Until the advent of the internet, I was only ever able to bore a maximum of fifty people at a time. Now, with the advances of modern technology, I can bore hundreds, if not thousands of people without even being in the room! Now THAT’s progress.

This report is long (you’ve been warned). If you’ve never been to Rio before, you might enjoy my Newbie experience and pick up a few tips. If you’re a Rio vet, you might only be amused or reminded of your first time. If you met me during my trip, I apologize in advance for not mentioning you as I could only recall a couple of handles and I hesitate to use real names here.

Enjoy,
Hieronymous Wombat
2003-01-23


- Day 1 -

It is January first, the 501st anniversary of the “discovery” of Rio de Janeiro. I have traveled for thirty hours by the time my flight touches down in Rio. The anticipation building up inside me is unbearable. I do a quick calculation as to how much time it will take me to get to the hotel, register, and get to my first Termas so I can finally be released from weeks of torment — five more hours.

While I did do some research, I knew it wasn’t enough (it never is), however, I rather enjoy the pleasure of surprise and discovery. Some surprises are pleasant, some are not, but that’s the way it is.

While waiting for my bags, I check out the duty free store. Although there is a surprising array of products, the prices are hardly tempting. I retrieve my bags and make my way into the terminal whereupon I am immediately accosted by taxi touts. I brush them off and scan the area for the currency exchange. One of the touts asks me if I want help. I say I need to change money. His face lights up and pulls me toward a group of guys at a counter. In more prosperous times, it was probably a car rental counter, now it serves as a hangout. “Where’s the exchange?” I ask. The tout points to one of the guys. “I want official exchange,” I declare. He points to the guy’s airport ID card as if that should reassure me.

“What’s the rate?” I ask the guy. He stabs at his calculator and writes a figure on a scrap of paper. I examine the number. I’m tempted to slap him silly. His quote is about 40% less than the current rate. I laugh and I head outside into the glorious heat. A couple of taxis are waiting. I settle on a price in US dollars we’re off to Copacabana. As we drive along, I get my first look at the city. Concrete is very popular here, fortunately, the topography of the land more than makes up for the messy urban planning.

At the hotel I learn my room won’t be ready for at least an hour. They offer to store my bags and encourage me to hit the beach. I can already taste the salt water. The hotel gym is not yet open so I have to change into my trunks in a staff lunchroom. Everyone is in good humor, especially me.

I cross the street and hurry across the hot sand to the hotel’s marquee. There are no chairs available, so I leave my stuff with the attendant and make a barefoot dash to the surf. The water is surprisingly cool. On the shore I see the remnants of flowers dropped in the surf. Did their wishes come true? The girls walking down the beach are delightfully distracting; my wish has certainly come true!

Back at the canopy, I get a freshwater shower. The attendant sets me up with a chair, umbrella and towel. I settle in and observe my surroundings. Couples and old folk surround me; I’m obviously on the wrong beach. I overhear a couple leaving the beach; they have a midwestern accent. I say hello as they pass my chair. They are not the least bit startled that I speak English; I am, after all as white as the Pillsbury Dough Boy. I ask them about Rio and the beach.

“Are you traveling by yourself?” the man asks at one point. I nod. He suggests I move my chair right to the waterline and ask every girl who walks by if she speaks English, “You’re guaranteed to have a good time,” he says in all seriousness. His wife rolls her eyes and drags him back toward the hotel. Methinks someone regrets having shipped coal to Newcastle.

I move my chair a bit closer to the water if only to see the cuties walking past. I am not disappointed as I find myself in closer proximity to a few sunbathing beauties. It’s still a bit early to be on the make, so I just take the time to relax and observe.

In Social Studies class, we learned that America was the great melting pot of cultures. Looking at the diverse genetic makeup of the people here, I realize that Brazil is the true melting pot of our planet. I pick out strains of Amerindian, Italian, Latino, German, and African in bewildering combinations. Yes, I like this place.

I get a kick out of the vendors doing their best to sell their wares. I’m in the market for a hammock. A vendor shows me his goods but I’m not sure it’s what I want. I ask the price to see if it’s low enough for an impulse buy. He decides I’m not a good customer and moves on to his next victim. I watch as he displays, then sells, to two other sunbathers before moving down the beach. I check with the buyers to see how much they paid. Later, I learn that they could have obtained the same hammock at one of the beach markets for half the price.

After a couple hours of recharging my biological battery, I head back to the hotel to see if my room is ready. They’ve upgraded me to a beachfront view! The room itself is remarkably small, but it is pleasant enough. I get cleaned up and check my Termas maps. There are two within walking distance, I decide on Monte Carlo.

Somehow, I mange to get the wrong street and find a restaurant called Monte Carlo at about the same location where the Terma should be. After some more map reading, I’m back on track and standing in front of the locked doors of the spa. This does not look good.

I manage to get a call through to uwphoto, who’s also in town. He informs me that all the Termas are closed on January first. Curse my bad luck! We arrange to meet at the bar in front of Help that evening. Meanwhile, I cool my heels with a long walk on the beach and witness my first Brazilian sunset (very nice).

That evening I manage to claim one of the few vacant tables at the bar. Across the aisle a fellow is chatting up three girls, obviously negations start early here. I keep my eyes peeled for uwphoto, based on the description he gave me earlier that day. The guy talking to the girls comes over and asks if he can join me. I explain that I’m waiting for some pals, but he’s welcome to sit down.

It turns out that I had taken a photo for this guy at the hotel earlier in the evening. We lower our guard once we realize we’re all here for the same thing. He keeps telling me how much he loves Rio. I keep an eye out for uwphoto and company. I’m pretty sure I spot them, but they’re looking for a guy sitting alone. I excuse myself from my new friend and hunt around for them.

I’m a bit taken aback by all the young lovelies sitting and standing around the place. Most look like hard cases, but quite a few are real eye catchers with some seriously provocative clothing. I track down uwphoto and grab a spot at the table. I wave to my pal to join us. Introductions are made all around and the boys begin with their tales of conquests over the past days and weeks. I am humbled.

One gorgeous blonde causes a ruckus at our table as she sits near us. Most of the guys are ogling her, but she’s playing it cool. Cool and expensive I recon. Meanwhile, more guys join our table and a few drift off. While we are sitting there, I get the lowdown on Help.

Around 1AM, a few of the boys decide it’s time to go in and I join them. I actually expected Help to be much bigger so I’m relieved to discover that it is just the right size. Godfather gives me the Cook’s tour and explains the ticket system. We grab drinks and check out the dancers.

These gals can dance! Sure, there are plenty of good dancers in American clubs, but here they move in a very different way — there’s lots of hip action on the Rio dance floors. A couple of girls join our party; obviously well acquainted with Godfather. None of them really appeal to my tastes so I bid the fellows goodnight. In hindsight, I should have stuck with them as they knew what they were doing and I was suddenly a very green newbie.

I was having a rough time finding a lady that appealed to me. Too damn many of them smoke so that narrows the field considerably. I like to talk to her and since my Portuguese is non-existent, the field is narrowed yet again.

I decide not to worry about either criteria and approach an attractive young thing to dance. She’s been shuffling her feet at the edge of the dance floor for about a half hour. I figure a dance would get me in a better mood. I touch her elbow, smile at her and gesture to the dance floor asking if she’d like to dance. She responds by pointing to her feet as if to say she’s already dancing. There’s no smile on her lovely face. I’ve been shot down on my first attempt and my ego is bruised.

I spot another potential dance partner, but I can’t get close to her in the crush of the crowd. I circle around but loose her. A thin blonde gives me a smile as she walks past and tugs on my bandana. I smile back and say hello. She speaks a bit of English. I chat with her for a little while and suggest we dance. She wants to dance right there on the carpet. I shrug and do my best to dance in the rather cramped quarters.

Claudia is very nice looking, about twenty years old, quite thin with big brown eyes. I am somewhat troubled by the fact that she doesn’t make a lot of eye contact, but I ignore the first of several warning signs. She looks terrific in her tasteful gold dress and she has a pleasant smile. I decide she’s an 8 out of 10. Later, looking at her photos, I put her closer to a 6, 7 at best. It was the testosterone, not the alcohol, I swear!

I spot uwphoto as he walks by and we catch up on the night’s activities. It turns out that he bagged the blonde from the bar. She wasn’t so hot in bed, he admitted, but the body more than made up for that. I introduced him to Claudia who was busy shuffling to the music. He’s convinced she’s on drugs, but I was sure otherwise. He moves on to find another lady.

Claudia asks me if I know the score in Help. “Sure” I say, “what will your company cost me for the night?” She quotes $300USD and I give her an incredulous look. We negotiate for a bit but she does not want to come down in price. I’m as horny as a three puckered bull and it’s my first night in Rio. I do not plan to sleep alone this night. I get her down to 350BRL. That’s a bargain from where I come from so I agree. We get her purse from downstairs and head up the road.

Photo touts, then scavenger kids, soon accost us. I ignore them but Claudia insists I give them some change. I hand out what I have to appease her, but more urchins suddenly surround us. I hold up my hands in a gesture of helplessness. She digs through her purse and pulls out a couple of Reals. A couple more kids appear out of the darkness. She talks to them, they respond in an antagonistic manner. We pick up the pace and leave them behind.

At the hotel, the clerk asks to photocopy her ID. I notice that her name is not Claudia. I don’t care; I can hardly blame her for using her real name in this business. Upstairs I show her the room telling her that it’s a bit small but comfortable. She thinks the room is huge, telling me how much bigger it is than her home. I refrain from telling her that the bathroom in my previous hotel was larger than this room.

I suggest we get cleaned up with a shower. She’s sitting on the edge of the bed smiling, but gesturing with her hands. She wants to be paid first. I tell her I have the money and will pay her in the morning. She wants the money now. Foolishly, I capitulate.

I discover I’m 100BRL short but explain we can go to the bank in the morning, as it’s right around the corner. She spots the $40USD in my wallet and says she’ll take that. OK, so I’ve been pretty stupid all along, but I’d bottomed out at this point. I shake my head but she insists that she wants the extra hundred. I tell her I have to go to the desk to get my money from the safe and she should get showered while I’m out.

I step out into the hall and dig in my pants for the secret pocket with my hidden stash. I give her five minutes and head back inside. She’s down to her panties and looking damn good. I put the hundred on the table and take her in my arms for a hug. Her embrace is lukewarm at best.

We head to the shower then hit the sheets. She’s cold in the air-conditioned room, so I snuggle in to warm her up. After thirty minutes of reasonable foreplay (including a very mechanical and uninspiring blowjob), we’re busy making whoopee. Well, not exactly whoopee and not exactly “we” as I’m doing all the work. After an hour of her basically being a cold fish, I’m seriously loosing interest. Her total lack of passion, while not the worse I’ve experienced, is right down there.

Then the bitching begins. She complains that I talk too much and don’t moan enough. Why haven’t I come yet? (Oh, I dunno, maybe you’re a lousy lay maybe?) The little wombat decides he’s had enough and goes to sleep leaving me unfulfilled. I suggest we sleep and try again in the morning. She then announces that she can never sleep with a customer. This is a very different story from what she told me in the club.

I give her a massage in an attempt to get her to relax enough to asleep or arouse me enough to finish, but the bitching continues in earnest. I throw in the towel and send her on her way. My first night in Rio is a complete and total washout.


- Day 2 -

I wake up late, but still manage to get in a short workout before getting breakfast. It’s a new day and I’m determined to seize it! I figure I made all my newbie mistakes last night and they’re behind me.

On my way to Alcazar, a shine boy gestures to my feet, offering me a shine. I wave him away as my sneakers hardly require polishing. He excitedly gestures and points to my shoes. I look down and see a blob of what appears to be dog poop on the top of my right toe. As I kick off the crap, I mentally retrace my steps to figure out how the hell I managed this maneuver but am mystified. I must have been more tired than I thought.

I give shine boy the nod and he leads me over to the shade to clean up my sneakers. There’s not much to do, but I appreciate his attentiveness as I dig through my pockets for money. One Real is hardly enough. I pull out a two and settle on 3BRL. He seems like a nice chap so I pull out a five and hand that to him instead, assuming he will be pleased. Instead, he frowns and points to his shine box where faded letters indicate 10BRL for a shine. I nearly choke; this is the same price for a shine in any major North American airport. I offer the five again. He is joined by another shine boy who shows me the same price on his box. Shine boy refuses my five insisting that I pay ten. I make one final offer, which he refuses, and I turn and walk away.

Shine boy chases after me jabbering away. I face him and shrug. If he doesn’t want my money, he doesn’t get my money, plain and simple. He follows me to Alcazar where the boys are waiting. They see the commotion and I explain what transpired. They are beside themselves with incredulity and laugh at shine boy. One suggests I give him one Real. I thrust two bills at him telling him to take it or leave it. He grabs my money and, cursing under his breath, stomps away.

It turns out that I was victim of a common shine boy trick. When he pointed to my shoes, he was actually flinging poop on me. Nice business, he’d do well in America; create a crisis then solve it for a profit.

There are a few more boys in the party now and introductions are made again. Over the course of my time in Rio, I am struck by the camaraderie among these guys. A curious support group, we are.

I’ve already made up my mind to hit 4x4 that afternoon. Some guys were determined to hit another of the Termas and maybe 4x4 afterward. The conversation flows as guys drift in and out of our party. I ask about the various tourist sites, but only a couple of guys had even made it as far as Sugarloaf.

Keen to explore the city, I bid my new friends farewell. I have to run a few errands and play tourist prior to going downtown. Over the course of the next few hours I manage to accomplish absolutely nothing. I tell myself that I’m still soaking in my surroundings.

At 3:30 PM, my cab pulls up in front of Quatro a Quatro. The doorman hands me a plastic chit and points the way inside. Down the corridor and up a flight of steps and I’m in the reception area. On the couches are a couple of attractive ladies, but I still manage to get a look at the place.

The receptionist explains how the system works, confirming what I have read and what the boys told me. I am directed to the lockers. I change into the robe and step out into the corridor. A troupe of laughing Brazilian lads make their way down the hall, so I follow them. We pass through what looks like the entrance to a cave and keep going until we get to a spiral stair. When the lead Brazilian reaches the top, he stops and conversation ensues. They laugh and start back down the stairs gesturing to me that we’ve gone the wrong way. We return to the reception area and go through the door to the bar.

The bar is dark, but there’s more than enough light to see the numerous bikini-clad girls in the room. I stand there like a deer in the headlights. I try to reassure myself by asking “What would Sean Connery do? Why, he’d get a drink, I suppose.” The bar was at my elbow so I lean over and order water, careful to display my key tag to the barman. With my faux martini in hand, I possessed the confidence I needed to survey the room.

A couple of guys sit along the wall, arms wrapped around their girls. The girls themselves look pretty good in their postage stamp bikinis. The various body types particularly intrigue me. Big butts and bantam busts are the order of the day. At the far end of the room, more girls gather around what looks like a small stage, huddling together talking and laughing. A few make eyes at me as they pass. My Brazilian pals are laughing it up in another corner of the room.

I know ol’ Sean would have a drink in his hand at this point, but I’m not sure what he’d do next. Fate intervenes before I have to make a decision. One of the fellows sitting along the wall jumps up and walks over to me. “Where ya from?” he asks, hand extended. I introduced myself. It turns out that I’d heard about this guy. The boys at Alcazar mentioned him a few times. I was in the fair company of Kickstand.

I join him on the bench as we chat. One of the girls is doing her best to pull him upstairs, but he’s not sure if he wants to stick around. He was trying to find Club 65 but wound up here. I mention that the boys will drop in later. Another fellow, a Frenchman who managed to escape his traveling companions for a few hours of fun, joins us. Introductions made, lively conversation follows.

I remember why I am here and get back to the task of surveying the room. Further along wall, a couple is actively engaged in tonsil hockey. On the bench across from me, a pretty young thing is paying close attention to a fellow in his late fifties. He’s holding a drink in one hand while the other is around her waist. His head is tilted back slightly, eyes closed. She is pressed tightly against him, her hand snaking beneath his robe, stroking him slowly. Yes, I think I can score in a place like this.

More ladies enter the room, but much more men come in too. I have no doubt these guys intend to bag a girl before 5PM so as to save the entrance fee. I have to find a girl soon. I’d been eyeing one gal in particular, a classic Brazilian hard body and quite attractive. She’s smiling and laughing every time I see her. I catch her eye, gave her a wink and she’s standing at my side in a heartbeat.

I introduce myself and learn that her name is Myara (apparently not the Myara who’s been mentioned on the board before). I make room on the bench and she sits close beside me. Her English is virtually nonexistent, but I don’t think it will mater too much. I loose track of Kickstand and the Frenchman as Myara and I get to know each other more intimately.

After about fifteen minutes of talking then necking, I gesture to Myara that we should retire to one of the rooms. She grins, grabs me by the hand and leads me out the door. On the way toward the stairs, she catches me looking at the rogue’s gallery on the wall. “Is your picture here?” I ask? She nods and point to her photo. Her picture shows her with a couple of blonde streaks in her jet-black hair. Thankfully, these are now gone. In fact, she looks much better in the flesh than in the photo. She starts up the stairs with me in hot pursuit. On the way up, I try to bite her ass.

On the next floor we visit the central command center. Actually, it’s just a woman behind a desk trying her best to coordinate the rooms. Myara points to the prices on the wall asking me if I want the 40-minute session or the hour. Naturally, I take the hour. She grabs my hand and off we go down the hall and into one of the suites.

Calling these tiny rooms a suite is like calling your linen closet a spare bedroom. There’s a comfortable size bed, small shower/toilet and just enough room to take off your robe. The interior is done up in a dark wood paneling with a set of mirror strips running diagonally on the walls. Not exactly designed by Martha Stewart, but at least they tried to make it a bit attractive.

Myara signals she’ll be back in a moment so I take a shower. The showerhead has some nasty looking electrical wires coming out of it. Later I learn that this is a conventional water heating system in Brazil. I towel off and stretch out on the bed. Myara sneaks back into the room and gives me a big smile when she sees me. Her boots and bikini are removed with a practiced grace and she’s lying beside me. As we kiss, I’m afforded ample opportunity to inspect her charms.

During the course of our session, I learn that she’s 25 years old and something of an amateur bodybuilder. Her upper body is well cut while her posterior is delightfully round and firm. I stand her up to confirm what I saw earlier. Her body curves like a sharp S shape, round at the stomach and flattening out at her rear; you could balance a wine glass on her butt. She delights in showing me her butt-shaking dance steps. Doggie with her is a delight; I press against her firm ass while watching the muscles of her back — a terrific turn-on. By the time we finish, there’s only about five minutes of post-coital cuddle time left. The phone rings to indicate that our time together is at an end. We get a quick shower to freshen up and leave the room in a mess. She walks me down the hall and kisses me goodbye at the stairs. She must report elsewhere to freshen up.

On shaky legs, I descend the stairs. I stop again at the photo collage and note that Myara looks very different in the pictures. Back in the bar I get myself another water and turn to see a very different crowd in the room.

The bar is now quite crowded and the music much louder. I estimate an equal number of guys and girls in the room (and there are a lot of girls). I am delighted to see that some sort of floorshow is taking place. One of the girls is on the stage whirling like a top. Only skaters can spin like that! It takes me a few moments to realize that she’s hanging on to some sort of spinning bar overhead. Before her, several girls are on the dance floor grooving to the rhythm. It is several minutes before my attention is directed away from the women to the other inhabitants of the room. I realize that some of the Alcazar boys have made it to 4x4.

I have a quick chat with the few guys who have not already grabbed a girl. Most had arrived some time ago and a few had already taken a gal upstairs. I return to watching the dancers, two of whom have climbed on a stage against the wall that I missed earlier.

I don’t know what to do with my hands. Every time a mostly-naked girl walks past, I want to grab her ass. Years of self-discipline are hard to shake off. I see the Brazilian guys groping at every possible opportunity, but I just can’t bring myself to, um, grab a piece of the action.

Myara squeezes up against me as she passes by. I do a double take; I don’t recognize her because she’s changed into a new bikini (like that’s her most distinguishing feature?). We attempt to chat for a few minutes but between our lack of a common language, the noise and the press of people, it just doesn’t work. I head for the bar and grab another water.

Back in the crush near the dance floor, I find myself pressed against numerous young ladies as they maneuver around the room. I have a grin on my face that’s worth a thousand bucks. Yes, I love this place.

I spot Myara on the floor. She can really move that butt. She’s doing her best to attract a tall European into her clutches. My temptation is to pull the guy aside and tell him to drag her upstairs right away. I’m not sure how’d he’d respond so I let her do her job (which she apparently did quite well as they left soon after).

Standing near me is a young lady with dark hair. She has a Mona Lisa smile as she observes the girls on the stage and gently sways to the music. She catches me looking at her and moves a bit closer. Before I realize what’s happening, my arm is around her waist, caressing the smooth skin of her stomach and ribs. She glances over her shoulder at me, the enigmatic smile still on her lips, and then redirects her attention to the dancers. I press closer to her and enjoy the show and the agreeable sensation of her ass pressing into my groin.

By now I have both hands on her and am intimately familiar with every inch of flesh within my reach. She turns toward me; we embrace and kiss for several minutes. It occurs to me that I have never made out with a girl without actually speaking to her first.

It turns out that Karin speaks enough English to get by. We talk and kiss and caress. I try to get her to go up on the dance floor, but she tells me she’s too shy. She not all that shy, her hand frequently ventures beneath my robe to inspect my equipment and make sure I stay interested in her.

I hadn’t really planned for a second round this first evening, but Karin’s sweet looks and demeanor were really getting a rise out of me. Well, that and the fact that nearly naked babes are scampering all around me, but that’s just a technicality. I tell her it’s time to visit a room and she leads me out of the bar and up the stairs. She doesn’t have a photo in the gallery.

Karin is not beautiful. She is pretty however, with an appealing fresh-faced, girl-next-door look. Her eyes turn down at the ends slightly, giving her a somewhat exotic appearance. She’s not slim, but not heavy, just a bit of baby fat. This 22 year old is blessed with an ample bosom.

While we stand in the hall waiting for our room, our tongues get reacquainted. When I come up for breath, I notice that the line has grown much longer. There are nearly a dozen couples waiting for a room. Among them are a few of the boys. We laugh and carry on until our room is ready.

This “suite” is slightly larger than the one I saw earlier, but still small. We undress each other while we embrace, then I jump into the shower. I try to coax her in, but she insists on waiting until I’m done. She takes her shower and we retire to the bed. The next hour is a languid sixty minutes of lovemaking. Where my session with Myara, the sexual athlete, was energetic, with Karin it was a total girlfriend experience.

When we hear the phone, I head for the shower and pull her in with me. She giggles as I wash her down then towel her dry. We leave the room, walk past the waiting couples and down the stairs. Karin leaves me and I return to the bar.

The place is as crowded as before. The dancing continues on the stage. I see a few of the boys and try to find out what they plan next. A few want to head over to Club 65, but I’m in no condition to head for another club. Besides, 4x4 really works for me. It becomes my gold standard for the rest of the Termas.

Karin joins me and we hug and kiss for a while. It never occurs to me to get her phone number (stupid newbie that I am). A few of the guys are ready to leave and want to know if I’m coming. As much as I was enjoying myself, I felt that four hours was long enough. I agree to join them and we get changed.

At the reception desk, they show me my bill. I examine it carefully and note that I’ve been charged for drink I never ordered. While they correct the error, I chat with the Japanese receptionist. I am amused to hear a Brazilian accent emanating from an Asian. She is part of a very large and well-established Japanese community who immigrated here generations ago.

I pay my bill and receive a plastic token. We head down the stairs and out the door, surrendering our chit to the doorman. We spend the next few minutes deciding where to go. I suggest a restaurant called Porcao I heard about from a local. We climb into a taxi and make our way there.

At Porcao, the four of us are given a table off in a corner where we can observe the locals and still have enough privacy to discuss manly matters. We establish the price (about 50BRL for all you can eat!) and how the place works. We then make our way to the enormous “salad bar” where we select from vegetables, fish (sush!), fruits, cheeses and pastas, not to mention salads of various types. We’re careful not to eat too much as the best part of the meal comes later.

Our empty plates are replaces with clean ones. We then take the paper token we received from the waiter and flip it over from the red side to the green side. Within moments, waiters are hovering nearby, proffering a variety of meats skewered on what looks like swords. They slice the meat off with a nasty looking knife, or just push off a piece with a large barbeque fork. Our plates are soon piled with sirloin, filet mignon, flank, ribs, sausage, chicken and numerous other carnivorous delicacies. I know my liver will be complaining in the morning, but for now I am living the moment and enjoying this feast. When the desert cart rolls by later, we all laugh. There is no way we can get any more food into our distended bellies.

The conversation at the table is surprisingly intellectual considering that we had been rutting like bulls a couple of hours ago. Satisfied, we lumber out to the taxi and head back to Copacabana.

We end up, like nearly every evening, at Bar Atlantica in front of Help. After introductions, everyone tells their tale of the day’s events. A few of the guys head off to Help, a few more decide to relax outside, I decide to call it a night and head back to my hotel.


- Day 3 -

I stop in to Alcazar and get the news from the previous night. The infamous Don makes an appearance and a few more new guys show up. The introductions begin anew.

Today I’m determined to the do the tourist thing and explore the city. I wind up back at the beach and go for a walk over to the Fort jutting out into the bay. It takes me a couple of hours to make it this far, but I still manage to wind up back on the beach again.

In front of the Rio Orthon, I run into “J”, one of the boys from Alcazar. He insists I join him for a bit. He’s an old hand at Copacabana and knows the beach scene well. He describes the action on the beach. “Oh hell,” he drawls, “you just walk up to any girl in this area. They’re all on the program here.” We check out the girls and chat.

Chair vendors stake out the beach like feudal lords. Not only do they try to attract customers, but they also try to squeeze out the competing vendors around them by expanding into their rival’s territory. Each vendor has some kind of hired muscle to keep the encroachers at bay.

My pal likes his vendor because she is friendly and fair priced. She’s a short, heavy, black woman with short gray (almost white) hair, in her fifties. She speaks no English, but is really friendly.

Sitting with my buddy for a few hours, with a chair, an umbrella and a beer, cost me 10BRL. “What I like,” he drawls, “is that she doesn’t try to sell you crap every few minutes.” In the other territories, the vendor pesters you with every conceivable item to buy, always at greatly inflated prices. “All the girls here like her because she doesn’t try to rip them off. She’ll introducing you to them to you if you want.”

I’d already arranged to join Kickstand at Club 65, so I say goodbye to my friend. I return to my hotel, clean up and head over to Alcazar. A short taxi ride later and at 5PM we’re standing in front of 65.

Just past the reception is the change room. We doff our duds and get comfortable in the terrycloth robes. Up the stairs we locate the bar. I stand there for a few minutes as I get my bearings.

The bar is a little larger than the one at 4x4, but the room itself is considerably smaller. The benches running beneath the mirrored walls were already full of gentlemen with their ladies. I note that some of the boys are already hard at work. I give a wave to those not completely distracted.

The girls in the room are about the same good looks as those in 4x4, but there are far fewer of them. On the other side of the room, a couple of girls are gyrating on two little stages in the two far corners. Every once in a while, they swap places. One of the girls swings her butt dangerously close to a fellow’s head, just grazing him as she dances. He puts his head back and lets her grind her butt against him. I make a note to wait until that seat is free so I can sit there.

I get myself a drink and find an empty spot on the bench. I chat with the boys while checking out the girls. They guys are slowly paring off and heading upstairs. Disheartened, I have found nothing that really appeals to me.

My attention is directed down the bench where a young lady sits, eyeing me. I smile and she slides over. Mila is a good-looking 21 year-old with long dark hair. Her English is rudimentary at best, but we manage. I buy her a drink and get a refill for myself. Before long, we’re necking away on the bench along with so many other couples in the room. I’ve found my gal.

She suggests we go upstairs and I start panting like a puppy. Rather than take the stairs, she calls for the little elevator. While we wait, the snogging continues unabated. The elevator arrives; we get in and ascend two floors. She leaves me in the hall as she goes off to another room somewhere. The girl waiting for the elevator is hot and I physically restrain myself from grabbing her. A couple more girls come out of the room, each sexier than the one before. My robe is feeling entirely too small.

While I’m ogling the babes, a woman dressed in a white frock and carrying a plastic box, whom I assume to be one of the cleaning staff, steps into the corridor. She grabs my hand and tries to lead me away. I figure she’s having fun with me and I go along with the charade. When she starts to lead me up the stairs, I get a bit suspicious. I take another look at her and realize it’s Mila!

The frock is actually a satin robe and the box contains her supplies. I didn’t recognize her because her hair is pulled up and the bikini and boots are gone. I laugh at myself and playfully bite her bum as we climb the stairs.

Mila leads me to the room and opens the door. Where 4x4 wins in the bar, 65 takes first prize in the suite. The room is beautiful. A large bed takes up one corner of the room; a large glass-walled shower occupies another. There is plenty of floor space and lots of mirrors.

Our robes fall away and we’re rolling on the bed in moments. She pulls away to adjust the lights and the music and we’re back in business again. The hour goes by quickly (don’t they all?). The highlight was when I was pulling back on her long black hair as I drove into her doggie style. I was quite exhausted at the end. I tried to coax her into showering with me, but she wanted to use the other facilities.

Back in the bar, I meet up with a few of the boys. Kickstand had a great session with his lady and was raving about her. He introduces me to her as we stand by the bar. Another girl soon joins us. Kickstand explains that this is his girl’s cousin. To me, they looked nothing alike but they assure me they are related. I find myself quite attracted to the cousin. Mila had left me earlier to get some food, her interest in me having long since waned, so I was free to sow some more wild oats. For some reason, I decide against a second helping and leave with the boys to go back to Copacabana. I vow to return and nail both girls.

Back at Bar Atlantica, we grab tables and drinks and talk over the day’s activities. Some of the guys are leaving the next day and they’re are planning out their agenda. I try to find someone interested in doing some tourist stuff (Sugarloaf, Corcovado, ANYthing), but there are no takers.


- Day 4 -

Around noon, I check in at Alcazar. A couple of the guys are talking about taking their girls to Sugarloaf and maybe going on a helicopter ride. It’s looking clouding though. Everyone agrees that you should go to the top first thing in the morning. I ask, but in our group of eight or ten guys, only one has been to Sugarloaf.

Don joins us. He suggests a run to Luomo. I’ve already decided that I would visit Monte Carlo today and Luomo tomorrow since it’s the only Terma open on Sunday. However, since becoming a herd animal, I’ve taken to joining the crowds and mooing a lot. Plus, since Don will be there, I can get the lowdown on his take on the Rio scene. I say I’ll try to get back in time for a 3PM rendezvous.

I wander down to the beach to see if “J” has planted himself in the sand yet. I intend to stay for just a little while as I have big plans to go exploring the city. Yup, big plans.

After a bit of looking around, I spot my pal. We decide to go in for a swim. The surf is light, but makes for good body surfing. As we talk between the sets of waves, a guy and two girls drift over. He asks if we’re from the US. We introduce ourselves and tell them where we’re from. He gives the girls a “See, I told you so” look. They are university students from São Paulo on vacation. They plan to stay two nights in Rio before proceeding up the coast. I’m sure the guy is attached to one of the girls, but I’m not sure if the other one is available. Both are young and cute. I keep talking to them long after “J” calls it quits.

Back on shore I pull out the camera for some beach scene photos. I take a few general shots before I see the São Paulo trio. “Mind if I take a picture?” I ask. They’re quite pleased and give me big smiles. I then establish which girl is available and how I might proceed (as I only have one night before they leave).

After a couple of poses, one of the girls gestures and excited asks “Can you take one with my mom too?” I agree and their trip chaperone joins the trio for one last photo. I give them my e-mail address, promising to send them a copy when they write me.

“Here, let me show you the guy with the greatest job in Rio,” my friend says when I return from my photographic expedition. He points to a fellow with a plastic bucket, engaged in conversation with a young lady a few meters away. “Watch this,” he says as they conclude their business. He reaches for a jar in his bucket, scoops out what I think is suntan lotion and begins smearing it over her body.

“I wonder how much training is involved with that?” I ask. “It could be a good retirement option.” He’s rubbing the white stuff all over her body. She pushes her bikini top aside so he can get around her nipples. “What is that stuff?” My friend explains that it’s a bleaching agent. Instead of shaving, the girls bleach their hair. After the cream has been on for a while, they go for a swim and rinse it off.

Back in the surf for another swim, I see a girl who looks so much like Myara that I swim over for another look. I can’t see her body, but her face is remarkably similar. “Myara?” I ask?

“No. My name is Carla,” she answers. I introduce myself and explain how much she looks like someone else I met. Her friend drags her away after we talk for a few minutes. I surf for a bit more before returning to the chair. Imagine my surprise when I discover Carla is sitting right behind us.

I say hello again and three of us chat. I discover that Carla’s body in nothing like Myara’s but she is still just a good looking and in very good shape. She is mulatto with deeply tanned skin and fine white hairs on her arms and firm stomach. I am flabbergasted to learn that she has a three-year-old baby. This girl does not possess a single stretch mark on her body.

She asks if we are going to Help that night. I suggest I might, but I’m not sure. “I hope I see you there,” she says. I’m wondering if she’d go back to my hotel room now but am not sure how to go about asking.

I end up taking a few more photos of the beach. When I return, “J” is talking to another cutie who’s pulled up a chair beside him. Carla is back at her spot behind us. He leans over and confides that his vendor is convinced that Carla is only 17 so she sent the older girl to keep us company and out of trouble.

There’s lots of time to get into trouble, though, and I’d arranged to join the boys for a run to Luomo. I return to my hotel, clean up and head for Alcazar. We pile into a couple of taxis and make our way. I am surprised at how close it is. I wished I had known the location as I could have easily walked the distance (I need the exercise).

Past the reception desk and to the right, we arrive at the locker room. We quickly change into our robes and head into the bar area. All the staff recognizes Don and many of the girls scamper over to greet him. He gives us a quick tour before we settle in at the bar.

The Luomo bar is the nicest I’ve seen so far. A small, mirrored dance area resides near the entranceway while the bar runs along most of one wall. Low comfortable couches occupy the remaining wall space. A live DJ sets up the music for the girls.

An adjacent room has a television and comfortable chaise lounges for the guys to sprawl on while watching football. Further along is the shower area. Luomo has the nicest shower facilities I’ve seen in Rio.

Back in the bar I order water from the barman and check out the bikini-clad girls. They are just as pretty as either of the other two Thermas, but all these girls are in good shape. There are not many yet on duty, but the few I see are impressive. A few are dancing up by the entranceway, several more are at the bar or on the couches engaged with their clients.

I ask Don if he has any recommendations, as it’s my first time here. “Yeah,” he says pointing out a few of the girls. I find Bia the most appealing. “She’s a little firecracker. Her parents are Russian. If you want her, you better grab her now because someone else will. She’s that popular.” Don waves to her. She comes over and gives him a kiss on the cheek. He introduces us and I do my best to get to know her.

Bia is fairly petite with short blonde hair. She has a stain of blue eye shadow, but otherwise makeup free. She doesn’t need any makeup she is so cute. I buy her a drink and learn that she’s 20 years old and speaks not a word of English. As we attempt to talk, she remains in very close quarters. She easily deduces that I’m interested in her, if you know what I mean, and suggests we get a cabin. She takes my key and tells me to wait for her return.

While she’s out, I buy Don drink. “Uh, Don,” I start, “I don’t quite know how to phrase this, but is Bia, um, a three door model or a two door model?”

He gives me a lopsided smile, waves his cigar and replies “She’ll insist you fuck her in the ass.” Well, that clears that up.

Moments later, the little blonde is demurely standing in the entranceway, dressed in a short white satin wrap. She’s smiling at me. In two paces I’m across the room and into her arms. She leads me down another door, a corridor with rooms on all sides. She picks a room, opens the door, and ushers me in.

While the room is not quite as nice as 65, it’s a big improvement over 4x4. It’s still small, but the bed is elevated to about waist level. A mirror occupies the wall opposite the bed.

Bia is in my arms. I’m kissing her and pulling off her wrap while she unties my robe. Naked, she is even more adorable than in her skimpy bikini. Although her breasts are small, she has deliciously pink nipples. I pick her up and deposit her on the bed.

The foreplay goes by much too quickly. In fact, everything around me takes place at much too an accelerated rate. Bia really is a firecracker. She throws all her energy into our activity and I do my best to keep up with her. While in doggie, she keeps repeating the same words over and over. She was probably saying “Oh God that’s good, oh God that’s good!” but I convince myself she’s really saying “Faster you bastard! Faster!” I put everything erg of energy into her.

I find myself being distracted by her performance. I have no doubt she’s enjoying herself, but I also realize that she’s putting on a bit of a show with all her vocalizations. I like to think I’m good, but I know I’m not THAT good. Bia spurs me on during our rumpy-pumpy and I finish entirely too soon. Collapsing beside her, she wastes no time in cleaning up before returning to the bed.

Despite my attraction to her, I don’t have much desire to cuddle. She’s more of a professional sexual athlete than a lover and it just feels wrong to be so intimate. I feel a massage is more appropriate and offer her a rubdown. She insists that she massage me, but I’ll have not of that. A massage I can get anytime, but to lay my hands on such a beautiful body is a rare treat.

After all the work I just did, I don’t have much energy left and my massage does not last as long as I like. Still raring to go, she hops up and starts to work on me. After some quick hand massage, she uses her feet. She’s not particularly accomplished, but what she lacks in skill she more than makes for up in enthusiasm. The phone rings and we must leave.

I decide to get a steam bath then a cold shower before returning to the bar. I spot Bia. She gives me a hug as I make my way toward the bar. I offer her a drink but she declines. I walk over to Don and thank him for his recommendation. He smiles.

I collapse on the sofa with my water. Don’s nephew, visiting from the states, joined us at Luomo. I talk with him while I recover my strength. He’s gotten into this game at a very tender age and I’m incredibly envious of him. While still in his teens, he’s experienced some amazing, professional-quality sex. At his age I was fantasizing about women from Playboy. He’s busy screwing them. In my teens, I was experiencing gropes and pokes and squeezes and cramps and fear and anticipation and disappointment and terror and lord only knows what else, but very few orgasms. It took me many years of practice to become sexually confident. He has received serious jumpstart training courtesy of Uncle Don.

Talking with Don, he suggests I might be interested in Camilla. “Is this the one they call the ‘Black Widow’?” I ask. He nods.

I spotted this graceful beauty soon after I entered the room, but she was in the arms of some guy. In fact, she was still hanging on to another fellow when Don pointed her out to me. He waved to her and she sashayed over.

I was pleased to discover that Camilla spoke excellent English. Totally relaxed after my session with Bia and the shower, I was enjoying just talking to Camilla. I learn that she’s 21, was engaged to be married to a German fellow and she speaks a bit of Italian.

The longer I am in her company, the more I feel my attraction to her grow. Not that she is the sort whose beauty grows on you; I can assure you gentlemen, that she is BEAUTIFUL.

At one point the Ketchup song comes on and she starts to dance. Every time I hear this song, the girls are on the dance floor shaking it up. I’d never heard it prior to my arrival in Rio, so I was doubly fascinated by the choreographed dance steps that accompany the song. I ask Camilla to show me how it goes. She doesn’t do a very good job, but I don’t notice. She pulls me up to dance for the next song, but I resist. “Uh, Camilla, I can’t dance.” She laughs and tells me just to sway to the rhythm. “No, I know how to dance, I just can’t dance right now.” Standing beside her, I pull her close and she understands. She giggles and stays close, which does nothing to relieve my embarrassing predicament, but I don’t mind one little bit.

Camilla dances her own style, and she’s a joy to watch. I stay up with her for another song before cowering back on to the sofa to enjoy the poetry of her movement. Everything about her is delightfully round. She has big round eyes, a round nose, and a round face. Her butt is round, and firm. It is her lips that are most round — round and full.

Before too long, she’s back on the couch with me and my lips are gently pressed against hers. Her kisses are pillows of softness within which my soul floats away in a starry sky.

She lets me taste her drink, a concoction of pineapple juice and lime. “This is delicious,” I tell her. She drinks and I kiss her to taste the juice on her lips. She’s amused by my antics. She pulls another drink through the straw and I kiss her again, sucking the juice from between her lips this time. “Mmm, I like your drink even better this way.” She laughs but takes another pull from her glass; I don’t give her the opportunity to swallow.

While we are back to talking, she spots a fellow I saw enter the bar earlier. “Just a second,” she says, “I’ll be right back.” She runs over to him and gives him a big hug and kiss. It’s obvious these two know one another. He’s running his hands all over her and she’s enjoying every moment.

I think that I’m supposed to feel pangs of jealousy, but I don’t. If I can fall for the “Black Widow” so easily, why not scores of other men? Besides, am I so special that she would fall more me? What do I have to offer? I take a quick inventory and compare myself to the man wrapped around Camilla. I am thankful that she spent the time with me she did. I wonder about the German fiancé and what he had offered her.

While lost in thought, Camilla returns. She tells me that the man is Italian. I don’t need to know more than that. We talk a bit more then return to making out. I notice the Italian is now snogging and groping another girl, one whom I’d been eyeing earlier. At least his taste in women is as excellent as mine.

Camilla asks me if we should get a room. I’m thinking of a house. A cottage with a picket fence. A dog. Mowing the lawn on Saturday. Kissing me as I leave for work in the morning. Sitting beside the fire in the evening. “Huh? Oh yeah, let’s get a room.”

She takes my key and leaves. She comes back a few minutes later telling me that all the rooms are booked but we can get the suite. I am tempted to hold out for the room. The long wait is just that much more time I get to spend with Camilla … but it is also rather selfish of me. I agree to the suite, reasoning that it’s cheaper than the down payment on that cottage.

She leaves and I have a quick chat with the boys who are not already back in the rooms. Don’s nephew is slouched across the couch looking very cool and self-assured.

Camilla is at the entrance looking lovely in the simple white wrap. I float across the room and she guides me to the corridor with all the doors. She takes me in the first room. Inside is a large round bed, surrounded by mirrors. We undress each other and retire to the bed.

Frankly, I forget the details from that point on. I was suspended in a state of utter bliss. It was the best love making I’ve experienced in years. I felt sooo good with that girl in my arms.

The phone rings, our session is over. I throw caution to the wind and ask Camilla if she would be willing to visit me in my hotel. I’m fully prepared, and expecting, to be rejected outright. I explain that I adore her company and would love to cuddle up with her and sleep. I can see the hesitancy in her eyes and in her movements. I gird myself for her refusal. “Does it have to be tonight?”

“Huh?”

“I promised the girls I’d go dancing with them tonight,” she says. “Can we make it tomorrow night?”

If she wanted to meet me for coffee on top of Mount Ararat two years from Tuesday I’d have agreed without a moment’s hesitation. “Sure!” I answer. I give her my room number and suggest we meet in the lobby at midnight.

“Will you come here tomorrow?”

“I’d like to, but I’d rather give the money to you.”

With our date made, we leave the room and I hit the showers again. Fully satisfied, I decide that I’ll call it a night. I say goodnight to the guys that are left and get changed. Before I leave, I poke my head back inside and spot Camilla right beside the door. I smile and tell her I’ll see her tomorrow. She gives me a quick peck on the cheek and I leave.

It’s 8 PM and I decide to walk to the beach despite all the warnings I’ve heard. At that moment, I feel invincible. I see no dangerous people, no threats to my person. I walk the few blocks to the beach and make my way back to the hotel.

As I pass by the night market, I try to determine if there are any souvenirs worthy of acquisition. There are plenty of lovely stone carvings, but there’s no way I’m packing those heavy things. I continue down the beach and to my hotel where I turn in early for once.


- Day 5 -

The next day, I woke refreshed and energized. The day was sunny and bright. I actually skipped Alcazar and grabbed a cab to Sugarloaf. The view from the top of the mountain is amazing; the whole of the city lay before me. On the other side I see the enourmous harbor, surely the largest in the world. Crossing it is an expanse of bridge like I have never seen before. I explore the forest area then lounge around for an hour or so. I watch the tourists and the planes landing at the airport. Eventually, I make my way back down.

I walk along the road for an hour, just taking in the architecture of the city. With no destination in mind, I decide that I’d better come up with a plan. I knew the hippy fair in Ipanema only took place on Sunday, so that clinched it. I catch a cab and direct the driver to Ipanema.

The hippy fair doesn’t really have much in the way of hippies — at least not the 1960 variety hippy. But there are plenty of crafts and artworks to consider for purchase. The best deals are the leather goods. I was seriously contemplating the purchase of a leather bag, but realized that I’ve never really wanted a heavy leather bag. Next I consider a beautiful leather beanbag chair … until I remember that I don’t really like beanbag chairs. That’s what the hippy fair is like, lots of things to think about buying and then decide against.

It is time for some beach action. I make my way to the shore and start up the beach. I don’t much care that I’m dressed in sneakers, shorts and button up shirt while all around me folks are pretty darn near naked. I’m going to enjoy this beach and don’t give a damn who stares at me like I’m some kind of pasty skinned tourist.

At one point in my journey, I notice a couple of serious bodybuilder type guys. They are unbelievably cut. There are few other bodybuilders in the immediate vicinity. I figure I’m in the muscle beach part of Ipanema. Strange, I see no weights anywhere. My eyes have been primarily focused on the babes walking at the water’s edge (they’re infinitely more interesting than the ones sprawled out on the sand). Now I direct my gaze beachward.

As far as I could see, guys. Big guys, little guys, dark guys, light guys, skinny guys, fat guys. I was in the gay section of the beach. I felt like Sigourney Weaver when she stumbled into the egg hatchery in Aliens. Being a liberal, open-minded, kind of guy, I picked up the pace and high tailed it out of there making it a point to smile and say hello to all the girls.

As I watch the surfers between Copacabana and Ipanema, I decide that I really have to leave Rio for a bit. I keep getting sucked back to the beach every day. I figure if I can break the routine, I might explore a bit of the country. Two nearby destinations appeal to me. One is a beach resort to the North East; the other is a quaint fishing village in the South West. I decide that I need a slower pace for a couple of days and choose the South West destination. I study my guidebook and my map. I will finally escape Copacabana.

In the evening, I join a few of the boys in Bar Atlantica and tell them of my decision to leave for a few days. My pal “J” tells me he’d join me if I decide to visit the beach resort of Búzios. He’s picked up a sweet São Paulo babe on vacation. She joins us later and I am most impressed with her (and with him).

At the next table I meet a girl who works at Monte Carlo. She looks sweet and slutty at the same time, it works for her. It kinda works for me too. We chat for a bit and she gives me her card, suggesting I call her. I take a picture and promise to send a copy.

As midnight approaches, I bid my pals goodnight. My feet barely touch the ground as I head back to my hotel. I can’t decide whether to wait outside or inside. I direct the front desk to alert me to any calls going to my room and camp out on one of the lounges with my book. Every time the door opens, I’m read to leap to my feet. After an hour of tenterhooks, I am ready to give up. She’s a no-show.

I try to decide if I should have gone to Luomo to see her. If I had visited her, we could have confirmed our date. Maybe she forgot about me. Maybe she met up with some friends, as is often the case with the cariocas, and decided to party with them instead of seeing me. With bruised ego, I retire to my room and sleep.


- Day 6 -

It’s raining. It seems appropriate somehow. It matches my mood. I hit the bank, check my e-mail and try to figure out how to spend the day. I stop by Alcazar but it’s pretty quiet. I realize there’s no point being a sourpuss when all the Termas are open. After checking the bus schedules, I decided I have just enough time to return to Club 65 and get to know those cousins better.

I pack my kit and grab a cab downtown. As the taxi enters Centro, we drive past a classy looking door front with the name Aeroporto written beside it. I instruct the driver to stop. I grab my bags and walk back to one of the few Termas I know nothing about and which none of the boys have visited. Suddenly, the old adventurous spirit is once again awakened inside me.

I leave my big sack with the receptionist and make my way to the locker. As was foretold in one of the rare reviews of the Terma, a lady is assigned to me to act as a guide and quite possibly my, um, personal attendant. However, she does not appeal to me in the least. She is at least in her late twenties, not in very good shape and ranks about a six on the ten-point scale. However, she is pleasant and I let her guide me through the Terma.

The first room I see is filled with plastic chaise lounges where a few guys, and quite a few girls, relax. The shower area is just off to the side of this. She shows me the corridor where the little cabines are located then leads me upstairs to the bar.

The Aeroporto bar is actually pretty classy looking. While smaller than 65, it’s nicely appointed. I order my water and observe the scene. Aeroporto’s unique quality is that the girls are all dressed in lingerie, bustiers and stockings everywhere. It’s a refreshing change from the typical bikini, but I much prefer the bikini. The outfits worn by the girls here can strategically hide some features (i.e. bellies and hairy legs). The biggest disappointment in this Terma is the fact that the girls are between the ages of 25 and 35; this is definitely an older crowd.

At the bar I meet a Czech who works as a photographer in California. He comes here a lot and claims to love Aeroporto. Before I get a chance to ask him if he’s seen any of the other Termas, his girl joins him and drags him off to one of the rooms.

I look around and am disappointed. I figure I should wait a bit and see if anything interesting happens (or shows up). I visit the steam room, shave and take a cold shower. I go back to the bar for another look. While there are a few more gals present, none catch my eye. I decide that Aeroporto is a write off and that I’ve just taken one for the team. Mentally, I map out the path to Club 65 and prepare my review of Aeroporto. “Aeroporto is the Terma where all the pretty young babes go when they’re no longer pretty and young. This is the old folk’s Terma. The “Last Chance Saloon” of the Rio spas.”

As I walk down the steps on my way out, I notice two girls sitting on the bench along the wall near the stairs. I hadn’t seen them before. They give me a big smile. I hesitate for a moment. They both look pleasant enough, nice smiles, attractive, friendly. Well, one more drink won’t hurt. I sit between them on the couch and introduce myself.

Thirty minutes later, with my arms around both girls, I’m having a terrific time. Angel, a 21 year-old sweetie, speaks reasonable good English. Christiane a 25 year-old, slightly overweight gal can just get by with her language skills. I’m really enjoying myself. I announce that I’d like to get to know both girls more intimately. They are pleased. “Who wants to go first?” I ask with one eyebrow raised.

I’d already decided to save Angel for last. While not as bubbly as Christiane, I feel a stronger physical attraction to Angel. With my decision made, Christiane takes my key and checks on the rooms while I make out with Angel. She comes back a few minutes later and I tell Angel that I’ll be back for her in an hour and a half.

Christiane takes my hand and leads me into the shower area. I’m trying to figure out what the heck she’s up to when she opens a door into one of the bedrooms. “Oh!” The room is fair sized with its own air conditioner. A Jacuzzi occupies the end of the room; a normal size bed takes up most of the floor space. Mirrors cover the long wall. Above the bed is a TV. The TV is showing a porn movie. The girl in the movie is getting her ass seriously fucked.

“Christiane?” I ask, gesturing to the TV, “Can you do that?” She’s busy putting water into the tub. She turns, looks at the TV then nods, grinning at me through her braces. I grin back at her. Together, we remove her lingerie then get comfortable on the bed.

I get a kick out of kissing her. I haven’t kissed a girl with braces since high school. As I lay back on the bed, my head propped up on the pillow watching her head bob up and down, I happen to glance at the TV. I’ve never watched a porno flick while engaged in the act myself. I find it quite stimulating.

Before long, we’re hard at it. Christiane is just plain fun and we alternate between kissing, panting and laughing. I discover that she’s not quite as enthusiastic about rear entry as the girl in the movie, but she gives it all she’s got as I try to give her all I’ve got. We have a pleasant finish together. The tub is full so we decide to do our cuddling and kissing there. Unfortunately, the water is about the right temperature for cabbages, not cuddles. She drains out most of the water and begin filling it again.

When the water is the right temperature, we get in and slide around at bit. I try to explain to her how the soapy massage parlors in Thailand work, but I’m afraid it was probably lost in the translation (despite my show-and-tell approach). It would be nice to return to Rio in a few years and discover that the soapy slide is all the rage in the Termas.

With our session concluded, I take a shower and go back upstairs. Neither girl is in evidence. Fortunately, Christiane shows up so I have someone to squeeze and kiss. A few minutes later, Angel arrives. She sits down beside me and asks how I am. “Terrific, but I’ll feel even better when we’re in a cabine together.” I get the impression that she didn’t really believe I was serious when I said I wanted both of them. We have another drink and I send her off to book a room.

When she returns, she leads me to a different part of the complex, up a set of stairs into another wing. While Angel starts the bath, I inspect the room. It’s actually very nice, decorated in tasteful wood paneling and mirrors. It too has a large Jacuzzi in the corner. The bed is considerably smaller, but it’s elevated and has a mirror above it.

I pull Angel to me and kiss her while I deftly unfasten her bustier. I sweep her up into my arms and lay her on the bed. I then proceed to remove what’s left of her garments and go about inspecting every inch of her body with my lips.

At one point, while she’s on top of me in cowgirl, I remember the tub and the problem with the hot water. I sit up, slide to the edge of the bed with her still propped on top of me, pick her up and walk over to adjust the water temperature. She’s laughing because I can’t hold her and check the water, so she reaches over and takes care of it. We sit on the edge of the tub for a bit before I pick her up and go at it in the standing position.

Despite the aerobic athletics, I am seriously making love to Angel. She is so beautiful. She is my entire world at that moment. When I finish, I collapse beside her. We make our way to the tub but only manage a few minutes of relaxation before the phone rings.

I ask her for her number so I might call her when I return. She doesn’t have a cell phone and lives at home so I can’t call her. Ouch! Burned again.

I hit the showers and go back to the bar. Angel is soon with me, dancing beside me as I drink my water. We talk for a bit when Christiane joins us. The two girls chat for a bit and Angel looks at me incredulously. “Did you …?” and slaps Chrstiane on the butt. I smile and nod enthusiastically while Christiane laughs. She gives us both a smile and rolls her eyes.

Both girls drift off after a while, still working. There are more girls here now and the average age is dropping. It’s not the old folk’s home I made it out to be. The average age is still a lot higher than any of the other bars, but I suppose some guys prefer a more experienced woman.

Beside me is a cute young thing trying to get a drink. She introduces herself, something few girls in the Termas do. She looks vaguely Eastern European to me. She tells me she’s 19 years old. She’s wearing braces so I’m already turned on. However, I’m also shagged out, so I talk with her a while before I decide it’s time to catch my bus.

In the locker room, a young lady is doing her best to coax two guys into staying. She is just plain hot and I can’t figure out why the hell these guys want to leave when this girl obviously wants them to stay. I am tempted to stay myself at this point, but adventure beckons.

I pay my bill, grab my bag and stroll outside. I’m suddenly struck by the idea of renting a car. I hail a cab and ask him to take me to a cheap car rental place. While I mentally work out my budget, the driver maneuvers his way through the traffic. Before I realize it, I’m back in Copacabana.

I’ve spent nearly a week trying to escape the beach. The one day I make a break for it, I get sucked right back in. Copacabana is like flypaper, attracting and holding insects with its venomous honey.

The rental place closes in a few minutes. They have one cheap car, no air-conditioning, and no radio. I figure I can tough it out and sign the contract. It costs me just under 100BRL per day, more than my budget allows, but I am anxious to flee Copacabana, somnolent, delicious, languid Copacabana.

I dump my gear in the trunk and pull into traffic. Driving down the beach road, I can finally see what the drivers see as the street girls wave to them. I am intrigued, but my thoughts are South and West, away from the lure of enchanting Copacabana.

I keep to the coast. I know the main road stays near the water so I manage not to get lost or get into an accident. The rumbling in my stomach alerts me to the fact that I haven’t had much to eat all day. “Boy, wouldn’t Porcao be good right about now.” As if by the power of suggestion, a Porcao restaurant materializes from the darkness.

An hour later, distended and satisfied, I decide it’s time to find a hotel for the night. The first one I see charges more than the beachfront hotels in Copacabana. I keep looking. Within site of the beach, I spot a place called Papillion with a big neon butterfly. I decide to pull up and see how much it will cost. I have the doorman write the figure down because I’m not convinced I got the price right. Sure enough, I can sleep in this place for 50BRL. I found my lodging for the night.

I pay up, he hands me a key and a pack of mints. “50 Real and a free pack of mints. Bonus!” The gate to the parking area opens and I drive in. I am confronted with rows of little garage doors. Something tingles in the back of my memory.

I find my room, pull into the garage and shut the door. I ascend the stairs and enter the room. I’ve entered a vestibule, a sort of mini kitchen with a table and chairs, and a fridge. “Hmm, not bad so far.” I open the only door and see the bed. A couple of towels and a spare sheet are neatly arranged on top. There’s a mirror on the headboard wall, a mirror on the ceiling and a mirror on the fall wall. The tingling in the back of my memory grows tinglier. I take a peek at the bathroom; it’s nearly the size of the bedroom with a shower large enough to hold four people. It’s very clean and there’s no odor.

On the nightstand I see condoms. The tingling now feels like microscopic fireworks going off in my brain. “Looks like the Gideons never made it this far south,” I say to myself. Beside the condoms is a room service menu. From it, I can order an assortment of beverages, food, restraining devices, costumes, dildos and vibrators. “Oh,” the tingling stops, “I’m in a sex motel.”

The plastic coated mattress is quite firm, but I figure I can sleep on it. “A pity to sleep here alone. I decide to go for a walk and see if I can rustle up some company. I manage to find some girls looking to make some money, but they do not appeal to me in the least. I sleep alone once more.


- Day 7 -

There was a mosquito in my room last night. I was convinced it carried dengue fever. Between that and the air conditioner that sounded like it was built from cast-iron, I did not sleep very well last night

Through the bathroom window, I see light on the horizon. I can’t bring myself to go back to sleep while the deadly disease carrier flies about the room. The shower is invigorating and I am refreshed.

I gather my belongings and climb into the car. The night clerk bids me a good day and drive down the beach. It is a lovely morning. It’s the nicest morning I’ve seen so far. Actually, it’s one of the few mornings I’ve seen more than an hour of, with my sleeping in until ten and eleven every day.

I follow the coast and discover secluded bays and secret beaches where the surfers go. I take my time because I’m enjoying the sites. By midmorning, I reach Santa Cruz.

This is very large town. I find a market and go exploring. The locals are amused to see tourists in their midst. They are thrilled by my wanting to take their picture, astonished when afterwards I show them the results in the tiny viewfinder.

I get back on the road and find myself on a highway. I don’t really want a highway; I want to travel the back roads, where the people live, where you can see things. I’m not sure how to proceed, but I figure I’ll make good time.

I’m a bit concerned that I don’t see the water out my left hand window. In fact, I see low hills. I know the main road is well inland, but I’m not comfortable. I drive for a long time, anxiously looking for a road sign telling me the name of the next village so I can place myself on the map. The traffic is getting heaver.

On my right, I can see huge gantries that can only be used for cargo ships. I’m relieved, but intrigued as to why they’d be on my right. Perhaps the harbor extends well inland, maybe a river mouth has been dredged to bring the ships well away from the sea. The road ahead curves away from the docks.

I see much larger hills, small mountains, really. Something about the hills look familiar. Ahead of me, I see a long bridge. A sign, indicating an exit suggests I should leave this road if I want to go to Rio. Obviously, I conclude, I’m on the right road away from Rio. The hills keep nagging at me for some reason.

As I start across the bridge, I am impressed as to its size. It is a big one. In fact, it looks just as big as … I glance out the right hand window. An enormous hill juts sharply out of the water. It looks much too familiar. Behind the hill, on a much larger prominence, I see something white, possibly a statue. I look at the hill again. I see what looks like a cable car. I’m back in Rio. The black hole that is Copacabana has sucked me back into its gravity well yet again.

As I drive back to the beach, I’m tempted to give up, to surrender myself to the Sirens, to eat the lotus blossoms. “Don’t stop,” a voice inside me cries, “keep going!” I roll past Alcazar at 12:30. The boys are just arriving, talking about their night. “Yeah,” I’d say, “I decided to check out a Love Motel last night. It was pretty cool. I couldn’t sleep though, because she kept buzzing around all night keeping me awake.” I kept driving.

I didn’t get lost this time. I make it to Parati just before sunset. It’s a beautiful town. I decide to spend a few days taking it easy, relaxing. Like I’m not taking it easy and relaxing in Copacabana? OK, I don’t know why I’m here, but I’m going to make the most of it.

After exploring the town, I hunt around for a place to sleep. There are some exquisite hotels in the old village. They’re all full. I find a run-down but friendly establishment a short walk from the old cobbled streets.

In the evening, after a remarkably tasty meal, I scout around for sanuk venues. I know my old pal El Burro would be able to find a brothel in Vatican City, but I just don’t have his nookie nose. I return to the hotel and crash out under the quiet air conditioner.

- End of Part 1 -

I know the Mayara that you were with in 4X4, she is a great girl. Has a big smile and an even bigger laugh, alot of fun to be around. She has come to my apartment a few times and she is definately not camera shy.

Couple of questions for ya. what hotel did you stay at? Also, how did you pay for te taxi to Copa when you didn't exchange any money at the airport?

One more qquestion, I always wanted to know about the shoe shine scam. How do these guys always mange to have a glob of shit with them all the time. Do they carry it around in their pocket?

Wombat,

One good Report, you sure beat me on my first trip to Rio.

With the first girl you had at help and paid over$R350, well you got burned. but that's allright it's called live and learn.
With the chic at the beach asking you if you going to help? You should of said yes I'm going to help but I'm meeting someone but I want you now(agora). She would have settled for $R100 or less depending how much she likes you.

I flew in on Jan 6, I probably stood right next to you in the thermas.
But overall you know the drill in Rio, next time going back you'll have a blast.
Try the non-pro scene?

CN

Wombat-I like how you describe Bia "a professional sexual athlete". That might be the best description I've heard of her.

I had a similar experience in Aeroporto. I was laughing thinking about how badly I was going to trash it my review. Unfortunately, I never found any garotas that were doable there.

You did a good job not letting the 1st days bad experiences get you down, and you learned from the mistakes. Also a good idea to get out of town and see some other places, but as you write Copa always seems to be calling.

Wombat.

Good report. You did quite well for your first time.

Enjoyed meeting you and hanging out. Here's to your return trip....

Sandman

That was an excellent report. I really enjoyed reading it. I'm with you on the braces. That is starting to become one of my prime motivators.

Thumper,
. . . . I was serously bummed at not being able to get my equipment into the Termas. I wish I had of photo of every one of my loves. I'm glad you know Myara. Now, what's the chance of you sending me some pics?
. . . . As for the taxi, I negotiated in USD. The driver got a good deal, but there was no way I was letting those thieves in the airport get my money.
. . . . The hotel, surprisingly enough, was the Marriott (I used points). I had no problem bringing in my girl that first night. I made sure to make good friends with the folks at the desk. When I checked in, I made the room for two. When they asked me the name of the other guest staying with me, I just said "I'm not sure yet." The girl just giggled and processed the registration. I think if you are discrete, they don't mind.
. . . . I never figured out the poo flinging trick. I didn't devote any thought to it either, mind you. I just kept an eye on those fellas whenever I saw them.

Ceenotes,
. . . . Yeah, I knew I was overpaying right from the beginning, but I was NOT spending my first night in Rio alone. Only now do I realize that there were plenty of alternatives to that cold fish I picked up.
. . . . Did you hang out with any of the boys at Alcazar? If so, we probably met. I had enough trouble keeping track of names, let alone handles.

Sandman,
. . . . You, I KNOW I met, but can't put a name or face to your handle. Curse it, I have to take better notes in the future.

Stay tuned for Part 2 next week, fellas.

Wombat,

Sorry, never took one step in Alcazar, I past by it everyday because my apartment was on Djalma Ulrich.
I was hanging at Meia Pataca most of the time, meeting all the guys to talk muito shit about our great times.
Going to Rio getting a girl is like "going fishing in a barrel"
I usually tell the girls if they try to pull a fast one in bed as they all try and do, so they can hit help again for more $$.
I simply say I'm going to spread the rumor around help about you and your not going to make any $$.
So I guess, I sort of extort them a little.
Some of the girls will be honest and tell you if it's going to be a all nighter or 2 hours. The two hours really means one orgasmo.
I just hate when they tell you all night and then tries to bail on you after 1 hour.
That's the hard core programma's

CN

Those shit flingers are very talented. If there were an Olympic medal in shit flinging, those assholes in Rio would sweep the medals.

Nice report, Wombat! Glad you had a good time. I leave for Rio in less than 2 days, so reading your report was a good primer for the experiences to come.

Hey Wombat. Just got around to reading your post. Good job. It was nice meeting up with you. It was funny in Help that one night. One minute I turn around you're there. I talk to one of the girls and you were gone. I figured some garota distracted you.

Had a good laugh when that shoe shine boy was chasing you down. Wish I would have had more time to spend with you but I was too busy hobbying. Were were all going at a frenzied pace hobbying.

I didn't even get to see any of the sights like Sugar Loaf. Thank god Seaman emailed me some pictures. I have been in Brazil like 12 days or so and I had zero pictures. I spent 90% of my time in termas, Help and my apartment bedroom.

You are right about Rio. The city is a dump but the geographic beauty of the city can be breathtaking. I really was amazed at the level of poverty in Rio. Although there are some shady characters all along Ave. Atlantica I never felt unsafe. Some nights I'd walk alone for a bit but most nights I took cabs.

The girls are great in South America. I hit South America about 7 times last year and I've had over 150 sessions easily down there last year alone and I have yet to have a bad session with a girl. I have had some of my best sessions of my life in Brazil. Those girls know how to make a guy feel good.

Hopefully we can hook up again sometime in Rio or other cities.

Wombat,

It was good to meet you. We have to hook up again. I'll say it before and I'll say it again. EVERY guy that I've met from this board has been a class act.

I'm very jealous. I didn't get see Bia or Camilla this trip. I'll explain in my report why.

Needless, to say, I'm headed back. Lady Bia of L'uomo has a date with Chocolate Decadence. Plus, I want to see Shayla from Terma 65 again. Oh, my! that girl has some control.

Possibly back in March. Let me know if you're around.

Kick Stand

Mitchc
. . . . Braces never did ANYthing for me prior to this trip. Weird, eh?

Bwana_Dik
. . . . It was your excellent intro guide that set the Rio scene for me. Thanks!

Godfather
. . . . You were really tempting me with your stories from Buenos Aires. Maybe on my next trip(?). Mind you, your Rio stories were just as much fun.

Kick_stand
. . . . Thanks for introducing yourself in 4x4. As much as I'd love to return to Rio, I really blew the budget on this trip. I need to go to Thailand for a few weeks and heal. Unfortunately, I can see Rio becoming a habit for me. ;-) Let me know if you make it to Montreal again.

Wombat,

As a matter of fact, Godfather, Seaman, and I are headed that way (Montreal) on Feb. 7 - 9 for a quick weekend. Come with?

E-mail me at paigrande@yahoo.com if you can make it and we'll discuss the details.

Kick Stand

Oh, man. There goes the budget.

I gotta get me a higher paying job.

Ha, ha! That is hilarious! That weekend is gonna be pure chaos. I didn't know you lived in Montreal Wombat! I might have another hobbyist joining us too. I already have an independent escort lined up that emailed me off a post off a site or her friend gave her my email. Can't remember. Looking forward to freezing my ass off with you guys.