In Her Words
Rediscovering the Lost Art of the Dance-Floor Makeout
A single girl pursues passion in Brazil
-Shoegirl, Courtesy of the San Francisco Scene
In efforts to shred all hesitation and be bold, my pal Mazz and I skipped the usual turkey dinner and headed south for Thanksgiving this year.
As we boarded the plane, we stripped ourselves of prudish thoughts, work anxiety, American mores and anything else that would hinder us in our hedonistic quest. We were going to Brazil, and we were going to embrace oily tanners (risking skin cancer), thong bikinis (risking exposed cellulite), samba steps (risking humiliation) and a newfound lust for life.
Thong bikinis on overweight men are indeed noteworthy, but the thing that amazed me the most about Brazil is the smiles. Everyone is ecstatic to be alive – from the children playing soccer in the favela streets to the 90-year-old wrinkly grandmothers dancing samba to the models strutting their stuff down the sandy boardwalk. I realized the main reason behind the smiles: sex. Sex and lots of it. No one waits until the third date here. They don’t even wait until they know your name. You walk across a dance floor in a club and two strong hands grab your waist from behind. You flip around and there before you know it, you are given the “Brazilian handshake,” the typical male-female greeting of a tongue heartily thrust down your throat. Well, hello there, mister!
After a quick “is-he-is-hot-enough” check, you handshake him back. Depending on the angle, it’s sometimes impossible to really see his face. Therefore, many times a friend must be recruited to give you a hand signal indicating if you should go in or not. For Mazz and I, pulling the ear meant “oh, yes, baby” and touching the nose meant “get the hell away from that dwarf.”
If you are lucky and landa hot one, after a dance or two you are thrown up against the club wall for the next step in getting to know each other. Within an hour, you are asked if you want to go “down by the lake,” which is code for “do you want to make dirty jungle love in the backseat of a tiny Fiat with no power steering?” Sadly, Mazz and I have lived in the U.S. for too long. Going Fiat just wasn’t going to happen.
I tried to explain this to my first stallion like suitor. “But I do not understand you Americans,” he said in his meshed Portuguese-Spanglish. “Us beautiful. Sex beautiful. Feels good. What’s the problem?”
What WAS the problem? Why can we be makeout whores but refuse to go much further?
In the age of condoms, birth control and dental dams, what was stopping us? Do numbers on the bedposts really mean that much? Are we afraid of falling in love with our one-night encounter? Or are we basically OCD with cleanliness?
Pushed up against a wall, Georgi and I were enjoying the Brazilian process for getting to know each other. As his hand crept up my skirt, I was infused with passion and wildness … but as the hand crept farther up, I couldn’t stop my American mind. Where else has his hand been tonight? How many hos has the hand ho’ed? Has he even washed it? Where was the Purell when you needed it?
I had to escape. I hastily gave out an illegible phone number and headed to the bar, destined for vodka. Mazz was talking to an attractive stranger and suddenly swept up in a mouth-cleaning embrace (the Brazilians are not shy kissers). Ho hum … what should I do? … I scanned the crowd, not wanting to be left out. EVERYONE was making out! Seriously, once the clock strikes 2 a.m., the entire dance floor is paired off. Thankfully, a solo attractive approached me – the brother of Mazz’s new friend. And there we go: round two makeout for the evening. It’s a stay-put lip-gloss paradise. But once again unwilling to Fiat, Mazz and I headed home, amazed at how much fun kissing can be. We decided: We are bringing back making out to San Francisco! Full-on tongue at the local dance floor.
The next day, Georgi called me, asking me if I wanted to hang out again and perhaps resume our getting to know each other. However, kissing Georgi seemed like ages ago – why commit to one when I was in hot-surfer paradise? It was time for another evening of boldness.