Francis Levy - Seven Days in Rio

As she continued to unspool her life’s story, Tiffany’s left nipple nestled into the center of her margarita and floated there like an olive in a martini. She was getting very emotional and I realized that it might become increasingly difficult to segue into a sex act. I couldn’t imagine interrupting her tale to ask if she could take my penis in her mouth. How would she ever be able to get to the denouement?

My heart skipped a beat, however, and my fears were assuaged when Tiffany interrupted her own account by getting up from the table, standing in front of me with her big hairy pussy in my face, and announcing, “I have to pee. Why don’t we go back to my father’s place? He has a huge mansion in a small town on the coast just outside Rio.” I was about to admit to her that I hadn’t bothered to rent a car since the hotel provided free shuttle service when she announced, “We can zoom up there in my Alfa.”

I noticed that she still hadn’t put any clothes on as the valet pulled her car up to the door of the club. I did think it was odd, but I rationalized that perhaps in Rio it was common for the beautiful daughters of wealthy industrialists to drive their fancy sports cars in the nude. As we drove through downtown Rio with the top down and the windows open, I remarked that none of the other drivers even blinked at the sight of a nude Tiffany passing them in traffic. This would never go over on the Long Island Expressway, where she would certainly have caused one of the greatest pileups in transportation history.

I was beginning to notice that she remained curiously incurious about me. She just stared at the road with her dark, brooding eyes as she talked. It was apparent that she was a true narcissist whose seeming attention-giving was only a subterfuge by which she could call attention to herself.

As we swung out onto the majestic coastal road leading out of Rio, past the sparkling beaches crowded with Tiffanys plying their trade late into the night, Tiffany’s nipples hardened as she continued to tell me her saga.

Her father had wanted her older brother to take over the family empire, which included considerable real estate holdings. But the brother wanted to be a poet and had moved to Paris, where he tried his hand at writing while living off the earnings of his wife, a very successful prostitute in the Pigalle. They had two daughters who would undoubtedly follow in their mother’s footsteps. She told me that most of her brother’s poems were about his hatred for their father and that, with the French economy being in the state it was, it was likely that his teenage daughters would do much better selling their bodies than trying to sell the kind of poetry their father was churning out. The bitter irony was that both girls were artistically inclined and dreamt of being famous writers who could one day produce the same kind of hate-filled screeds as their dad.

As we drove along, with the moonlight shining over the cresting waves of the Atlantic, I began to panic. I was on my way to the auspicious residence of a major Brazilian industrialist, and though I was wearing a Brooks Brothers seersucker jacket, bowtie, and preppy white dress shirt, I still didn’t have any pants. Even though Tiffany was totally nude, I didn’t know the mores of the society I was entering. Perhaps before she walked into her childhood home, Tiffany would pull a shift out of the trunk, maybe a servant would come running out to her with a bathing suit and robe so she could jump into a topiary-surrounded pool for a midnight swim, while I stood around awkwardly trying to cover myself. I needed to achieve a level of comfort. I asked Tiffany if there was somewhere we could stop so that I could buy some pants. Tiffany laughed like one of the insouciant vamps in early Italian neorealist cinema. “Your pants are what I like to do without, baby,” Tiffany giggled. Then she let out a whoop and floored the accelerator around a blind curve leading up a mountain pass.

A large oil truck happened to be coming right at us as we rounded the turn. For a moment, I was sure I was going to meet my maker, so I closed my eyes and thanked God that at least I would die next to a beautiful, aristocratic Tiffany who far exceeded even my wildest imaginings. I love psychoanalysis, but I’m also an aficionado of modern drama, and my life was beginning to remind me of Strindberg’s A Dream Play . I couldn’t tell the curves of the body undulating next to me from the curves in the treacherous mountain road that we were climbing. It was a curious medley of emotions, a mixture of joy and terrible fear.

I almost lost my breath when we pulled up in front of two huge gates guarded by naked Valkyries who had Uzis strapped over their shoulders in a way that barely obscured their breasts. The only uniforms they were wearing were stiletto high heels and the kind of officer’s hats worn by The Village People. Both of the guards had big hairy bushes that made my mouth water. I was reminded of Castro’s guerillas, who had distinguished themselves with their fulsome beards.

“Are they whores too?” I asked.

“Sure, everybody who works for us is.”

It turned out her mother, Tiffany, was one of Brazil’s most venerated whores. She was of mixed ancestry, representing the wedding of two distinguished family lines. Tiffany’s grandmother had been a famous Amazonian princess whose legendary sexual abilities were documented in the Brazilian equivalent of the Kama Sutra . She’d married a Portuguese general who’d achieved notoriety for his conquests both on land and in bed. Tiffany told me that when her mother was making her way as a famous prostitute, she slept with a majority of the members of both houses of Brazil’s parliament, making her the most powerful woman in the country, at least while congress was in session. Even though she was a known prostitute, her beauty was such that she constantly received marriage proposals from some of the most renowned figures in politics and the arts, but she had turned them all down in favor of living the life of whoredom that she loved. It was only when she was well past her prime that she’d finally settled down with one of her best customers.

Despite Tiffany’s torrid past, I wanted to make sure that before I paid for sex I’d succeeded in creating a meaningful relationship between us. Anyone can pay for sex, but it’s the rare john who can create a bond based on respect, dignity, and shared goals.

I had never met the parents of any of the whores I’d fucked over the years. I felt that the opportunity to meet Tiffany’s parents was a privilege that could only increase our intimacy. Tiffany had revealed herself to me, in that she had been nude from the moment I met her, but this was a chance to really get to know the person beneath the beautiful breasts and outspoken Venus mound. I was going to be humping a woman whose history was now an open book to me, just like her genitalia. In the past, I would pay for sex and only afterward, sated and proud of my monstrous capacity, would I indifferently begin to ask a few probing questions. Conversation was exactly like fucking. When I paid for a woman, I could do anything I wanted to her, and our post-coital repartee was just an extension of my desire to explore. I would ask how many men she had screwed that day, how she had gotten into the life, and even what she did about her periods.

The mansion was situated atop a huge piece of rock and surrounded by gardens. Tiffany entered a security code and an electric gate opened. We drove to the end of a long gravel driveway that led to the entrance of the stucco-walled mansion itself. There was a strong Oriental influence in the structure, which was like an enormous pagoda covered with an elaborate tile roof. Despite the guards all around, there was an air of total freedom, as the doors to the rooms (including bathrooms) were all open. I no sooner walked in than I passed a bedroom where a couple was involved in an act of vigorous missionary sex. There was a winding marble staircase, which reminded me of Auntie Mame , especially when Tiffany called out what I took to be the equivalent of “Hi, Mom” in Portuguese and a stunning creature wearing a long, open silk robe descended the stairs to greet us. I loved Tiffany, but when I saw the mound between her mother’s legs, which actually looked like a raccoon, I knew I was in real trouble. If there is a psychoanalytic term for the desire for the mother of a woman you want to fuck, I was suffering from it. I should have seen the writing on the wall, but I wasn’t looking at a wall when Tiffany’s mother held out her hand.