Lost Sambista

A Brazil never seen.

Archive for the tag “prostitution in Rio de Janeiro”

Lost Samba _ Ch10/02_Sexual initiation at the Pink House.

programa

Mangue, by Lasar Segal

When boys of my generation reached puberty, after undergoing the domestic audio-visual introduction, they moved on to the age-old Brazilian tradition of being initiated in sex either with a maid or with a professional.  From one moment to another, it seemed that everyone apart from me and my immediate circle of friends had already done it. We knew that we were missing out. As none of us had hot and available domesticas, the only way out were the pros.  Given our budgetary limitations, all fingers pointed in the same direction: the infamous Casa Rosa, or the Pink House.

Many fathers took their sons to the important event or at least they sponsored the excursion. This was certainly not to be in my case. With my dad in his mid-seventies, sex was not on the cards and it wasn’t a subject of discussion, not even in passing conversation. As far as he was concerned, licentiousness was the preserve of the maids and other promiscuous favelados. I never accepted this, but I couldn’t help but inherit something of the idea that sex was intrinsically dirty that should definitely be hid away from polite society. Nevertheless, I wanted to be initiated and saved up for months, scraping together whatever I could for the big day. Finally I thought that the day had arrived. One Saturday afternoon, my friends and I arranged to meet after lunch but at the very last moment our trusted guide chickened out. Not only were we all pissed off, but so too was his dad.  A few weeks later, we set off alone to the Casa Rosa.  We did not know how to get there but when the taxi driver heard “Rua Alice”, he knew exactly the purpose of our excursion.  On our way, we discussed whether we should lie and say that we were seventeen instead of telling our true age: fourteen.  Some of us thought that this would bring more respect and would keep us from being thrown out. I was in favour of telling the truth because the lie would make us appear even more hopeless.

The Casa Rosa was big and had a faded grandeur.  As we approached the house, we noticed a police car parked immediately outside, causing one of the guys want to give up. As we got out of the taxi and entered the building, several policemen were on their way out and greeted us with a reassuring smile. We sat around a wooden table by the improvised dance floor and waited, the silence only broken by the tinny noise of the black and white television under the staircase that was showing the afternoon samba show.  Next to the flickering set, there was a counter with two price lists: one for the drinks and another one for the “programs”.

One-by-one, the girls came down for their matinee session.  They looked nowhere close to the unobtainable beauties who lounged on the beaches of Ipanema and Copacabana but at least they were younger and better looking than our maids. The madam pointed to us and said:

”It’s time for the children to have milk.”

They selected us, not the other way around, and took us to their rooms.  When the action was about to begin, one of the guys knocked his knee against the bed, and from his reaction, we knew it had hurt: we could hear Mauricio through the thin wooden walls, jumping around in pain. Meanwhile, the rest of us slipped into a silent and nervous mood without knowing what to do.

My girl was prettier, whiter, thinner and younger than the others. As she took off her clothes and lay next to me, I remembered the porn films.  She talked to me and calmed me down, and I began to explore her body. Her naked flesh felt warm, tender and good.  The act was as quick as it was disappointing, but I could at least count it as my initiation as a Latin Lover.  I was not the first one to appear downstairs, which was a relief.  After everyone had paid, we went down the hill making fun of Mauricio and his sore knee and his wounded pride.

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CasaRosa

The Pink House

 

Adventures in the Favela – Part 02 – Tania became a prostitute.

My girlfriend was from Florianopolis in the south of Brazil, a city known for good waves and for beautiful women. She had come to Rio together with a friend, Tania. To be honest the night we met I fancied Tania’s European look, blue eyes and big pectoral assets. Larissa was quieter, less sexual, but was more receptive at the Green Party’s party and after a successful night and a short courtship we ended up living together.

Tania was a bit too sexual, every week she appeared with a new guy: waiters, tourists, surfers, rich guys, poor guys; she was very democratic. Both the girls had come to town for the same job, subscription sales for a left wing magazine. Tania didn’t last a month there  and without anywhere to stay, with drug habits, with a great sexual appetite and not knowing anyone in town she ended up in the oldest profession in the world; prostitution.

After she entered the trade the friends she brought to visit us in the Favela flat became more interesting. One day she appeared with two legitimate Italian mafiosi, a pale guy wearing a heavy ring and the other one was a huge guy with a beard, resembling the Trinity duo with Bud Spencer and Terence Hill. They were cool dudes, they took us out for dinner and had a never ending supply of cocaine on them. The next week she turned up with a South African yacht man who was touring the world and who was relieved to find someone who spoke English. To my dismay he ended up confessing to me in tears that he had fallen in love with Tania, who disrespected a lot the poor fellow in Portuguese. Then there was Pierre Alain, a Swiss guy on a sexual safari through Latin America who ended up becoming her boy friend and a personal friend of mine to this very day.

One night she knocked on our door in tears saying that she had been thrown out of her room because of a drunken fight with the landlord and we invited her to come to live with us until she found a new place. Because I was her best friend’s boyfriend nothing ever happened between us and I became a kind of paternal confidant who gave her a lot of  “white nosed” advice. The friendship made me take her to work every evening, her “point”; a night club next to Lido square on Avenida Atlantica, Copacabana’s beach promenade. This was the “hotest” place in the Avenue, in a time that its curb “the Calcadao” was perhaps the biggest open air brothel in the world, with girls of all sizes colors and ages. As a gesture of gratitude she paid for the gas money and constantly supplied us with  generous small plastic bags of “powder”.

Tania had a talent for reading tarot card and was into Umbanda the Afro-Brazilian religion. She sometimes gave us reading sessions “incorporated” by a “pomba-gira” spirit; I can not remember her predictions but she did guess some pretty amazing things. Apart from her sessions, when she got drunk the “pomba gira” business got heavy, and stopping her was a problem. Things got worse when she started calling her work colleagues for card sessions and partying after work at dawn. Despite living on the border of the Favela I had a job and had to get up early to give English classes.

On one occasion she was going to travel that same morning with a suitcase I had lent her. She arrived with a friend at four in the morning and started doing her Umbanda passes. That woke me up, pissed me off and I went in to tell her to cut it out because I had to work in a few hours time. The “entity” didn’t like that and started swearing at me, at one point she started calling me a dirty Jew, and that was it, I got my suitcase back and told her not to come back after her trip.
It took a long time for me to hear about Tania again, a few years later someone told me that she was working in the sex trade in Switzerland and was buying a house for her mother in Florianopolis. The old woman thought that she had found a great job as a secretary there.

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