Dir: Jazz Duro
The biggest scam in Rio de Janeiro is that the sexy topless prostitutes shaking their boobs and butts at you on the street corners are actually men. Or were men. Now she-men. But goddamn if they aren't convincing.
Thirteen years ago on a skate trip for Big Brother magazine, I was riding in the bed of a pickup truck along the ocean in Ipanema, screaming for our tour guide to pull over so I could photograph the sexy, bare-breasted ladies cavorting about the beach as the sun set over the Atlantic just behind them.
Sadly, he kept driving. He yelled back to me that the whores in the clubs were actual, vagina-having women. Apparently the ones on the streets were men—or at least part men—and my driver told me they would kick my ass if I tried to photograph them. Bummed by the news, I started to pout. I took another look at the six long-legged gentlewomen smoking cigarettes under the flickering streetlight and doubted things would turn violent if I offered them money for their time. I waved. They waved back. Seemed friendly enough.
In the distance I spotted the camera guy I was rooming with skating along a path next to the shore. I screamed to him, issuing the same warning I had just received from my driver. Unfortunately he was too far away and the waves were crashing loudly on the beach.
We had just left a whorehouse called HELP and were heading back to the hotel. I had begged our tour guide to rush me and some of the crew home as soon as I learned the club was not really a club after all, and the woman caressing my zipper did not enjoy my company simply because of my nationality.
"Boy!" I said with gleaming optimism. "They really love Americans down here."
"No, you idiot, this is a whorehouse," someone responded in the darkness.
With that, panic consumed me and I insisted that we leave immediately. It's not that I have anything against sex workers and brothels as a whole, but earlier in the day I had been warned to assume most hookers in Rio have AIDS, if not something worse.
Back in the hotel room, I was watching that silly Homer Simpson get hit in the head repeatedly while yelling, "D'oh!" in Portuguese, when my roommate returned to the room with the largest, toothiest smile I'd ever seen on a human being. Without provocation he began detailing what he considered to be the best blowjob of his life, which he'd just received on the beach. He painted the picture with short, clean strokes so that no detail was missed: the sloppiness, the deep-throating, the finger in the ass, the way the moonlight hit her fake tits. "Say again?" I asked. "Where did you meet this girl?" "It was the craziest thing," he explained. "I wasn't feeling the girls in HELP so I went looking for skate spots, and I ran into this super hot hooker on the street, standing there with her tits out… Best blowjob of my fucking life. I'm telling you."
At that moment I didn't have the heart to tell him the truth about his wonderful blowjob and the birth genitalia of the person who facilitated it. Instead I waited till the next morning, after he finished recounting all the glorious details to our entire 25-man crew on the sands of Ipanema.
I thought he would've taken the news better. I mean, a good blowjob is a good blowjob, right? But his face went white and he fell silent. He walked off without saying a word. A few hours later, I went back to the room to find all his stuff gone. I assume he caught the next flight back to the States, but who knows?
Maybe he went on a quest to find his lover and marry her/him. I'll never know for sure because I never heard from my friend again and none of us have seen him since.