by Young
That night when we were at Centaurs, the place was packed with international male revelers and bootylicious sex workers of every conceivable surgically enhanced bosom and booty sizes.
Tad, Mario, and the spirited Roberto disappeared in separate directions with several ardent ladies of the night while Curt, Andy and I were left at the bar to espy the patencies of this rattling enterprise. Women with beautiful faces and stunning bodies gravitated in our direction as we avoided eye contact with these magnificent creatures of the night.
Sergio, the handsomely gruff barman, sensed our trepidations and drifted our direction.
“Where are you guys from?” the bartender inquired.
“Germany and the United Kingdom,” Eberhardt answered on our behalf before he added, “And how long have you been working here, Sergio?”
“Four years. I’ve seen many displays of grandiosity during my time here. Anyone with money can live big at Centaurs,” the Camarero answered preposterously.
Just as he was about to continue, he was waved away.
He resumed unapologetically upon his return, “One evening, a rich dude shelled out several thousand dollars to reserve the master suite along with twenty girls. The gangbang, the strap-on, the ‘naked walk through the house,’ are everyday occurrences here.”
The man was called away again.
When he reappeared, he commented musingly, “We nicknamed this prim and proper patron, Couve-flor (Cauliflower). Whenever he is here, he would hire two girls and have them shove Chokitos (a texturized chocolate candy bar) up his ass. To satisfy himself, the girls had to order him to eat the Chokitos out of his own butt while they spanked him in the process.”
Andy queried, “Are you not fazed by this brazen display of sex for sale?”
“I am a Carioca (a native of Rio de Janerio). In Copacabana, prostitutes are everywhere. When I was an adolescent, I would take girls to the water tower of my building and have sex with them. Everyone does it, including my schoolmates and we talk openly about our experiences. When we were old enough, we graduated to fast fodas (fast fuck) houses,” the Brazilian announced proudly. “Sex is in our blood. Every Carioca loves a good whoopee.”
I inquired, “Has any of the patrons tried to get you to have sex with them?”
The barman responded cheerily, “Of course they have. They want to pay me to sleep with them or to watch me fuck the girls they paid for.”
“And…, do you?” I asked.
The Mixologist laughed-out-loud. “Being a staff of this institution, I am forbidden to bed the customers. But…, there are ways around it.”
I stared at the rogue and waited for more. He did not respond until he returned from another round of his chores.
“There is always The Clube,” the bartender advocated.
“What is The Clube?” my Valet asked.
The Camarero answered wickedly, “Sometimes, I go there after work. It is a men’s sauna near the area where the travesties (transgender sex workers) hang out.
“One night, a man was pounded by a group of travesties in skintight dresses and high heels. The fool had the temerity to pickpocket one of their friends. When the guy tried to pull the trick again, they took their revenge.”
Before we knew it, two Garotas (lassies) had settled themselves on either side of my tutor and my Valet. Gio, one of the females overheard the last part of our conversation and vented in broken English. “We are cut off and the misconstrued people in society. I’ll make my voice heard. We trade bodies willingly and purposefully for a living. Instead, we are branded as pariahs. People forget we are mothers, sisters and have families.”
Curt commented puzzlingly, “What makes you turn to prostitution for a living?”
“Pretty boy, everyone is a whore in our own way,” she quipped.
Her veracious declaration put a stop to Eberhardt’s sanctimoniousness. Instead, her lurid hands worked their way around Eberhardt’s curly hair before she inserted them into his semi-unbuttoned shirt. The German halted her advancement when she leaned in to kiss him.
My teacher asserted, “First and foremost, I can’t afford you. Besides, I’m not in the mood for sex.”
She made no attempt to pull away but resumed her exertion.
“I want to fuck you,” she challenged.
Valentia who spoke no English mirrored her girlfriend’s exploits. She also backed away from my chaperone.
Gio attested sarcastically, “I not sexy enough for you? Or are you a homo?”
Her proclamations did not sit well with my teacher who contested. “My decision has nothing to do with you nor is my private life any of your business.”
Both Garotas kvetched in Portuguese before they left us in a huff.
The hawk-eyed barman announced before he gave us a mischievous wink, “The girls like the both of you. Most likely, they’ll not charge you for their services. When Gio and Valentia solicit men they like, the guys are bound to have a good time. They are excellent love makers.”
Andy questioned, “How much do the girls charge?”
“Their fees vary with individual customers. From not having to pay to three thousand reais per go,” Sergio noted.
“How do they determine their fees?” I queried naively.
The Mixologist giggled effusively before he disclosed, “If you are handsome, like you guys, no fees are required. But if the client is less pleasing to the eye or unattractive, their charges climb accordingly. And if they are rich and famous; then they’ll have to pay an exorbitant tariff.”
I questioned, “How much do the Garotas here earn a month?”
“If it’s a busy month, they can earn as much as twenty to twenty-five thousand reais.”
“Wow! That is a pretty good paycheque,” my Valet exclaimed.
The bartender added, “That is true, but the girls also need a lot of emotional stability and equilibrium to do what they do. A Garota told me that she works four days and services four clients per day. She stops until her money runs out. Then, she gathers herself to do it again. Her dilemma is to disconnect sex from affection.”
Eberhardt bored by the elusive coming and goings of the bar suggested we proceed downstairs to the spa. Before we parted ways with Sergio, we agreed to meet the following night after the Miss Brazil World beauty pageant. He would be our guide to The Clube.
Below Stairs
The floor below housed a wet, and a dry sauna together with a cold pool next to the public shower stalls. A series of massage rooms lined the corridors. Below stairs, the ambiance was unhurried as compared to upstairs. Since females were out-of-bounds in this male-only domain, this penis exposed area resembled that of a fancy gym locker room.
Our antsiness morphed into wonderous relaxation as the three of us wondered between the furiously hot saunas and the chilling dip pool. This was indeed a comfortable venue to catch one’s breath after an intensive erotic workout.
Above Stairs
Moi, the incongruous anticipant, was curious to know what transpired above stairs. Since Andy refused to let me out of his sight, I pestered him until he concerted to accompany me to the upper level. I was pleasantly surprised by the unimpassioned activities that occurred in the back room on the top floor.
I witnessed a fella muff dived into his new friend’s loin while another buried his face in his Garota’s oversized breasts. A third watched his partner gyrate her large booty on his lap and face. Although, these men received what they came for; the women were in the act solely for the money. After all, these performative rituals were, but an amicable sleazy exercise where the concupiscent looked to hookers to fulfill their indecorous fantasies rather than sanction their reveries to run amok.
By the time Mario, Tad and Roberto reappeared, we were ready to return to our respective beds; in readiness for a new and exciting day at Ipanema Beach.
December 2014
A Season’s Greeting card and a handwritten letter arrived from David. He wrote:
Dear Young,
One sunny afternoon, I looked out the window and found Jacob, my 13 years old grandson by the lake. He appeared to be in conversation with someone or something. Yet, there was no one and nothing beside him.
When I tucked him into bed that evening, I asked him whom he talked to earlier. He turned away as if I had uncovered a secret. I encouraged him to reveal the truth and promised not to disclose it to anyone, not even to his parents.
Although when I first heard his confession, I was a little perturbed but not aghast at what he confided. He vowed that he had a dialogue with his dragon friend, Pharon who was lying next to him. They had met on several occasions.
I related your unicorn experience to Jacob. He was relieved to know that he is not the only one who encounters a mythical beast.
Jacob is an intelligent boy, and it is not in his nature to lie. I believe he is telling the truth, even though this came as a surprise to me. Since I was skeptical of your fantastical experiences with mythical beasts, I am beginning to comprehend that other dimensional forces and creatures exist and are in communication with perspicacious earthlings like you and my grandson.
Thanks to you, I have a closer relationship with my beloved grandson. One with whom he can share chimerical stories with. LOL! You will hear from me again, and about Jacob’s fantastical dragon encounters.
I wish you and your partner A Joyous Holiday Season and A New & Successful 2015!
Best wishes,
David
Breaking News (Chapter Fifty-Four)
“Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding.”
Khalil Gibran
Christmas Eve 1968
Rules Restaurant, Covent Garden, London, England
Since my arrival to London in 1964, Uncle James’ annual Christmas Eve dinner with moi at one of the city’s notable restaurants had become a tradition. Since Andy and I have never been to Rules, my English guardian reserved a table at this historic establishment so we could experience traditional English cooking at its best.
Thomas Rule promised his despairing family that he would reproach from his wayward past and settle down to raise a family in the year Napoleon Bonaparte began his campaign in Egypt. To the disbelief of his family, Rule opened an oyster bar in Covent Garden. Not only was his enterprise successful, but it also proved to be a lasting venture that spanned the reigns of nine British monarchs.
Charles Rule, a descendant of the founder, wanted to move to Paris before The Great War. By sheer coincidence, he met a Brit by the name of Tom Bell who was then the owner of Alhambra - a successful Parisian bistro. With a gentleman’s agreement, both men swapped businesses. During the war, Tom Bell became an officer in the Royal Flying Corps, and he left the restaurant to the care of his Head Waiter, Charlie; who had served Charles Rule for many years. Rules flourished over the years and continue to hail as the oldest restaurant in London and one of the most celebrated in the world today.
Throughout its extensive history, the tables of Rules have been occupied by writers, artists, lawyers, journalists, and actors. Great literary talents like Charles Dickens, William Makepeace Thackeray, John Galsworthy, and H. G. Wells had dined in this heritage restaurant. Rules had also appeared in novels and movies by Rosamond Lehmann, Evelyn Waugh, Graham Greene, John Le Carré, Dick Francis, Penelope Lively, Claire Rayner, and in the latest 2015 James Bond movie - Spectre.
Legions of famous actors and actresses had passed through this venerated establishment’s unofficial “green room” for the world of entertainment. Its walls, adorned with hundreds of drawings, paintings, cartoons, caricatures and photographs of the stage and silver screen; from Henry Irving, Buster Keaton, Stan Laurel, Charles Laughton, Clark Gable, Charlie Chaplin, John Barrymore and a list too long to mention.
Luke, the maître d’hôtel who knew my uncle came to greet us as soon as we entered the restaurant.
After our introduction, the maître d’ began, “Rules is a patrimonial restaurant. We are here to offer the best in service, ambiance, and food. These days when everyone is deluged with similar brands, our restaurant ascribes to create something special for our customers.”
Uncle James responded complimentarily, “And Rules does it with flying colors.”
Luke gave my uncle a friendly smile and thanked him for his patronage.
The maître d’ pronounced proudly, “Rules serves the best British food, and we specialize in classic game cookery, a variety of oyster preparations, and an array of pies and puddings. Our able staff is trained in game management controls and treatments at our High Pennines estate; ‘England’s last wilderness.’”
As soon as our food and beverage orders were placed, my surrogate father enquired, “How have you been, lad?”
“I’m doing splendidly. Couldn’t be better, sir,” I replied readily.
“And you, Andy?” James inquired.
My Valet answered reservedly, “I am good sir. Thank you for asking.”
My English guardian glanced at my lover furtively before he asked concernedly, “Is there something that is bothering you, young man?”
My chaperone evaded James’ query and remained quiet before he feigned entrancement by the pictures on the walls. My guardian looked at me for an answer. Since I had no clue to my Valet’s apprehension, I shrugged my shoulders in ignorance.
“It’s an impressive artists’ line-up,” my chaperone declared.
Just then our beverages arrived at our table.
“To the both of you; A Merry Christmas and A Blissful New Year!” my uncle wassailed cheerfully.
For a brief second, James and I noticed that my BB’s eyes had welled up.
“Tell us what’s bothering you, Andy,” James pressed.
Since my chaperone did not answer, Pinkerton commented wryly, “The entertainers you see on the walls gave up a lot of their personal life to be where they are today.”
Without warning, trickles of tears gushed out of my lover’s eyes.
“Andy, what’s the matter?” my uncle questioned.
James and I exchanged looks of consternation and wondered what had washed over my Valet as he continued to sob woefully.
“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t mean to be such a sentimental fool,” Andy apologized.
“I’ve been accepted by the University of Canterbury in New Zealand. I commence the first term of my engineering studies this coming Fall,” my chaperone disclosed.
“That is excellent news! Are those tears of anticipation?” my English guardian exclaimed.
Andy shook his head before he opined, “I’m crying because I will miss Young terribly.”
He held his hand to mine and looked me in the eyes.
“Will you come to live with me in Christchurch?” he proposed earnestly.
I stared at my lover speechless and did not know how to respond.
My uncle broke the ice and spoke. “I am so happy for you, Andy. Your parents must be thrilled by the news.”
My chaperone shook his head. “I haven’t told my parents or any of my siblings about my scholarship,” he replied.
“Scholarship!” I exclaimed confoundedly.
He nodded before he resumed, “Yes, the University of Canterbury offered me a full bursary to their Engineering Department for four years. I also applied to Brunel and the Imperial College in London but have not received answers from them.”
James blazoned enthusiastically, “Congratulations, Andy! You will make an excellent engineer. Your parents will be proud of you. This is cause for celebration instead of sadness.”
Tears continued to fall from my lover’s eyes. “I don’t want to be apart from Young. Will you be my better half and live with me in New Zealand?” he proposed to me again.
“I…, I can’t. I must pursue my fashion studies in London and Paris. There are no significant fashion institutions in New Zealand. That country is a fashion void,�
�� I blurted.
My conscientious uncle counseled, “Andy when I was your age, I was in love with a girl named Eunice. I wanted her to relinquish her German veterinarian pursuits to join me in England. She was torn between her passion for her animal well-being and her love for me. We struggled and wrangled for weeks over my proposal. In the end, she chose her career. I was devastated by her decision, and I cried for weeks.
“Over time, my ambition to be a successful financier obscured my despondencies. Now, I am thankful that I followed my calling. There is never a day that I am not invigorated by my chosen career.
“I’m sure the two of you will understand the momentousness of your decisions. To follow your divine provenance. Whatever you choose, choose wisely. Remember, boys, you only have one life in this physicality to achieve your derivation.”
Although I was cognizant of my lover’s university applications, I was not prepared for this unexpected announcement. As thrilled as I was of his Canterbury acceptance, I was also disheartened by our impending separation. Within the deepest recesses of my heart, I knew I had to remain in London to fulfill my chosen vocation. Even though I was immensely tempted to be his significant other, I could not be under his auspice for the rest of my life.