When puberty arrived for boys, the tradition was to give continuity to the audio-visual introduction with a hands-on experience either with a house cleaner or with a professional. From one moment to another, everyone had already done it and we were missing out. As none of us had hot and naughty domesticas, the only way out were the pros. Given our budgetary limitations, all fingers pointed in the same direction: the infamous Pink House.
Some dads sponsored the excursion, but that was not to be my case, with my father in his mid-seventies sex was not on the cards, not even in conversation and saw it as something that interested the maids and the promiscuous favelados. I never bought this but perhaps inherited the idea that sex was a dirty thing that one hid from polite society. Anyway, I wanted my initiation, saved up for months, and scraped whatever I already had set for the big day. Finally, it came, it was on a Saturday afternoon, we were going to meet up after lunch and lose our boy status forever. At the last moment, our ‘guide’ chickened out and two had to cancel he adventure, which pissed off even his dad. A few weeks later, we made it on our own. We did not know how to get there but as soon as the taxi driver heard “Rua Alice”, he knew what that excursion was about. On our way, we discussed whether we should lie and say that we were 17 instead of telling our true age: 14. Some 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 look even more stupid.
The house was big and old and it looked as if it had been the stage for a glorious past. When we arrived, there was a police car parked in front that made one of the guys want to give up. When we got inside, the officers were already on their way out and greeted us. We sat around one of the wooden tables by the cheap dance floor and waited in a silence broken by the black and white television under the staircase that was showing the afternoon samba show. Next to the badly tuned set, there was a counter with two price lists: one for the drinks and another one for the ‘programs’.
The girls came down one by one for their matinee session. They were nowhere close to the unobtainable beauties on the beaches of Ipanema and Copacabana but were younger and better looking than our maids and they had a naughtier aura. The big boss lady pointed to us and said:
”It’s time for the children to have milk.”
They chose us, not the other way around, and took us up 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 wooden walls, jumping around in pain. Meanwhile, the rest of us slipped into a silent and nervous mood without knowing what to do.
Mine was prettier, whiter, thinner and younger than the other ones. 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 a quick disappointment but counted as my initiation as a Latin Lover. I was not the first one to appear downstairs, which was a good sign. After everyone had paid, we went down the hill laughing at Mauricio and his sore knee.