Gheridge (Part 4 of 5)


“You got her over already, nice,” I said. “So was there sex?”


“But you kissed her right?”

“Nope, not yet.”

It took everything in my power to restrain my displeasure with the speed of his seduction. I had to be gentle. “You know that she’s… Brazilian, right?”


“And that they like kissing?” I couldn’t think of an easier girl in the world to kiss than a Brazilian.

“I know that, but I want to take it slow.”

“I understand. Actually I don’t, but—”

“I don’t want to mess this one up,” Henrik interrupted. “I have a good feeling about it.”

“Oh, dear. Well, I’m curious about how this will go.”

Many times in the past I had made the same mistake Henrik was making, where I changed my typical sleazy game for a girl that I considered “special,” and then watched as she slipped through my grasp. The moment I thought about giving her the special game was the moment I started to lose her. By valuing her as a worthy human being, neediness leaked out from my every pore. She would eventually pass on me in favor of a guy who treated her more (in)appropriately.

Over the years, I’ve learned to be the McDonald’s of game. No matter where you get a McDonald’s cheeseburger, you’re going to experience the same taste, as if the same Mexican from your home city had been teleported to a foreign McDonald’s just to microwave your Big Mac. Whether a girl is ugly, cute, or beautiful, whether she has a great personality or not, I put her on the same fuck track. I don’t slow down my game for the better girls. I don’t take them to fancier bars and I definitely don’t bring in any additional stories or gimmicks designed to make her see me as a more valuable man. When I started to see them as the same, I started getting “higher quality” girls with more regular frequency. My dick has thanked me for it, especially since I don’t need to use condoms on hot girls due to them being cleaner than uglier girls.

I saw what Henrik was doing and wanted to tell him about my McDonald’s theory of game, but that would have offended him, especially since he seemed confident about putting her in his dream girl pipeline. If we were BFF’s, I could have been more vocal, but any heavy-handedness on my part could have damaged our budding friendship. So I bit my lip.

Predictably, things went south with the dream girl. He did kiss her, at least, on date four or so, and I got to hear a vivid description of how wonderful her lips were, but she started taking longer and longer to reply to his messages. She’d interrupt their Facebook chats and not resume them, even though she was obviously online. Henrik’s instincts told him to try harder and do more to win her favor, while hers told her to pull back even further. His dream girl was slipping away, but he was still reluctant to hit on other girls during our Casa and Emporio outings. He said talking to other girls would make it feel like he was cheating.

“Can I study your dream girl?” I asked.

“What do you mean?”

“I want to study her so I can see exactly what she does to get guys like you wrapped around her finger. Then I want to use those moves on girls.”

I think my influence was working, because within two weeks he was approaching girls again. Finally he’d had enough. She never bothered to contact him after returning from a trip, and the next time we went out, he actually kissed a girl at Emporio.

“Why didn’t you treat your dream girl like the random skank you kissed tonight?” I asked.

“Because she wasn’t my dream girl,” Henrik replied.

“Exactly! Do you see it now? When you call a girl your dream girl, you won’t fuck her! By not caring, you put out the best game!”

“I don’t know.” He put his hand on his chin and thought for a short while. “Maybe you’re right, but I’ve gotten my dream girl before, up in João Pessoa.”

He told me the love story, which I admit was romantic and involved several transatlantic flights and declarations of love.

“How did it end?” I asked.

“She dumped me for another guy.”

I pointed in the air, as if was further proof of what I was saying. It was all making crystal clear sense to me. Henrik was too much of a romantic in a modern world where everyone is self-absorbed and selfish with barely an ounce of compassion or empathy. The current model of human female from the factory floor isn’t made to handle the Henriks of the world. He was setting himself up to be repeatedly crushed by the very girls he liked most.

The Monday after he kissed the random girl at Emporio, he sent a message to the dream girl. It went something along the lines of “I don’t know what type of game you’re playing, but thanks to you I did something really stupid with another girl over the weekend.” He didn’t go into detail, but it wouldn’t be hard for the dream girl to conclude that he had fucked another girl.

She replied back almost immediately. “What do you mean? I was just busy. How are you? We need to meet up.”

She agreed to come by for a movie several days later, but flaked on the day of the date. I told Henrik it was completely hopeless and that she was just playing him for shits and giggles, but he tried again and set up a new date. This time there was no cancellation.

I squeezed his arm, looked him in the eye, and said, “Tonight, you’re going to fuck her. No more ‘dream girl’ bullshit. You know she’s not reliable, you know she’s playing games, and you know she has other gringos chasing her. She’s not a dream girl, she’s a slut, and I want you to tell her that as you pump her hole tonight.”

“She’s not a slut.”

“She is! She’s a gringo slut and you have to treat her like one! You know she is—everything she’s done to you has pointed to her being a game-playing slut.”

He frowned, reluctant to accept the truth.

“Look—just fuck her silly,” I said. “Assume this is the last time you’re ever going to see her. Has she given you any indication that she’ll come through for you in the future?”


“Has she done anything to earn your trust or respect?”


“Hell, it’s a miracle she’s even coming over tonight!” I said. “I expect to hear her screams coming through the walls. Just do it.”

I was in disbelief when she actually walked through the door, but then again Henrik is a charming man and easily more interesting than the other frat boy gringos she was meeting at Emporio every week. They went straight to his room and stayed there for at least two hours. A couple times I put my ear to the door to see if I could hear any sex noises, but there was nothing besides his television and a faint squeaking sound that could’ve been anything.

I saw three possibilities. The first was that he was treating her like a Brazilian princess and snuggling next to her as the movie played. The second was that he had made a strong effort to fuck her and had been rebuffed. The third was that he had made the effort and she had opened her golden brown vagina.

My door was open when Henrik walked her out. From the corner of my left eye I saw her for not more than half a second, but I swear her gait had changed. It was flatter and less bouncy than when she walked in. Even her walking speed was at least half a mile per hour slower. Something had happened.

Henrik walked in about five minutes later and stood in my doorway. I looked up at him from my desk and he stared back without any expression on his face. We had a mini staring contest for ten seconds.

“Well, come on,” I said. “Do I have to ask?”

His lips started curling upward. “I fucked her.”

I stood up, nodded, and gave him a double high-five, yelling, “Thank you, god! That’s what I’m talking about!”

After the celebration had died down, I asked how the pussy was.

“It was a great pussy,” he said. “Tight and wet.”

“It’s a miracle you fucked her,” I said. “Now take it and move on. I’m proud of you, bro.”

I knew he would never experience that pussy again, no matter how much he tried. We ran into her at Emporio several times after that. She was always with a new gringo, tall and blond, just like Henrik.

The night before Gheridge, we went to Zero Zero, an upscale club in the Gavea neighborhood. We arrived early to avoid the hefty cover charge and picked a nice spot by the bar on the patio. It was one of the most expensive clubs in Rio, not a place for easy pickings, but we started to grow tired of the mediocre quality of women at Casa and Emporio. Other spots we tried, particularly in Lapa, weren’t much better. There was too much luck involved in finding the next dream girl (a term I started to jokingly use with greater frequency), and our conversations started turning to other Brazilian cities where we could ply our trade. Henrik had his eyes set on São Paulo, while mine were veering slightly northwest, to the state of Minas Gerais.

I bought the first round, a pair of fruity caipirinhas that were feminine in color. Many nights I bankrolled Henrik’s drinks because he had no money. He never asked me to buy him anything, but I fed them to him without asking anything in return because I wanted him to get into a good state that would put me into a good state. I’d estimate that he bought me a drink for every four I bought him, and while I thought about the imbalance at times, I kept the liquor flowing because I enjoyed his company and knew our time was limited.

We were sipping on our drinks when he said, “Roosh, I think it’s time to upgrade your wardrobe.”

He took a hard look at my plaid shirt with the skull-and-bones patch. I looked at it, too, as if wondering whether he was seeing what I saw.

“Look at how baggy it is. It’s like a dress. That’s for the day, but you need something better for the night. Look at all these Brazilian guys here in their t-shirts and sneakers. If you step it up just a little, I think you’ll get a lot more winks.”

Even the Brazilian guys in their basic t-shirts were at least wearing something that showed off their muscles. I spent a lot of time at the gym to get decent-sized, but I was hiding it at the moment, like a girl with a wonderful ass wearing baggy jeans. When I went back to the States, I spent several hundred dollars upgrading my wardrobe, using Henrik as a model. I hate to say it, but he was right—now I get approached by women complimenting my clothing whereas it never happened before.

There were a couple older girls in the corner, and Henrik started the conversation with his cigarette line, but neither of us were motivated to stick with them. I talked to another girl for a while, but it eventually went cold.

“Remember the Danish girls we met at Casa the other week?” I told Henrik. “For a second I thought I was going to fuck a Dane without even having to go to Denmark.”

“Yeah, I’m surprised they flaked like that.” Flake was a word I had taught him.

“And the thing is, I don’t even know how it ended,” I said. “They were completely down, got into the cab with us, and then suddenly changed their minds.”

“They must have done sign language or something. One of the girls kept wrinkling her nose. Maybe that’s the abort signal among their circle of friends.”

“At least we made them pay their share of the cab ride,” I said. “Hey, if I go to Denmark, will I be a rock star and get laid with absolutely zero effort? I’m talking about not even having to shower daily.”

“No, you’ll have to shower and look sharp, but I think you’d do well because your gorilla hair suit will be very exotic. I don’t want to get your hopes up, though, because our girls aren’t that much better than Americans. I mean, they’re better, but there’s a reason I’m chasing Brazilian girls and not Danish girls.”

“Makes sense.”

“Yeah. Those Brazilian girls from Wednesday night were nice, though.”

“It would have been nicer if I had fucked mine.”

“You were close,” he said.

“I think I was a little farther than close. I’m telling you it was that huge heap of garbage right in front of her hotel that did me in. It totally killed the moment. It smelled like we were standing on a mountain of dirty diapers. She ran into the building before I could even weasel my way inside.”

“That’s tough luck, man.”

“It happens.” An idea I had been working on entered my head. “Have you thought about the amount of luck that goes into having sex with a random girl? Like how many little events have to work out perfectly up to the moment of penetration? When you don’t bang, it looks difficult and hard, but when it works, it’s the easiest thing in the world.”

“Banging dream girls is difficult.”

“Fuck, I’m saying it shouldn’t be difficult. If it is, then you’re putting way more into it than you’re ever going to get out of it. Look at you with your dream girl—all that work for one little fuck.” I paused, then added. “You know, I still don’t believe you banged her. That made me question my whole model of game. If I witness something like it again, I may have to update my theories.”

“Are you going to write a book on it?” he asked sarcastically.

“I might. I’ll call it The Man Who Made Every Mistake In The Book But Still Got Laid.”

He smiled. “Shut up, you stupid American. You don’t know how to treat a woman.”

I thought of calling him a snobby European, but I concluded that he would have taken it as a compliment, so I just said, “Whatever, fancy boy European.” Then I mocked the effete way he smoked his cigarettes, but I was disappointed in my insults because they just didn’t have the same bite as “stupid American.”

The club got crowded and we talked to a dozen girls, exchanged numbers that wouldn’t lead to dates, and warded off incredibly mediocre English groupies who wouldn’t take no for an answer. In the cab ride home, I asked him if he thought Gheridge would be good the following night.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” he replied. “The girls will be nicer and cuter, with more of a rock style, so wear your white v-neck.”

“The deep one?”

“The deep one.”

By the night of Gheridge I’d lived in the favela for a little over two months, with only three weeks left. Henrik had two weeks left, so it would be his second-to-last Saturday in Rio. It was dangerous to experiment with new bars with so little time remaining instead of hitting our usual haunts, but as I said, the mediocre quality had been getting to us and plus we were starting to run into the same girls over and over again. We craved a fresh scene with something different. Maybe Gheridge would be so good that I’d look forward to coming back to Rio someday, a prospect that was becoming unlikely as I began to tire of the city, its congestion, its heat, and its gringo-fatigued women.

The day was normal enough. I hopped on a bus to the Leblon mall to camp out at their Starbucks (it had air conditioning—our apartment didn’t). There I did some research on how to get to Gheridge, since Henrik wasn’t very good with directions. He didn’t even have an address, just the name of a little neighborhood way up in a part of town we’d never been before.

I found a bus line that would get us there, but it would be tricky knowing when to pull the cord for our stop, since we didn’t know what the neighborhood looked like. There was going to be a raised train track that ran parallel to the bus, and the moment the track went over a bridge and diverged from the bus route, we’d have to pull. I drew a little map on a napkin with a “Pull Here” label. We had to get it right the first time because neither of us had maps. I would’ve been open to taking a taxi, but Henrik didn’t have much money and I didn’t want to shoulder the entire fare.

I’ll be the first to admit that I take a long time to get ready at night. I have to cook my dinner, eat it, then do the dishes as soon as I’m done (I hate coming home and having to do dishes). Then I take a shower, shave, floss, brush my teeth, rinse with mouthwash, put on deodorant, make sure my hair is perfect, listen to some music, get my condoms, earplugs, copy of my passport, and so on. It takes me about ninety minutes from start to finish. Most guys eat some leftover junk food and then throw on their clothes (total time: ten minutes). On the night we visited Gheridge, I had to do some additional preparation: trim my nose hair, ear hair, and a bit of my chest hair so it didn’t seem like a carpet was trying to fly away. I also had to clean my shoes. By the time we were out the door, it was already 11:30.

“You take longer to get ready than a girl,” Henrik teased.

The walk to the bus stop in front of Botafogo’s dirty beach took fifteen minutes. The bus came a couple minutes after that. We boarded and paid the woman working the turnstile. I could immediately tell that the bus was either going by or directly to the ghetto, and most likely by many ghettos, because the people on board were several shades darker than what you’d see on Ipanema beach. In South America the easiest and most reliable way to judge a person’s place on the socioeconomic ladder is how dark their skin is. It’s not fair, but that’s the reality.

Anywhere else in Rio we’d just be two typical sex-hungry gringos, but on that bus we got stares from everyone. We sat next to each other and I pulled out the crude napkin map.


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