Samba Lessons Under the Sun

The postcard version of Rio had been lying to me for three weeks. I’d memorized the clichés—Christ the Redeemer with arms flung wide, Copacabana’s black-and-white swells, sunset pinched between apartment towers like a golden coin dropped in a slot. I’d eaten them, photographed them, posted them. Yet every time I stepped off the polished tourist circuit, the city felt muffled, as if someone had turned the volume down on the real soundtrack.

I told myself I wasn’t hunting for danger, only texture. But alone in the back corner of the university library, highlighting Portuguese verb conjugations until the pages looked bruised, I admitted the truth: I was restless in my own skin, bored of the careful Midwestern girl who’d landed at Galeão with color-coded itineraries and a luggage tag that read “Future Diplomat.” That girl felt like a coat I’d outgrown in the tropical heat. My mother’s weekly emails were full of gentle reminders: Don’t forget why you’re there, Lina. The internship applications are due soon. I’d reply with photos of Sugarloaf, omitting the hollow feeling they left behind.

Professor Dias announced peer conversation hours on Friday, pairing study-abroad students with local “cultural liaisons.” The sheet filled with names in loopy Brazilian handwriting, each slot claimed but one: “Mateus—Lapa, samba, street photography.” The empty line beside it felt like a dare. I scribbled Lina Hartwick in jittery block letters before reason talked me out of it.

Mateus found me at the stone steps of the PUC Social Sciences wing, one week later, wearing the first smirk I’d ever seen that deserved its own soundtrack. Dark curls buzzed short on the sides, skin sun-sealed to a shade that made my Ohio pallor feel fluorescent. He leaned against the railing, Canon camera slung cross-body like a weapon, and greeted me in Portuguese so casual it felt like a hand sliding under my shirt.

“You’re the gringa who wants the real cidade?” His English collided playfully with the vowels, no apology.

“I’m open,” I said, realizing too late how breathy that sounded. My cheeks burned; he noticed, lips curling wider.

We ditched campus on the back of a city bus that rattled like it had swallowed marbles. Mateus talked the entire ride, pointing out invisible boundaries—favela rooftops terraced into hills, the fried-dough vendors who doubled as Carnival drummers, the way police presence thickened or disappeared depending on the block. I kept my knees pressed together on the torn vinyl seat, hyperaware of his forearm brushing mine whenever the driver took speed bumps like personal insults.

Lapa arched into view under a stone aqueduct painted graffiti-bright. Mid-afternoon, but music already leaked from doorways, samba percussion stitched together with bass lines that throbbed in my molars. My travel guides called the neighborhood “vibrant after dark,” code for lock your purse. Mateus hopped off the bus, tossed coins to a wandering coconut vendor, and handed me a straw without asking if I liked coconut water. I drank; it was warm, faintly sour, perfect.

“Tourists come here at night wearing glow sticks,” he said, guiding me down an alley where laundry hung like prayer flags. “They don’t see the rehearsals. The rehearsals are where the city learns to breathe.”

My Portuguese was still toddler-sturdy, but I caught the intimacy implied. I swallowed wrong, sputtering. He clapped my back, laughter rich, unembarrassed. Something about his lack of apology made my nipples pinch against the soft lining of my cotton bra. I blamed the sudden chill of shade.

We ducked into a dim sala de samba, walls sweating years of cigarette ghosts. Eight men circled folding tables, palms drumming on wood, voices weaving call-and-response. No stage, no microphones—just bodies keeping time. Mateus melted his frame against the wall, tugging me beside him. The rhythm pried me open; I felt each beat between my hips like a question.

A stocky percussionist with silver at his temples noticed us, nodded at Mateus, then me. “Ela dança?” he called.

Mateus lifted a brow. “Você dança, Lina?”

“I took ballet when I was eight,” I whispered, mortified.

He translated. The circle erupted in laughter, but it felt inclusive, not cruel. Mateus leaned close, breath tickling my ear. “Ballet is just samba that went to finishing school. Your hips know more than you think.”

The men began a slower groove, space opening like a palm. Mateus nudged me forward. I shook my head, mouth dry. He answered by setting his hand on the small of my back—firm, not pushing, simply claiming jurisdiction over my hesitation. My feet moved.

The first steps were clumsy, gravity reinvented. I tried to count beats; samba refused. It wanted surrender, not arithmetic. Then Mateus stepped behind me, palms sliding to my hips, guiding in a language older than words. My spine loosened; the floor became friendly. Sweat gathered under my blouse, thighs buzzing. The musicians grinned approval.

When the song ended, applause splattered around me. My heart felt like it had grown teeth. Mateus didn’t let go right away; his thumbs grazed the waistband of my denim skirt, testing. I realized I was leaning back into him, ass brushing the hard line behind his zipper. The room saw, and I didn’t care.

Outside, dusk bled orange over corrugated rooftops. Mateus bought us skewers of grilled queijo from a street cart, cheese squeaky against my teeth. We ate leaning against the aqueduct’s shadow, legs almost touching. He snapped candid shots: my sandal dangling from toes, the curve where my shoulder met neck. I should have felt objectified; instead each click felt like he was translating me into a language I wanted to learn.

“Why photography?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Light tells the truth even when people fake stillness. And sometimes I sell pictures to tourists who think Rio is only beaches. I pocket their cash, buy beer for my friends. Everybody wins.”

I studied his profile, the way his curls kissed his forehead. “You ever want to leave?”

“Leave Rio?” He sounded offended, then softened. “Maybe visit your America—see if your cities feel as lonely as they look in films. But I’d come back. You can’t detox from saudade.”

The word hung untranslated between us. I stored it like contraband.

Night pooled. Mateus led me to a tiny bar wedged between hardware shops, walls pasted with faded Carnival posters. Inside, couples danced close enough to need condoms just for friction. We commandeered stools; he ordered something amber and strong. I sipped, throat flaming.

Between drinks he told stories—his mother sewing sequins onto samba-school costumes until her fingertips bled, his father driving a bus and humming jazz, the first time he developed film in a darkroom and realized time could be poured like liquid. I listened, drunk less on cachaça than on being the sole recipient of his focus. The bar’s roar collapsed into a bubble sealing only us.

When he set a hand on my bare knee, I didn’t flinch. His thumb stroked inward, slow enough for me to object. Instead I parted my thighs half an inch, invitation blooming like nightshade. His lips brushed my ear. “You wanna see where I live?”

My pulse stuttered. Every orientation lecture replayed at once—Don’t go to strangers’ homes, don’t accept rides, don’t be the American headline. Then his tongue flicked the rim of my ear and lectures dissolved. I nodded.

We caught the last metro toward Santa Teresa, rattling uphill through tunnels graffitied with phosphorescent fish. He lived in a cottage tucked behind a mosaic stairway, roof tiled in chipped terracotta. Inside smelled of coffee grounds and fixer chemicals. Red bulb glowed in the hallway—darkroom spillover. He locked the door, dropping keys into a bowl with a sound that finalized something inside me.

I expected him to pounce. Instead he crossed to a record player, lowered the needle onto vintage Bethânia. Her voice swayed like underwater seaweed. Mateus kicked off shoes, loosened my hair from its elastic. Fingers combed through strands; my scalp prickled electrically.

“Relax, americana. No script.” He traced a thumb across my bottom lip. “You tell me when something feels like a question, yes?”

I exhaled shakily. His restraint turned my nerves into live wires. I stepped closer, palms flat against his chest, feeling drum-beat heart. “Kiss me,” I whispered, Portuguese gone AWOL.

He did—soft at first, just a promise, then deeper, tongue sliding against mine in a rhythm matching the samba we’d danced. I tasted cachaça and something metallic—photographic, maybe. My hands traveled under his shirt, finding skin fevered. He tugged my blouse over my head, eyes devouring the contrast: his brown fingers against my pale bra. The visual jolted me—interracial cliché made electric by how badly I wanted it.

Mateus dropped to his knees, mouth pressing to my abdomen. He unbuttoned my skirt, let it pool. Breath fogged through cotton panties; I shuddered. His thumb found the damp center, rubbing slow circles until my knees softened. He looked up, eyes glassy. “Still questions?”

“Keep going,” I managed.

He peeled fabric aside, tongue replacing thumb. I cried out, fingers clutching his curls, grounding myself against the storm building inside. Just when I teetered on the edge, he rose, swinging me into his arms. The short walk to bedroom felt like flying.

Moonlight striped through wooden slats, painting us zebra-barred. He laid me on crisp sheets, stepping back to strip. My gaze devoured him: swimmer’s shoulders, torso tapering to hips, cock thick and darker than the rest of him, curved slightly upward like a beckoning finger. For a second I felt exposed—Midwest white girl under Brazilian spotlight—but then he crawled over me, worshipful, and self-consciousness burned off like fog.

Condom appeared—no idea where from—and I helped roll it on, fingers clumsy with urgency. He entered slowly, letting me adjust to the stretch, mouth swallowing my gasp. We moved with Bethânia’s cadence, unhurried, learning angles. My ankles locked at the small of his back, heels nudging him deeper. When he slipped a hand between us, strumming, I came with a sob, inner walls fluttering hard enough to trigger his own groan. He stiffened, forehead dropping to mine, breath fanning hot across my cheek.

We lay tangled, sweat cooling in the mountain breeze sneaking through louvers. I listened to the city below—motorcycles, samba far away, dogs barking love songs. My heart felt reinvented.

Morning brought shy light and shyer smiles. He made coffee in a dented moka pot, added cinnamon. We sipped on the tiny balcony, my legs draped over his, reviewing last night through wordless touches. I wore his T-shirt; he wore sleepy satisfaction.

“Stay today,” he said. “I’ll show you my Rio. Not the one in your pamphlets.”

I skipped my Portuguese lecture. The email reminder chimed on my phone; I silenced it. We rode city buses to edges guidebooks labeled “avoid.” In Cidade de Deus he introduced me to kids breakdancing on flattened cardboard, their grins wider than favela alleys. He photographed mothers selling golden pastéis, captured steam haloing their heads like saints. I tasted tapioca crepes folded with coconut and condensed milk, sticky sweetness coating my tongue. Everywhere, bodies moved to invisible beats; Mateus fit right in, a dance I was learning to read.

At midday we wandered an abandoned amusement park—rusting bumper cars, ferris wheel frozen mid-rotation. Graffiti screamed color over decay. We ducked inside a funhouse, mirrors warped. In one reflection I appeared elongated, waist impossibly narrow between his hands. He kissed my distorted image’s neck, eyes on me. “Looks like you’re escaping your frame,” he murmured. The metaphor lodged in my throat, thrilling and terrifying.

We found a private corner behind the mirror maze. Urgency crackled. He pressed me against peeling plywood, lifting my sundress. I wasn’t wearing underwear—he’d stolen them at dawn, a trophy tucked in his camera bag. Fingers dove into wetness, curling expertly. I bit his shoulder to muffle moans echoing off glass. When he freed himself, I turned, palms flat on plywood, ass tilted in offering. He slid inside, fucking me slow and deep, commentary raw against my ear: “So wet for me, Linha… you’re learning the rhythm now, aren’t you?” I came clenching, vision fracturing like the mirrors surrounding us.

That night, back at his cottage, I checked my email. Two more warnings from the study abroad office: missed attendance was jeopardizing my credit. My stomach knotted. Mateus came up behind me, reading over my shoulder. “They want you in a cage,” he said, not unkindly. “But you’re not a bird that likes cages, are you?” He kissed my neck, and the anxiety melted into desire. I closed the laptop.

Days blurred. I missed more classes. We crisscrossed the city collecting sensations: sunrise from Dois Irmãos, tang of açai staining our tongues purple, subway saxophonists scoring our kisses between stations. I felt a fissure widening inside me—between the dutiful student I’d flown here as and this new creature who thrived on sensation. The latter felt more real, but also more fragile, a soap bubble glinting in the sun.

One evening, at a crowded boteco in Glória, Mateus pushed me further. We were at a small table, his hand high on my thigh under the checkered cloth. Across the room, a group of his friends laughed over beers. He leaned in, his voice a low vibration. “They can’t see my hand. But they can see your face. Try to keep your expression normal.” His fingers slipped under the hem of my shorts, finding me already wet. He worked me slowly, relentlessly, while carrying on a conversation about football with a friend who’d wandered over. I gripped my glass, my knuckles white, a flush creeping up my chest. The risk of discovery, the sheer audacity, sent me spiraling into a silent, shuddering climax that left me breathless. After, he withdrew his hand, licked his fingers casually, and winked. I was stunned by my own arousal, by how much the hidden audience had amplified everything.

That was the first true hint of the exhibitionist vein I hadn’t known existed, fed entirely by his proud, challenging gaze. It scared me a little, this new potential in myself. I’d always been the observer, the good girl. Now I wanted to be seen.

One humid afternoon we lay drowsy post-orgasm, sheets kicked to floor. He broached the subject carefully. “Raí texted. The drummer from Pedra do Sal. Tonight there’s a small roda at his place. Close friends.” A pause, his fingers tracing my spine. “He asked if we’d come.”

I read subtext. “We meaning me dancing again?”

“Meaning… whatever feels good.” He kissed my shoulder. “No expectations. Just trust. He and his girlfriend, Lúcia, they’re… open. Curious, like you.”

Trust had become our currency. The idea didn’t repulse me. Instead, a slow heat uncoiled in my belly, mingled with a nervous thrill. I remembered Raí’s easy smile, the respectful hunger in his hands. I thought of being watched, not just by Mateus, but by others who understood this language of rhythm and heat. I nodded, my belly fluttering. “Okay.”

Raí’s apartment perched atop a hill in São Conrado, windows open to Atlantic breeze. Inside, low lights, hashish haze, maybe ten people. A girl with corkscrew curls and sequined shorts mixed caipirinhas, eyes flicking to me with curious heat—Lúcia. Introductions blurred; names floated away on smoke. Music started—hand drums, cavaquinho, tamborim. Circle tightened.

Mateus sat on a low couch, camera absent for once, gaze anchoring me. Raí beckoned. I joined, hips already swaying. Lúcia pressed behind me, front to back, teaching a step. Her breasts brushed my shoulder blades, nipples pierced and hard under mesh. I let her guide, let hands roam—mine, hers, Raí’s. The room’s temperature spiked.

Mateus mouthed, “Breathe.” I did, and boundaries dissolved like sugar in spirits.

We ended up in the bedroom—me, Mateus, Raí, Lúcia. Horizontal choreography, limbs sliding in syncopation. Lúcia kissed me first, soft lips tasting of lime and weed. I surprised myself by kissing back, threading fingers through her curls. Raí’s mouth found my neck; Mateus cupped my face, ensuring consent with every breath. “This?” he’d murmur before each new touch. My “yes” became a mantra.

Clothes melted. Skin of different shades and textures met—my pale expanse against Mateus’s toasted gold, Raí’s café-com-leite, Lúcia’s rich mahogany. I straddled Raí reverse cowgirl while Lúcia knelt over his face; Mateus stood beside us, stroking himself slowly, his eyes dark pools of focus. His whispers were filthy, specific, rooting me in the moment: “Look at you take him… see how your back arches for it… that’s my curious girl.” Watching him watch me, knowing I was the center of this shared, hungry attention, detonated orgasm after orgasm, until I collapsed shuddering, overwhelmed and electric, yet completely present in my skin.

After, we shared water and laughter, skin sticky with communal sweat. No awkwardness—just reverberant joy. Later, wrapped in Mateus’s arms on a borrowed mattress, I listened to night surf crash below. “Still curious, americana?” he murmured.

I kissed him softly. “Curious about staying forever.” The word slipped, real and raw.

He stiffened. “Visa ends,” he said into my hair. “Saudade doesn’t.”

We didn’t speak more. Sorrow hovered, but pleasure pushed it aside; we fucked again, slower, branding memory onto muscle.

The final weeks arrived like an eviction notice. My program coordinator requested a “wellness meeting.” I went, sat in a sterile office, and lied. I said I’d been ill, promised to catch up. She eyed me, seeing the new darkness under my eyes—not from sickness, but from nights spent chasing dawn with Mateus. “Your semester project is incomplete, Lina. You’re here on a scholarship. There are expectations.”

I nodded, the good girl mask slipping back on with practiced ease. But it chafed. That night, I told Mateus. We were at Arpoador, watching surfers carve lines into the twilight. “They might send me home early if I don’t produce something,” I said, the words ash in my mouth.

He was quiet for a long time. Then he said, “So produce something. But make it yours. Not theirs.” He lifted his camera, not to shoot the sunset, but my profile against the dying light. “Tell the truth.”

In a frantic, caffeine-fueled week, I did. I abandoned my original research on economic policy. Instead, I created a photo essay paired with written vignettes. I used Mateus’s shots and my own, images of hands on drum skins, sweat-sheened backs in the sala de samba, the distorted funhouse reflection, the intimate tangle of limbs in low light. I wrote about rhythm as language, about saudade, about the friction and fusion of self in a foreign place. It was raw, personal, and utterly unlike anything the political science department expected.

I submitted it hours before the deadline. My advisor’s response was terse: “Unconventional. But undeniably powerful. We’ll see.”

The last day was a Monday. We spent it in his cottage, the record player spinning our shared soundtrack. We didn’t fuck. We held each other. I cried, and he didn’t tell me not to; he just wiped the tears with his thumb, kissing the salt from my skin.

“You’ll come back,” he said, but it was a question.

“I’ll try,” I answered, and it was a promise.

At Galeão, under the harsh fluorescent lights, he pressed a small, thick envelope into my hands. “Open it on the plane.”

On the ascent, as Rio shrank into a glittering constellation below, I tore it open. Inside were a series of black and white prints. Me, laughing with coconut water dribbling down my chin. Me, eyes closed in ecstasy, head thrown back against the plywood in the funhouse. Me, sleeping on his balcony, his T-shirt slipping off one shoulder. On the back of the last one, he’d written in tight script: Para Lina, que aprendeu a sambar no sol. Até que a luz nos encontre de novo. For Lina, who learned to samba in the sun. Until the light finds us again.

I pressed the photos to my chest, the ache of saudade already a living thing inside me. The Midwest awaited, flat and predictable. But the girl flying back was not the one who had left. Her skin remembered the sun. Her hips remembered the rhythm. And her heart, though cracked, was full of a new, dangerous, and beautiful music. She had learned the steps. Now she had to learn how to dance alone, carrying the echo of the bateria in the quiet, waiting for the day the light would find its way back.