Francis Levy - Seven Days in Rio

In astronomy, there is a phenomenon called syzygy, which occurs when the sun, moon, and earth are all in alignment. As Suzanne walked through the threshold of my suite, throwing her shoulder bag down on one of the plush loveseats, her nameplate popping spontaneously off her chest, I knew some kind of cosmic synchronicity had taken hold. She didn’t even ask for a dose of reality , so intent was she on her transformation into Tiffany. She unbuttoned the blouse of her uniform to reveal perhaps the sexiest bra I had ever seen on a whore. To describe it as a mere black French bra with delicate lace fringe does not do it proper justice. It was a bra for a woman whose breasts have long since declared their independence from support of any kind, as India did in 1948. That is to say, it was a bra in name only. Rather, it was a monumental allusion to that point in the history of feminine attire when breasts were accorded a new kind of opening curtain — one that came off rather than going up at the beginning of an act.

Like a hypnotist snapping her fingers to bring me out of my trance, Suzanne told me to unhook her peerless brassiere. My hands trembled as I circled her nervously, as transfixed by the dorsal view of her nakedness, the arch and small of her back, as I was by the prospect of laying my eyes on her breasts, which were now just a glimmer, albeit a colossal one, in my imagination, a vision beyond the grasp of my engorged senses.

Adam and Eve covered themselves for a reason. It was not simply the temptation of sin that brought shame. It was the recognition that the advent of consciousness necessitated an added bit of showmanship in the sexual act. The hoopla accorded to the covering of the genitals, especially for women, was in fact naturally selective. It was what gave sexuality its mystery and encouraged procreation. Only the conceit of a great metaphysical love poem, like Andrew Marvell’s “To His Coy Mistress,” could capture the mind-body chasm that was bridged as I feasted my eyes on Suzanne’s perfection.

I was willing to pay anything to have sex with Suzanne. The fact that I could blow caution to the wind and max out my credit card was part of the thrill. When I am in the presence of a delicious, half-undressed Tiffany like Suzanne, I am like a gambler at the high stakes table in Las Vegas. I was ready to throw in my chips and go all-or-nothing.

Suzanne quickly wriggled out of her skirt and panties. In all my years of visiting whores, I had never seen secondary sex characteristics like the ones I now witnessed. Her areolae were soft and golden brown and her nipples stood at attention like they were singing the Marseillaise. The breasts themselves recalled the words of another metaphysical poet, John Donne, who had said about one woman’s body, “Oh my America, my new found land.” Suzanne’s tits had cosmological significance. They were like the most beautiful celestial body, like Venus spied through a telescope as it orbits in space. But this was no comparison to what lay below. Looking between Suzanne’s legs reminded me of visiting the famous garden created by Vita Sackville-West at Sissinghurst. I had seen some dramatic landscaping the last time I was in England, but nothing compared to the resplendent nature, the shooting tangle of dark growth, the topiary, the great looming hedge that festooned the smoldering estate that lurked between Suzanne’s thighs.

“Tiffany, before we make love, I just wanted to settle up,” I gasped. “That way we can enjoy ourselves without having to think about money.” Despite my romantic feelings toward most Tiffanys, and my willingness to pay anything for a woman I loved, I also have a pragmatic side.

“My nickname’s not really Tiffany,” Suzanne corrected me. Was I hearing correctly or was she just teasing? “I don’t have a whore name. I was kidding. I just really love sex.”

I could hardly breathe. It was Cinderella in reverse. The beautiful princess turned into an old crone before my eyes. The thought that she wasn’t a prostitute and that I didn’t have to pay for sex was so repugnant to me that I lost all interest in her. I prayed that there was some sort of misunderstanding, but in the meantime the erection I’d been massaging contentedly ever since she took off her top immediately faded. My penis wilted like a rotted carrot, seeming to disintegrate between my fingers. I knew there was no way I was going to get it back up. All I could think of was how to get rid of her. You can just give a common whore a dose of reality , tell her you don’t feel like it, and send her on her way. But the average woman doesn’t like it when she comes to your room and reveals her naked body only to be told you’re no longer interested. As I was to find out, Brazilians are a particularly passionate lot who don’t tolerate rejection well.

“Since you’re not a Tiffany, I am no longer interested,” I sniffed. I decided that to compensate for the language barrier I should be as emphatic as possible. Suzanne might as well have been a man. That’s how little attraction I had for a woman who wasn’t a whore.

Suzanne pleaded with me, saying, “I’m as good as a whore. I’ll sleep with almost anybody. Isn’t that enough?” But her pleading soon turned into insistent demands. I had learned the difference between a request and a demand in therapy, and I tried to communicate this distinction to her, but it was already too late. She wouldn’t listen to reason. When I made it emphatically clear that I had no intention of fucking her, she quickly got dressed, slapped me across the face, and cried out, “I never met such a pig in my whole life,” before slamming the door behind her. If she had been a man, and we had been in 19th-century Russia, her behavior might have resulted in a duel. Instead, I was simply left in my room trying to figure out what I was going to do with the rest of my evening, particularly since I had no intention of going down to the concierge’s desk and running the risk of encountering the enraged Suzanne.

I tend to feel guilty even when I haven’t done anything wrong. It’s something I’ve long dealt with in analysis, particularly with regards to my attitude toward women. I know there are people who feel that it’s wrong for a woman to sell her body, and that men who pay for sex are complicit in a crime both against women and society. I can be made to endorse someone’s worldview if they are forceful enough in their opinions. To me, the critic has a certain authority, while the person who praises and supports is merely a flatterer. I can go to a party filled with happy, contented whores who are glad to see me and eager to sell their bodies for sex, but end up obsessing about the one radical feminist who shows her opposition to prostitution by refusing to talk to me. But I had to stick to my guns before it was too late. I realized that although my stay in Rio was coming to an end, I had a right, nay an obligation, to run out and find a real Tiffany to take Suzanne’s place. Feeling vulnerable, I decided to put my jeans back on, despite how shapeless they’d become, and head back downstairs.

The sublime experience of talking about my Oedipal feelings toward my mother while staring up China’s twat reconfirmed my notion that the best things in life aren’t free. There are certain experiences you are only going to have if you are willing to pay for them. My problems with Suzanne’s sexual altruism, which had dulled my interest in sex for all of five minutes, made me think that there might be other things besides women and psychoanalysis that are worth paying for. One of them was friendship. I’d always had trouble making friends because of my control issues, but I realized that buying friendship might be one way to stay in control. It was like buying shares in a company. If you had a controlling interest, you were able to influence the decisionmaking process. However, being just another shareholder was no fun, unless of course the company was reporting quarterly gains and had a significant price-earnings ratio.