The Dummy Has Landed -- Part Two

You'll be happy to learn that I boarded the plane to Rio all right, but there was some dumb bitch in the window seat next to me. My first words to her were,” Have you ever been to Rio, and would you like to see some photos?" God damn it, she didn't understand a fucking word I said and then she starts replying to me in Portuguese. Oh shit, this was going to be a very long miserable flight indeed.

After we’re up in the air, I opened my briefcase and took out the two boxes of photos just entertain and remind myself of why I was going to Rio. Well, you'll never guess what happened. I open the first box that contained all the somewhat graphic shots of MBL and they weren't there. I grabbed the second box and, sure enough, they weren’t in that box either. Where the hell could they be, I wondered? Then I remembered that the last ones to look at the photos were those fucking lesbians -- those bitches took them! Needless to say, I promptly slipped into an ugly sour mood and I needed immediate liquid relief. Stewardess -- to scotches and two bottles of Chardonnay, please. There, that should ease the pain a little.

At around 1 a.m. in the morning I take an Ambien, and yes, I took the right pill this time. I quickly drift off, but I'm pissed at the lesbians and my crotch is still sticky from that fucking Diet Pepsi incident so I have a fitful and uncomfortable slumber. Suddenly I get a nudge from the bitch next to me and she says only one word to me, "Frio." "No shit," I hiss back at her with the most pissed off look on my face that I can possibly manage. She's sitting there with her blanket on the floor, freezing her ass off and I’m next to her in my blazer with two blankets wrapped around me, looking like a God damn caterpillar; no wonder she's cold. I look at my watch, Christ, its 5 a.m. in the fucking morning!

I'm really pissed off now so I go back and ask the flight attendant for two more scotches and a cup of black coffee, then go back to my seat and watch CSI to see if I can learn how those Brazilian girls get all their forensic knowledge. The show was pretty lame; somebody shot someone with a bullet made out of frozen ground beef. What will they think of next? We landed Sao Paulo and that's when I get even more depressed; the bitch next to me doesn't get off and is continuing on to Rio. Now I'm stuck with her till we get to our final destination.

Since I don't have a raging hard-on this time, immigration and customs is a breeze, now all I have to do is find Hilton who has been sent to pick me up at the airport. Sandman kindly arranged for him to meet me because he knew that if I got into any other taxi, I would have trouble telling them where to go. Because on each of my previous trips all I had to do say was Marriott, Copacabana Palace or Princess Copacabana and the drivers knew how to get there. Just in case I missed Hilton, Sandman sent me an e-mail with his address and directions to his apartment that I could give to the driver. He suggested that I print several of them out just in case. You know, he continues to have absolutely no faith in me and I still haven't figured out how he ever got that false impression in the first place.

Just to be on the safe side, I put some blank 4 x 6 index cards in the photo tray of my printer and, voilà, out popped twenty professional looking address cards, including directions. Who says I'm stupid? Actually, I don’t like to toot my own horn, but I'm really quite smart and another former board member told me so this past June. As you may recall, one afternoon Travelsrr visited me in my suite at the Princess Copacabana and during our conversation he told me that one line from the Godfather epitomized me. If I remember correctly, he said that one of Don Vito Corleone’s sons said the following: “I’m smart, I’m real smart.” Again I think it was that son who got killed in that toll booth incident, but it doesn’t matter one iota which one said it because I like the quote and it describes me perfectly.

I'm supposed to meet Honey Bee and another board member in the café at the J.W.Marriott at 1 p.m. and its 11:45 a.m. when I arrive at Sandman's apartment. His place is fantastic, large and well appointed with a very modern kitchen. The bathroom is unbelievable in that it has a large triangular Jacuzzi hot tub that I plan to use each and every day. The apartment is absolutely spotless with a great layout and a six pack of Skols in the fridge. I’m in heaven and I’m not going to fuck it up one little bit.


Since I been in the same clothes for the past 24 hours and have a sticky crotch from the Diet Pepsi, I'm anxious to take a long hot shower. However before I take one, I start to unpack my bag to get out my toilet kit and it's then that I notice something strange. Remember that box of rubbers, the capsaicin and the dildo, well now they are all wrapped up and held together by two rubber bands. What the fuck is going on! I never put any rubber bands around them, who could have done that?


Then I notice a card protruding from the box of rubbers and pull it out. It's one of those fucking TSA cards; you know the ones that they put in your bags to tell you that they've been through them. At the bottom of the card is written just one word -- OVER. My first impression was that someone named “Over” signed it in one of those misguided governmental attempts to personalize service. Then I turned the card over and this is what it said in clearly feminine handwriting: You don't plan on using these three things together at the same time, do you? Ha, ha, ha -- someone's a fucking comedian. Then I think to myself, I can do that somehow!

After I get over feeling violated by the TSA for going through my weird stuff, I grab my toilet kit and go to the bathroom to prepare for a long hot and invigorating shower. I turn on the hot water faucet in the shower to get it nice and hot, then turn my attention to brushing my teeth. I get out my little electric Crest toothbrush and my brand-new tube of Rembrandt anti-stain toothpaste that cost a fucking fortune. Well, not exactly a fortune, but it did cost $7.49.


As I unscrewed the top of the toothpaste it erupts like a geyser, sending a white plume up about 2 feet into the air, then all of it falls right into the sink. Boy, am I lucky it didn’t go all over the place, I remember thinking. Almost all of the fucking tube is lost before it finally stops spewing and gurgling. Since Rembrandt toothpaste comes in a somewhat rigid plastic tube, not at all like the soft plastic tubes that other toothpastes come in, something terrible happens to it when you cross the equator. I don’t know how or why, but all I know is lots of strange things often happen to me every time I cross that fucking line around the middle of the earth; I can’t explain it, but they always happen, take my word for it. As you all know, science baffles the shit out of me, so I will leave the full explanation of what just happened up to a more knowledgeable Board member. Will someone please help me out here?

Let me just say that Sandman's sink was totally covered with toothpaste. It wouldn't have bothered me too much if his sink was white, but his is a very deep dark sapphire blue. Shit, it looked like a thin white snake crawled into the sink, swallowed a lit M-80 and exploded. Ah fuck it, I plunged by toothbrush into the blob, put it in my mouth and turned it on. What the fuck is this, I remember thinking as nothing happened. Then I remembered that when I left Rio back in June that little old security lady made me take the battery out of the toothbrush. I never figured out why, but she said that if I didn't take out, I couldn't get on the plane. Sure enough, there's the battery in my toilet kit, now all I have to do is remove the handle, but in the battery and I'm as good as new.

Everything was going alright until I put in the AA battery. Apparently some idiot switched the fucking tooth brush on and as soon as the battery made contact, it's started spinning around like a Dremel tool at roughly 30,000 revolutions per minute. That wouldn't have been too bad, but there was this big glob of toothpaste on it that flew all over the mirror, walls, door and shower door and, of course, me too.

I thought to myself, I'll deal with this later as I stepped into the nice hot shower. "Holy shit," I screamed as I realized that there was no hot water. Had I turned on the wrong faucet, I wondered? No, I turned on the left one, but then too, they aren't labeled. Realizing that some highly trained Brazilian plumber had installed the system, I assumed that he probably put it in backwards. In other words, the right faucet had to be the "hot" one. I turned off the left faucet and turned the right one on in an effort to get some hot water. While it was running, I turned my attention back to the fucking sink. God, was this an ugly mess or what!

Shit, it's still freezing, what the fuck is going on here? Time is getting short, so I take a quick freezing shower, cursing Sandman the whole time. Right about this time my dick is doing a superb imitation of a scared turtle in that it has completely withdrawn itself into my abdominal cavity. I never knew that was possible in all my years on this earth. Huh, you learn something new every day. After I got dried off and finally stopped shivering (yeah, my dick came back out), I called the number of the building manager that Sandman had left for me and told her of my problem.

She said that it should have been fixed before I arrived, but that somebody would be up in a few minutes to fix it. Within five minutes somebody magically appeared with a pack of C batteries, opened the little water heater, extracted the dead battery that powered the igniter and replaced it with a fresh one, closed the cover and gave me the universal "thumbs up" to indicate that I had hot water. Now I’m wondering why I didn’t make that phone call before I got into the shower. That was the first trap Sandman had left for me to fall into, which I did, where are the others?


Ah ha, here’s one of them-- the fucking cell phone. The last time he let me use one; he took it away from me within days because he couldn’t stand me asking him what he called “a lot of stupid questions.” He really needs to be a little more patient with people. I’m not complaining, just making a suggestion. Where was I? Oh yeah, getting ready to leave for the Marriott. Before I leave the apartment, I decided to call my son because he asked me to call him when I arrived to make sure that I got there safely. I don't know why he worries about me so much, but for some strange reason he does -- must be that he loves me a lot and probably misses me already. Under the phone is a rather long set of instructions written on a 3 x 5 index card outlining how to turn the phone on, the security code and how to add credits from a new phone card. What does he think, I'm stupid or something? He didn't need to write out all this crap, just a few short phrases and would I have it all figured out.


I skim over the instructions and think, yeah, yeah, yeah-- I got it now. Then I sit down and dial the AT&T access number and then my son's cell phone number and within seconds we are talking. We talked for awhile because he wanted to find out if I had any problems on my trip and just about when I got to describing what happened in Pappadeux's, the connection was broken. Shit, I had run out of credits. Oh well, I'll correct that in a few minutes, I thought to myself. I loaded all the shit that I carry into my pockets, which in addition to my SOG knife includes my powerful Spitfire pepper spray unit and now I have to stuff the fucking cell phone in there too. I look like a little kid on a Halloween—stuffed to the gills! All I have to do today is add credits to my phone, buy one of those fucking Brazilian butane lighters and walk to the Marriott. Life is good; I'm in Rio so what could possibly go wrong? Absolutely nothing could go wrong as far as I was concerned.


That’s when I remembered that I’m not supposed to be in Rio today, I told MBL that I was in New Orleans seeing my sister till the 16th. I love that country almost as much as I do Brazil. Yeah, yeah, I know it’s a city, but you have to admit it almost seems like it’s a separate country because it’s so different from the rest of the United States. Because it’s so unique in architecture and culture, our Federal Government will never, ever let anything horrible happen to it. New Orleans is definitely one of America’s crown jewels, a dirty filthy one, but a gem never- the-less, and I’m confident in its continued vitality and viability. Yeah, that’s what I’ll tell MBL when she asks about where I was for three days.


You’re probably wondering how she could possibly know that I wasn’t home from the 13th to the 17th, so I’ll tell you. Unfortunately for me, we talk about three times a day and, of course, the number I’m calling from comes up on her caller ID. I hate that fucking invention, it causes me so many needless headaches that I’ve given up trying to defeat it. I admit defeat, so my way around is to “Not Call.” A simple, easy and effective remedy to a painful problem! Here I am five blocks from where she lives and I can’t figure out a foolproof way to call her without giving away my location, so I don’t call. Now I know how those Resistance Fighters felt during WWII. You know what I mean, those fucking Nazis always triangulating in on them. Well, perhaps that’s a severe comparison, but that’s the way I feel.

Suddenly it strikes me, I can’t walk to the Marriott, what if MBL or Lurch see me? Why did I mention Lurch in that sentence, you’re probably wondering? Well, two weeks before I left for Rio, out of the blue, I received three emails from her saying something about Rio in them. I printed all three out, along with a copy of both Dummy reports for Don to read. He asked me to bring the reports down with me, and I figured since he was already reading my shit; he might as well translate Lurch’s emails. Smart thing, huh? Now, where’s that tobacco store so that I can buy my first butane lighter? I say my first because after twenty-four hours they start to fail and either they don’t light or go into blowtorch mode. Take your pick, both are terribly frustrating problems.


I walk around the corner to the tobacco store and pay R$19 for my first lighter and ask for a phone card. He tells me that I have to go across the street to the newsstand for them, which I promptly do. R$25 later and I have the correct card, it's for a TIM phone, whatever the fuck that means, As I attempt to load the card and struggle to remember the detailed instructions I read only minutes before, some kid walks by and sees me looking terribly confused. He asks me, in almost perfect English, if he can help me. I tell him to come over near a building where I can keep him cornered so he can't run off with my phone and he proceeds to punch in a short series of numbers and says it's "all done." I thank him and you know what, the kid offers to throw away the card for me. He looks at me, gives me a great big grin, turns and walks away towards a trash can with my card in his hand as I turn and walk towards Avenue Atlantico to get a taxi to the Marriott. He's just like my boy at home, willing to go the extra mile for me. This trip is finally taking a pleasant turn, but that wasn't to last very long.

At the Marriott, the doorman greets me by saying, "Senor Bond, you are back again." "No just stopping by to get my free New York Times Digest and meet some friends in the café," is my friendly reply. As I am going into the hotel through the revolving door, I hear him tell a group of Black Car drivers something about James Bond and Jennifer López. That's when I realize that he's telling them that ridiculous story about me last October asking everyone on staff whether or not J. Lo was staying at the Marriott. Fuck him, I think as I manage to get through the revolving door unharmed this time.


I have two outrageously expensive cups of café and wait for Honey Bee and a board member to appear, but after an hour neither show. As I depart the Marriott, several of the Black Car drivers point at me, start laughing and shout out “Gelo, gelo.” Ha, ha, ha, fuck you too! Now I'm in a foul mood and I decide to walk up to Alcazar to see if Don is there. I don't care if MBL or Lurch sees me; I'll just try to convince them that I'm not who they think I am. I just happen to looks very similar to someone they know. Yeah, I admit it's an extremely poor plan, but it's the best I can come up with on such short notice.

By the time I get to Alcazar, it's about 2:30 p.m., which according to my reckoning is the crack of dawn for Don. Sure enough, he's just gotten there and is having a pot of tea. As he sees me approach he says, “What’s in your shorts?” Oh shit, don’t tell me I’m walking around with a hard-on again and don’t even know it, I thought to myself. I looked down and realized that he’s referring to my bulging pockets, nothing else thank God. We exchange pleasantries for a few minutes and then Don cuts right to the chase. "What the hell do you have in your pockets," he asked?


Rather than tell him, I decided to take everything out and lay it on the table for him to see. "What's this," he asked as he was pointing to my SOG knife. I picked it up and opened it and said, "This is my last line of defense." Suddenly, he got very nervous and told me to put it away. "You're not allowed to have that down in Rio," he admonished me as he pointed to the next item. "What's this?" "It's my first line of defense, it's a Spitfire pepper spray that's very effective, I know from personal experience," was my succinct explanation. "You can't have that in Brazil either, what are you nuts or something?"

I was going to answer him, but he immediately said the following, "Can you leave the pepper spray with me when you go back to the states?" "Sure, if Miss Bubble Lips doesn't want it," I replied. Everything was going fine till he picked up my cell phone and said, "Where did you get this phone from?" "It's Sandman's, he left it for me and when I first used it, I ran out of credits and just had some put on. "You put them in yourself," he said with the most incredulous look on his face? "Sure I did, well actually I had a little help," I told him. "Who helped you and what did they do?"

I wondered why the hell he was asking me all these stupid questions, but I decided to play along with him for awhile, so I told him the whole story about the kid helping me. He lunged for the phone and said, "Let me check it out to make sure he really put them on." How could he not put the credits in it, I thought? After all I was standing right in front of him when he did it; there's no possible way that the credits aren't on the phone. He punched in a few numbers, started laughing and handed the phone to me and said, "Look, the phones empty." Then he asked me if either of us scratched off something on the back of the phone card. "No, I didn’t and I don't think he did," was my honest reply. "How many numbers did he punch in," he asked? "I don't know, about six or eight." Don smiled and said, "OK, give me the card; I'll do it for you." "What card?" "The card you gave to the kid," he said getting more exasperated by the minute. "Oh, the kid threw it away for me," I told him.


Don slowly put down his cup of tea, called over the waiter and ordered something in Portuguese. He looked at me, sighed and asked the following question, "How many days do I have to spend with you?" "Two whole days, it should be a lot of fun," was my anxious reply. The waiter appeared with a bottle of Scotch and poured him a shot. He then asked me what I wanted to do during the two days and that's when I told him that I wanted to go to Centro to visit some of the cut rate termas and visit Vila Mimosa to take pictures. As the waiter was walking away, Don waved his arms frantically to get his attention, told him to bring back the bottle of Scotch and just leave it there on the table. To this day, I still haven't figured out what happened to those R$25. Every time I ask Don if he figured out what happened, he just shakes his head, laughs and smiles. Oh well, at least he likes me a lot.


October 3, 2005

I have to digress here for a few minutes and tell you what just happened. Felix called me about yesterday's literary output, which I e-mailed in a file for him to edit. You know what he said to me? "You’re now 17 pages into this report and you haven't even gotten to sex once; I think I know who your ex wife is referring to on page 3 just like Wolf figured it out." "Tell me, who do you think it is," I asked? He wouldn't give me an answer and that pissed me off, so I asked him, "How would you introduce sex right now, I'm still 24 hours away from getting laid? Actually, he had a very simple solution to my dilemma. "Why don't you tell them what happened to you last week with Princess. You used it as an excuse for not writing your report, so tell them what happened," was his simple reply. If this doesn’t work out, blame Felix. Here goes…..


As is usually the case with my stories, I have to give you a little background. While I was down in Rio on my last trip one of the neighbors who lives across the street from me mysteriously moved out of their house and put it up for sale without a saying a word to anyone beforehand. Since I live on a curve in the road, and I'm on the inside of the curve, I have a total of three families living directly across the street from my property. This couple was one of the households, Wolf and the bitch are another and the third, well, let's just say we don't talk very often.


All the other neighbors blame me for running this "asshole couple" out of the neighborhood, but honest, I didn't do anything wrong, at least not that I can immediately recall. Anyway, I was in Rio when they left, so I couldn’t have run them off. How could I possibly be guilty, I was over 5000 miles away at the time? Sometimes my neighbors just don’t think things completely through and that troubles me deeply.

My cell phone rings and its Princess calling from the airport, she was down in Florida visiting her sister and asks me if I could come down and pick her up. Of course I can, I’m horny as hell and within a half-hour she'll be giving me a blow job in the car like she always does. She's easy to find, I pick her up, put her luggage in the back of my car, climb back in the driver's seat and get ready to undo my zipper when all of a sudden she starts "venting." Apparently she had a horrible trip, everything went wrong and I had to listen to every fucking complaint. This meant I was not going to get a blow job on the way home. God damn it!

As we drove up my street, I saw a lot of vehicles parked in front of my house and it soon became apparent to me that the "asshole couple" was holding an open house for all the real estate brokers in the area. There had to be about 30 cars parked along the curb. Upon walking inside, Princess said that she was hot and tired and wanted to go lay out by the pool. Despite the fact that I was upset over not getting a BJ in a car, this turn of events would be perfect for me to fuck with the neighbors. Princess hardly ever wears a bathing suit when she is at my house and that's why I usually have to keep her over at one side of the pool patio, the part that's right behind my house.


Although my pool is in my backyard, a significant portion of it along with the largest patio area can be easily seen from the street. I can't wait till she walks out there naked and the real estate agents get a glimpse of her -- I am so happy, I can almost cry. What the fuck is this -- she comes downstairs with a bikini on, completely dashing my plans. First I don't get a blow job, now don't get to watch a bunch of real estate agents gawk at her -- my day is going right down the tubes or so I thought.


We go out to the pool and sit down on chaise lounges which are about 100 feet from the curb and parallel to it. She's wearing that god damn bikini and I'm pissed, but I know I'll eventually get laid so I sit back with my book and start to read. I move my chair perpendicular to hers to get more sun; she's a nice brown color anyway so she leaves her chair where it is. With my chair in this position I can look up over my book and watch the real estate agents going in and out of the neighbors’ house.


I'm racking my brain trying to figure out some way to fuck with them when all of a sudden Princess reaches over and lowers my book and says, "I didn't take care of you in the car, I want to now." "Sounds good to me," was my juvenile reply. She pulls down my bathing suit and goes to town. You have to understand and picture this in your mind, from the street you could really only see her bikini bottomed ass up in the air and my head and shoulders looking straightforward. After a minute or two, she shifted positions and now you could clearly see her head going up and down from the street. I just kept my eyes closed and enjoyed what my little head was feeling.


Within a minute she looks up and says, "I want you in me right now." Who was I to argue with her and with one swift movement she was straddling me while facing me, slid her bikini bottom over and put me into her. Oh God, this was feeling so good, but because she was rocking back and forth and not moving up and down much to anybody looking from the street, it would appear as though she was sitting on my lap. I was about ready to suggest that she start moving up and down when she said, "Let me try another position." I nodded agreement and before you know it she has turned completely around facing the street and starts to vigorously move up and down fucking my brains out.


I peer around her shoulder and guess what, about 15 real estate agents are standing there with their eyes and mouths wide open. Princess orgasms and screams in delight, she looks at the agents then goes down on me again to finish me off. When I’m done she swallows, turns around and looks at the crowd of about 25 agents gawking, waves at them and sits down to read her Cosmo Magazine. She just loves to entertain a crowd! Those stupid agents silently stood there for at least five minutes before dispersing. Fucking voyeurs! For the next two hours every agent that went in the house stopped and looked into my yard when they came out. What a bunch of sickos, I thought. Today was getting much better by the minute and it wasn’t over yet.


Around four o'clock in the afternoon we went inside and I asked her what she wanted to do -- take a sauna was her answer. Shit, we just been sitting out in the sun for 2 1/2 hours in 85° weather and now she wants to go down the sauna where it's 165°, what the fuck is wrong with this girl. She then explains that the sauna with its dry heat reminds her of her homeland back in Africa. Whatever floats your boat? You have to understand that my sauna is in the basement; no, I didn't put it there, the former owner did. Okay, so we go down to the sauna, she strips off her suit, climbs on the bench and starts chatting away. She then starts laughing uncontrollably and I asked her what is so funny? She tells me that she's remembering the first time we took a sauna together and what happened when we got out and climbed in to the shower next to the sauna.

We took the sauna she's referring to about two weeks after we met on the plane several years ago and she thinks the stories a riot, but I don't see the humor in it. You probably won't either. After about 45 minutes in the sauna she said she was getting hot and I told her to go take a shower and cool off. Like most women do she said, "Only if you come with me." Since we have been together off on for a few weeks (remember that husband problem), I decided not to let her out of my sight so I climbed into the shower with her.


As we're cooling-off she says, "I want a Golden Shower." To which I replied, "Oh, in that case we have to go upstairs to the master bathroom." "What the hell you talking about," she asked? "Honey, this shower has chrome fixtures, the gold ones are up in the master bathroom," was my somewhat concrete reply. "No, you misunderstand, I want you to piss on me and piss in my mouth," she said. I was absolutely stunned, I couldn't say a word, I had never ever done anything like that before, but what the fuck here was a perfect opportunity to do it so I took her up on her offer. It’s not a funny story, is it?

How do I word this properly and as delicately as possible? Princess is slightly more sophisticated than me sexually. No, to be perfectly honest she's light years ahead of me and I'll give you several examples of what I'm talking about. Last year I promised to take her down to Williamsburg, Virginia for a long weekend and we left my house around seven at night, planning to arrive there around midnight. For some strange reason she wanted to travel at night and it didn't bother me because, after all, I was going to get a blow job on the way down there. What I didn't take into consideration was that not only was I going to get a blow job, but she was going to put the overhead lights on in the car so that everybody could see what was going on. As you all no doubt know, not everybody looks into a car going by during the daytime, but if it's nighttime and the interior lights are on, everybody looks in. She knew this and was counting on it! I was clueless as always.


The first hour is uneventful, just chit- chatting, but right after we go by the toll booth on I-95 in Maryland she takes off all her clothes, turns on the interior lights, unzips my pants, kneels on the passenger seat so that her ass is up real high and deep throats me. Evidently she was waiting for it to get nice and dark outside. We’re crossing a bridge over the Susquehanna River and that's when I notice a long line of trucks in the right hand lane in a convoy formation. We're in the middle lane and I can't get over into the left lane and as soon as I pass the last truck in the convoy, I hear an air horn go off. Man, those guys have good eyes!


Since we're in an SUV and are up high, I watch each driver stare at her magnificent black ass then look over at me as I slowly cruise by. She starts to giggle as she hears each truck downshift in an ill-fated attempt at keeping up with us. One, two, three, oh shit, there are nine trucks in this fucking convoy—when will my misery ever end. I know, you’re probably thinking that it will end when I pass the ninth truck, but my life doesn’t work that way. If you want to find out when, just keep reading.


Within a few minutes I'm done, she swallows and that's when she says, "Oh, the Maryland Chesapeake House is just up ahead, I have to pee so let's stop there." "Honey, we don't really want to stop there do we, remember all those trucks behind us, they might follow us in. She told me not to worry; after all they couldn't recognize her because they never saw her face. That made absolutely perfect sense to me as I pulled into the rest area. What I hadn't counted on was that, although they hadn't seen her face, each truck driver looked at me and saw my face.

I pulled in and parked about three rows from the door and, sure enough nine tractor-trailers pull into the truck area. Because Princess had to find something in her luggage before we could go in, I stepped out of the car and in the distance I could hear multiple truck doors slam and men shouting and running towards the food court. Then I see more tractor trailers pull into the lot and realize that those bastards have called everyone in the area on their CBs. God Damn fucking radios! I tell Princess it's best if we separate, hand her the keys and run inside to the men's room.


After I'm finished taking my piss, I go out into the food court and there are about 15 guys standing around wearing baseball caps, T-shirts, suspenders and blue jeans all looking for Princess. This is where something interesting happened that confused the shit out of them. Princess has a tattoo on her back, so of course they were looking for a black girl with a tattoo on her back and, guess what -- every black girl in the place had a tattoo on her back. Ha, ha, ha, but soon I would stop laughing as they recognized me. Oh shit!


Suddenly they all surround me and within about 30 seconds five more drivers walk into the place to join the crowd around me. Here I am standing there in my Brooks Brothers blue striped oxford shirt(yes the fucking thing is monogrammed) wearing blue jeans with tassel loafers on my feet, surrounded by a group of burly, horny teamsters, trying to look as nonchalant as I possibly can. As you can well imagine, not very successful at all!


Princess emerges from the ladies room and I slowly walk by trailing an ever growing group of guys and whisper to her, "get in the car" as I approach another black girl with a tattoo standing in line at Burger King. The girl doesn't have a clue what's going on and I pretend like I'm talking to her then turn and try to exit the place as quickly as possible. I don't have a clue what ever happened to that poor innocent black girl, but when I last saw her she had a group of about 17 truck drivers looking somewhat anxious, if you know what I mean, standing approximately ten feet behind her.


We get to Williamsburg just after midnight, check into a beautiful hotel and go up to the room to have some adult recreation. She's a phenomenal woman with a voracious sexual appetite and after we finished making love, she got up and went to her luggage. I'm lying on the bed on my stomach totally exhausted and she starts to unpack some things from her luggage. All of a sudden I hear this thump as something hits the floor and ask her what just fell. "Oh, I just dropped the strap-on," she cooed in her sexiest voice. "I don't need one of those," I quickly replied. "It's not for you, it's for me," she said in a strong voice.


I turned over and there she was standing at the foot of the bed, holding this God awful long implement just smiling at me. "Honey, what you expect to do with that," I innocently asked? She then proceeded to tell me exactly what she wanted to do with it and that's when I said the following, "Honey, you're looking at a guy who picks his urologist based upon the Doctor’s hand size not where he went to medical school as most people do. In other words, he has to have small hands or else I can't stand it when they check my prostate. And you want to put that thing up there. Absolutely no way that's going to happen!" She said, "But it makes me feel so powerful when I use it." No shit, I feel powerful when I'm fucking you doggy style, but I'm not about to tell you that, I thought to myself. "I don't care what your husband let you do to him, I want to go sleep now," I said in the deepest voice I could possibly muster. Now, all I have to do is remember to sleep on my back all night long then I'll be safe and remain a virgin.


Now I’m back to last week again, we had dinner with two bottles of wine and she wants to go outside, we leave the door open to the house walk outside and watch the sunset. It’s a beautiful night and as the sun sets in the west I tell her this is the best time to take pictures because the sky becomes a deep cobalt blue color. “Please, please take my picture, I’ll take off my clothes,” she says. An inviting offer, but I tell her that you have to take a long exposure at this time for the colors to come out properly and that I don’t think she can stand absolutely still for two minutes. She agrees and takes off her clothes anyway. She a great woman, isn’t she?

As we’re lying there together on the chaise, I tell her to keep an eye out for bats because they come out just as it gets dark. She tells me that they won’t come out tonight. “Why,” I ask her? “Because bats don’t like me,” she replies. What do you mean by that?” “Back in Africa, we have big bats and for some reason whenever I’m around they don’t come out,” she said. Then I think about that little incident with a bat on my last trip to Rio and wished they didn’t like me either. I’ll tell you all about that in another part of this never-ending fucking story. Do you know what, she’s absolutely right, we never saw a bat all evening? Go Figure?


She starts to get a little frisky, I get a little excited then I tell her that I have to take a piss and she says, “I want you to piss on me again, you haven’t done it in a long time.” “Let’s go over under that tree and you can piss on my ass,” she said as she got up from the chaise. She has her high heels on and she looks absolutely gorgeous as she strolls across the lawn totally nude. Life doesn’t get much better than this, I think. She walks under a Dogwood tree in the corner of my yard, grabs a low limb, arches her back and says, “Fuck me first.” I do what she asks, but it’s somewhat difficult because she wearing those fucking high heels. I get up on my toes and slip inside her and after about a minute she asks me to piss all over her bare back and ass. “Ah Honey, do I have to stop fucking you, I’m getting close,” I ask?


“Please just piss on my back right now and I’ll really take care of you real good tonight when we get upstairs,” she pleads. Fortunately, my erection is finally aimed in the right direction (thank you again Johnny Cochran) because she has those fucking 5” heels on and I have to aim upwards to hit her ass and back. As I’m pissing all over her ass, my son and his friend walk out the opened back door, come out into the backyard and I hear him yelling, “Dad, are you out here?” Princess is holding onto the tree limb for dear life, and as she starts to cum she moans in delight. My son and his friend luckily don’t hear a thing, but I hear one of them say, “They have to be here somewhere, here’s her dress.” God damn it!


After my son and his friend leave, we go inside and as we’re going upstairs I hear this strange fluttering sound in my living room. “What’s that,” I ask? “Oh don’t worry about it, don’t you want to find out what I plan to do to you,” she asked? “You don’t have that strap-on with you, do you,” I asked in a trembling voice? “You’ll soon find out,” is all she says. “Oh Lord, please don’t let her hurt me,” is the short prayer that I utter under my breath as she leads me into my bedroom and locks the door. Oh shit!!!

Jag,

Let me the first to congratulate you. You are a story teller extraordinaire. I found myself laughing out loud more than once.

Great work.

BT,

Yeah, you guys laugh you heads off, but I'm the one who has to cry myself to sleep each night.

My life is a fucking nightmare, don't you agree?

Jag

Jag......The Wingman #1!! Your stories are classic. I am dying here laughing my ass off. Your adventures make my and brotherhood's first visit to Brazil look boring. You are a legend and I can not wait to do a tour of duty together one day. Keep up the good work my friend.
TurfDoc

Jag, 20 + pages and no photos ? You bought a new camera and stated you were going to take and post more pictures, even Felix would like to see some photos. Have I ever told you that you have 13 days till you hit Rio again and you still have 14.5 days left to write about from last trip. Maybe you better tell Princess to piss off on her weekly visit ( no pun intended) that you will be busy writing.Keep your nose to the keyboard my good friend, It's going to be another classic. Felix

TurfDoc,

When I read your report, I truly felt a little left out in that I wanted to be right there in the action with the guys having a great time. You and your friends really know how to party and have a spectacular time with absolutely beautiful women. My trips are at the other end of the spectrum.

Sadly, nobody feels left out in my reports. They're usually thankful that they're back in the states when I'm in Rio.

Jag

Hey Jag,

What probably happened to the toothpaste was a change in atmospheric pressure. In the cargo hold of the plane, from your house to sea level in Rio, etc. If you've ever seen a bag of potato chips that are sealed tight on the ground the blow up like a pillow on the plane. When you took the cap off the toothpaste the pressure was higher inside than out and it spewed.

Anyway, you asked.

Way to go, Fredo! (I mean Jag)

Larry David has nothing on you when it comes to neurosis-driven, idiot based angst!

If you ever pass through DC/N VA again, drop me a line, drinks and steak on me!

Damn. She promised me she would get that battery replaced for the hot water heater. But, then again, she is Brasilian. Sorry bout that bro but a little cold shower is probably a good thing for you buddy. Ya know, makes you keep your wits about you for a few minutes.

Can´t believe the little bastard stole your phone card like that. He was good....real good!

Tchau and looking forward to the next installment to see what other land mines I accidentally left behind.

Sandman,

Accidently left behind, my ass. I'm up to the fourth land mine in Part Three and there are several more that I know of.

You're a real sick bastard, my friend.

Jag

Jag I can not wait until the part about you wearing a pink shirt to the favellas. Guys wait to you hear this story. - Hemp

Hemp,

I deny anthing like that ever happened. Who in God's name would be stupid enough to do that? Now, what color shirt should I say I was wearing....

Jag

Felix,

Fuck you!

I'm already 2 pages into Part Three and you'll be happy to learn that it's still my first day in Rio and I'm finally walking home.

How long is this fucking thing going to be?

Fuck you again.

Jag

Jag, your good. Now do you want a pat on the back or kick in the ass? Guys, he now has 12.5 days to write about 14 days in Rio. Do you really think he can do it? I have no confidence, I say he finishes after this up coming trip. Felix