Free Seven Days in Rio by Francis Levy Page A

surrounded by gardens. Tiffany entered a security code and an electric gate opened. We drove to the end of a long gravel driveway that led to the entrance of the stucco-walled mansion itself. There was a strong Oriental influence in the structure, which was like an enormous pagoda covered with an elaborate tile roof. Despite the guards all around, there was an air of total freedom, as the doors to the rooms (including bathrooms) were all open. I no sooner walked in than I passed a bedroom where a couple was involved in an act of vigorous missionary sex. There was a winding marble staircase, which reminded me of Auntie Mame , especially when Tiffany called out what I took to be the equivalent of “Hi, Mom” in Portuguese and a stunning creature wearing a long, open silk robe descended the stairs to greet us. I loved Tiffany, but when I saw the mound between her mother’s legs, which actually looked like a raccoon, I knew I was in real trouble. If there is a psychoanalytic term for the desire for the mother of a woman you want to fuck, I was suffering from it. I should have seen the writing on the wall, but I wasn’t looking at a wall when Tiffany’s mother held out her hand.
    “Kenny Cantor,” I said taking her hand into mine.
    “Tiffany” she replied in a matter-of-fact tone that acknowledged the provenance of her name. Her breasts touched against my seersucker jacket as she kissed me on both cheeks in the European style. Her name was actually Tiffany de Los Santos Salazar. “I’ve heard so much about you. I’m looking forward to fucking you later,” she purred.
    I wasn’t sure how she could have heard about me, but in the age of high-speed Internet and the Blackberry, anything was possible. I had noticed that Brazilians texted almost as much as they fucked. I also realized that from a psychoanalytic point of view the situation in Tiffany’s house conformed to neither the classical Oedipal nor interpersonal models, and that I might need a more cutting edge approach in order to understand the relationships within the family.
    “Tiffany, your father wants to see you before dinner.”
    “He probably just wants a blowjob,” she giggled.
    The nudity and intergenerational fucking were surprising — all the more so since, glancing at my watch, I realized it was three in the morning. Like all college kids, I went out for hamburgers or pizza after late-night parties, but in Tiffany’s family everyone dressed up for dinner in the wee hours of the morning. In fact it was the only time they dressed. Like Jews who recline at Passover, by the end of the meal the women had their slinky dresses pulled up to their navels so they were ready for the obligatory tango that followed all major meals. That was in fact how Tiffany and I almost consummated our relationship. We were dancing closely in a style that used to be called The Grind when I was in high school, and Tiffany simply reached into my little bikini underwear and stuck my penis into her. It didn’t take much since my erection had been growing ever since the meal ended, and she lazily began to pull her elegant gown up to reveal her fury cunt, which I had nicknamed Che (after Che Guevara), but just as I was about to come, my eyes locked with her father’s and I lost my erection.
    The short-circuiting was so overwhelming to my senses that it must have eradicated some of the mnemonic pathways between the hippocampus and the prefrontal cortex. I’m a bit of a heretic when it comes to orgasm, which I believe has transcendent and even religious facets that divorce it from the vicissitudes of the conflicts that preoccupy psychoanalysts, so I was surprised by the failure I was experiencing.
    Despite the disorientation created by the blockage of my own energies, I noticed that Tiffany’s mother was dancing with one of the waiters who had served dinner. I couldn’t help associating her hairy pussy with the hairstyles of geniuses like Mozart, Beethoven, and Einstein.