Brazilian Bathroom Line

The plane came down in a soft glide. Our flight path led from the ocean toward the metropolis. The dark blue water turned more turquoise. Long ribbons of white cut through it at the beach. The metropolis had one-hundred-floor-high skyscrapers, each had its own unique thing. One looked like a sun umbrella. Another looked like a twisted towel that had wall gardens run vertically up the facade in ribbons. The famous opera was a giant goldfish bowl. You could see the seating through the seventy stories tall all-glass building. Suspended in the center of the glass bowl was the red stage that vaguely looked like a goldfish. One of the newest was the Lucky Charm. It looked like six twenty-sided dice falling out of the sky, one after the next in an arc. Each dice had its own bright, vibrant candy color. Their connection points were singular elevator shafts that were coated in mirrors so as to disappear from view unless one looked very closely. A new nanomaterial with high tensile strength and flexibility allowed these new architectures to spread.

The plane shot straight into the mountainside behind the city. The mountainside was lusciously green, thick tropical forest, carefully restored after the Great Separation. We disappeared through a black slot into the mountain. For a moment, the outside was pitch-black. The plane had dropped into a pool of sulfur hexafluoride, an ultra-heavy gas and fire insulator. I could hear the air hiss of the jet bridge docking onto the plane so that we could cross through the pool of sulfur hexafluoride.

Getting off the plane was a slow shuffle with the nose almost to the back of the person in front and the person behind breathing onto my shoulders. One would have thought that with the bare skin exposed that people would be more careful about keeping space, but once I got onto the terminal, the pack of people only got more chaotic because we no longer moved into the same direction. Some people were standing to look at flight schedules. Some people stopped to buy things from shops. Seeing over people's heads to the direction signs hanging from the ceiling was difficult. I was on my own with this part until I'd meet Marisol and Ramon outside the exit.

A lady pushed a pamphlet into my hands, "You must try our cosmetic surgery. Our surgeon can give you a breast lift in twenty minutes. I'll throw in upper arm fat sculpting because you look like you need it." Marisol had warned me about the aggressive sales pitches of the mobile cosmetic surgery centers at the terminal. I told her that I already had a cascade surgery scheduled. A cascade surgery is a sequence of surgeries that completely remodels a person - one surgery cascading to the next. This was the best way to make them give up. The lady instantly slipped back into the throng of people.

Marisol had also told me about these baby button machines. I was curious to see it. I slipped to the wall into the crowd pocket next to a potted palm tree. The kiosk had a big display where people could pick a nipple shape that they wanted. Then there was a curtain, but the curtain only provided slim cover. It was a four-by-four fabric that provided cover from right behind, but nothing from the sides. I could glance at the woman as she made her selection. She tapped with long plastic fingernails on the screen, swiped through grids of nipple shapes. You could get really pointy ones, long ones, broad ones, and so on. The whole point was that wearing a bikini top, you wanted to choose the outline of what poked underneath the fabric.

The woman looked like a bored college student. Her hair was home-bleached with three artificial colors. She wasn't completely perfected with cosmetic surgery yet. She had her original abs. Of course, they were well trained, but there was still the softness of a little bit of fat - nothing like the millimeter-perfect abs that young professional women buy with their first corporate paycheck. She had nice makeup, but she looked a little pasty - a little more like a normal person, but that was my familiarity with beauty standards back home talking.

She slipped her bikini top down to her belly. She had no shame that people could steal sideglances at her. In her mind, the terminal was so busy that nobody would pay her any mind. A green laser dot surveyed her nipples to get measurements. A red light blinked to tell her to stand still. Then a red laser dot canvased her nipple line-by-line. This was a targeting laser for the silicon gun. A fine brown jet of hot, liquid silicon shot unto her nipples. She bit her tongue, letting the lower lips lavishly fold over. Layer after layer, the machine constructed her a larger nipple. When she slipped her bikini top back on, the nipples stood up sharply. She had picked a sharp-edged design to really make them stand out. The baby buttons were supposed to come off with a hard tug.

I let myself drift with the crowd down the wide terminal towards the immigration station. When I came across a spinning automat, I stopped out of curiosity. A black woman was manipulating the touchscreen sliders behind a similarly small curtain that let me peek in from the side. She was short and chubby in the way that it was a sign of beauty among some people. Looking at her simple and sturdy dress, she seemed like she could be a nanny - ready to carry kids around and deal with their messes.

A good spinning automat had upwards of thirty controls these days. Marisol had explained all of this to me in her letters. I had wild imaginations about what Brazil would be like. Seeing the reality was quite amazing. The spinning automat couldn't change the boob volume, but it could re-shape the boob. The first control was usually a slider that allowed the user to pick between a natural teardrop shape or a fake, perfectly round look. The second and third control positioned the nipple. The fourth control sets the elasticity. Does the customer want a bounce with every step or firm breasts that stay in place? The next controls depended on the particular automat model. One could decide to mold slight dimples in. The curvature could be controlled. A lot of people went with name-brand designer presets or measurements of celebrities.

The possible nanny tapped her fingers, apparently having a hard time deciding between two options. Okay, she had made her choice and slipped her bikini top down to her belly. They were quite saggy things. Even though I had only been a short time in Brazil, my aesthetic senses had adjusted to what I was seeing. She pushed the big red button. Then, she held onto the two handles to steady herself. She closed her eyes to brace for the pain.

A needle on a long telescope came out of the automat. The tip perched in front of the center of her nipple. The machine wound up with an increasingly more intense pitch. Then the pitch held for a second. I could feel in my bones that the shock was imminent. The needle jabbed forward into her nipple. Her arms were shaking. The needle was quite thick. It was actually a feeding tube for nanoneedles to thread subdermally. I could see the head of the needles lifting the skin. It was like a pimple was crawling across her boob. The needles were laying down a web of surgical string. There was a big circle around the entire boob where it connected with the chest. From the nipple, strings were running to the circle like the spokes of a wheel. I saw the needle moving around the inside of her boob. When the strings had been laid out, the nanoneedle retracted back out through the injection needle. The loose ends of the strings were in the automat. The strings were now pulled together to the perfect specifications. Her left boob started lifting and taking form. The sloppy hanging thing turned into something really beautiful, full of energy and titillating curvature. The automat melted the strings together and pulled out of the nipple. Not even a drop of blood appeared at the needle insertion point. The surgical string would slowly decay over the next three weeks and disappear into the bloodstream.

This new world was fascinating. Marisol told me that she would guide me through it all and take me to the best places. I drifted with the crowd towards immigration control. The line for Brazilians didn't even exist. They simply walked out. Hidden cameras identified their faces and automatically processed them. Among all foreigners, Americans had to go through a separate line, which was of course the longest. I ended up behind the contractor from the seat next to me. He was still wearing his baggy clothes. He stood out as much as an ostrich would have. He seemed very upset about the looks that people were giving him.

"First time?" I asked friendly.

"Yeah?" he said back as if he were asking a question rather than knowing.

"Trouble fitting in?" I tried to joke with a friendly smile. Talking to people came easier here. It seemed like the alright thing to do. Everyone was chatting around us.

"They said that I didn't need to fit in," he answered with an equally unsure tone as if wanted to hear confirmation from me.

"Who's they?" I asked.

"Well, the ones who hired me. Isn't everyone on the plane hired?" he asked, clearly overwhelmed with all that was happening.

"I'm here for family," I told him.

"Well, I answered an ad," The contractor said. "They offered me a job."

"It must be a very dangerous job," I tried to show my admiration.

"No, it's supposedly the least desirable job to Brazilians. My employer has huge seaweed farms in the ocean. They are fully automated. However, the need a human to double check and inspect everything. They only need one person for 200 square kilometers of farm. Brazilians don't like being alone. Their biggest fear is to be socially separated. But it'll be alright for me. I'm happy to be on my own. I'll fly around in a helicopter and enjoy the beautiful sun. I simply need to get through the public terminal to the private terminal of my employer," he smiled at the end.

I could see him kicking back and enjoying all that sun that the blob deprived America off. I pictured him watching pods of dolphins passing by. I know I'm a bit romantic, but this place is so uplifting. It makes you dream of the possibilities.

"You are going to get an enhanced immigration check if you are dressed like that," I tried to warn him.

"Not you, too," he said and turned grimly away.

But when he got to the end of the line, he faced an immigration officer. The immigration officer was a lady with pasties of the Brazilian national flag. Her bikini bottom was a rainbow-colored set of streamers that came out of her crotch up her belly in a wave pattern. Only a see thought plastic string attached it to her hips. The screen in front of her turned red when he stepped forward. She pointed him to enter through the second door. I told him that this would happen.

When it was my turn, I smiled and waved at the immigration officer like a happy schoolgirl. She smiled back. The screen turned green, and she sent me to the first door. After I entered, my case officers welcomed me to Brazil. She asked if I had any luggage. I saw over her shoulder a row of tables where people had to unpack their suitcases and bags for contraband inspection. A second row of desks showed immigrants being interviewed about their stay, plans, and beliefs. He looked me over trying to make up her mind. She had beautiful blond hair. It was styled with a gel that made the hair come together in a single, wet stream as if it were cast into a piece of plastic. Her hair tail circled around her head, turned into a sinus wave pattern, and ended up pointing back as if a strong wind were blowing it horizontally.

"First time using a Spider?" she asked, gazing down at my groin. Apparently, there were telltale signs that weren't obvious to me yet.

"Oh, gosh yes! I had to try. My sister had told me so much about everything Brazilian!" I said, trying to gush my enthusiasm to let her know that I was pro-Brazilian.

"How come you didn't try the spinning automat. That's quite a thrill the first time," my immigration officer suggested with a friendlier tone.

"Oh, I watched it, but my sister told me not to use it. She wants me in pristine condition for my cascade surgery," I answered. Her face lit up the moment I said, "cascade surgery." That term seems to be the magic ticket.

"You are going to have so much fun. I'm glad that we could get you out of that dumpster. Simply, head down the hug line," she said.

Phew! I didn't have to go through any checks except the hug line, which everyone has to go through. I walked to the third row. In the beginning of the hug line was a beautiful, tall, slender, voluptously-bossomed, and thick penis in speedos drag queen with a big purple ostrich fedora in the hair. The drag queen held her arms wide open for me with a big, glamorous smile.

The hug line was to test for radical American terrorists, who would plot acts of hatred. Everyone had to hug a wide range of people representing different groups. If a would-be immigrant refused or visibly struggled, additional interrogation screening would happen. The professional huggers tended to love their job, according to Marisol. For one, they got to hug people all day and welcome visitors to the country that they loved. For the other, they protected the people of Brazil from hateful people.

I cuddled into the arms of the drag queen. He squeezed me tight. I hadn't felt human touch in so long. The long body felt so firm. His arms were so snug. I melted right into them. He chuckled with warm, friendly amusement, "Oh, my sweet dear, you are so touch-starved!" He held me an extra second and another to really let all the warmth of the hug fill me up.

The next hugger was a topless butch lesbian. Her hug felt more formal like I was a number to her, but there was also a feeling of sexual indiscretion because she seemed to really enjoy my boobs pressing against her. She slapped me on my butt to make me move to the next person.

I moved from hugger to hugger, getting intoxicated with oxytocin, when I heard a commotion at the start of the line.

"What! I have to hug all these people!!!" I recognized the voice of the contractor and turned my head to the right while a burly gay man in leather chaps with a police hat hugged me. The contractor was standing in his underwear - boxer shorts with the legs rolled up to look like a Tarzan loin cloth - holding his clothes in his arms. He seemed like a harmless dude, who had come unprepared and was in shock. If not for Marisol's extensive preparation through letters, I would have also been very shocked. At this moment, I realized that I was walking into a new country with only a bikini set and shoes, nothing else - quite a daring adventure!

I walked through the sliding door out onto the sidewalk in the glorious sun. Everything was so bright. I felt disoriented. I felt a surge of energy and happiness. A cacophony of voices was around me of people calling for their friends, family, and business associates. The warmth that enveloped my body all over was surprising. I couldn't focus on anything but let me head drop back to look at that blue sky. For the first time, I looked into nothing. My eyes tried to focus on what I was seeing, but I was staring at the blue sky, which doesn't end anywhere. My mind tried to adjust to the richness of color.

My hand felt a strong tug of feminine fingers pulling me forward. I started hobbling and looked at the arm pulling me. It was Marisol. I had last seen her when she was eighteen year's old and had left on her one way trip to Brazil to find a husband to get a citizenship. I had seen photos. The photos were beautifully stylized moments of her. This was the real in flesh and blood version with all the awkwardness that real people had. She was leaning a little forward and made her perfectly round butt with the T-shaped white string between her butt cheeks stand out more. That butt was so round because her white heels were so high. She pulled me to the side and out of the way of people.

Ramon stood against the concrete wall of the building. His skin was the dark Mediterranean kind. He wore sunglasses only the size of buttons with black plastic frames. They were only large enough to cover his eyeballs. He had a leisurely smile. When he saw me, he leaned forward to grab my jaw in both of his hands and pulled my lips onto his lips. His tongue slipped into mine. Marisol had told me that Brazilians customarily tongue kissed for greetings. A right swirl with the tongue was for friends and a left swirl for family members. His tongue swirled left twice. That was reserved for close family members. He was signaling that he was thinking of me as his sister. That was so sweet and welcoming of him.

I couldn't help but linger my tongue in his mouth. The flavor of his tongue and teeth was like a warm mahogany desk, rich and full of dark nuances. Marisol had told me about mouth deodorant because everyone tongue kissed so much as social greetings, wearing tongue deodorant had been very important. It wasn't simply a breath mint, but it was a thick, syrup-like gel that stuck to the oral cavity and covered it for a few hours.

Before I could gather my bearings, Marisol grabbed me cheek bones into both her hands as Ramon had. She held my skull like a chalice. She darted her tongue inside my mouth. Wow! A very sweet peach-apple mouth deodorant overwhelmed me with a feminine note. I kind of wish that she would have talked to me first, but I realize to them it was like a handshake. You first start the interaction with a tongue kiss before you start talking.

They let me stand on their own. I felt a bit intoxicated from the slippery, warm tongue action. This was the big moment. I had never thought about what the moment would actually be like. I looked both of them over. Without the Photoshop in real life, I could see little imperfections that made them feel like real people. I noticed the moment of awkwardness of what to say on Ramon's face. I stole a glance down to his groin, where I saw his - I don't know what you would call it. His penis was in a cover that looked like a cloud that was blown by a storm up and to the right on his belly. The cover kind of blended with his belly so that the shape appeared more amorphous than a penis. Marisol wore a C-string - a clasp that fit under her body and clamped onto her body with tension pulling together. In the front was only a small strip of fabric with the Alo company logo. Nowadays, yoga pants were C-strings.

"I can't let you wear this!" Marisol exclaimed. She pulled my bikini bottoms down with surprising fierceness. I felt shocked and embarrassed. I covered my pussy, but my buttons were already at my ankles. The hands-on Marisol was lifting my ankles up to get me to step out of them.

"I'm naked," I exclaimed. "In the middle of all these people," I was exasperated.

"You should be embarrassed about that giant swimwear, the size of a sail, never your pussy!" Marisol spoke with deep shame for having me stand next to her but also deep care.

My bikini bottoms flew in a high arc into the nearest trash can. "I've got a spare one," Marisol said, searching through her purse. She handed me an Alo C-string, the same kind as she was wearing. Only mine was pink. I guess we are matching. That's a sisterly thing! She pushed the C-string up on my perineum. The pressure on my pubic bone and tail bone was very firm. I felt that it would be very secure, but I also knew that everything was exposed. I felt awkwardly naked.

"She tastes like a coal chimney," remarked Ramon. "I kind of like it. It's this old world feel."

He said the words warmly, but Marisol looked more distressed. "We can't have that!" she said with firm determination. Then, she searched more through her purse. She handed me a little apple-green bottle with a pump nozzle on top. She squeezed it into my mouth. It tasted like peach-apple, exactly like Marisol's mouth. "Slosh that around! Don't swallow!" she ordered me. The thick syrup seemed like it wouldn't dissolve. It was almost rubbery, but I kept pressing with my tongue on it. I could stretch it flatter and flatter. When I felt that I had gotten it millimeter-thick, it started sticking everywhere, to the roof of my mouth, to the inside of my cheeks, and to my teeth. I was busy working it around in my mouth.