Dancing with a Swedish Leatherboy

Fiesch, Switzerland, June 1977

During the summer after my junior year at Rocky High, when I still belonged to the ultra-fundamentalist Nazarene Church and thought gay people were monsters, I was one of the delegates to the Nazarene Youth Society International Institute, 500 cream-of-the-crop teenage Johnny and Suzie Nazarenes from around the world meeting in an old army training camp (now the Sport und Ferienzentrum) in Fiesch, Switzerland.














What did we do for a week?

Boys-only swimming

1. Evangelization services, with altar calls every night.
2. Bible studies, prayer meetings, and workshops on personal evangelization.
3. The International Jump Quiz Tournament.
4. Swimming in the camp pool (boys only before noon, girls only after noon).
 5. Field trips to Rhone Glacier, Brig (for skiing), and Mount Eggishorn (for mountain climbing).

I tried to call Giovanni, the foreign-exchange student who I had a crush on, but the number didn't work.


We had some free time for sightseeing, as long as we followed the rules:

1. Don't make friends with the locals.
2. Don't go near any Catholic churches.
3. No dancing, movies, live theater, card games, or festivals. No restaurants that serve alcohol (in Switzerland they all do).
4. Be back at the base by 7:00 pm, and in your bunk 1/2 hour after altar call ends. 

Sport und Ferienzentrum, Fiesch

I started hanging out with Alex, whose dad was a missionary in France, and who had no qualms about breaking the rules.  We visited Sion Cathedral, chatted up some high school boys on the train, abandoned our lunch boxes for a restaurant.

And one night we snuck out after curfew, walked into town, and ended up in a disco (breaking three rules at once).

My eyes were drawn to an older guy, maybe 25, sitting with his friends: blond, glasses, wearing a leather jacket with no shirt underneath.  I glimpsed a stunning, sculpted physique like a marble statue, and a gigantic bulge.  So I dragged Alex over to talk to him.

Our barracks

In English, he said that his name was Christoffer, and he was an engineering student from Goteborg University in Sweden.

"I had lunch with King Karl Gustaf last year," I yelled, trying to make myself heard over the music.. "He told me to apply to Goteborg University."

"He doesn't know what he's talking about," Christoffer yelled.  I didn't realize it at the time, but in retrospect, he was very drunk. "You should be a model.  You have the right. . .um. . face for it. . .and you, too," he added, turning to Alex. "You should be models together."

Suddenly we heard the throbbing beat of Donna Summers' "I Feel Love."  "Come on, we dance," Christoffer said, throwing off his leather jacket and dragging us onto the dance floor.

I had never danced before, so I'm sure I was bad at it, but Christoffer wasn't paying attention.  He jumped and gyrated and lip-synched until his body started to glow with sweat.

I wasn't going back to camp without a touch, so I reached out and ran my palm lightly over that white-marble chest.  Christoffer grinned at me.  He reached over and undid a button of my shirt, and then another, and ran his hand underneath.

The Swedish leather boy

Then Alex pulled me away.  "We have to get back!" he yelled.

"No, stay!" Christoffer yelled.  "Come to my hotel.  We have Schnapps!"

An offer of alcohol quashed any erotic interest I might have had.  I said goodbye and quickly followed Alex out of the club and through the dark, cool night to our camp.

"I think I saved you from a fate worse than death back there," Alex said. "That Christoffer guy was gay."

"No way!" I exclaimed.  "Didn't you see his body?"  In Rock Island, we thought that muscles were a sure sign of heterosexual identity.

I never saw Christoffer again, of course, but I have often wondered what would have happened if we accepted his offer of "Schnapps."

See also: My date with the King of Sweden