Jan

25

Sex Tourism: Cheap Thrills in Brazil

Filed Under Rio de Janeiro, sex tourism, sex travel 

[This was my first article on Rio (minus a few editorial changes in the magazine version), originally published in Hustler Magazine in Nov. 2004. Here's the published version, if you prefer.]Huster Magazine sex tourism

Forget that giant statue of Jesus welcoming you to Rio de Janeiro. (It’s a wonder the Vatican hasn’t ordered it airlifted to a saintlier place, like Vegas.) A monument to Heidi Fleiss would be a better symbol of what awaits you.

From its beaches to its business district, Rio is one huge legal brothel. And we’re not talking crack-whores. Gorgeous “garotas de programa” (”program girls,” Brazilian slang for hookers) are yours for the taking.

My friend Ian had been going for years, returning with annoying tales of how the whores treat him like a king. “Of course they do, you’re paying them,” I’d remind him. He kept pushing me to go, but I wasn’t into hookers, let alone flying 10 hours for them. As a New Yorker, I viewed prostitutes either as diseased streetwalkers who couldn’t pay me to fuck them, or fantasy-caliber call girls beyond my means. Ian claimed that Rio had the perfect mix — affordable dream girls.

It’s February, and I want to escape New York’s winter. Brazil’s Carnaval is coming up. What the hell? I think. I’ll go.

Hookers In Sheep’s Clothing

My first night Ian takes me to Rio’s most notorious nightspot, “Help Discoteca,” (or as locals pronounce it, “Helpee”) opposite Copacabana Beach. With its enormous dancefloor and overhanging balcony, Help resembles New York’s Webster Hall. Any night, probably upwards of 90% of the girls at Help are hookers.

I’m amazed at how “normal” they look. Hot, yes, but dressed like girls in any nightclub. Only when they start talking business the difference becomes clear. I soon leave and wander through the sidewalk café outside Help, Terraco Atlantico. It’s also teeming with garotas. “Hey, baby. Where you going?” they say in their cute accents, while grabbing my crotch.

Antoinette’s more subtle. She smiles briefly, her hazel eyes illuminating her face. I sit with her, but only to chat. If she propositions me, I’m gone. I definitely want sex. But I want to earn it on my own merits.

A pot-bellied, Hairclub-for-Men type waddles by getting tongued by two babes. At the table next to us a muscular American tells his friends he did one of those girls last night. His pals high-five him. Now I’m thinking, maybe “doing business” here isn’t so bad. Everyone’s into it, from the shlubs to the studs. Maybe Rio’s a Disney World for adults. You pay admission, but it could be the ride of your life.

Antoinette speaks good English, and sparkles in conversation. The more we talk, the hornier I get. With sandy hair and olive skin, she looks Italian. (Rio’s got all types. From Selma Hayek or Penelope Cruz-caliber “cariocas,” as the locals call themselves, to the Naomi Campbell clone I’m in a threesome with later that week.)

Yet Antoinette keeps her distance physically. Maybe she’s not a working girl?
Reluctantly I ask her. “Me? Of course,” she says. She’s also a dance instructor and hair stylist. In Brazil these traditional jobs pay shit.

We keep talking, but still no proposition. She gets more touchy-feely; I’m so hard I’m in pain. Finally, I ask how much for a night. She says we can discuss money later.

Antoinette’s exceptional in this regard. Most garotas talk price upfront, typically “200 American,” and you have to negotiate them down. (Tip: Laugh politely and counter-offer $40. Most ultimately agree to something between $60 and $100.)

At my hotel Antoinette takes off her blouse to reveal a flat tummy and beautiful tits. They’re not huge, but perky as hell, especially when she’s bouncing up and down on me. It is the ride of my life, or close to it.
In the morning I offer her 180 “reais” (Brazil’s main currency), just under $60 at the exchange rate. I’ll gladly give her more if she asks, but she’s fine with it. Incredible! This dream girl costs me about as much as a “real” date back home.

Chuck E. Cheese? No, A Whorehouse

Rio’s most unique sexual attraction might be its “termas” — horndog hybrids of strip clubs, health spas and whorehouses. The best offer a variety of stunning women and clean private rooms (”cabines”). Some termas are in the unlikeliest places, like L’Uomo, in a shopping mall. Another, Monte Carlo, is opposite a large church. Monte Carlo markets itself like mainstream ventures do in the States, selling branded t-shirts in its lobby. Even the sheets and pillows carry its logo.

My first terma is Quatro Por Quatro in Centro, Rio’s business district. Most termas operate similarly: You check in at reception, where they explain the prices for one girl versus two, 40 minutes versus an hour, etc. (You choose later and pay when you leave.) They give you a wristband key and a locker, where you change into a white robe and sandals. Now you can take a sauna, shower, or massage (which is only a massage, by the way), or dive into the action in the disco. My first time — I know where I’m going!

The disco is a parade of smoking-hot cariocas mingling, drinking, gyrating. I’m too self-conscious to relax, so I hit the bar, show my wristband (all charges are billed to your key), and suck down some beers. Two girls pitch me on a threesome. I’m aroused, but I want to explore this dazzling new terrain before I “commit” to anything.

After excusing myself to go to the bathroom, I’m mesmerized by a girl near the dancefloor. Juliana has long blonde hair and a face that radiates innocence, which plays hypnotically off her slutty red thong and tattoos. She approaches me and we immediately caress. We go to the couch and she kisses me passionately. We’re in no rush. Maybe 90 minutes pass before she takes me to a cabine.

After making love we hang out another few hours in the bar. At closing time she gives me her number.

Two days later we spend the day in my hotel room. Juliana says repeatedly she loves me. I believe her, or at least that she thinks she loves me. I’m not in love, but I’m as smitten as a pimple-faced kid over Britney Spears.

Guys who’ve been to Rio talk about the “girlfriend experience,” where you “connect” with a garota and “date” outside work. There’s usually something tangible in it for her — gifts, nice meals, and yes, cash — but isn’t that the case with most girls?

All Juliana wants is $15 to cover what she’ll be docked for missing work. (Oh yeah, we kept ordering milkshakes. There’s nothing like watching a beautiful 23-year-old slurp with delight.) She even refuses cab fare home.

I return to Rio in August and visit Juliana at Quatro that day. She’s joyless, swamped with financial problems. I’m also strapped, and I can’t do much for her long-term. We take a cabine, but the spark’s gone. I give her my hotel number, she gives me her new cell number. I know that neither of us will ever call. It’s okay; Rio is the “Cidade de Meus Sonhos” — City of My Dreams. And I’ve still got fantasies galore yet to explore.

She-Devil

Daniela is a mocha-skinned beauty with jet-black hair who looks like she materialized out of the mists of the Amazon rainforest. I “discover” her at Meia Pataca, another sidewalk café near Help. We have a drink. Despite her tame blouse (though it shows ample cleavage), she’s ferocious as a jaguar. Within minutes, she’s pushing her massive breasts together, asking, “So, you like my tits?”

“I like them very much,” I try to say casually, struggling not to stare. She yanks my head to her chest. How retarded I must look. But I’m hooked. I don’t want her an hour or two. I want to wear myself out fucking her, fall asleep on her tits, and start banging again in the morning.

We negotiate a price. My current hotel forbids “visitors” after 5am, so I suggest “VIPS,” a motel in Ipanema without such rules. She insists on her place. With more timid girls, it’s natural to fear leaving your home base with a stranger. But Daniela? She has a dangerous air, and I’m the one concerned about letting her pick the place. We argue. The deal’s off, I say. There’s plenty of garotas who won’t give me a hard time. But she makes nice, and we cab it to VIPS.

At the motel Daniela demands payment upront. It’s another red flag: other garotas fuck first, collect later. I offer “half now, half when we leave.” She bitches a moment before accepting. Now I experience the upside of her intensity. That same fire blazes in her loins. It’s like being devoured by a volcano. She’s well-worth all her crap.

Then another flag. As I’m coming out of the bathroom, she’s getting dressed. “What’s up?” I ask. She talks some shit about how she “thought we’re going out to eat.”

“What for?” I ask. “There’s room service.” “Oh,” she says, as if she didn’t know it was an option. Meanwhile, she’s making for the door. I’m still dazed from the sex, I don’t know what she’s up to. She’s gone a good 15 seconds before I check inside my shoe, my brilliant hiding spot for the rest of her money. The only thing left is lint.

I’m pissed. Daniela took me for a ride. A great ride, yes. But she’d agreed to the whole night. I run after her in just my underwear. She’s in the lot hailing a cab. I yell to some staff, “Bandido! Pare ela!” (Thief! Stop her!) They just scratch their heads, and she’s gone.

Later, I see her at Terraco Atlantico working a table of Americans. I’m out for blood, but I don’t want to create a scene riling her up. Her English is okay, so I try to warn the Americans in phrases she hopefully won’t get: “Watch your assets. There’s a shark in your midst.” “Got it. Thanks,” they say. Soon they chase her away.

It’s only 3am, and I hook up with Gabriella, another dark-skinned cutie, but with none of Daniela’s malice. We return to VIPS. In the morning Gabriella asks me to teach her some come-ons she can use on Americans. We start with, “Come here, baby. I want to sex you up.” We practice, but she can’t say it without cracking up. Even that’s a turn-on, though, and we have sex again.

Lesbian Send-Off

Brazil’s got plenty of expatriate Americans, some of whom are living unbelievable lives. Jack, a former pharmacist from Georgia in his 50s, got divorced, sold his stocks and moved to Rio. He runs a pornsite featuring local talent. Many garotas not only pose for free, but sleep with Jack for the privilege of promoting their “paid services.”

My last night, Jack invites me to a shoot at his apartment featuring Jessie, a sultry blonde with Elizabeth Hurley eyes, and her brunette lover, Gina. As the girls finish up, Jack whispers that Jessie “wants me.” What’s her price? I ask. He mouths “nada.” Jessie pulls me into bed as Jack and Gina head for the fold-out couch in the den. I can’t believe this hot lesbian is giving me a freebie. What a great going-away present!

Comments

2 Responses to “Sex Tourism: Cheap Thrills in Brazil”

  1. Vic on March 23rd, 2008 10:33 am

    I used to go there like 10 years ago. Was a PARADISE.Places like Barbarella, Frank’s Bar–Help—some Termas–unbelieveable. Crime was always a factor—but if you didn’t parade around with bills and jewels hanging out of your pockets—you were ok.
    I’m wondering if things are the same- Here in 3/2008? Can anyone give some advice?

  2. Rio Joe on March 24th, 2008 9:06 pm

    Crime is still pretty bad. Probably worse now. But Rio is still worth the risk. Of course, the dollar is in the crapper, so you won’t get as much “bang for your buck.” But Rio’s still a bargain, IMHO.

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