The Sun Also Rises

Another day of quiet beach and hotel rooftop tanning. I finished the crappy novel I bought at the airport in the U.S., and was jonesing for some English language newspapers. Not a single newsstand along the side streets down Avenida Copa had an International Herald Tribune in stock. Ever. I figured I could get one at the Marriott, but was tired of walking so far down into that part of town. I wanted to check out Ipanema, so I headed in the opposite direction. I wanted to check out the Sofitel. In I walked, and went up to second-floor restaurant area. It occurred to me that you could simply walk into that place and use their pools and facilities without ever being checked. Inside, I noticed they’d photocopied some condensed versions of that day’s New York Times. I helped myself, and had a beer, shaded from the afternoon sun that was already making me look less gringo-like. This end-of-Brazilian-summer trip I’d planned was paying off. The ever-nagging onus of office deadlines, politics and the war were fading rapidly into a delicious lethargy. The thought even occurs to me: Maybe I should ask my company if I can work from Rio some day.


I Need Somebody…..Again

With 2 nights of Help under my belt (actually, one, because I never made it in the first night) I am now ready to tighten my credit and garota standards. Would that I could hold true to the former. I’ve got to learn to maintain a tough bargaining position when confronted with outstanding talent, and tonight, I would meet what, on the surface, appeared to be some outstanding talent. Again, I entered the gigantic, carnal cavern as soon as the bell rang outside. Ding, Ding, Ding…….Dinner Time!!!! In I go, and the place is virtually empty. I know it will fill up within time. I get my beer tickets, and head upstairs to the second level, providing me with a bird’s-eye view of all. As the great hall begins to fill, a beautiful garota with golden blonde hair, gorgeous tan skin and a beautiful body wrapped in a tight, elegant black dress inhabits a booth in front of my comfy sofa seat against the wall. I also notice a number of Russian gangster-looking guys in reserved booths, their tables sporting not glasses, but large bottles of Stolichnaya.
I have my eye on the spinner, who turns around occasionally and makes eye contact, but keeps a straight face and doesn’t smile. She’s playing me. Her attitude is one of ``Hey, I’m not like the other girls here. I’m different.’’ And it’s working on me. (God, I’m a product of adverse conditioning because of my exposure to American courtship rituals and Nazi feminism. The latter must be destroyed, brothers. It must be destroyed before it ruins American women completely.) Anyhow, my lovely little blonde-tan spinner goes downstairs. I soon follow, after buying a couple of English-speaking ladies from Sao Paolo some drinks. I liked them; they weren’t my style, but they were friendly and didn’t try to push themselves on me, sensing that I wasn’t interested. I go downstairs into the crush of people, and circle around the main bar, before finding a couple of guys I’d met the night before, and after they go off to the dance floor, the blonde-tan lady in the black dress is there. Hello, I say. Hello, she responds. She speaks English. Blah blah blah blah. She tells me how she’s usually works out of Switzerland, and that she speaks four languages, and is working on a fifth, German, so she can understand her teutonic clients in Europe, I suppose. If her story is even true. She tells me it’s difficult to ply her trade in Switzerland because the Russian and Eastern European ladies provide cheap competition and are fluent in the languages of the land. I’m beginning to half believe her. She also has a taste for champagne, which is one of the most expensive drinks at Help. This taste for the bubbly fits the image she seeks to portray, but, still, she has a lot of work to do before she can pass herself off as a developed-economy, VIP-level spinner. I inquire about her fee, eventually, and she kind of laughs it off and we start talking of something else. I should have pressed the matter, because it was later a bone of contention After a while, I can stand it no more, and ask her to come to my hotel. She showers with the door half open, and I watch her from time to time from my perch on the bed, where I’m watching TV. I see her hair wrapped in a towel upon her head, and from viewing the profile of her face with the towel obscuring her dyed-blonde hair I can picture her one day as a housewife from a poor section of the country, slaving over a stove, popping out kids. The developing image – seeing her without the decorations and hair she’s dyed to pass herself off as a top-dollar spinner – kind of ruin the moment. But I rise to the occasion. She returns to the bed, and we discuss moula. $350 reals, she wants; 700 for the evening. Uh, uh. No way. $150 reals for a few hours. Well, what ensues is a standoff. And as her hair dries into golden brown, she looks less like the developing-economy, dripping wet peasant woman I spied through the bathroom door. My bargaining resolve weakens. I give her $300 reals. Deal done.
Now she wants to drive the car. Oh, all right. You take the lead. She begins with BBBJ, and I notice a dark brown scar – about 5 inches long – on the back of her shoulder. It’s raised, like a brown caterpillar or leech there. I begin to explore her bodice with and breasts with my hands and notice she’s very guarded about letting me touch the mammaries. What the hell’s the matter? I gently, but firmly, pry her hands apart to discover a four-and-half inch, dark brown caterpillar scar under each of her otherwise beautiful breasts. There’s no denying the awkward lumpiness when you fondle them. I ask her what happened, and she tells me “silicone:” She says her skin has a bad reaction to surgery and drugs, and she’s getting treated for it at a doctor’s office. What the surgeons did to the back of her shoulder, I don’t know. But it’s creepy. Still, I turner her over for doggy, and then finish mish. Out the door she goes, at 2:30 a.m. I fall asleep feeling sorry for her.

Dean-Great report so far. For a solo traveler, you are finding your way around the city and it's pleasures rather well.

Regarding the scars. I used to date a girl that had the same problem. Not sure what it was called but any type of surgery left her with huge almost "slug looking" scars. Unfortunately, she also had a problem with cysts that had to be removed. She always covered up in public and even at the beach kept her scars covered. When we were alone together she was always very self conscious about them. They really didn't bother me that much but they bothered her. The upside was that she was so grateful to have someone paying attention to her and accepting her defects that the sex was always tremendous. She was also very much into making sure I was pleased and satisfied and was more than willing to try new sexual adventures. We would watch Porn and then try to copy what we had seen. Once, she told me she had a fantasy about being tied up and ravaged. I oblidged complete with blindfold. I also siezed this opportunity to run my fingers over and trace the outlines of her scars. They turned out to be quite sensitive and caused a pain/pleasure sensation to her. Needless to say, that night was one of the best sex sessions we ever had and she had more than her fair share of orgasms. I'm not normally into kinky stuff but with her it was a real adventure. She was my love slave that night and I did anything to her I wanted. Alas, after a few months of casual dating, she brought up the dreaded "next step" conversation. She might just as well have slammed a 16 pound sledge hammer on my balls. I run into her occasionally but never anything more than a casual conversation.

Good luck in your travels buddy. Hope we meet some day for some adventure.

Sandman

Thanks for the feedback, Sandman.
You, too.

Deanyc,

I always loved Help. Thanks for the memories.

Moondog

Moondog,

It is unique & beautiful, isn't it?
Thanks

Nicely written report.
Your experience provides a good object lesson in bargining over price. Always set the price when you are still clothed and before all the blood has run to your nether regions. Trying to talk price when you have an erection is an untenable position. I remember a situation in a massage parlor some years back in which a lovely Japanese girl (naked of course) talked me into "extra" sevices with my dick in one of her lily white hands and my American Express card in the other. I have rarely felt more helpless.
Hope you enjoy the rest of your trip,

Artist,

The feeling of being helpless, perfect description.

Moondog

Hey Dean - where did you pick up the local language?

Regarding the scares that your evening date revealed to you - there is a growing population of women who are disfigured when their bodies begin to reject the enlargement implant use to enhance the breast. In some cases a large portion of the breast is damage, when the bodies natural immune response to the plastic invader begins to eat away at the surrounding tissues, and the silicone or saline implant must be removed.

I had a friend who went through hell for a few years with health problems, until they discovered that she was having a negative immune response to her breast implants. She mentioned that the scares to remove the implants were more severe than the ones left by the initial surgery.

Bayboy,

Thanks for the comments. I learned basic Brazilian Potuguese from a $25 4-cassette program called Pimsleur's. You can find it on the web.