing dinner: frikadeller with pickled red cabbage, potatoes roasted in mustard and fat, and a small side of crisp rye. I offered to make a quick vegetable salad with rye bread croutons and sour apples. We ate at a small table, lamplight spilling across bread, plates, and glasses. Conversation drifted freely from art to philosophy, then to the quiet humor of shared routines of their unusual partnership. .Outside, the canal glimmered under streetlights, each ripple catching the yellowed reflections of old brick.
After dinner, Tue and I walked along the canal. He stopped at a wall he had recently painted, pointing out the subtle layers, the emotion hidden in brushstrokes, the careful balance of chaos and harmony. I watched him, noticing how much pride he carried in small, unspoken ways. The apartment behind us glowed faintly, a safe harbor from the cool night, yet the city beyond seemed alive and breathing, the quiet canal reflecting a whole world of stories.
We finished the night in a bar—a dimly lit haven of mismatched stools and flickering candles, where the air thick with the scent of akvavit and smoked herring from the kitchen. We slipped into a corner booth, and Tue ordered for us without asking: two large glasses of Gammel Dansk. The bitter herbal snap of the liquor hit us instantly, and Tue’s blue eyes caught the flame of the tea-colored light.
He leaned forward, his knee brushing mine under the scarred wooden table, voice dropping to that soft Danish murmur laced with vulnerability. "You know, Augie, sharing the flat with Søren and Mikkel... it's like living in a love poem I can't read." He swirled the amber liquid, staring into it as if it held the words he couldn't say. "They're so... them. Movie nights on the sofa, where they pull me in for cuddles like I'm family, cooking those endless smørrebrød spreads and laughing till my sides ache. They include me in everything—the hikes, the brunches, even their silly dance parties in the kitchen."
I nodded, my hand finding his across the table, fingers interlacing with his—warm and soft, a quiet anchor as the bar's jazz hummed low. He squeezed back, not pulling away, his thumb tracing my knuckle in absent rhythm. "But evenings... God, the evenings," he continued, voice cracking just a fraction, the Gammel Dansk loosening the edges. "They retreat to their room, hand in hand, all whispers and giggles behind that door, and suddenly it's just me on the couch with the TV flickering like a bad dream. The flat goes quiet, and I'm... lonely. Like I'm the outsider in my own life, watching love happen without me."
The words hung there, raw and unvarnished, and I held his hands tighter, both now clasped between us on the table, my thumbs stroking his palms in slow circles—reassuring, intimate, the bar's haze making the world shrink to us. "Tue," I said softly, my own shyness surfacing in the warmth of the liquor spreading through my chest, "you're not an outsider. Not to them... and not to me." We downed the first glasses in unison, the burn chasing his confession like a chaser, his laugh bubbling up—half-relief, half-nerves—as he signaled for two more, the bartender sliding them over with a knowing wink.
The second round went down smoother, the herbal bite mellowing into a golden haze, Tue's free hand now resting on my knee under the table, a tentative claim that sent sparks up my thigh. He talked on, the loneliness spilling out like the liquor—how Søren and Mikkel’s door clicks echoed like finality, leaving him scrolling endless feeds in the dark, yearning for that easy tangle of limbs he'd glimpsed but never touched. "It's not jealousy," he insisted, eyes earnest on mine, "just... ache. For someone to pull me in, too." I lifted his hands to my lips, pressing a kiss to his knuckles, the gesture bold for my reserved heart, and his breath hitched, a flush creeping up his neck.
By the third glasses—large, heady pours that left us loose-limbed and laughing at nothing—the bar felt like a cocoon, the jazz swelling to match the pulse in my veins. Tue's fingers traced mine openly now, no hiding, his voice dropping to confessions laced with heat: "Nights like this, I imagine it's me they retreat with... or someone like you." We drained them in a shared toast—"To not being alone"—the burn settling warm in our bellies, knowing the walk back to his flat was mere steps away, up the cobbled path past the muraled walls, the door just a key-turn from privacy. He stood first, pulling me up with him, hands still linked, the night's promise electric in the cool Christiania air as we stumbled out, laughter trailing us like smoke.
***
It was all clear to both of us, as Tue led me to the rumpled king-sized bed; we undressed quickly as if it couldn’t wait, both in our own corner, and then amber lamplight painted our skin honey-gold while sandalwood and nervous sweat hung in the thick air.
We settled side by side on cool linen, and my gaze drifted to the soft centerpiece between his thighs: a pale, slightly-over-five-centimetre shaft lying curved like a comma against his thigh, foreskin bunched upward so the blush-pink glans peeked halfway from its hood, the tiny slit showing shyly. Beneath, his balls—dark, compact, no larger than plump olives—rested snug in a wrinkled sac that hugged his groin, and above them a neat thicket of black pubic hair framed the whole portrait.
I cupped him gently, lifted the cool weight, then let it flop left—right—left; each swing tugged the delicate skin and sent a visible shudder rippling up his abdomen, his breath hitching as though the small motion rewired every nerve in his body. I let the soft little shaft rest across my open palm, still as a sleeping bird. Then I felt it: a barely-there twitch, a faint pulse that lifted the skin a millimetre before settling again. The glans nudged a fraction farther from its hood, but the flesh stayed pliant—no lift, no swell beyond that trembling flutter, as though the cock itself was trying to answer but hadn’t quite found its voice.
Our mouths crashed together—hungry, devouring—tasting faint coffee and years of quiet longing. Tongues twisted in a fierce, probing dance that stole breaths and muffled small groans. My hand drifted lower, cradled the tight, dark sac that had lain cool against his thigh; I rolled those small, precious orbs with feather pressure, feeling the faintest arterial throb answer under thin skin. His exhale broke ragged across my cheek, broad chest lifting fast, and between us the soft five-centimetre shaft gave another helpless twitch—still limp, still small, yet vibrating like a plucked string as arousal coiled low inside him without a single millimetre of hardness to show for it.
I broke the kiss with a reluctant gasp, my lips trailing fire down the column of his neck, nipping at the pulse point before latching onto a flat, dusky nipple with a swirling vortex of tongue and a light, teasing suck that drew it into a tight, aching peak. My free hand encircled the flaccid shaft in a loose, exploratory grip, my thumb circling the velvety head with lazy, hypnotic swirls that mimicked the rhythm of our heartbeats. He arched subtly, a low Danish murmur escaping—"Åh, Gud"—as pleasure radiated from his chest to his core, his fingers digging into my shoulders.
I descended like a pilgrim on a sacred path, peppering open-mouthed kisses across the taut plane of his abdomen, my chin rasping delightfully against the sensitive, fair-dusted skin that quivered under each press of my lips. The hand on his cock maintained a slow, rhythmic squeeze along the limp flesh—firm enough to create delicious friction, gentle enough to honor its softness—building a low, insistent hum of arousal deep in his belly, where heat gathered like a storm on the horizon, his hips shifting restlessly as beads of sweat pearled on his skin.
With a firm nudge, I parted his thighs, exposing the vulnerable hollows where muscle met tenderness, and dove in with playful nips at the inner flesh—sharp little bites softened by the broad swipe of my tongue, leaving faint red marks like love letters in Braille. My fingers feathered the delicate underside of his cock, tracing the subtle veins that pulsed faintly under the persistent touch, sending jolts of sensation straight to his spine. His legs trembled, a husky laugh bubbling into a moan, his softness forgotten in the symphony of bites and licks that made his body sing without needing to stand at attention.
Then I knelt, sliding my knees between his parted thighs, and lifted the soft little shaft like something fragile yet sacred. Its warmth pooled in my palm, a trusting weight no heavier than a sparrow, skin silky over the pliant core. Starting at the dark, wiry base, I closed my fingers and drew upward—one slow, deliberate glide that stretched loose skin over the half-revealed glans and back again. Each stroke stayed unhurried, palm firm enough to wake nerves but gentle enough to keep him soft; the friction coaxed a clear bead from the slit, thin slick that let my next pass whisper. His eyebrows twitched together, surprise melting into raw bliss; lips parted, a long, tremulous exhale slipping out as his toes curled hard into the sheets and the limp member quivered yet refused to stiffen—pleasure burning purely through sensation, not size.
I dipped my head and drew the soft little shaft between my lips without pressure—just a slow, humid envelopment. Tongue lay flat beneath him, cradling that pliant length like velvet ribbon, gliding from buried base to shy crown in long, cartographic sweeps that tasted faint salt and clean skin. No suction, no demand: only heat mapping every fold of foreskin, every subtle vein. My thumb circled the soft root in steady, kneading presses, nudging blood awake yet letting it pool where it would. His groan rolled raw above me, fingers spearing my hair, hips giving tiny involuntary rocks as wave after wave of pleasure rippled through belly and spine—no hardness needed, only the wet, steady worship of the soft flesh.
I pulled back with a glistening pop, and both of my hands started a masterful duet—one rubbing the shaft in steady, hypnotic circles that twisted just so at the crown, the other delving lower to tease his perineum with insistent, pressing fingertips. The combined assault drew out a cascade of moans from him, raw and unfiltered, his body writhing as the limpness yielded slightly to the mounting friction and need, his sweat-slick skin flushing pink, every nerve alight in this symphony of touch that defied his body's betrayals.
With a dollop of cool lube he handed me after rummaging through the bedside drawer, my oiled finger circled the tight, puckered entrance with teasing patience, slipping in shallowly to curl upward and brush the swollen prostate with a precise, come-hither motion that sent shockwaves of ecstasy radiating outward. I synced it perfectly with the persistent rub on the flaccid cock—my hand gliding in tandem with the internal stroke—amplifying the waves until his hips lifted off the bed in instinctive bucks, and a guttural plea in Danish spilled forth, signifying the gradual onslaught of profound, prostate-fueled rapture.
The rubbing quickened then to a fervent tempo, my palm twisting slightly over the hypersensitive glans with each upward pull, slicked by the steady leak of pre-cum that beaded and dripped despite the persistent softness, turning every glide into a silken torment. His Danish curses blended with ragged gasps—"Fan, Augie, ja!"—and a newly found ecstasy coiled tighter in his gut like a spring wound to the breaking point. His thighs shook, the air filled with the musky scent of our arousal, every fiber of his being focused on my relentless hand that coaxed the pleasure from the flesh that refused to rise.
I dove back in, my mouth claiming the tip of his dick in a hot, swirling vortex of suction and licks that synced flawlessly with my hand's fervent, full-length strokes along the shaft—a dual assault that ravaged the limp flesh. His body arched like a tightly drawn bowstring. In this onslaught his moans turned to plaintive cries, the pleasure in his prostate and shaft building to a fever pitch that blurred the line between pain and paradise.
I sensed the precipice approaching in the frantic sequence of short shallow breaths and the desperate clench of his fists in the sheets; I slowed to torturous, feather-light drags that barely skimmed the surface, alternating with sudden firmer grips that yanked him back from the brink, prolonging the exquisite build with exquisite tenderness. He begged me in husky, broken whispers—"Please, don't stop... more"—and his body turned into a live wire of need, sweat flowing down his temples, his limpness no longer an obstacle for this drawn-out desire.
Mercy granted, I resumed at full throttle, my hand a blur of motion—up and down in piston-like strokes, twisting at the peak, pressing firmly at the base—the limp cock trapped in a blissful whirlwind of torment, every nerve firing in chaotic harmony as orgasm barreled closer like an unstoppable freight train. His world narrowed to the slick heat of that unyielding grip, his chest heaving, veins standing out on his neck, the raw power of the stimulation wringing ecstasy from depths untouched by hardness, his pleas dissolving into animalistic grunts.
Then suddenly his body seized in a cataclysmic lock, every muscle coiling like forged steel as a deep, primal groan ripped from his throat—"Kommer nu!"—and he erupted in endless shaking moaning streams of thick cum flowing in silver rivers across my knuckles, some of it splattering hot and thick onto his own heaving chest, the release pulsing with uninhibited fury, wrung from the very marrow of his being by the devoted, unceasing stimulation that honored his limp dick with as much reverence as any solid erection.
Undeterred by the mess, I didn't cease my worship his cock and balls, one of my hands slowing to a languid, loving rhythm that milked the aftershocks with slow, deliberate rubs—squeezing out every last tremor and quiver—while the other pushed fiercely on his perineum until his body unclenched in shuddering waves of residual bliss. He collapsed back against the pillows, spent and radiant, his fair skin now aglow with exertion, chest rising and falling in sync with mine as our eyes met in a gaze brimming with shared triumph.
I stayed curled against him, cheek on his thigh, watching the tiny drama still playing out on his spent cock. The slit had long stopped weeping; only a glassy thread clung to the rim, drying in cool air. Yet every few seconds a minute ripple rolled under the soft skin—an aftershock lifting the shaft a millimetre, then releasing. Each twitch dragged a faint tremor through his lower belly, muscles flickering like candlewick.
I brushed a knuckle along the half-exposed glans; the contact sparked a full-body shiver, hips jerking an inch, breath catching on a half-wordless gasp. His balls, still drawn close, gave a single reflexive tighten, then relaxed again. It was as if pleasure continued to echo in circuits his nerves hadn’t switched off—quiet seismic waves long after the eruption had stilled, proof that satisfaction can linger far beyond the final drop…
***
Steam billowed around us as I tilted Tue’s head beneath the spray, water flattening his copper fringe against his brow.
“I swear you’re man enough,” I said, voice echoing off wet tile. “You’ll find a guy who’ll respect every inch of your situation—soft, hard, whatever.”
Tue’s eyes shone through rivulets. “I’m relocating to Canada,” he answered, palms sliding down my ribs. “Marry me, Augie. You just let me be.”
“No, no, Tue, you’ll find someone younger,” I said, trying to sound as convincing as possible. “I always travel, my home is in planes and trains, that’s not good for you. You need your place, your art, your friends. And—if this happens often—I am sure you can get treated, too…”
Tue nodded silently and we hugged closer, as my mind flicked through snapshots: the proud host offering aquavit toasts; the artist proudly showing me his work; the rag-doll fucker who’d streamed flows of thick come through his foreskin fold; now this peaceful, freckled body under warm water. I shuddered, joy bubbling up—made sharper by the sweet ache in my untouched cock, still hard, still waiting, for one, single, final push of tenderness over the edge.
I leaned in to kiss his wet shoulder and my stiff cock brushed the damp fuzz of his thigh—one accidental drag of skin on hair. Lightning shot up my shaft; hips jerked forward, trapped hardness grinding along that coarse line. A low moan tore out of me as the want and endless tenderness toward this guy in my arms peaked. The first spurt arced hot across his shin, followed by a second, a third—five, maybe six stripes of white lashing dark hair on his leg before I could draw breath. I quaked through the final pulse, knees buckling, and folded against his chest. Tue caught me, water drumming on our backs, my come sliding slow down his leg while he held me steady, murmuring soft Danish vowels into my ear until the tremors stopped.
***
At the airport we stood at the glass divider, crowded by other passengers and blissfully alone. I expected a tearful sniff, maybe a trembling smile—nothing prepared me for the ragged sob that ripped out of him, shoulders shaking like broken wings. He clutched me hard and his tears flowed hot against my neck while other travelers passed around us in awkward curves. “Teams—every night if we can,” he choked into my ear, repeating it like a prayer.
When we approached passport control, he still wouldn’t release me; a border guard cleared his throat and held out his palm for my passport, impatience flickering in his eyes. Tue’s arms finally loosened, fingers dragging down my sleeves until only our fingertips touched—then air. I stepped forward, handed over my passport; Tue’s sniffs and words of love still echoed off the high ceiling as the gate swallowed me whole…
***
Now when I write this, I know that everything is fine with Tue. He found an older guy who celebrates him every single night with love and devotion. They visited me in Canada a year later, and Ash reminded me so much of myself, except perhaps for his broken English. I saw such care in Ash’s touches and such love in their smiles that I know we’ve done just the right thing. Oh, and now his problem has been solved. I know because I heard them over a thin wall in my apartment, and I knew who was the driving force in the passionate pushes that made me join in the lonely quiet of my bachelor room. Ah, the rosy cheeks of a satisfied man in the morning! Times two. Three.
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