Read Online Seven Days in Rio by Francis Levy - Free Book Online

questions like, “Can I blow you?” and “Do you want to fuck?” They were all so alluring I didn’t know what to do, or with whom. I decided that since I’d waited this long, I was going to savor the moment and delay gratification. I didn’t want to use up all my juice before the evening ended. If the girls at The Catwalk were this enticing and willing, there was no telling what bounty The Gringo would hold.
    Where all doors had seemed closed to me, in an instant the world was my oyster. The Catwalk was designed like a theater in the round. There was a stage about which phalanxes of naked girls, whose faces were made up to look like pussy cats and whose vaginas looked like beavers lolling in a pond, paraded wantonly every half-hour or so. The atmosphere had the flavor of a disco, circa 1977, which may have explained the marked absence amongst the denizens of waxing or shaving. The grooming, as I would later learn, reflected the segment of Brazilian society that still held on to the all-natural fashion sensibility of a bygone era.
    The entire seating area was in shadow, with lots of private crannies, where I noticed figures engaging in a variety of sexual acts. I’d once been in a restaurant in Hong Kong where the room seemed to be swaying like the car on a Ferris wheel, and when I sat down at my table I realized the floor was covered with snakes, which were cooked in little pots in front of the diners. The floor of The Catwalk reminded me of that restaurant, except the snakes were replaced by writhing, naked bodies. I felt dizzy until I realized there was an orgy taking place at my feet. Girls whose heads weren’t bobbing up and down in acts of fellatio were on the floor performing sixty-nine with each other, or with anyone who was interested and could afford to pay for it.
    I soon realized I had made a mistake in jettisoning my tight jeans, since I had a tremendous hard-on that wouldn’t go away, no matter what profoundly asexual thoughts I tried to conjure. Though Manhattan isn’t Rio, the first days of spring usually bring an onslaught of women in revealing attire, and when I get hard in a crowded subway or bus after unavoidably rubbing up against a woman, I think about the Holocaust. I’m Jewish, so I feel little guilt about appropriating images from the concentration camps for my own dubious purposes. But in my present straits, none of the usual tricks seemed to be working, and there was nothing I could do to camouflage my condition. I realized I was in danger of being raped. All a Tiffany would have to do is sit on me. I decided that the best thing I could do was to keep in motion until I found the Tiffany I was looking for. So I took to the dance floor, where the blaring classic ’70s disco beats of Donna Summer and the Bee Gees had given way to the soft merengue of “Push Push in the Bush.” I have never had any problem dancing by myself. In fact I frequently dance in front of the full-length mirror on my closet door at home, pretending I’m a rock star should a song like Rod Stewart’s “Baby Jane” come on the radio. In this case I just had to be sure to keep a substantial distance between myself and anyone else, and above all avoid poking the other dancers with my stiff prick.
    The mix of naked, pheromone-producing bodies must have acted like a drug, because I wound up doing the macarena with a small dark-haired woman. She had big almond-shaped eyes that looked like they were constantly welling up with tears. I thought she was crying because she didn’t like being paraded around in front of a group of men whose collective horniness had been provoked to the point of histrionic frenzy. Perhaps she was one of those women who had been lured into a sub-prime mortgage and now had to sell her body to avoid foreclosure.
    Later I would learn that the name of the girl I was dancing with was, in fact, Tiffany. She had hypnotized me, and when I came out of my trance I realized that she had inordinately