When I Was Younger, So Much Younger Than Today….


Foolishly, I decide against going to Centro. The Help garota’s warning did give me a little pause, though I knew I could easily cab my way to 4x4. But I was still smarting a bit from the Centaurus rip-off (though, pride and ego were beginning to tell me to return to Cent to do it right – plus the fact that it was a hop step and a jump away from my hotel). Today would be a beach day. Time to work on my tan. Alas, the exercycles that were in my hotel would never be used by me. The work I did getting into shape ahead of my vacation was beginning to fade: I’d developed a real sweet-tooth for the Guarana (sp?) soft drink now, and my alcohol intake was accelerating. So I spent the afternoon on the Copa beach, and returned in early evening to watch war coverage on BBC and CNN, whose reporting was beginning to annoy me. I had dinner in the Orla, and was pleasantly surprised. I napped. This time I waited until 10:30 p.m. before I’d leave for Help.


Taking It All In

Another pleasant nighttime walk. I noticed plenty of tourists on the beach, walking off their dinners near the water. I take a seat on the cement steps behind the Terrace Atlantica, to the side of the entrance to Help. I watch the parade of garotas work the crowd; over time, the flow of girls – big ones, tall ones, fat ones, skinny ones, ugly ones and beautiful ones. One girl looks severely underage. Others remind me of American high school chicks, with their glittering, fruity lipsticks and make up. These chicks aren’t here to see a movie and then tease a cock before falling back into the robotic, U.S. feminist-movement-brainwashed bitch behavior, though. They’re Brasileras looking for fun and reals. Bless their little hearts. Then, behold: A strung out pig approaches.


Love, Spittle & Heroin

A skinny, hardened-pro garota approaches as a puff on Marlboro light. She’s cute, but thin, and her eyes are half closed and she’s laid back as if she’s stoned. Not oblivious. But stoned. As she attempts to work me, I say eu no quero, obrigado. She persists; I say no. She then asks for a cigarette and light. I oblige. She then spits on the cement walk between Help and the café. Not a quick spit, and not directed at me. But a kind of stringy, viscous drip spit. My loins stir a bit. Her “dirtiness” fills my mind with fantasies of doing whatever I want to her back in my room, her stoned gaze an assurance that she’s acquiesce to my darkest desires. But she was a junkie. I don’t know how junkies maintain their semblance of self, and can maintain discussions. But they can. And she did. By the way, she looked Italian. Nicely tanned, thin faced. A short blue-jean skirt on, and red shirt. Avoid her.

Into Help: First Time Inside.

I enter Help at the ringing of the bell, and notice I’m one of the first entries. It’s so big inside, that I don’t feel embarrassed. I go to a booth, buy 3 beer tickets and proceed to the closest bar area in the back. When the place begins to fill about 25 minutes later, I head over to the street-side bar, and meet two English-speaking dudes, one from England the other from Norway. A tiny, petite cariocas starts to work over Mr. Norway by pressing her ass cheeks against his crotch. She would do so for another 2 hours, before he’d leave with her. I love petite women. I’m jealous. A fattish black woman talks with me for a while, before I excuse myself to the bathroom. I don’t return to the bar. Instead I spend another 40 minutes taking in the scene, still not quite sure about what you do. I’m about to learn fast. The 6 beers that I’ve had are starting to turn my standards into mush. I wander around the main bar again (why does it stink on the other side?) and make my way to the side of the dance floor. Suddenly, I bump into a cute white girl, with a pointy skinny nose, but my body fits into her shape nicely, and she grabs me around my waist, and we start dancing there. She’s cute, white with freckles. One kid. About 26. I forget her name. What the hell is wrong with me? Ah well. We dance and leave. As she retrieves her handbag at the coat-check, she flashes a thumbs-up to the girl behind the counter. It’s been awhile for her, I guess. Out we go, to the right to get a cab. Again, $10 reals. Fuck you, asshole. Back to the room we go. She showers. She comes back. Then she has a coughing fit. This girl doesn’t smoke, but she coughs non-stop for about 5 minutes. She goes to the bathroom, then returns only to cough again. I figure she’s about to crap out on the session, or something. Mind you, no money matters have yet to be discussed to this point. Finally, she motions to the air conditioner, and says she’s allergic in portuguese. I turn it off, and she stops coughing. She’s not the only garota who would express discontent with the air conditioner on my trip. She hops onto the bed in her underwear, nice puple panties. She’s very nicely put together. Her whiteness is an interesting contrast to the other girls I’ve seen in the city. This one’s not a beach regular. Now to the money. She wants $350 reals. Funny, I think to myself, that would make it $100 US dollars even. That’s the exchange ratio, by golly. $200 reals, I counter.
$250, she wants. Okay. $70 bucks it is. (sorry, guys. I know I should have kept it to $150 reals.) It’s going to be more difficult nest time, what with the exchange ratio now below 3. I’ll be tougher, though. And there’s always the non rip-off thermas. So we do the horizontal samba, and she informs me that she’s clean. DATY is commenced, and right she is. Nice and clean. She’s a bit nervous, I sense. It makes for a bad session. And I don’t like the silicon floating under her breasts. It’s not my cup of tea. Speaking of cups, after one is poured, she’s out the door. $10 reals for taxi. (I offered). I’m still not satisfied, but I’m falling asleep now. It’s 4 a.m.

Nice touch of prose describing the thin SW. I laugh every time you mention the taxi drivers - I've had similar experiences with taxi in various portions of Mexico.