Published June 24, 2014

Sure, everybody loves sex, but nobody loves an asshole

Photo by
Daniel Freyr Atlason

Sure, everybody loves sex, but nobody loves an asshole

More than ten years have passed since Icelandair ran their “Fancy a dirty weekend in Iceland” and “Pester a beauty queen” ad campaigns internationally (yes, those were actual ad campaigns). Yet, their message lingers on. With the help of the internet and various sad articles detailing “how to score an easy Icelandic chick,” partaking in 101 Reykjavík nightlife over the months of June, July and August is a horrible experience for your average, Icelandic looking lady.

“Ewwww. Several times tourists have asked me for directions, claiming they don’t know where their hotel is. After giving careful directions, they act as if they didn’t understand, and ask me to show them where it is—and tell me my reward will be a drink in their hotel room. Drinks in Iceland are of course soooooooo expensive that I must accept such a generous offer. Or what? *sigh*”

-Setta María

Browsing online, you’ll find a lot of heteronormative articles on the subject of “How To Score In Iceland!” and “How To Land An Icelandic Beauty!” I have yet to come across an article on “How To Lay An Icelandic Lad,” though. This is problematic. Sometimes I even feel guilty not just going for it every time some tourist offers his tongue. Maybe our currency would be a lot stronger if I had just gone home with every single dirty weekender that has harassed me over the past decade. Just closing my eyes and thinking of Iceland.

“Sometimes it feels like they think they purchased a pass to my body with their airline ticket.”

-Klara Arnalds

I have on two separate occasions been forced to ask flight attendants to find me a different seat on flights to Iceland, because the guy sitting next to me basically got going as soon the plane took off. The first one was an American gentleman on his way from New York. I had “known” him for all of four minutes when he insisted that I join him in the bathroom for some mile-high action. Not only was he inappropriate, he was also a sad cliché. The other guy was a bit more flexible, an Englishman travelling from London. When he realised I was not really keen on fucking him, he told me he was into “other Icelandic beauties like me.”

Some start off more subtly—stating they admire how independent, free and sexually open Icelandic ladies are.
And then: Boom. Lets fuck. Within ten minutes. Let’s fuck.

“I have the hardest time with this when I am DJ-ing. They start by asking random questions that aaaany person could answer. And then they stand there and stare… And then they eventually start saying inappropriate, dirty, disgusting stuff. And you can’t get away.”

-Sigrún Skaftadóttir

Roosh V., author of the book (yes, book!) ‘Bang Iceland,’ recommends cornering the local ladies, isolating them from their friends. Girls who work as DJs, like Sigrún and myself, are already alone and cannot get away. Girls working at nightlife establishments all tell the same story. Walking through a crowded bar at this time of year means inevitably tripping over a sea of boners that are (accidentally) poking your thigh.

The travelling Casanovas buy the girls shots, as they’ve been instructed to in one article or the other. One such feat of journalism offers this advice: “Get. Them. Drunk. One will eventually fall for you—and if you don’t find one at the bar, you can probably grab some crazy party girl at the obligatory afterparty.” The article does mention that a great rule of thumb is not to go home with a girl who is too intoxicated to keep up a conversation.

Thanks, you guys. Thanks for being so considerate.

Another article even offers statistics: If you hit on 46 women, one of them will definitely take off her pants for you.

“One American told me he had been here for three days without ‘getting his dick wet,’ and asked me what he was doing wrong. I told him that this was a gathering of people, not a puddle of genitalia, and that knowing this would probably aid him in his mission.”

-Gunnar Hrafn Jónsson

The sole piece of advice that’s missing from all those helpful articles is this: if a person is having a problem getting laid on their home turf, it’s probably not going to be any easier to elsewhere. This seems obvious. But it isn’t.

The other night I was with a group of friends. The guys wanted to hit the town, but us dolls wanted to stay put. “I’m not in the mood for all that ‘dirty weekend’ harassment,” one remarked. The guys were surprised that this actually was a problem. After some explaining and relaying of stories—and yes, all of us females had at least one story to share—we decided to skip the bars and clubs for the night.

Indeed, at this time of year, some establishments lose all their charm. If a local wanders in, the guests look as if they’ve seen a rare animal on a safari. They monitor every movement: “Let’s see how the Icelander parties!” Inevitably, faced with such spectators, the specimen of interest will generally turn around and head elsewhere.

“Two men introduced themselves to me. After telling them my name they asked me if I was interested in joining them for a threesome. When I turned them down politely, they were insulted and said: ‘But wait—aren’t you supposed to be, like, a slut?’”

-Unnur Eggertsdóttir

The above quote is my absolute favourite of the ones I collected for the sake of this article, because it captures the mood so perfectly. Nobody wastes their time being polite or charming. I still haven’t found an article that suggests: INTRODUCE YOURSELF, BEFORE ASKING: “WANNA FUUUUUUCK?”

The bar that puts up a sign that says “No Dirty Weekend Tourists Please” gets all my business this summer.
Alternatively, I’ll just rest my liver until fall.

An Icelandic language version of this article originally appeared in Kjarninn.


Margrét Erla Maack is a Bollywood & belly dancer, burlesque/cabaret performer, comedian, choreographer, DJ. Jack of many trades, master of none. Hates: mayo & U2. Loves: karaoke and food.

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See Also:

Here For A Dirty Weekend?

Love In The Land Of The Midnight Sun

Roosh V. Who?

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