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- Story Listed as: True Life For Adults
- Theme: Family & Friends
- Subject: Friends / Friendship
- Published: 10/03/2025
Edie
Born 1956, F, from Smithville/ Texas, United States.jpeg)
The girl I met in Ipanema was neither tall nor tanned, but she was young and lovely, and her name was Edie. We became friends as a result of hotel check-in deception. I was rather proud of my part in that subterfuge.
"¡Esta prohibido entrar los perros!" a harried hotel receptionist pronounced in halting Spanish to a beautiful thirty-something woman holding a cute little Australian Silkie dog. Apparently, the hotel that I had checked into had a rule against canine guests.
Moments before, I came down from my room in that very hotel and sat in the lobby to double-check my bag that I had everything needed for an afternoon on Ipanema Beach in Rio de Janeiro. I had chosen the Brazilian destination to celebrate my 30th birthday, and it was only the third thrilling day of an exotic two-week solo vacation.
The thing is..I'm a dog lover, and when I heard the cranky receptionist tell this pretty woman she couldn't check into her prepaid room because of the pup, I knew I had to help. The woman argued a little with the desk clerk, but gave up when a manager came and yelled at her in Portuguese. She walked out with her luggage and her little dog. I snatched up my beach bag and caught up with them on the sidewalk a block down.
We stood at a snack bar, or lanchonete, and planned our hotel ruse to sneak in her dog, DJ, as we snacked on one of those delicious Brazilian sub-like sandwiches. And we told each other about ourselves.
Edie's story scandalized me. Well, it did at first when she told me why she had come to Rio de Janeiro in the first place. While I was there to party, dress skimpily and meet hot guys for my birthday vacation, Edie was on a very serious mission.
Edie was a prostitute, a very high-priced sex worker. She was in Rio to, as she put it, "get down on my knees (I think I might have gasped here because she quickly added) and pray to the Monte Cristo that I am pregnant with my customer's son."
"You call them 'customers'?" I asked.
"Customer," Edie corrected me. "I only have one at a time. But this is how Jean-Paul wishes to be considered."
So now, standing in a lanchonete in Rio de Janeiro, I was having a strange internal struggle between my feminism and moral acceptance. On the one hand, women are more than their sexuality, but on the other, who am I to say a woman cannot choose what to do with it? I let it go.
My new friend Edie waited 30 minutes to come to my room after I stealthily entered the hotel with little DJ safely tucked in my beach bag. He didn't bark or squirm, even in the elevator. Good dog! When Edie came for him, she tried to tip me, but I said to buy me a drink that night when we go dancing.
Edie was something else. Over the remaining two weeks, we went dancing at clubs every single night. She taught me how to stick my nose in the air and lie to say my name was Martha Rockefeller. This got us to the front of the lines with usually no cover charge. Free drinks, too. Edie was supposed to be my assistant which was so ridiculous because that just wasn't her style. I asked why can't she be Edith Rockefeller, and she laughed saying that she's from Argentina and that I'm American. Besides, she insisted, she speaks English with an accent. Either way, it worked and we came back to the hotel around 7:00 every morning to sleep 'like Dracula', as Edie put it.
Every afternoon, Edie would go by bus up the Corcovado mountain to get down on her knees in front of the gigantic Christ figure, Monte Cristo, to pray she was pregnant with Jean-Paul's son. I went with her one day and asked her why she wanted his child. She answered that Jean-Paul was the one 'customer' whom she truly loved and that because his wife bore him four daughters, he would divorce her and marry Edie, but only for a son. Gods, gross. I didn't say anything (should I have?) but you can imagine my disdain for a man like that.
Edie vowed to go up the mountain every day for the whole month and pray for a successful pregnancy. She had all these different prayers in English and Spanish. She was serious about this.
And so it went for Edie. Pray at day, party at night. Repeat.
But, the praying didn't take. Edie remained non-pregnant.
A year later, I went to visit Edie at her fine ass apartment in New York City. She'd just moved into a high rise furnished by her new 'customer'. And you wouldn't believe who it was! I mean, I really can't tell you because then I'd be a tattler and could get in trouble, but this guy was a hugely popular boxer. She even had pictures of the two of them on her bedside table. Note that this was almost forty years ago, way before AI or Photoshop. So, I believed her and I was glad for her. The boxer sounded nicer than her former john. Even though he was married, too.
After a few years, I received a letter and a package from Edie. She was moving back to Argentina. She didn't say why. She wished me the best and breezily advised me to "keep on dancing!".
Included in the package was a pair of bright pink, high-heeled shoes. She never asked my size, but they fit perfectly.
Figures. She was like that, she was.
She was my friend, Edie.
"¡Esta prohibido entrar los perros!" a harried hotel receptionist pronounced in halting Spanish to a beautiful thirty-something woman holding a cute little Australian Silkie dog. Apparently, the hotel that I had checked into had a rule against canine guests.
Moments before, I came down from my room in that very hotel and sat in the lobby to double-check my bag that I had everything needed for an afternoon on Ipanema Beach in Rio de Janeiro. I had chosen the Brazilian destination to celebrate my 30th birthday, and it was only the third thrilling day of an exotic two-week solo vacation.
The thing is..I'm a dog lover, and when I heard the cranky receptionist tell this pretty woman she couldn't check into her prepaid room because of the pup, I knew I had to help. The woman argued a little with the desk clerk, but gave up when a manager came and yelled at her in Portuguese. She walked out with her luggage and her little dog. I snatched up my beach bag and caught up with them on the sidewalk a block down.
We stood at a snack bar, or lanchonete, and planned our hotel ruse to sneak in her dog, DJ, as we snacked on one of those delicious Brazilian sub-like sandwiches. And we told each other about ourselves.
Edie's story scandalized me. Well, it did at first when she told me why she had come to Rio de Janeiro in the first place. While I was there to party, dress skimpily and meet hot guys for my birthday vacation, Edie was on a very serious mission.
Edie was a prostitute, a very high-priced sex worker. She was in Rio to, as she put it, "get down on my knees (I think I might have gasped here because she quickly added) and pray to the Monte Cristo that I am pregnant with my customer's son."
"You call them 'customers'?" I asked.
"Customer," Edie corrected me. "I only have one at a time. But this is how Jean-Paul wishes to be considered."
So now, standing in a lanchonete in Rio de Janeiro, I was having a strange internal struggle between my feminism and moral acceptance. On the one hand, women are more than their sexuality, but on the other, who am I to say a woman cannot choose what to do with it? I let it go.
My new friend Edie waited 30 minutes to come to my room after I stealthily entered the hotel with little DJ safely tucked in my beach bag. He didn't bark or squirm, even in the elevator. Good dog! When Edie came for him, she tried to tip me, but I said to buy me a drink that night when we go dancing.
Edie was something else. Over the remaining two weeks, we went dancing at clubs every single night. She taught me how to stick my nose in the air and lie to say my name was Martha Rockefeller. This got us to the front of the lines with usually no cover charge. Free drinks, too. Edie was supposed to be my assistant which was so ridiculous because that just wasn't her style. I asked why can't she be Edith Rockefeller, and she laughed saying that she's from Argentina and that I'm American. Besides, she insisted, she speaks English with an accent. Either way, it worked and we came back to the hotel around 7:00 every morning to sleep 'like Dracula', as Edie put it.
Every afternoon, Edie would go by bus up the Corcovado mountain to get down on her knees in front of the gigantic Christ figure, Monte Cristo, to pray she was pregnant with Jean-Paul's son. I went with her one day and asked her why she wanted his child. She answered that Jean-Paul was the one 'customer' whom she truly loved and that because his wife bore him four daughters, he would divorce her and marry Edie, but only for a son. Gods, gross. I didn't say anything (should I have?) but you can imagine my disdain for a man like that.
Edie vowed to go up the mountain every day for the whole month and pray for a successful pregnancy. She had all these different prayers in English and Spanish. She was serious about this.
And so it went for Edie. Pray at day, party at night. Repeat.
But, the praying didn't take. Edie remained non-pregnant.
A year later, I went to visit Edie at her fine ass apartment in New York City. She'd just moved into a high rise furnished by her new 'customer'. And you wouldn't believe who it was! I mean, I really can't tell you because then I'd be a tattler and could get in trouble, but this guy was a hugely popular boxer. She even had pictures of the two of them on her bedside table. Note that this was almost forty years ago, way before AI or Photoshop. So, I believed her and I was glad for her. The boxer sounded nicer than her former john. Even though he was married, too.
After a few years, I received a letter and a package from Edie. She was moving back to Argentina. She didn't say why. She wished me the best and breezily advised me to "keep on dancing!".
Included in the package was a pair of bright pink, high-heeled shoes. She never asked my size, but they fit perfectly.
Figures. She was like that, she was.
She was my friend, Edie.
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