After Hollywood left I met up with a German guy I'll call Hansel. He had quite a story. His dad lived in Argentina and was a monger himself. When he was a teenager he introduced his son to this hobby and he'd been doing it ever since. I didn't quite understand this as he was strikingly handsome, he could be a playboy if he played his cards right. Hansel spoke fluent Spanish, but no Portugese, still, he could get along of course.

"Your dad introduced you to mongering? I'm sure my dad would love doing this, I found his porn, but he's so uptight about sex I could never bring this up. Weren't you uncomfortable with your dad?"

"No, it was fine. We understand each other. There was only one time it was uncomfortable. We went to a bordello and there happened to only be one girl there. My father says, 'Let's both do her at the same time'". Hansel put his face in his hands and shook his head, "'Daaaaaad!' I couldn't do it". I don't blame him.

I took Hansel over to Kilograma for lunch and I had some salmon. I noticed that the salmon was cold even though it was supposedly heated by that lamp. After a couple of bites I decided this probably wasn't a good idea. That lunch would have ramifications I didn't even suspect.

A couple of hours later Hansel wanted to go swimming. I recommended against it but said if he was going to swim Ipanema would be a better selection. We wandered down there and he actually went in that water. He thought I was being a stupid American pussy, but let me tell you as an experienced surfer, that water ain't safe.

As we sat and looked at the ocean there was a rumble in my belly. Hmmm, I'll need to go back to the bathroom in a few minutes.

RUUUUUMMMMMBBBBBLLLLEEEE!

Uh-oh, I've got to go now! I told Hansel about my predicament and he'd had enough so we decided to walk back. As we walked down the beach my bowls continued rumbling in a most uncomfortable manner. This was not going to be pretty. My mind began to pick up speed as I realized I probably didn't have time to walk home. Ah, but there was one of those towers at the end of the beach with a bathroom in it. I felt in my pocket and realized I only had one Reais. Not much, but it was enough to get me in. The thought of having to use such a, hmmm, low quality facility at this particular time, filled me with dread. What if there wasn't any toilet paper? Suddenly the little things in life mean so much.

My bowels had decided that there was no time like the present, but I clenched up and focused on the tower (number 7 or 8) and begged my sphincter to hold on just a couple of more minutes. I got up to the tower and to my utter horror it was closed and locked! Panic set in. Okay now, you don't want to appear to desperate in front of Hansel here, but you've got to hurry home. I told him I needed to walk faster and he realized my distress, telling me to leave him there, he'd catch up with me at the apartment. I took off like a shot.

I began running through that little park that separated Ipanema from Copacobana. Would I make it? It seemed doubtful. My bowels had decided that since the tower was closed they would just explode on the spot. All my focus was on my sphincter. Please keep closed. I was running for my life. I ran like a man possessed. I entered into a zen like state. There was just me, my sphincter, and running. All focus was set on that. I was totally in the present. I didn't need a guru to be in the now. There was only the now. Only the thought of holding in my bowels.

I approached the Sofitel and gave .0000125% of my thought over to whether or not to try and stop in there and find a bathroom. I was a tourist, I could just throw money at the doorman and duck into the bathroom. They had to have one in the lobby right? But there was a catch. Maybe two. I didn't have any money on me, just a single Reais. I could be thrown out and lose precious time. The second thought was that any delay in arriving in the lobby and asking for the bathroom, possibly only 15 seconds, could be disasterous. Any stupid misunderstanding by the desk clerk could result in a story for the evening news. This was true of any public place I passed.

No, it was home or bust...litereally. I had eight more blocks to run. But I didn't think about that, I only thought of closure. The pressure was unbearable. It was like a submarine movie where the hull is buckling, grinding, compressing, but somehow holds.

On I ran.

There was only the moment.

This moment, I held on.

This moment too, I held on.

Time

stood

still.

I ran like the wind. An Olympic 1000 meter runner would have had trouble keeping up with me. People looked at the desperate sweating gringo running down the street with alarm. They could sense something amiss, but nobody was chasing me. Luckily I had been exercising for this trip in order to keep up with the girls. I thanked my lucky stars and ran on. My lungs were screaming for oxygen, my legs ached, but that wasn't even noticed in my concentration on keeping the pressure contained. Three Mile Island was building inside me.

Ah, so this is why they call it "The Trots".

Seven blocks. Six blocks. A red light. I slow down a little, keep moving, don't stop, don't let up for a second. It's green, on I run. Five blocks to go. Will I make it? Don't think about it! Keep the squeeze on. Four blocks. Three blocks. Two blocks. One block! I can see the apartment building. Damn I will have to stop at the gate for 5-15 seconds for the guy to let me in. And then there's the elevator.

Don't think! Just keep moving. A guy has just pressed the button for the elevator. But it's near the top, and going up! I begin to take the steps. No, that's not going to work. After that run, this will kill me. I come back down the stairs and being pacing frantically. The gentleman eyes me warily. Hours pass. Focus! It's here. We get in. Push the button. Close, damn you, close! The gentleman looks at me, my extreme discomfort is obvious. He has no idea of the danger he's in, should I lose concentration now I'm certain the entire elevator will fill in an instant.

He gets off and the elevator door closes as slowly as molasses drips from a straw. Don't think of anything dripping from a straw! Floor, by floor, slowly, soooo slowly.Up to the top, one last flight of stairs. I may just make it. I'm going to make it!

I didn't make it.

I don't know exactly what happened, but I think knowing that after all I'd been through, I was going to make it, relaxed me just that 1%. Luckily I had the bathroom to myself to clean up.

As I sat there, enjoying relief for the first time in what seemed like hours, I wondered at this turn of events. How did this happen? This hadn't happened in years. What were the odds I'd eat that salmon? What were the odds I'd go all the way down to Ipanema? What were the odds I'd be carrying no money? Why hadn't I just gone into the water and let loose there? Well, that water was pretty filthy, I'd probably end up even sicker. There had to be an explanation. What could it be? How had everything conspired against me? How had I made such stupid decisions?

A light bulb went on and I muttered out loud, "Jaguar's in town". I knew it with every fiber of my being. Only Jaguar could cause this catastrophe.

I cleaned up, took a shower, and went downstairs. I was Jaguar hunting. I headed right over to Amerioca Tours, Don or Ken would know where he was. And just as I get near, who steps out of the place and heads toward the beach? Don't you know it.

"Jaguar!", I shouted. I didn't even use his real name. For it was Jaguar who had done this to me. I greeted him and he was with New Jersey from my previous story. They were on their way somewhere, but we'd meet up at Terrasco Atlantica that night. I couldn't bring myself to tell him or anybody else what happened until now.

But I felt vindicated. It wasn't me. It wasn't my fault. It was Jaguar.

You've got your own style.
Only you know if this is an embelishment but you probably passed 500 bathrooms between Ipanema and Sa Ferreira. LOL.
Wasn't your "vanilla/chocolate I" with a girl named Carina?
Did you see her this trip?

Frogman,
You said, "When he was a teenager he introduced his son to this hobby and he'd been doing it ever since. I didn't quite understand this as he was strikingly handsome, he could be a playboy..."

Mongers cant be handsome? I think you miss the point of mongering. Mongers CAN be people who just arent supposed to be able to get laid, but they can also be people who enjoy the lifestyle, adventure and freedom. I think you are a little narrow minded on this point.

I get laid in the states--actually banged over 500 girls in the US before I started mongering. I know several wealthy, attractive, and famous (some are professional atheletes, others are well known personalities on television) guys that go to Brazil regularly to monger. Not because they have to, but because they want to do so.

Frogman, thanks for sharing your "gripping" drama of your hike from Ipanema.

You're right GCL, I wouldn't say I'm narrow minded, I'm just supremely jealous. With Hansel I just got the impression he didn't have many girls. If I was good looking I'd still be doing this as well.

After all, they found Jerry Rice in a massage parlor claiming he just wanted a massage.

Rivelino68,
I knew I was passing bathrooms, but I swear I didn't know how much time I had. Ten seconds of trying to figure out where the bathroom was, finding somebody in it, could have been publicly disasterous. This was only privately disaterous.

Actually on my previous trip I did Karini solo, THEN I did the chocolate and vanilla later that evening.

It is important to have mapped out places to take a dump when an emergency strikes. Major hotels are good spots, as a gringo you wouldn't have aroused any suspicion by going in and hitting the head. Here's a hint - go in and use the bathroom, then sit in the lobby for a few minutes to make like you're waiting on a guest to show up. Then look at your watch and leave. Better bet - make a call on your phone like you're calling the guest, then leave.

In addition to working on favelado hotel lobby employees who shit in the bushes when nature strikes, this routine will also work on garotas who won't leave you alone. The pretending to make a call and then leaving, not the shitting your pants part.

By far the most luxurious lobby bathrooms are at the Copacabana Palace. Only a gringo could get away with walking in and using them. I recommend them--even if just for a pee. Go through the lobby, turn left towards the pool and bathrooms on the left.

The Marriott is excellent as well, through the lobby and to the left of the stairs. The shitter is basically in a small room with a full door, no second-rate public shitter with a divider between the stalls. Also, nice cloth towels at the sinks, not paper and certainly not air blowers.

Should we set up a poll here as to the best places to take a dump, or should that more appropriately be placed on Clubwheretotakeadump.com?

Frogman,

Once again you captivate the reader with your easy reading prose. I thoroughly enjoyed reading every chapter, except for the part where you blame me for your intestinal distress.

BTW, I conducting some research on that very topic. As a matter of fact, Don and Ken are two participants in my clinical research study.

Jag

elevator door closes as slowly as molasses drips from a straw

Frogman. Your story was hilarious, great writing.