Carnaval in Rio Sexcapades

I was smitten with Brazil, Carnaval, and Rio during my first trip there. When I returned to New York I began studying Portuguese. I returned for Carnaval the following year. As soon as I checked into my hotel upon arrival, I ran to the beach a block away--not to sun, just to observe. I couldn’t believe what happened with I got to the street called Avenida Atlântica, which fronts the beach.

Suddenly two great looking guys, one on each side of the street corner, were giving me the eye--this at 10 a.m. Both were in their early twenties. I was under no illusions. I knew they weren’t hot for my body, which was certainly respectable, but were aching for what was in my wallet, in exchange for their services. I had never had an experience like this. I couldn’t believe it was real. I just stood on the street corner, knowing that I could have my choice. Looking from one to the other, I did not want to emulate the proverbial donkey, who starved to death because he could not make a choice between two bales of hay, one on each side of him. So I decided on the one who was on my side of the street. I started talking to him in my still-primitive Portuguese, but he was able to understand me. I don’t recall his price, but I’m sure it was peanuts. The block back to the hotel seemed like ten.

Once there, I saw my prize--a magnificently large one, which I promptly swallowed in its entirety.  It was not-forbidden fruit, in this case a banana. He asked me how long I would be in Rio. When I told him, he offered to be my daily companion at a cheap fixed rate. I was thrilled and accepted without a thought. So I had a guide, and guaranteed daily sex in place, only one hour after arriving in town.

I later moved to a hotel in the center of Rio for Carnaval, because that was where the 24-hour, nonstop revelry took place. I spent the days with my new pal, dispensing with his services at the end of the day, I took to the noisy and crowded streets around my hotel. With mobs of horny men and boys, and few women, making out would be as easy as picking strawberries.

I struck up a conversation with a guy in his mid-twenties, who looked like a country hick. I liked his simplicity and told him what I wanted. I knew I couldn’t take him to my hotel, so he suggested a little dump of a place nearby. It advertised itself as Hotel Para Cavalheiros (Hotel for Gentlemen), where patrons pay by the hour. I gave him the money for the modest fee and he paid at the front desk. I kept my mouth shut, not wanting to be taken as a foreigner, which the clerk probably guessed anyway. He didn’t ask for our IDs. Once into bed, my companion promptly put his arms around me, kissed me, and whispered with a great sigh, "Americano." It was as if this were the pinnacle moment of his life.

After this session, I went back to the street madness and soon started talking to two late teen-aged boys who were together. I promptly propositioned them and asked their price. I could have the two of them for thirty-five cents! The only problem was where could we do it. They said they knew a secluded space near the dock in Niteroi, the city where they lived. This required a twenty  minute ferry ride across Guanabara Bay from Rio, then a short walk to our destination, a vacant and secluded lot. What madness propelled me to take this potentially dangerous trip, I know not. Only afterwards, on the ferry back to Rio, leaving them behind, did I realize what I had risked. They could have robbed me, taken my ID, even killed me, and no one would ever know what happened to me. Men really only think with their balls.

I skipped four years before I returned again for Carnaval. I went with Kenny, a friend from New York. We stayed for free in the “fuck” apartment of a Rio friend. He only used the apartment on weekends for sex. He lived elsewhere, in a luxurious apartment house, and couldn’t take tricks there.

For the first three days of our visit, I was merely Kenny’s Rio guide, proudly showing him the city. By that time, I was exploding with frustration and sexual tension from seeing so much masculine beauty. I told Kenny, “I gotta get out of this apartment and go find some fun.” About 7 p.m., I walked one block from the apartment to famous Copacabana Avenue. Near the corner a young guy stopped me and asked in Portuguese if I had a match. I thought he was fabulous, so I immediately said without thinking, “No I don’t have a match on me, but I have one in my apartment just one block from here.”

He accepted, and we went to the apartment. I probably told Kenny to go take a walk. What I had picked up was a beautifully muscled, macho nineteen year-old soldier in the Brazilian army. His skin was so dark I thought he must be black, although he had no facial features associated with that race. At least I thought this until he took off his shorts. Lo and behold he was white, albeit very deeply tanned by a lifetime in the hot Rio sun. He lacked a lot downstairs, but his body and sweet personality compensated. He wasn’t very tall, perhaps about 5' 7". I told him I was staying for a few more days and asked if he was willing to be my companion for the period. He explained that his time was limited, being at a nearby army base, but would spend as much time with me as he could. I did get to see him almost every day. I don’t know if he was going AWOL for a few hours, or how he pulled it off. Because of the way we had met, I gave him the nickname Miss Match, but never mentioned it to him. His real name was Roger. We were also a mismatch because of our age and cultural difference.

He seemed like a nice kid and was well-mannered. I took him to dinner several times during my visit, sometimes just us alone, at times with Kenny joining us. When I left Rio he gave me his home address; I gave him mine. We began a correspondence as soon as I returned home, that continued until my trip to Brazil again the next year.

When I returned, I rented a nicely furnished apartment, with a telephone, in Copacabana. Roger came to visit every day and we often ate out, but I frequently cooked in. By this time he was out of the army and working. Roger begged me over and over to take him with me to New York. I guess he knew a good thing when he saw it. He convinced me, probably not a difficult thing to do, and I went with him to the American Consulate in Rio to plead for his visa. We made up a story that I was a long-time friend of his family and that he was just going to visit the US for a couple of weeks. The visa was granted, and I bought him a ticket for arrival in New York a few days after I returned there.

Through my contacts I was able to get Roger a night job, not far from a temporary furnished apartment that I rented in Brooklyn Heights, since I had sub-let my townhouse for a year. He bought a Social Security card from someone in the Brazilian community, and I bought him a bike to ride to work. After not too long in the US, his attentiveness and sweetness began to disappear. He took on the air of a spoiled brat. He did fulfill his assignment to clean the apartment weekly and have sex nightly. Finally my year of exile was over and I returned to my house. I had rented it furnished, so everything was there waiting for me. I took Roger to see it. He was as thrilled as a kid in a candy store.

I frequently went to London for the weekend. On one return to New York, Roger complained that his ass was very sore. I got an appointment with my gay doctor for the next day. The doctor checked him out and asked, with me as the interpreter, if he had gotten fucked. Probably he didn’t want to admit it because he was living with me, He told the doctor that he had never done this in New York, only in Rio. But he was lying. Someone, probably with a huge cock, had torn his asshole apart that weekend. The doctor applied a local anesthetic, cut some tissue, then patched him up.

While this was many years ago, and our lives went separate ways long since, Roger still phones and visits me from time to time.