While Sara is bargaining for a little wooden Buddha, I notice three loud men standing in front of a local brothel holding posters with stick-figure illustrations of different sex tricks. I read: Pussy Galore. No Cover Charge

And scan the menu in utter disbelief.

Topless show…

Fire stick in Pussy…

Pussy writing…

Pussy shooting banana…

Whistle blowing…

Razor thrilling show…

The kid in charge of marketing the disco must’ve caught the shock on my face before barking, “We have ping pong trick, we have sex with chicken, and we have blow darts. Come inside, have a look.”

“No thank you.” I say, trying to dismiss him with my hand.

Sara asks, “What does she do with the chicken?”

“Come inside. Have a look.” He speaks in singsong tone while extending his arm towards the entrance. I catch a glimpse of numerous dark skinned women dancing in glowing white bikinis in what looks like a boxing ring. A surge of excitement and embarrassment rush through me. I take Sara’s hand and pull her back into shopping.

“Don’t you want to check it out?” She asks me.

“This is the first bar we’ve seen, every third bar could be selling the same merchandise.” I joke and she slaps my shoulder.

 We proceed to the next sales booth which features an impressive array of weaponry including, Key chain box cutters, Chinese stars, and brass knuckles. I open the knife and inspect the Rambo-style blade. “Though, my friend Dean would appreciate this one. I’d like to bring him something back from my travels.”

“Now that’s a nice knife. How much are you willing to pay for it?” she asks.

“I don’t know $15, $20?” I say inspecting the wooden handle with, sterling silver tang. She makes eye contact with the almond-eyed shop owner, getting his nods of approval before she continues to fit a pair of brass knuckles onto her fist.

“A lot of these are illegal in the streets of Sao Paulo.” She takes a few jabs towards me. This makes the storeowner chuckle. “Ah, you like that?” She jokes while slipping them off her fingers. She picks up the Rambo knife. “How much for this one?”

He offers the calculator out and says, “How much you pay?” 

“What’s your Name?”

“I’m Toto.”

“Hi Toto. I’m Sara. This is my friend Salvador. He’s from America. He makes movies.

“Now, I want to buy from you and bring your knife to Hollywood, give me your best price.” She pushes the calculator in his direction. He hesitates before wrapping the knife in a sheet of newspaper. “OK!” Sara asks me for money, I pull a wad from my money belt and she takes only the top bill which is the equivalent of $5 US dollars. She hands it to Toto. They shake hands. My jaw drops when he hands her the equivalent of $3 change.

She gloats about her $2 purchase:  “Bargaining is an art. You can’t let them know what you’re thinking, and you can’t give in too fast.”

“It’s yours if you want it. Homeland security would never let me bring that back to the states.” I say.

“Thanks!” She’s very happy. 

“What are you going to do with a Rambo knife?”

“I’m going to cut apples and melons and passion fruit. You know in India everything’s so polluted, if you don’t peel the fruit, you might puke it up later.” She jokes

“Oh, that’s nice.” I say “You ready for a drink?”

She takes my hand and pulls me into the nearest sex club. The bar is dark and stuffy. The music is loud and base. American Navy types, Japanese tourists and Australian travelers populate the place. I order one rum and coke and one virgin lemonade from a skinny bartender with buckteeth. Center-stage, there are two women in black lingerie. One topless woman with dark lace stokings straddles the other on a chair. They both writhe around bouncing their perky boobs.

“Tell me if you feel the least bit uncomfortable and we can leave.” I shout in Sara's ear.

“Oh, I’m uncomfortable all right, but that doesn’t mean I want to leave.” She says in good humor. “I’ll let you know.”

The topless woman pries herself off of the seated woman’s lap, revealing an enormous 14” Strap On. The music ends and they both bow. The room oozes a lazy shower of claps.

“Impressive.” Sara says, playing with the ice in her lemonade. I’m re-considering my decision to bring her here.

The dancers dismount the stage, circulating the audience, talking to men and sitting in their laps.

The next song is higher energy. Two new women come out strutting their 6-inch heels, garter belts, and corsets. The dance routine is fast, limber and semi-choreographed. The closest to us, folds in half, takes hold of her ankles, and glares at me from between her legs. After a few more moves she and reaches her long pink fingernails into her crotch-less panties and pulls out a ribbon. It’s red, at first, but she continues pulling, hand over hand like a magician, it changes to orange. Both women are dancing around the room trailing rainbow colored streamers around the posts, chair and bar. The last several feet of violet streamer are extracted and the audience wakes up to applaud.

Sara is riveted,holding her breath as they parade past us. “I have to admit, that’s strangly beautiful.”

“It’s definitely interesting.” I say, putting my arm around Sara, in attempt to deter other women from sitting on my lap.

By the third song, I’ve already polished my drink. Three women come onstage wearing tall combat boots and military jackets. They light and puff on cigars. After a few quick dance moves to unfamiliar music with a strong build, the women position themselves on the floor, one of them 9 inches away from our drinks. She points her high heels towards the sky, and places the cigar in her pussy, puffing away. A few lopsided smoke rings result. Sara buries her face in my armpit, as if we were watching a thriller movie, she cannot watch. She pulls my ear to her mouth and whispers something about the risks of cervical cancer. I wave to let the bartender know we are leaving, throw some money on the counter, and split before the song is over.

“Thanks for understanding. I don’t want to see women risk their health for my drinking entertainment.” She says as we resume our treck through the night market.