Yolanda was tall and slim with a light coffee-coloured complexion. She had full lips, a straight nose, which turned up a little at the end and dark brown eyes, which were full of mischief. Long black hair cascaded on to her shoulders and she had a broad smile, which broadened as she saw my discomfort.

This time I managed “Erm…” in response to her question.

I took stock of the situation. Here I was, 44 and well past my prime, if ever I had one. And here I was with a young woman who was tall, slim, curvaceous, and becoming more attractive with each passing beer, who was happy to head off with me for a night of “no holds barred” sex.

I was just about to say something but she leaned over and kissed me full on the mouth making me swallow my words, which were closely followed by her tongue.

It’s a long time since I have been passionately kissed by a young woman, and as far as a persuasive argument for a night of steamy, tropical sex it was… well er, pretty persuasive. She had also taken the opportunity to run her hand up my thigh on to my groin, where she had laid her hand squarely on my valuables, which were hard to the touch. After a long lingering kiss she sat back and laughed. - a very pleasant, sexy laugh. She turned to her friend and said “his penis has gone hard”.

There was a loud scraping noise as Miss moon pushed her chair back and stood up to get a better view of my groin. Class. I like that in a woman.

This sudden change in events had made something new raise its ugly head, as it were. It was the thought that, whilst I very obviously had my crown jewels down the front of my trousers, I also had my valuables. That is, I had a money belt with my passport, air ticket and the best part of fifteen hundred dollars in cash. If I was feeling a little vulnerable before, I was feeling more so now, as Yolanda had just located the sort of money it would take most workers in Sao Luis more than a year to earn. Being of an inebriated turn of mind I considered the value of have a message in brail put on my jeans or money belt, along the lines of “please do not touch”. There were two things that mitigated against this idea. Firstly, it was patently the thought of a drunk man. And secondly, I wasn’t sure if, when it came right down to it, it was something I really wanted to discourage.

I lent forward just as the Forro band stuck up again, filling the restaurant the distinctive music of North East Brazil. It was already quite hard to speak above the babble of the background chatter. Now it was virtually impossible. I said a few things but the words were drowned in a sea of noise before they found their way to Yolanda’s ears. She could see that I wanted to say something and obliged by swishing her long black hair over her ear and presenting the side of her head. This included, not only a rather nice ear, but, also a young, slender neck, which was patently designed by the Almighty for kissing and nuzzling.

I generally live my life in a quandary. Its virtually my normal state of being. Now I found myself in a Quandary with a capital Q.

I am quite aware of the fact that one’s brain is divided into two hemispheres but I had the uncomfortable feeling that each side was advancing opposing arguments as how the evening should progress. One part was saying in rather formal and clipped tones that: 1. You are married. 2. You have children. 3. You haven’t had sex with a young woman for a long, long time and you’ll probably embarrass yourself. 4. You may wake up with no money and no passport. The other hemisphere didn’t go to the bother of listing reasons, it was just leering nastily at its opposing half and chanting “Go on, my son”.

I lent forward to say something but found myself gently kissing the soft skin of her young neck. After a while I remembered why I was there and whispered into her ear. It was quite a surprise what I actually came out with. In the end I said “I can’t” into that lovely shell-like ear. Half of my brain and a number of glands couldn’t quite believe what they’d just heard. Urgent messages were sent from a number of important parts of my body, and the part of my brain, which was in favour of a steamy night of passion, tried the cerebral equivalent of putting its arm around my shoulder and trying to make me see reason.

Too much beer, loud music, loneliness and the proximity of a beautiful young woman made me reconsider my position. In the end I said “I can’t” She asked why? I told her. She told me that no one need know and that every time I was in Brazil she would be here for me. At this point my brain interjected, pointing out that I was due a mid-life crisis anytime soon and that I could always start early.

In the end I walked way from the restaurant and along the glistening cobbled streets alone, hunched as I vainly tried to protect myself from the rain tumbling out of the night sky. My brains were still in dispute. Had I done the right thing? Are there really many more fishy type things in the sea? Is it the last time a young beautiful woman will ask me such tempting questions?

I tramped into the foyer my hotel, my head spinning because of all the alcohol I had imbibed. I climbed the stairs. I entered my room. I irrationally got angry with myself. And then, I slid between the sheets of an unoccupied bed.

“What do you dream of in bed?”

“Missed opportunities” I said to my self. And fell asleep.
  SEX IN THE BRAZILIAN CITY
She was looking straight at me and I was starting to feel a little uncomfortable. “What?’ I said. I looked directly back into those big eyes,which projected an expression of hope tinged with desperation. What was worse, was that she was small and obviously pregnant, and I was rich and eating in an expensive restaurant in Sao Luis capital of Brazil’s poorest sate, Maranhao.

I must radiate the impression that I am a bit of a soft touch in much the same way a large planet exerts a gravitational pull on passing celestial bodies. Poor, desperate people and creatures circle in on me like moths around a flame whenever I eat in a street café in any poor country. During this particular evening I would end up buying peanuts I didn’t want, chewing gum, I didn’t want, a bracelet I didn’t want and giving half of my dinner way.

I gave in and started to cut a portion of fish. Her large eyes continued to watch me intently. I then accidentally-on-purpose let a large morsel of fried fish slide off my plate onto the pavement.

I like cats. They are quite unlike dogs. If it had been a dog sitting under my table then, the fish wouldn’t have hit the floor. As it was a cat, even though it was an obviously half-staved, pregnant cat, it just looked at the food. It then looked at me. It looked at the fish piece again. And, finally, it looked at me again as if to say “So that’s it, is it?” As a person who regularly talks to himself when travelling alone I have little trouble talking to animals. So I said “What were you expecting?” It continued to stare at me. “That’s good fish that is” I explained. “Its probably the best tit bit you have ever been offered and you’re looking at me as if I have tried to poison you”.

May be people here did use this technique to reduce their feral cat population? May be that was why she was so cautious? I decided to try to ignore her and I sat back in my chair and looked in every direction but down at those big green eyes.

I took in my surroundings. I was in the very heart of the colonial city of Sao Luis sat outside one of the more expensive street cafes in town. The cobbled street on which the restaurant was set glistened. A heavy down pour during the afternoon had soaked the streets but had fortunately given way to a steamy yet dry evening.

I liked Sao Luis. Compared to many of the Brazilian towns and cities I had visited, it had a relaxed and laid-back atmosphere. However, it is an extremely poor place, so poor that the beautiful, tiled colonial buildings showed signs of serious decay and very little maintenance. Luxuriant plants grew out of the façades of many of the buildings in the old city centre. It was a place where the splendour of a rich colonial past had just been allowed to fade gracefully over the centuries without the “improvement” as seen in other places..

Most of the street tables of the café were occupied now and, as I looked around I could see a couple of young women giggling as they looked in my direction. “Now look what you’ve made me do” I whispered out of the side of my mouth to the cat. “They think I am mad and talking to animals” I looked down. The fish morsel had vanished and she was looking expectantly at me again.

As the evening wore on I bought peanuts I didn’t want from a lady with a beautiful open face and a bracelet I didn’t want from man from Manaus who was christened BR by his parents because they travelled so much – BR is the prefix to the major interstate roads in much the same way as M is in the UK All the time the girls on the neighbouring table were looking my way and occasionally waving.

It was a huge meal and I couldn’t eat it all. In the end I had come to an arrangement with the waiter who put the remaining food in a doggy bag so I could give it to BR to take away. I tipped the waiter and both he and BR looked happy with the arrangement. As I stood up to leave one of the girls on the next table beckoned to me to come over. I walked over. They invited me to a beer and to sit and talk a while. So I joined them.

They asked me my name and my age. They said they thought I was much younger. I thought “I like people who say such things” They enquired politely as to whether I had enjoyed travelling around Brazil. To which I responded that I had. After some time they asked me if I was married? to which I replied yes. Did I have any children? To which I replied a boy and a girl, aged 7 and 12. After this they went into a sotto voce conversation in rapid Portuguese at the end of which they shrugged at each other and then turned there smiling faces back towards me.

“What do you dream of in bed?” said the one I had privately named Miss Moon because of her pale, round face which was unfortunately cratered with the after effects of acne.

This took me a little aback. I was tempted to reply along the lines of “being chased by giant slugs through the cabbages, turning up to school with no clothes on, falling… “ but I don’t think that was the answer they were looking for and all I managed to say was “Er…”

Miss moon’s friend, who had already introduced herself as Yolanda continued “Whatever you dream of in bed. We’ll do it. Girls from Maranhao are hot” Then they lent back in their chairs and tried to read the expression on my face. They didn’t need reading glasses.

I must have had a far away look on my face as my brain tried to register exactly what had been said. But before I could answer, it started to rain. In the tropics there are not always a few warning drops before the heavenly faucet is opened. And so it was, that before we were out of our chairs and running for cover, we were soaked through.

Inside we were fortunate to get a table, but the two girls started to argue as to who was going to sit next to me. They then turned on me and asked me to choose. I chose Yolanda and Miss moon scowled at me for quite a while afterwards. The restaurant was crowded and the tables were jammed together to get all the diners in out of the rain. This left Yolanda very much closer than we had been outside and she took the opportunity to see what the inside of a slightly over-weight, forty-something, English thigh felt like.

They returned to the question that had been so rudely interrupted by the rain. “Do you want to have sex at my house or your hotel, you choose?” Yolanda said sweetly.
 
© Edward Parker 2006 - all rights reserved
© Edward Parker 2006 - all rights reserved