The Tale of the Horizontal Mambo
The road to Copacabana Beach is fraught with danger and excitement.
My trip to Brazil with the community choir that I told you about last month was so eventful that I simply must share more of the colorful highlights from that tour.
After a full day of gawking at the deliciously toned, tanned, and Speedo-clad hunks on Copacabana Beach, I ventured out with my roommate among the multitude of street vendors who set out their touristy kitsch as evening fell. I was in shopping heaven surrounded by colorful and sparkly things, and my motto became “Shop till you drop.”
As we strolled along the famed mosaic promenade, two “Ladies of the Evening” approached us. I was immediately curious because I wanted to know where she got her faaabulous stiletto pumps. Before I could even check her shoe size, she had draped herself over me, curving her leg up around my ass, and her hands were traveling places on my body that I reserve for only the hunkiest of men. All the while she was speaking in Portuguese and using body language to ask if I wanted a roll in the hay.
Of course, I protested and tried to push the trollop off me, but my arms were filled with shopping bags, so my defenses were stifled. Only after I received a thorough groping of my “family jewels” did she leave me and go after my friend.
As she started groping my roommate, I realized she was not really after sex, but was feeling for wallets. Luckily mine was in a deep pocket down by my kneecap and she missed it. I cried out for him to watch his wallet, but I was just a split second too late. Quick as a flash, his wallet was in her hand and passed deftly off to the other hooker, and they disappeared into a waiting getaway car just like in a scene from “Mission Impossible.” This all happened faster than I can make a dildo do a standard “disappearing act” into my “personal vault,” (Perhaps THERE is where we should carry our purses for safe keeping.)
Later that night I was being adventurous, so I ditched my roommate and went exploring on my own; after all, I was a queen in her prime and in Rio for God’s sake! As I proceeded along the boulevard, I passed a stunningly handsome 20-something Brazilian boy going the other way. My pulse quickened and my senses heightened, as I quickly shifted from tourist mode into cruising mode. This guy could easily have been another mugger, but he was hot, hot, hot and I was horny as hell so my primal urges overcame any common sense.
We gave each other a furtive glance as we passed. When our eyes met, we both held the gaze just a split second longer than a straight guy would, thereby identifying a companion hunter on the prowl, or at the very least a fellow “Friend of Dorothy” out searching for some ruby slippers.
I slowed my stride and held my breath as I glanced slyly over my shoulder to see where he was going. To my delight, he had also slowed his pace and was glancing over his shoulder as well. Not wanting to appear too anxious, I stopped walking and performed the time-honored yet dependable cruising decoy of pretending to look into the store windows. Like a good little cruiser, he mimicked my actions. To confirm that he had only the nicest of dishonorable intentions toward me, I coyly reached down and adjusted my “family jewels” (which were growing anxious I might add) while keeping an eye on him. Glory be and saints be praised because he also adjusted his “jewels.” Then, as if on a cue from Mother Nature’s clock, much like the instinctual migration of gazelle, we both circled around and sat cautiously side by side on a nearby bench to seal the deal.
He could only speak a little English but it was enough because the language and choreography of cruising is apparently international. He wanted to come back to my hotel with me, but I was sharing a room with another choir member so that was not an option. Then he suggested that we go to a “Honeymoon Hotel” that rents rooms by the hour, no questions asked. Apparently, there are several of these convenient facilities located throughout the tourist district. We adjourned to said hotel. I paid $5 and got a room for an hour. To my dismay, the hotel resembled the Turkish prison in “Midnight Express,” but what’s a desperately horny queen on a budget to do but decide that room decor was not a priority at the moment?
My Brazilian bombshell then laid me gently on the bed and proceeded to demonstrate “the horizontal mambo” while the curtains blew gently in the breeze and all the while I sang “Sweet Mystery Of Life I’ve Finally Found You.” After what I would describe as a legendary “mambo session,” I sadly bid my Brazilian stud-muffin farewell and returned to my hotel, trying desperately to hide “that freshly fucked afterglow” from my roommate.
Curiously, during our choir concert later that week, I had never been in better voice.
Like always these events leave us with many eternal questions:
- Does what happens in Rio stay in Rio?
- How many hookers does it take to steal a wallet?
- Do they make dildo-shaped purses for easy concealment?
- Does this mean I may not wear white at my wedding?
- Is cruising instinctual, or is it just that I’ve had lots and lots of practice?
- Should the Tabernacle Choir be using “Sweet Mystery of Life” for an audition song?
These and other important questions to be answered in future chapters of The Perils of Petunia Pap-Smear.