HOT PINGA by Jorge Alvarez
I had never heard of Grossao when I met him in Trancoso, a small beach in the state of Bahia, Brazil, where I went with my family for our summer vacations. Another American who was staying at the same inn told me to check out the Bar Grossao, close by. "They have the hottest pinga", he said. Pinga, also known as cachaca, is the Brazilian rum made out of sugar cane, the alcohol in a caipirinha.
So one day, while my wife is having her siesta, I go to the bar. It seems to be closed. I hear moans coming from inside. When the door opens, who jumps out? My teenage son!
"Darryl! What are you doing here?"
"Dad! I... I came to get... wax! Wax for my surf board... Yeah... Bye now, dad..."
There's a tall black man at the door, smiling at us.
"So he's your son... Insatiable boy, he comes here four, five times a day looking for his... wax... Come in, mister. We're still closed but you're welcome at Grossao's".
I go in. The place is dark and it smells funny. A sinful smell, like sex... Strange. But I see myself in a mission to overcome the so-called clash of civilizations, us against them. I truly believe we Americans have to make an effort to understand foreign cultures, participate in their rituals, submit to their different rules.
"What brings you here mister..."
"I'm reverend Michael. I'm a minister in my church back in America. I heard you have a hot pinga..."
"Yes! I'm Grossao. Nice to meet you..."
He gives me his very large hand inside which mine disappears. I feel an unusual tingling in my whole body at the touch of his skin against mine. The handshake lasts longer than it'd be appropriate. Finally I shake my hand free. He's chuckling quietly.
"We have dozens of different pingas but the hottest is that bottle up there on the top shelf. Can you get it for me? I'm too heavy for this ladder. Do you mind?"
"No, not at all, I'll get it for you".
I climb the rickety ladder, and tell him that I'm a little afraid to fall. I'll hold the ladder for you, he says. I feel his hot breath on my back as I climb the steps. I stop at the top and the ladder slips. Mr. Grossao holds my legs and firms me up. Now his face is pressing against my thighs.
"Is it this bottle here?"
"No, that other one... No... Let me see... I can't see well from here..."
He moves his head and now I feel his breath on my buttocks. I forgot to pack my swimsuit, so I'm using one of my wife's skimpy bikini bottoms, and half of each bun is sticking out. I almost fall from the ladder again and he gets a good grip on my waist. Now I can feel the rugged skin of his face smack against my almost bared buttocks.
What am I, a straight, god-fearing guy, all-American reverend, husband and father, doing here in a remote Brazilian beach with a black giant shoving his face on my butt? I don't care. He seems very friendly. This face-to-butt greeting must be a Brazilian way of male bonding, for sure.
This game of looking for the right bottle takes much longer than it should. It gives him time to rub his face all over my ass, and I let him have his way. He lowers my swimsuit and sticks his nose in the crack between my buttocks. It feels good. It's a very affectionate way of getting to know each other, for sure.
I stick my butt out and he shoves his tongue in my asshole. That feels wonderful. I had never had that done to me before. He takes a long time chewing my ring, giving me a good tongue bath. I feel clean and wet down there. Now there's a foreign custom we should adopt!
Finally we find the famous hot pinga bottle and I go down the ladder in his arms. I feel a little ashamed of my raging hardon. He doesn't seem worried.
"Now let's taste that pinga, gringo. They say it's the most potent aphrodisiac known to man..."
"What are those white globs floating inside?"
"You're going to taste it and you'll find out".
I take the first shot of Grossao's pinga and it goes straight to my head. I feel dizzy and then my asshole starts to itch. I feel a strange warmth radiating from my butt, and a sweet languor takes hold of my body and mind.
In order not to fall I have to support myself on his strong arms. Mr. Grossao wraps an arm around my waist. It's fantastic how in this culture two men can get intimate so quickly. I value that. He gives me another shot and I savor the white stuff that's floating in the sugar cane alcohol.
"What is this white cream? It has a wonderful taste... Bittersweet... Heady... With hints of coconut, banana and cucumber... Mmmm".
"It's the black man's seed".
"Mmm... Interesting. Is that the name of a fruit? It grows on trees?"
"Close your eyes and I'll show you where it grows, gringo. It comes from pinga-wood, a thick black trunk with two large coconut-like gourds. Kneel down here. Close your eyes. You can't see it, it's a familiy secret. Good. Now I'm going to rub the pinga-wood on your face so you can feel its power. Open your mouth. Here's the two gourds".
My lips are touched by two big balls covered in wiry hair just like a coconut. It's a loose sac of rugged leather, with two huge hard nuts inside. They're too big to fit both in my mouth so I take each at a time, making an effort to ignore the powerful smell, like that of a wild beast in a zoo, and the nauseating taste.
Mr. Grossao seems to be happy. He moans his approval, contentedly. I'm proud of my skills in overcoming a White man's ingrained taboos, and in reaching out to a foreign culture.
Right over the gourds I feel against my face a huge wooden trunk, harder than any wood, taller than my head, wider than my wrist and incredibly heavy. I open an eye just a little bit and can see only black. This thing is pitch-black like very dark chocolate. Mr. Grossao sees that I'm cheating and slaps my face, hard.
"I told you not to look, gringo".
"I'm sorry, Mr. Grossao, I promise I won't do it again".
I want him to stay friendly. I have to avoid another blunder caused by my unwonted curiosity. I dutifully let him rub the big hard wood on my face. It's enveloped in a tight skin that feels like silk. The whole thing is hot and it throbs like a living animal. Very unusual wood.
At the top, it has a huge head bigger than a fist, mushroom-shaped. The borders of the crown feel rubbery against my lips. I stick my tongue out and I'm rewarded with a glob of honey that sips from a wide opening at the tip. It tastes at the same time sweet and salty, most peculiar.
In the overwhelming smell I detect a dash of the cologne that my son Darryl uses. I ask Mr. Grossao about that and he says that Darryl has just got the wax for his surf board from this very same pinga-wood. What a coincidence. I'm proud that my boy took after me, in trying to connect with the locals.
Mr. Grossao tells me to open my mouth wide to take the pinga-wood in. He says that if I do it right I'll get more of that delicious white cream, straight from the source. I'm excited. The hot pinga has gone to my head and it's spinning wonderfully.
"Play with the gourds. Milk them. Yeah. Now try to take the crown in your mouth. Open it wider. Ouch! No teeth! Good. You learn fast, just like your boy... Control your gag reflex... Relax your throat... You're almost there..."
Now it occurs to me that this is looking ominously like oral sex, fellatio. But it can't be. No penis is as long as this pinga-wood, nor as thick. I grew up on a farm and not even on a horse have I seen a male organ that large. So that possibility is excluded. It must be some Brazilian ritual, this pinga-wood sucking, that mimicks cocksucking harmlessly. Oof, for a moment I was afraid I might be commiting an unspeakable sin. Thank God I'm clear!
So I suck on the pinga-wood with a vengeance, trying to milk it of all its heavenly juice. Mr. Grossao holds me by the ears and pulls my head hard against the two gourds, when he shoves the pinga-wood deep into my gullet. When he pulls out, the big head pops out of my mouth with a loud PLOP!
I feel the black man's seed boiling inside the gourds as they get tighter and fuller inside their sac. Avidly, I collect in my throat the first hot jet of liquid seed that tastes amazingly good. The whole range of tropical flavors overwhelms my senses as the pinga-wood feeds me with its powerful, curiously masculine essence.
Mr. Grossao pulls me up and licks the cream that's leaking from my lips. What a sweet gesture. He rewards me with more shots of hot pinga from his bottle. But that only increases the terrible itching in my asshole. It feels like I'm shooting flames out of my butt.
"Mr. Grossao, help me. My asshole is on fire. Can you do something to cool me down?"
"Yeah! Put your knees and hands on the floor. Yeah, on all fours like a doggie. Stick out your butt. Your asshole is all red. I'll shove the pinga-wood inside and its juice will calm down your bowels, gringo".
It's strange, but the pinga has made me crave for the pinga-wood inside my asshole. I know deep in my soul that's just the right remedy for my affliction. So I take a deep breath, relax my ring and feel the thick, hard wood breaching my virgin rosebud.
It hurts a little, but Lord, how good it feels! The fantastic heat of the pinga-wood makes me forget the heat in my own anus. It sets an energy flow going, by which my whole body responds with submissive gratitude to the hard wood that's conquering me.
Mr. Grossao holds my hips and pulls me back, completing the penetration of my innards. I feel the majesty of the pinga-wood as it opens unknown spaces up my rectum, making its way toward the colon. My internal organs are rearranged by the invader. A delicious fullness down there radiates through my whole being. I feel completed.
The pinga-wood starts to travel in and out of my butt, as Mr. Grossao gives gentle and not-so-gentle slaps against my buttocks. It must be part of the ritual, so I let him do it. At the same time he calls me sweet names in Portuguese that I wish I could understand, like "gringo puto", "cadelinha yankee", "buceta branca", "eta cu bao!". Later I have to remember to look that up in my Portuguese-English dictionary.
I hump back to get more of the pinga-wood back into my ass. I feel a little demented, that must be the alcohol going to my head. I want the ramming of my butt by this hard wood to last forever. I forget God and familiy, America and civilization, all I want is to be coupled with this new black god and his scepter of hard dark wood, this life-giving log throbbing inside me.
I had forgotten my own hard dick, but it starts to shoot like never before, and that makes my bowels squeeze hard on Mr. Grossao's pinga-wood. That triggers a flood of pinga-juice into my body, a volley of hot jets that scald me on their way to my throat, where I feel again their delicious bittersweet taste.
I fall on the ground exhausted. When I get up Mr. Grossao has already stored the pinga-wood, his fantastic family secret. I tell him I'm coming back for more pinga later. On my way out I cross my son Darryl, who's back for his wax.
"Hi Darryl! I just had the hottest pinga ever. I'm coming back later. Enjoy your wax!"
Mr. Grossao, at the door, smiles at us, scratching his balls.
Jorge Alvarez grossao13@hotmail.com