Strap yourseves in and feel the Gs fuckbags!
I’ve been to Brazil numerous times but I learned after the first time, bjj training was for the asexual among us, real men go to party. This trip I by-passed the training and nearly killed myself n the process. This time I brought my buddy Nestor with us. He is a fashion photographer who has no problem picking up chicks but there is something magical when he breaks out the camera. He can make anyone look amazing and after a few clicks we generally have a line of women posing.
This trip brought no calm before the storm. I meet some of my friends at a Bodega turn bar/rodizio at night with plastic chairs and tables outside on the warm night. My Brazilian buddy had just broken up with his girlfriend and in the mood to party hard so he broke out a bottle of scotch to kick off right. Nestor breaks out the camera and soon we have 10-20 girls joining us. We take some names and numbers leaving promises to meet up later as we decided it was time to hit the club.
Susio tells us we are going to the hottest club in Rio and by this point I am pretty bent. When we arrive the line to get in is a mile long, literally. “Don’t worry, my brother” He tells me “we’ll talk to the guy at the door.” Our crew, then twenty deep and mostly professional fighters, pushes our way through the line to the front. I actually felt a little bad but then again these guys were the locals so when in Rome… As it turns out, they don’t actually know the guys at the door and what they meant by “talk” was run over. We bum rush our way inside and scatter to the four winds until the ruckus dies down. At this point, I think it is a good idea to keep a low profile so I start chatting up some chick at the bar comparing tattoos when a waitress comes by with a tray of shots in test tubes. Keeping with the ninja persona I’ve taken on I decide to purchase the whole tray, stand up on the bar stool and start throwing them out to everyone. It is actually quite difficult to spend $300 on alcohol in a bar down there but not when you pull this same stunt three more times.
By then the jet-lag and the booze are taking their toll. Mentally I have checked out but physically I danced on for hours. The light turned back on in my head sometime around 3AM when I realized I was in a conversation with some chick named Bianca. Blah, blah, blah… I’m a musician…. Blah, blah, blah… I’m having a BBQ tomorrow. A BBQ? Hey, can I get in on that? Baby, that’s why I am telling you. So I take the number and move on. I may have mauled her too but I am sure I probably did during the blackout anyway. On the ride home, I can’t remember what she looked like and I was sure her musical ability laid along the lines of Zamphir the Pan Flute so I decide not to call her.
Next Night is the big one that I’ve been waiting for, the Chemical Rave in the Tijuca forest. This was insane. Nestor (camera in tow) and I are there and hit the scene like VIPs. I am downing vodka and red bull and am already tweaked on weed. Tony Manero had nothing on me as I danced up a storm with too many chicks to remember. At one point I ended up on a Brazilian television program filming the rave. There were thousands of people, grinding everyone. Among this mass I happen to run into Bianca I blew off earlier. Damn, she was hot. I threw a bunch of “Babies” and “I called you but I can’t figure out the area codes down here”, enough to set up a meet and greet the next day.
We move on and I am back on the hunt. We have settled into the VIP section which has a raised dais with mattresses and couches, no joke, and at this point have pulled a few of the models working the event. It was later I would realize that having a camera always with us was a double edged sword. It attracts chicks but it leaves a trail of evidence. I pick up one of the girls and throw her on the couch approaching her like an Aztec sun god. Forgetting all around me I proceeded to rail the shit out of her. Needless to say, thanks to Nestor, I will never be able to run for public office (outside of Vegas).
Eventually, the sun comes up and we party on until noon. It was then I realized that I had no sun screen and if we didn’t get moving I would die. I convince the chicks to drive us home. That was a surreal moment in the trip. Here I am in this chick’s car, she barely speaks English and I just generally want to get away afterwards. I can’t help but look at them after and think I can’t believe what you just let me do to you. That couldn’t have been comfortable for you. It is then that this chick’s son calls her and for some unknown reason puts me on the phone with him. All I can mutter is “And what is your name? Are you doing well in school? Did you know your mother could put both legs entirely behind her head?” Luckily, I make it back to the hotel room with only a minor bit of shame.
Now what to do with the musician? At this point I don’t want to see her. I assume this is definitely some classical music BS. I decided once again to drag Nestor along. Bianca as it turns out is the lead guitarist in an all-girl Brazilian punk band and was once again hot as hell. I have the memory of a dog and soon as a chick is out of sight and out of mind I assume the worst. Now I am digging this and am ready to lay the smack down on any dude that come near her and her too for the hell of it. Problem is that I’ve slept a total of five hours in three days. That’s like trying to get an erection at a Weight Watchers convention. Even in the best of times a guy needs a little help and thank god we have our top scientists focusing on what matters flaccid penis syndrome and male pattern baldness. Fck cancer! I pop a few like M&Ms Nestor and I take Bianca and the bassist back to their apartment and I don’t leave for another week. Once again missing my flight home and calling work to say I lost my passport and couldn’t leave the country.
2 comments:
and you 2 think that posting a story like this up is going to entice me along to NYC.....
come to nyc to cause trouble with this broad....and my ginger friend :)
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