EPISODE I: An American and a Swede
Chapter I : It's time to go
Watching the yellowed leaves in the forest opposite my house becoming covered in frost, I heard an inner voice more and more clearly that told me: "It's Time to Go." No matter how hard I tried to become a good wife and an a picture-perfect mother, all my attempts were broken time after time by the despondency of monotonous everyday life and the greying landscape of a relentless October.
But how to go if my project brought in pennies compared to the efforts invested in it? For years I had devoted myself entirely to building it - investing every spare coin, every hour, every spark of passion, expecting that this child of mine would finally grow up and bless its narcissistic mother with worthy comebacks. This did not happen. So all I could do was sit and watch as the last leaves fell from the maple branches, revealing a dreary forest landscape, as dreary as I was.
Depression in my case never lasts long. Apparently, the survival instinct is so strong that on the edge of the abyss it turns on at full power, and suddenly I start intuitively doing wildly unexpected things that, in a matter of days, flip my entire world upside down. Yes, this is definitely one of my talents.
“Fuck it.” I grab my phone and open Tinder. I had always avoided that app. It felt like the playground of sex-starved perverts looking for a quick fix. At that time, I still considered myself a perfectly sane woman on a sacred tantric path…
I set my location to Bali and start swiping in search of divine providence. Frankly speaking, I was shocked at the variety of stunning men from all over the world showing up in the Bali selection!. I was actually enjoying myself - scrolling through profiles, checking bios. USA, Brazil, Portugal, France, Italy! Something inside me stirred.
My inner demons whispered: “Yesss… this is where you belong.”
A handsome American. Built like Apollo. Handsome as God. Kind eyes. A style that perfectly emphasizes all his virtues. A white linen shirt, unbuttoned halfway down his chest… and underneath it, ohh .. those sculpted muscles. I could almost smell his skin. I was already watching his soft lips move in slow motion, saying something insignificant but so alluring. His strong arms were already holding me tight as I melted in blissful surrender to his power…
Yes, this is definitely a LIKE! and.. MATCH! “Oh, well hello, handsome, shall we talk? ;)”
While waiting for an answer, inspired by the abundance of beauty, I scroll further.
Oh, LIKE! What a shame! I accidentally sent an approval to a surprisingly unattractive Swede.
Ugh. MATCH. “Well, alright then… guess we’ll chat.”
That marked the end of my exhausting swipe-a-thon. I decided to dive deeper into conversation with the American, who had already sent me a surprisingly long message about how happy he was we matched. The entire next day, we were “together.” He turned out to be fascinating, and I could feel myself falling. We talked about everything - Bali, life, our shared passions. We quickly moved to Telegram and swapped the endless blocks of text for long voice messages.
Our conversations did not have a spicy touch at all, rather the opposite - deep, thoughtful, even philosophical. But for me, one of the most exquisite types of orgasm is a mental one. If I’m not turned on by a man’s mind, he has no chance of awakening desire in my body.
The American was rapidly gaining points in the intellect column. But I would honestly create a whole separate column just for his voice. God, how I adore a deep, slightly husky, masculine voice. With voice, with tone, just like with facial expressions and gestures, I can instantly read someone. I know whether they’re safe, grounded, confident - even what they’re like in bed. Usually, I read it all at first glance. The rest just confirms or adds nuance to my impression. That too, I suppose, is a gift. Or more precisely, a finely tuned skill.
While we caressed each other with our voices, my desire to get to Bali became stronger. I was already seeing flashes from the future, laying down neural pathways to the desired reality. The American became my guiding star - pulling me out of the dull grey now and into a future drenched in romance, pleasure, and tropical bliss.
Meanwhile, I kept exchanging polite little phrases with the not-so-gorgeous Swede. He showered me with compliments, and I responded politely, though rather dryly. The Swede wanted to know everything about me, he was absolutely smitten by my charm, although, frankly speaking, I did not make any effort to make this happen. I told him about my activities, about how I dreamed of flying to Bali after the next launch of the school and about how all my plans went down the drain. When I told him that I was a certified sex-coach, he perked up - turns out, he was a second-generation psychiatrist.
Our conversations got more interesting. We started sharing insights that sat right at the crossroads of our cultural and personal curiosities.
Without even realizing it, I began packing a suitcase. I didn’t understand why I was doing it. I had no ticket, no place to stay, and not even enough money for a cab to the airport. But stubbornly, I kept folding clothes into the suitcase, sensing that the moment I closed it, a portal would open.
And so it did. After just a few days of chatting with these two Tinder suitors, I felt this strange but steady shift - like I was already there, not here. It’s a bizarre sensation, but I’ve experienced it often during transitional moments. It’s like I disappear from my current reality, which begins to unravel before my eyes. I’m here, and yet… I’m not. Everything feels unreal. The picture splits, the air itself thins out, becomes almost invisible. I can physically feel a new reality pulling me in like a black hole. Only fear can stop this process. But to me, the slow death of depression is far more terrifying than sudden death in a new adventure. So I always leap into the open portal, armed only with courage - and trust that Everything Will Be Okay.
The romantic American kept me entertained with dreamy conversations, while the pragmatic Swede had already mapped out an itinerary across the Indonesian islands. He had fully romanticised the idea of our trip together -lounging under the warm sun on colourful beaches, hiking lush hills, and meeting dinosaur descendants on Komodo. A true gentleman, he carefully tiptoed around the topic of sex, assuring me that his main interest in me was purely about the person I was. I kept replying politely, agreeing to everything he offered. Then, at one point, he asked me to send him my passport details so he could book my plane tickets and a hotel for a week-long quarantine in Jakarta.
That’s when I just sat down on my packed suitcase. What the hell?
I mean, really? I hustle non-stop, launching schools, boutiques, online courses, doing everything to earn my way to Bali - and then I open Tinder and bam! Two days??
Honestly, I understand this reality isn’t real. I know how the field of infinite possibilities works, how neural pathways solidify, how dreams manifest in real time.
But EVERY SINGLE TIME it actually happens - I’m still genuinely stunned that it works exactly like this.
The next morning, I woke up in Jakarta.
But how to go if my project brought in pennies compared to the efforts invested in it? For years I had devoted myself entirely to building it - investing every spare coin, every hour, every spark of passion, expecting that this child of mine would finally grow up and bless its narcissistic mother with worthy comebacks. This did not happen. So all I could do was sit and watch as the last leaves fell from the maple branches, revealing a dreary forest landscape, as dreary as I was.
Depression in my case never lasts long. Apparently, the survival instinct is so strong that on the edge of the abyss it turns on at full power, and suddenly I start intuitively doing wildly unexpected things that, in a matter of days, flip my entire world upside down. Yes, this is definitely one of my talents.
“Fuck it.” I grab my phone and open Tinder. I had always avoided that app. It felt like the playground of sex-starved perverts looking for a quick fix. At that time, I still considered myself a perfectly sane woman on a sacred tantric path…
I set my location to Bali and start swiping in search of divine providence. Frankly speaking, I was shocked at the variety of stunning men from all over the world showing up in the Bali selection!. I was actually enjoying myself - scrolling through profiles, checking bios. USA, Brazil, Portugal, France, Italy! Something inside me stirred.
My inner demons whispered: “Yesss… this is where you belong.”
A handsome American. Built like Apollo. Handsome as God. Kind eyes. A style that perfectly emphasizes all his virtues. A white linen shirt, unbuttoned halfway down his chest… and underneath it, ohh .. those sculpted muscles. I could almost smell his skin. I was already watching his soft lips move in slow motion, saying something insignificant but so alluring. His strong arms were already holding me tight as I melted in blissful surrender to his power…
Yes, this is definitely a LIKE! and.. MATCH! “Oh, well hello, handsome, shall we talk? ;)”
While waiting for an answer, inspired by the abundance of beauty, I scroll further.
Oh, LIKE! What a shame! I accidentally sent an approval to a surprisingly unattractive Swede.
Ugh. MATCH. “Well, alright then… guess we’ll chat.”
That marked the end of my exhausting swipe-a-thon. I decided to dive deeper into conversation with the American, who had already sent me a surprisingly long message about how happy he was we matched. The entire next day, we were “together.” He turned out to be fascinating, and I could feel myself falling. We talked about everything - Bali, life, our shared passions. We quickly moved to Telegram and swapped the endless blocks of text for long voice messages.
Our conversations did not have a spicy touch at all, rather the opposite - deep, thoughtful, even philosophical. But for me, one of the most exquisite types of orgasm is a mental one. If I’m not turned on by a man’s mind, he has no chance of awakening desire in my body.
The American was rapidly gaining points in the intellect column. But I would honestly create a whole separate column just for his voice. God, how I adore a deep, slightly husky, masculine voice. With voice, with tone, just like with facial expressions and gestures, I can instantly read someone. I know whether they’re safe, grounded, confident - even what they’re like in bed. Usually, I read it all at first glance. The rest just confirms or adds nuance to my impression. That too, I suppose, is a gift. Or more precisely, a finely tuned skill.
While we caressed each other with our voices, my desire to get to Bali became stronger. I was already seeing flashes from the future, laying down neural pathways to the desired reality. The American became my guiding star - pulling me out of the dull grey now and into a future drenched in romance, pleasure, and tropical bliss.
Meanwhile, I kept exchanging polite little phrases with the not-so-gorgeous Swede. He showered me with compliments, and I responded politely, though rather dryly. The Swede wanted to know everything about me, he was absolutely smitten by my charm, although, frankly speaking, I did not make any effort to make this happen. I told him about my activities, about how I dreamed of flying to Bali after the next launch of the school and about how all my plans went down the drain. When I told him that I was a certified sex-coach, he perked up - turns out, he was a second-generation psychiatrist.
Our conversations got more interesting. We started sharing insights that sat right at the crossroads of our cultural and personal curiosities.
Without even realizing it, I began packing a suitcase. I didn’t understand why I was doing it. I had no ticket, no place to stay, and not even enough money for a cab to the airport. But stubbornly, I kept folding clothes into the suitcase, sensing that the moment I closed it, a portal would open.
And so it did. After just a few days of chatting with these two Tinder suitors, I felt this strange but steady shift - like I was already there, not here. It’s a bizarre sensation, but I’ve experienced it often during transitional moments. It’s like I disappear from my current reality, which begins to unravel before my eyes. I’m here, and yet… I’m not. Everything feels unreal. The picture splits, the air itself thins out, becomes almost invisible. I can physically feel a new reality pulling me in like a black hole. Only fear can stop this process. But to me, the slow death of depression is far more terrifying than sudden death in a new adventure. So I always leap into the open portal, armed only with courage - and trust that Everything Will Be Okay.
The romantic American kept me entertained with dreamy conversations, while the pragmatic Swede had already mapped out an itinerary across the Indonesian islands. He had fully romanticised the idea of our trip together -lounging under the warm sun on colourful beaches, hiking lush hills, and meeting dinosaur descendants on Komodo. A true gentleman, he carefully tiptoed around the topic of sex, assuring me that his main interest in me was purely about the person I was. I kept replying politely, agreeing to everything he offered. Then, at one point, he asked me to send him my passport details so he could book my plane tickets and a hotel for a week-long quarantine in Jakarta.
That’s when I just sat down on my packed suitcase. What the hell?
I mean, really? I hustle non-stop, launching schools, boutiques, online courses, doing everything to earn my way to Bali - and then I open Tinder and bam! Two days??
Honestly, I understand this reality isn’t real. I know how the field of infinite possibilities works, how neural pathways solidify, how dreams manifest in real time.
But EVERY SINGLE TIME it actually happens - I’m still genuinely stunned that it works exactly like this.
The next morning, I woke up in Jakarta.
To be continued...