Free Seven Days in Rio by Francis Levy Page B

Tiffany’s father was already getting blown and rimmed by two of the pool attendants. I had felt a little self-conscious when Tiffany pulled her dress up and started to dance with me right in front of him, but after we were done dancing and had returned to the table for coffee, dessert, and aperitifs, he seemed totally unruffled by the fact that I had just tried to fuck his daughter.
    I noted almost immediately that possessiveness and jealousy were absent in this household. Here was a family unit seemingly devoid of any rivalry or generational antipathy. It reminded me of the Sullivanians back in Manhattan, who had attempted to break down some of the patterns of Oedipal conflict by abolishing exclusivity in sexual relationships.
    Tiffany’s parents’ home was like an old-fashioned hippie commune, except that it managed to maintain all the trappings — fancy cars, gardeners, pool attendants, servants, and security guards — of aristocratic society. I realized that servant girls getting fucked by the master was no real advance in civilization, since it practically defined the master-servant relationship throughout history, but, outside of the Marquis de Sade, I hadn’t heard of any aristocratic manses where everyone was on such an equal footing.
    I didn’t know if I was falling in love with Tiffany or her family’s way of life. My own family had had a Russian cleaning woman who came to our Kew Gardens apartment once a week, but she was hardly the kind of woman you wanted to see without her headscarf, much less in the nude. I came from a totally middle-class background, which exuded none of the glamour of Tiffany’s aristocratic forbears. My parents mostly sat in front of the television watching Milton Berle and Lawrence Welk, drinking tea and rooting among the chocolates in the thick Barricini boxes for the ones that had the caramel or nougat centers.
    I knew that Brazilians, like many Latin peoples, liked to eat late, but dessert didn’t end until dawn and had many courses of its own, including a segment in which naked Amazonian women with unusually large secondary sex characteristics passed out digestifs and played the bongos. I noticed that whenever I started to make romantic gestures toward Tiffany, she quickly suggested an activity that was more appropriate to a hooker. When I tried to kiss her, she immediately asked me if I wanted her to go down on me. When I took her hand, she wanted to know if I wanted to finger-fuck her, at one point offering, “You can do me in the ass, if you like.”
    While at first I was afraid that I was getting so exclusively involved with Tiffany that I wouldn’t be able to play the field and meet other eligible whores at The Gringo, I now started to imagine all kinds of scenes of domestic bliss with her. Now that I am thinking about it, I realize that my desire was predicated on impossibility. The only reason I let myself want Tiffany was because I realized I couldn’t have her.
    Still, I couldn’t stop marveling at her crotch, and I imagined that hairy bush lying next to me every night, offering me solace like my old dog, whose furry snout was always within reach. I imagined living on this Edenic estate, where I now felt like little more than an interloper. Of course we would acquire an estate of our own, overlooking the beach at Ipanema, saving money by wisely managing and investing Tiffany’s earnings. I would add to the pot by doing a little tax work of my own on the side. I’d pay homage to Tiffany’s great grandmother by playing old Stan Getz albums. I allowed myself the luxury of imagining a whole family. I would ensure Tiffany’s legacy by fathering a whole line of daughters, talented whores in their own right, who would proudly parade their pudenda in the family name.
    I knew in my heart that Tiffany, however introspective she was for a whore, however deep her perceptions and however articulate she could be, even with my penis in her mouth, was basically one of those