Brazilian Nuts Don’t Taste So Good

Brazilian Nuts – Not The One’s You’re Thinking Of!

Today, I’ve got a guest post from Paul about Brazilian Nuts. And I don’t mean the variety where you have to use a heavy duty nutcracker to open the shell!

I almost pissed my pants laughing reading this! Here it is!

Paul is a London-based writer. He has travelled extensively across Europe, South and North America, and Israel. He also works for airporthotels.com, which allows users to compare and book flights to get the best deals for hotels near airports.

The Brazilian Nuts Story. Not About Nutrition, Food or Calories!

We’ve all been there. You’re on holiday, the drinks are flowing, the beer goggles are firmly in place, you get chatting to a local, one thing leads to another, you wake up the next morning in a strange bed, and discover….it’s a man!

Ok, well maybe we’ve not all been there. But it is precisely where I found myself during a 3 month tour of South America last year.

Brazil is probably second only to Thailand for its infamous ‘ladyboys’ (transsexuals, to use the politically correct term). In Salvador, a stunning city full of African-influenced architecture and music, they are particularly prevalent. Unfortunately, I only learnt this after the event, otherwise I would have been on my guard.

So here’s what happened:

Adam’s Apple, Anyone?

I was sitting in a beautiful square in the Old Town of Pellorino, watching some live music and enjoying a cool glass of Brahma beer, when an attractive young thing in the usual Brazilian evening get-up of short skirt and crop-top came walking past my table. As she approached she took a stumble, hurting her ankle in the process. She looked in some pain and pulled up a chair to nurse her injury.

I made a sympathetic gesture and she smiled in acknowledgment. She then enquired of my nationality with a simple, “English?”

It was all I needed. As they used to say about the famous old Hollywood lothario, I was In like Flynn. Twenty minutes of banter exchanged in pigeon English later, and she invited me to join her in another bar down the road. I loved meeting locals, and had enjoyed much success during my South American soiree involving both romantic and platonic encounters. Thanks to my impressive track record, I didn’t suspect a thing.

There’s little reason to share the next instalment of the story, as you all have imaginations that will do the job perfectly. Suffice to say that during the night I spent with her in a ‘love hotel’ (these are pay-by-the-hour hotels in South America that are used by ‘discreet lovers’, i.e. prostitutes and clients, cheating partners and even hormonal teenagers), ‘last base’ was not reached. In fact, I wasn’t even allowed to venture ‘downstairs’ at all. Little did I know why.

The following morning we checked out of our room and headed into the fresh Salvador morning air. We jumped in a taxi with promises of being given a guided tour of the city by my new friend. But then things started to get weird.

Before the city tour, we needed to go to the hairdressers where I would be paying for her cut and dry. Then we’d be off to do some shopping, also, I was sternly told, at my expense.

When I politely explained that this wouldn’t be happening, the mood turned. Amid a diatribe of Portuguese I heard the word ‘police’ and knew there was trouble brewing. She jumped out of the taxi and approached some kind of police street patrol.

Within seconds our car was surrounded by ‘tourist police’. I just hoped they really were here for my assistance, rather than being in cahoots with a local trouble maker.

Fortunately, one of the officers spoke good English. Less fortunately, what he was about to tell me was a sentence that no-one should ever have to hear.

“This is a male prostitute and you need to pay him for whatever you did last night.”

The world stopped for a moment as the reality of my predicament took hold. The level of deceit and manipulation that had been inflicted on me had been staggering, but I was also now fearing for my liberty. I didn’t fancy spending any time at all in a Brazilian jail, so I complied, but with a disclaimer:

“Sir,” I said with puppy dog eyes. “You may think me naïve, but I did not know this person was a prostitute, nor a man.”

“That may be so,” he replied. “But it is, and so you must pay”.

‘Forgive me Father, for I have sinned’

So fluid was his response that it became obvious to me that this was a sting in which the police were complicit. I knew that any money handed over was going to be shared between ‘her’ and these honourable men of law and justice.

I tentatively asked how much, and was told 100 Brazilian Reais (around £35). To extricate myself from this horrendous situation, it seemed like a bargain. Not much more than a packet of Brazilian Nuts!

After coughing up, I was allowed to leave. But that was not the end of my humiliation. On returning to my hostel, I was greeted by laughter from inside. Apparently one of my fellow travellers had overheard my side-walk conversation with the police, and had kindly reported back to the rest of the hostel.

I was told that I wasn’t the first person to get shafted in such a way, and I wouldn’t be the last. But it was scant consolation. And no, I haven’t touched any Brazilian Nuts since.

More Brazilian Nut Stuff!

Ha ha! Great post. Somehow, I don’t think Paul’s useful advice didn’t appear in the Global Dating Revolution Guide To International Dating and Foreign Women!