Friday Nights in Lapa

[mjd]

Thanks to Carlo for his recommendation to check out Lapa. Last month I finally had a chanc to check out the scene. It's busiest on Friday nights but Saturday is pretty busy, too. I took the metro from Siqueira Campos to the Cinelandia station and then walked (although taxi is probably safer) over to Lapa. I ate dinner at Rio Scenarium, an incredible old mansion featuring choro bands, MPB, and some vocalists. RS is located on Rua Lavradio and usually has two shows a night. The food is excellent and the cover charge only 18R$. I left around midnight and strolled through the streets which were jammed (wall-to-wall with festive Cariocas. Cabaret Casanova was my first club stop and it was hot -- both the temperature and the guys. It's basically a gutted shell of an old mansion and its so full of shirtless hotties that the temperature and humidity is steaming. They had drags and strippers. The bar is in the rear and they had some pub munchies as well as a dark room for quickies. The music was loud and even with the high ceilings it was pretty smoky, but nevertheless it was a fun visit.

 

People are selling drinks and food in the street and while I think all ages would feel comfortable there, its certainly filled with hotties. I met a guy at Meio Mundo who told me of gay orgies under the arches but it must have been intermission when I passed through because I didn't see sex in the streets (although I think lots of the people there would be ready and willing).

 

Near to Lapa I also stopped by the Star club. You pay something like 25R$ to enter but then the drinks are all free. It was very much like a neighborhood bar and disco. No attitude, no stand and model gorgeous hunks, just nice people. I think it would be easy to hook up -- guys were very friendly.

[trilingual]

You'll also hear the Star club referred to by it's more common nickname, "O Buraco da Lacraia." It's untranslatable, but if you hear guys talking about "O Buraco" that's the place!

[Guest Gringo]

Tails of Brasil--Summer Diamonds

 

I LOVE Lapa on a Friday night. For newer members who may not have read my take, read on....

 

Bluehairs, barbies and everyone in between comes to the Friday night street party at the Arcos da Lapa. Around midnight the people begin to arrive. Coolers reinforced with duct tape are mounted on rickety three-wheeled vehicles of conveyance. Inside these coolers, cans or soda and beer are covered with ice. Sometimes these vehicles are pulled and sometimes they are peddled. As I arrive around midnight, trying desperately not to loose my cool and begin to perspire, I welcome the vendor and buy a soda. I have a need for a cool drink and he has the goods. Standing directly in front of me, he reaches above to get me a straw. Inches away from his armpit the unmistakable musk of a working man does not offend me. He is searching for a place to setup his business. People are beginning to gather on the promenade and he wants to be well positioned to sell his drinks.

 

Josemar looks in my eyes as if I am the most interesting person in the world and engages me dead square in the face. His beauty is undeniable, and he will not be ignored. His eyes are clear and bright and his teeth are whiter than white. He smiles and his eyes twinkle. I want to lick his neck to taste the milk chocolate of his body. I want to put my mouth and my nose in every crevice. I want to consume his sensuality and absorb his vitality with a passion as brutal as his beauty. Good thing I usually stick with cokes, although with a couple of beers in me I might have a good at it.

 

The street party is about two blocks long. On one side are seven or eight clubs blasting hip-hop and rock into the streets. The gay club is called Casanova. The street is divided with a long promenade—and the parade begins. The painted ladies have arrived along with the transvestites. They already know which corners and spots they will work tonight. More carts appear and magically access electricity to illuminate their delicacies. The vendors of the ever present ka-bobs of beef, chicken and pork lite their gas grills. Suddenly the breeze changes and the smell of their grilled meats is tempting. Other carts offer hot dogs and slabs of cheese on a stick grilled to a golden softness. Also available is burnt corn. Not one of my personal favorites. The grilled cheese and banana sandwich, however, should not be missed.

 

The promenade becomes increasingly dense with those who cruise and those who simply sit and wait. There aren’t really benches to sit on. Tubes of metal, maybe six inches around have been bent into a U shape and mounted upside down on either side of the walk. Two people can sit on each tube. There are about fifty of these, so let’s say seating for about one-hundred. In between these two banks of tubes hundreds of people walk to see and be seen. The parade has begun. There’s something for everybody. I call these people “summer diamonds.” Some are diamonds and some are not. But you never know, I could get lucky tonight and find the mother load. Some are on the make and some are on the take. Some have a desire to get off, some have a razor blade concealed in their waist bands. You must always be careful.

 

A group of entrepreneurs has begun a parking service business. Parking is available only on one side of the street. As one o’clock approaches, the parking spaces become a commodity. A group of six or so boys have decided to offer the spaces with assisted parking. Not really valet parking, but a service of guiding you into the space (as if you somehow suddenly needed assistance) and opening your car door. For some reason this man has assumed ownership, granted you the privilege of occupying his space, and now expects a fee. It’s best to give him one or two reais. He also includes with his new service a security feature. He will guard you car from any tampering for this fee. Maybe he will be there when the driver returns, maybe he won’t. But it might not be a good idea to deny this man his payment.

 

Josemar has the face of an angle. He looks like an Italian painting of a cherib with full lush lips, but without the long soft hair. Josemar’s hair is short and tight. This style is very common among cariocas and is called “macaco”—monkey. His eyelashes are remarkably long and sensual. Helena Rubenstein would have killed for the bronze highlights of his cheekbones. He tells me he is nineteen. I smile. His torso is lean and there is the outline of his credentials proudly displayed down his leg. He knows I know he knows. We both smile. “Strictly ativo. I adore topping,” he assures me. To confuse his years with his experience would probably be a mistake. Josemar saw me coming about three blocks before I saw him.

 

Two o’clock. I can’t walk the twenty feet between the tubes without physically brushing against at least four or five people. They are the moving masses looking for many things. Some are looking for friends, some are looking for a quick sacanagem, some are looking for love, and some are looking for a place to sleep. The boundaries between Eros and sex, narcissism and exhibitionism are virtually impossible to make out. The breeze changes again and the stench of urine invades my nose. The crowd has consumed many beers. Thirty feet away, part of the Lapa viaduct has become a designated pissing zone. I enjoy the view.

 

An enterprising young man with a white shirt opens a shoulder bag he has been carrying. He has a small metal serving tray he arranges with four shot glasses. He places a small towel across his forearm. In the other hand he produces a bottle of Johnny Walker Red. As a final touch he slides a black bow tie on the collar of his white shirt. “Have a shot of Red. Only four reais.” He shuffles past the painted ladies, barbies and bluehairs hoping his customers will not notice that he has added a little water to his bottle. Another new face appears with bunches of flowers to buy for your new found friend. “Who will buy my fresh red roses? Two blooms for a penny,” is in the air. Find a market, fill a need, just trying to make it through the night.

 

Three o’clock, I switch to drinking beer. I can resist Josemar’s charms no longer; we go to a motel just a block away. He is a garoto de programa. I tell him some of the high spots of my program. “You want many things Gringo.” I smile. Did I catch him or did he catch me? It’s not important. We take our clothes off. He glides his fingers through my chest hair. Most cariocas are hairless, many others shave their body hair. But Josemar seems to be intrigued as he effortlessly hovers near me to kiss my chest. ‘’Are you sure you are only nineteen?” He kisses the question away and puts his hand on my cock. Reaching down, he rolls me on my side and begins to rub my back. He didn’t lie, he was a great top.

 

Among the “many things” the Gringo mentioned was the importance of a good massage in afterglow. But I am not selfish, I return the favor. Moving my hands across the satin small of his back to the hills of his ass, I lean back to kiss the pleasure dome of his cheeks. His body does not smell of deodorant but has the aroma of a sweet nineteen year old youth. Calvin Klein should bottle the stuff. His breathing is deep, but I know he is not asleep. He floats in relaxation as i massage and gently spread the warm crevice I now desire. If I were going too far he would surely stop me. The lube is handy and I am gentle. Josemar’s tightness tells me he has not been touched this way often—he offers no resistance and i’m sure the pleasure is mutual. A few moments after I stop moving and roll to my side, he lifts his head, sort of squints and rubs his eyes. Was it a dream or just a massage. I am thankful that I am in a magic place of uninhibited sensuality devoid of taboos. It gives me the opportunity for such adventures I cannot find in the confines of my own country. But remember, Josemar is “strictly ativo”. Even when you fuck them, if they say they are strictly ativo, I just say ‘’ok.” I used to play God-was-I-drunk-last-night too. Doesn’t bother me in the least.

 

Four o’clock, we are back at the promenade. A noticeable increase in coupling has occurred. The man with the empty bottle of Johnny Walker Red takes off his tie and puts his tray back in his shoulder bag. There are no more takers for the parking service crew—people are beginning to go home. The transvestites and painted ladies shove their earnings between silicone boobs. The food fenders begin to dismantle their portable shops and mount their cargo back onto the wheeled carts. The ice has melted and only chilled water remains to cool the last of the sodas and beers. The wind changes again—this time the smell of candied popcorn fills the air. Ah Rio, I love the smell of Lapa on a Friday night.

[+ Axiom2001]

Mid, although I've had a guided tour to Lapa, I truly enjoyed your read; when I was there-- I meandered the packed streets and sidewalks with Ernani, but we did not enter into any of the 'hot' venues! Based on what you wrote, I hope to go to the ones mentioned!

 

Since I really liked reading and mentally consuming what you wrote--would you be willing be write about some of your other experiences while you were in the "land of the cariocas" recently?

Perhaps you could shed some "new" light for us semi-veterans as well as for the future newbies! Obrigado, man!

 

BTW I like your "mysterious" cybername! Axiom :-)