Rio, Rio by the Sea-O. Beautiful, tropical, sensual Rio. I stepped from the hotel lobby and the oppressive heat surrounded me, inundated me, sapped my strength and left me wilted, soaked and tired... and that was before I made it down the steps and to the sidewalk. My friend and I found a Chope house and ordered a round of the ice cold beer popular in Rio.

Rio is: the smell of diesel as the buses roar day and night, three cars driving in two lanes, ignored traffic lights, the tropical heat sapping your body, Caipirinha - the national drink made with fruit juices and a powerful liquor made from sugar cane that packs a wallop, walking out of the tram on Sugar Loaf and seeing monkeys in the trees where there ought to be squirrels, a profusion of tropical flowers growing everywhere, the smell of urine wafting up from the alleys below your hotel window, standing at the feet of Jesus with Rio spread out below like a postcard, tall buildings with windows that open because Brazil can't build an air conditioner to cool a building, poor kids dodging cars and juggling in the middle of busy avenues trying to get tips from the tourists, and women, beautiful women in almost no clothing but clothed in dignity as they stroll the avenues.

What is it about Brazilian women? It's funny: they wear the same ugly clothing as young American women, belly shirts and dirty jeans, but Brazilian women look beautiful and American women look like slobs. We watched women strolling by as we sipped our ice cold Chope. A group of obviously American women walked by, looking sloppy, followed by some Brazilian women looking provocative and yet refined I turned to my friend as she turned to me. "You thinking what I'm thinking?"

"Yep."

"They're wearing the same clothes and really they aren't much different physically. Why?"

"Because the Brazilian women aren't afraid to be feminine," she said.

I turned back to the street and looked at the two groups of women. I was shocked by what she said. And yet I felt she was right. The Americans clumped along like farmers with their boots stuck in the mud, their shoulders slumped and their faces wearing expressions of disdain. The Brazilians walked with straight backs and dignity and strode like women proud of their femininity, exuding a quiet and confident sexuality.

When did Americans lose that? Did Steinem and the radical feminists convince American women that success is equal to not being feminine? Or did we never have it? After all, America is the home of the Shakers, who believed that only by avoiding all sensuality, all sex; even for procreation could you come close to God. The Shakers, of course, are gone. A group that avoids sex quickly dies out. As Maugham pointed out, "You know of course that the Tasmanians, who never committed adultery, are now extinct."

So my friend and I sat, sipped the ice cold beer and watched the beautiful young women of Rio walking by the sidewalk café, and I thought, 'I need to meet a Brazilian woman and find out why there is a difference.'

That evening I was ambling along Ipanema beach. There was a cool breeze blowing in off of the South Atlantic, making the evening bearable, although still warm and muggy. I stopped at a little stand by the beach and ordered a coconut drink. The fellow grabbed a green coconut, took up his machete, whacked a flat spot on the bottom so it would sit on a table, three whacks to round the top and one last one to make a hole where the straw could go. I looked closely; he had all of his fingers, I was surprised to see.

He handed me the coconut, I strolled over to a table, sat, and sipping it, watched the runners, bike riders and walkers go by. I wasn't surprised by all of the people exercising at 9:00 at night. It was too bleeding hot during the day. Even at night it was too hot for me.

I finished the coconut milk and continued down the beach. I passed a couple more of the well lit sidewalk shops. Then I left the lights behind. Of course, the city across the wide boulevard provided enough light to see but the details blurred in the soft evening light. I looked across the wide sand beach to see iridescent waves breaking in the moonlight.

The beach here dipped away from the sidewalk where I was standing. I saw a whole group of young women on the beach. They looked like typical teenagers, fourteen to eighteen, just hanging out at the beach. I stopped and watched. Several of the women noticed me standing there, looked at me and went back to what they were doing.

I saw one young woman, tall, not as dark as many Brazilians and very beautiful, standing quietly. I was entranced. I couldn't take my eyes from her. She didn't notice me. Every once in a while she spoke with one of the other girls. Mostly she just stood and looked out at the ocean her hair rustling in the breeze. I don't know how long I watched her.

"Do you think she is pretty?" a voice asked at my side.

Startled, I turned and saw one of the girls standing on the curb next to me. I'm not good with ages but she was one of the older girls and I guessed her to be about eighteen. "Excuse me?"

"Do you think she is pretty?" the girl asked again.

"Who?" I asked.

"Renata. The girl you are looking so hard. I think Renata is pretty." The Carioca, residents of Rio, don't pronounce the R sound. They make it an H. He-o instead of Rio. So, her name sounded like he-nata, and it took me a moment to understand what she was saying.

I looked at the girl, Renata, again. Yes she was dazzlingly beautiful. I turned to the young woman who had asked the question. She was short and dark and a bit plump. Not exactly my ideal woman but cute enough in that way of a young vibrant woman. I remember the Tom Jobim song, Garota de Ipanema and told her, "Mais linda," which translates, much beautiful.

The girl smiled and her face lit up the evening. "Bom. I will tell her. You wait." And she turned and was off.

What the hell? I watched the girl talking to Renata, who looked my way. Then a few more words and Renata came walking across the beach. The other girl came with her, smiling, as I wondered what I was going to say.

When they reached me the girl said, "Renata does not speak English much. I will help."

I glanced at Renata and she smiled shyly. That smile was radiant. I turned back to the other girl.

"For two hundred Reais Renata will come to you the whole night." The Real, plural Reais, is the Brazilian currency. 200 Reais was $68.

It took me a second to process the information. I was slow because I was entranced by the beauty of Renata. Then, like a flash, I understood. I knew why there were ten or fifteen young girls all hanging out at the beach. I had read that the girls, whose favors were available commercially, would hang out at the beach. These girls didn't look like streetwalkers. They looked like average young Brazilians, tanned, smiling, laughing.

It is amazing how quickly thoughts can flash through your mind at moments like this. I looked at the girls, and thought, teenagers? I'll get arrested. And just as quickly I remembered, the age of consent in Brazil is fifteen. I remembered reading that girls have to be fifteen to get their police permit although there are girls who do work even younger.

Fifteen? Isn't that immoral even if it is legal? There is that famous Boucher painting of a fifteen-year-old Irish girl, Louise O'Murphy, with her beautiful red hair. I've always loved that painting. She was Canova's mistress at the time. The painting is thought to have been a job application to become the King's mistress. It must have worked since she subsequently was mistress to the King of France and bore him two children. I've always wondered why they don't consider books of Boucher's paintings to be child porn. I mean, pimping a naked fifteen-year-old can't get much more child porn, can it? The painting is in the Alte Pinkothek in Munich, in other words, Art with a capital A, and spoken in reverent tones so no one seems to care. Or the famous American statue of Justice, nude from the waist up, was modeled on a lovely fifteen-year-old woman, also thought to be the artist's lover. That statue is in many courts around this country. I wonder if the judges in statutory rape cases notice the irony.

Oh yes. The girl from Ipanema was fifteen when Tom Jobim watched her from his favorite dive, walking to the beach, and wrote the song that made Bossa Nova an International sensation. To Brazilians, that girl is the embodiment of Brazilian womanhood. They don't seem to mind that an 'old' guy was lusting after a fifteen-year-old.

Tall and tan and young and lovely
The girl from Ipanema goes walking,
And when she passes, each one she passes goes, "Ahhh."

At first, I was stunned. I thought the girl had been fascinated with my rugged good looks. Of course, mature reflection would have made such thoughts seem ridiculous. I seldom am bothered with mature reflections when beautiful women are involved. I was disappointed.

I looked at Renata, who was waiting for my answer. I turned to the girl and asked, "The whole night?"

"You don't want?" she asked.

"No, I would want."

The girl laughed and translated for Renata who smiled and looked down at the sand then spoke a few words to her friend.

For $68 this lovely young woman would spend the night with me. "How old is she?" I asked.

I heard the question and Renata answer quinze. I recognized the quin, same as Spanish, fifteen. The girl turned to tell me and I said, "I understood." I wrestled with my conscious for a moment. It was a very uneven contest since I never took my eyes from Renata. She was lovely.

"I would be very pleased if Renata would join me this evening."

The two exchanged a few words and a look in my direction.

"She wish to know why you take time before say yes?" the girl asked.

"Because, I never would have believed such a beautiful woman would want to spend time with me," I said. "It took me a while to believe it." I laughed and told her holding out my hand, "Pinch me. Is it true?"

She laughed and turned to Renata talking quickly. Renata smiled and turned to me and spoke to me for the first time, although very haltingly, "I would be happy to you night."

I held out my arm from my side and she slid her arm in mine. We started back along the beach toward my hotel like many other couples walking in the evening breeze.

I was quite happy to have this lovely vision on my arm. She swayed in the moonlight, laughing now as we talked, although I was sure neither of us understood a word the other was saying. We didn't need to.

When she walks, she's like a samba
That swings so cool and sways so gentle,
That when she passes, each one she passes goes, "Ahhh."

She turned male heads as she swayed along the beach. When we reached the street to my hotel I turned and she smiled, "There?"

"Sim," I answered, yes. She smiled at my accent and hugged herself to my side putting both arms around mine like lovers do when they're happy. I was certainly happy.

As we crossed the hotel lobby I saw my friend sitting in one of the big overstuffed sofas. She looked startled, then raised an eyebrow in my direction and blew me a kiss. I was sure I turned several shades of red. Renata didn't miss a thing and once in the elevator asked, "Know her?"

"A friend," I said.

"Girlfriend?"

"No, just a friend. She was teasing me."

"Teasing?"

"You know, teasing." I made a face and tried to act out the idea of teasing. Renata understood and laughed.

"Teasing. She tease tomorrow?" pointing at me.

I nodded. "Yes, I'm sure she will be all over me tomorrow."

Renata didn't understand all of the words but she got the meaning. She took my face and kissed me, "Make it..." searching for word, "... worthhile."

"Yes, worthwhile."

The door of the elevator opened.

I was staying in one of the nicer hotels in Ipanema as the exchange rate made a first class hotel affordable. A little while before this would have been a $400 a night room. Now, it was $135 a night. But that is Brazilian first class. It was basically Holiday Inn with tropical mold. Perfectly nice but nothing to write home about.

Renata fell on the bed and kicked off her sandals. She pointed at me and said something. I shrugged and she pantomimed, get out of those clothes. I felt my stomach flutter. Was I really going to do this? The truth was there was no way I couldn't do this. I unbuttoned my shirt and tossed it aside, skinned out of my shorts and stood, naked, nude, unadorned before my Goddess. She smiled and scooted across the bed, stood up and took my face in her hands and kissed me. A luscious fragrant wonderful kiss that brought full hydraulic pressure to the system. My cock was poking her in short order.

She reached down and lightly stroked it smiling at me as she did. Then she pulled her dress over her head, skinned out of her lacy underwear and put her arms around my neck, pulling me down for a passionate kiss as our bodies melted together.

We fell to the bed still kissing. Renata scooted down taking my cock in her soft little hands before putting it in her mouth. Her lips caressed the head as she gently sucked and kissed my cock. It was driving me crazy. I looked down at my young angel and I wanted her, wanted her completely, wanted to possess her, take her, fuck her.

I smiled at her and she could see the desire in my face. I smiled. She returned the smile and rose above me. She reached over quickly for her purse and pulled a foil packet out, slid the rubber over my cock and straddled me rubbing my cock over her pussy. It was a struggle to hold my hips still. I so wanted to plunge into her.