F*cking Frivolous Freedom

Previously Published in Deep. Sweet. Valuable Publication at Medium.com 25th of October 2024.

I was just a child in the late ’60s, while the youth rebellion and flower children spread across the world like ripples on water when a raindrop hits the surface.

We were a generation later but still colored by those movements. We read about them and tried to understand it all, far away in the countryside of Denmark, distant from the events.

I started my college years with these realizations embedded in my core. I had to balance a more liberated environment while still being the diligent student, with top grades.

I vividly remember the spring of 1984 — nothing was like in George Orwell’s novel of the same name, thankfully. I was studying for six different subjects during my first semester at university, and that April, the weather showed its most beautiful side. The sun was shining, and it was impossible to stay inside my dorm room. After all, one could study just as well on the lawn.

I packed my books and notes, along with a blanket, a pillow, and a bottle of water.

Then I made my way down from the second floor and out onto the lawn that belonged to the residential building I lived in. There was a tall hedge and a massive willow tree in the middle of the lawn, allowing me to lie somewhat hidden from the curious gazes of the apartment windows, and the hedge offered protection from the glances of passersby. It was actually a rare oasis in the middle of the city.

The grass smelled freshly cut, and I didn’t think for a second about all the little blades of grass that would stick to the material of the blanket. If the flower children could strip off their clothes and sit on blankets anywhere, then I could too, surely.

Okay, I did keep my rather stylish black cotton men’s briefs on, but otherwise, the sun could shine freely on my winter-pale body.

I read my notes and studied my books. I remember it was psychology, and the topic was loss and grief, as expressed in Elisabeth Kübler-Ross’ five stages of grief. It was in stark contrast to the sun and the mild, warm weather, so it wasn’t long before my eyelids started to droop, and the studying drifted into a dreamy version accompanied by the buzzing of bees and the loud engines of cars behind the hedge.

Suddenly, a beautifully played Spanish guitar intertwined itself into my dream. I don’t remember the titles, but I do remember the musician. It was Martin, who lived on the same dorm floor as I did.

Martin, like me, was the son of a farmer, but he had started his career in professional agriculture, operating various machines.

Things had gone terribly wrong one fateful day during potato harvesting a couple of years earlier. Martin’s pant leg got caught in the machine and, with brutal force, was nearly severed just below the knee. The young man’s life was forever changed in an instant. He spent several months in the hospital and eventually learned to walk with his prosthetic leg.

However, his future plans had been completely derailed, and he had to reorient himself, to use Kübler-Ross’ terminology.

He had been let go from his job, where he, as was customary, lived in a small servant’s room. That meant he had nowhere to live except with family and friends.

This had led him to the rather free-spirited children of the youth rebellion, where he had also learned to smoke marijuana, something he adopted partly because it helped ease the phantom pains from his missing leg.

One thing he did learn from his time with the flower children was how to play the guitar. He discovered that he especially loved Spanish guitar and quickly learned to play it in the most beautiful and seductive way. Simply stunning.

I woke up to those enchanting tones. Luckily, as it prevented me from getting sunburned. And at the same time, I didn’t mind at all listening to his grandiose music.

Martin sat there in as little clothing as I was wearing. I didn’t mind that either, because he was absolutely gorgeous, even with his prosthetic leg.

He paused and gently stroked my hair. “I saw you head out to the garden, and after sending my sister off, I thought I’d join you here. You don’t mind, do you, or am I interrupting your studies?”

“No, Martin, I don’t mind at all — neither your company nor the music, and honestly, my studies had drifted off into dreamland anyway.”

He had also brought two beers with him, offering me one. I didn’t say no.

At this point, I hadn’t yet been with a man, and I was thrilled that this beautiful soul was paying attention to me. I was already a little in love with Martin, whom I had recently discovered was staying with his sister in a small dorm room on my floor. However, I hadn’t dared make any move toward him, thinking he was far out of my league.

Now, here he was, stroking my hair and sharing a beer with me.

I could also see that he was clearly attracted to me, as his briefs showed a distinct bulge. Mine surely did too.

We talked and cuddled, and I saw the insecurity and sorrow in his beautiful brown eyes. He doubted that anyone would ever love him with his disability. I protested, making it quite clear that he could count on me.

He picked up his guitar again and played beautiful Spanish guitar pieces. The instrument also hid his excitement in his pants. But I knew it was there. I lay on my stomach, now hiding mine in the same way.

It was happiness, sunshine, warmth, life was easy, and love was right within reach.

We both heard it at the same time — his sister’s sharp, calling voice: “MARTIN!”

Apparently, she had returned from the errand he had sent her on and now wanted company. She came out into the garden and sat down with us. Three wheels on a wagon don’t roll smoothly. The good atmosphere between Martin and me was gone. No more flirting. No more romantic music.

The ironic thing was that his sister was all about her esoteric and open lifestyle, but when it came to romance and the idea of her brother being with a man, her boundaries were firmly set. That wasn’t acceptable.

She quickly realized that we weren’t just casually together on the lawn and did everything she could to interrupt the moment and drag Martin back up to her room.

Martin went, albeit reluctantly.

The next day, I asked his sister innocently in our shared kitchen if Martin was awake yet.

“Yes, and he’s gone. I can’t have him here!”

No eye contact, only coldness in her voice. I finished making my coffee and went back to my room, where I lay down on my bed, crying.

I continued reading Kübler-Ross and suddenly realized that I had just experienced loss. Not a sexually liberated adventure, not a boyfriend, and not a future with Martin.

My reorientation became an adventure with a man later that year, and after that, with many others. I took what and who I could charm, and it wasn’t a few. It was only much later that I found peace in a relationship with a man. He couldn’t play the guitar like Martin, but he touched other strings in me, and even though it was hard to give up the freedom to act for my own satisfaction, we ended up as a couple and have been together for more than 27 years.

Did I forget to mention that I passed psychology with the highest grade? Yes, I did, and I’ve benefited from that knowledge many times since, even though I never completed the university degree I was pursuing when I met Martin.

I learned the hard way during that exam. And what I learned, I’ve carried with me all these years. I’ve never forgotten Martin, but I’ve never told my current partner about him.

I learned that the spark can be there, and the flame between two people can burn so clearly and brightly, but it can also be extinguished in an instant due to self-doubt and external circumstances. We’re not always in control of that.

I see now that my reactions and relationships with future lovers were long influenced by not finding the beauty that Martin and I shared that afternoon in April 1984.

However, I did eventually find someone and something that made up for my longing.

I will always remember Martin, and in my mind’s ear, I can still hear his beautiful guitar playing.