Dir: JJ Cobs
A bunch of my friends are pro skaters from Brazil and they’re always telling me the craziest stories from their childhoods of murder, drug mules, and prostitution. Brazilians have a natural lust for life that comes across in the way of a huge ear-to-ear smile, which can be rather disengaging when connected to words like, “My father owns a rock quarry in Brazil. At least once a week when I was growing up they’d find a dead body that was dumped in the quarry. Have you ever seen a three-day-old dead body on a Monday morning?”
In America, if you smile when telling a story most of the time you’re bullshitting. In Brazil, they’re always smiling—weirdly, almost uncontrollably. When I went to Rio to check it out for myself I doubted the seediness of it. Three days into my visit I had to step over a corpse to get inside a club. It made a believer out of me. Six hours later the corpse was still lying outside the club, barely roped off with police tape. In NYC they’d tape off the entire city block, but down there, the tape was more like a half-assed chalk outline.
I sort of want to take my wife to Ipanema because of just how serene it is, but at the same time there are parts of Rio that are hell on earth. One of the skaters we were with almost got his stomach emptied with a shiv in the middle of a very happy, very upbeat festival. To this day I’m still not sure what caused the stir but I can tell you my knowledge of Portuguese and my explanation that the guy who did nothing wrong was an idiot, was sorry, and would immediately leave the country were the only things that spared his life.
That corpse club doubled as a whorehouse. Unbeknownst to me, nearly every club doubled as a whorehouse. And there I was thinking, “Boy, they really love Americans down here!” One of the skaters on the trip ended up porking one of the ladies in a bedroom upstairs. He returned and joined me by the bar, exhaled loudly and said, “Fucking girls is just not the same anymore.” “What? When you have to pay for it?” I asked. He then explained to me that whatever Eastern European country he grew up in wasn’t big on circumcision. He spent the majority of his life and the first part of his sexually active years making hump with a highly sensitive eel in his pants. The problem was that as he grew into a teen and then an adult his foreskin did not grow with him and so every time he’d get an erection his flesh would tear. At first it wasn’t that bad but as he aged, he said, it got more and more severe—often covering hot and horny girls with prick blood. Lots and lots of prick blood. Enough prick blood to dump on Carrie’s head.
They eventually had to circumcise him. It was just before he turned 20. He told me he had a lifetime of fucking under his belt before they cut his wang’s toupee off and ever since then he’s had about one-tenth of the pleasure and enjoyment he used to get from sex. He told me he wished he could go back in time and choose not to get cut, that he’d tolerate the blood and the pain and the torn flesh for the rest of his life just to be able to feel how he once felt.
I told him that was the saddest story I’d ever heard.
For more of Chris go to chrisnieratko.com or NJSkateshop.com.