By Amos Barshad. After four years of tending bar at Centaurus, the most elite brothel in the sex-for-pay melee that is the recklessly beautiful city of Rio de Janeiro, Sergio Limas β 47 years old, pleasantly gruff and handsomely handlebar mustached β had become unfazeable. Even though it was forbidden, clients would often try and get him to come into one of the upstairs rooms, to sleep with him, or to watch him sleep with the girls whose time they had paid for. As Limas saw, anyone with enough money could live big at Centaurus.
One evening, an anonymous rich dude shelled out tens of thousands of dollars and grabbed the master suite, plus about 20 girls, all for himself. He always gets two girls and he always has this candy bar. And the secret is β the girls shove the candy bar in his ass. W hen, last fall, the fumbling libertine Justin Bieber tried to sneak out of Centaurus undetected by paparazzi β covered, in a bit of droll surreality, head-to-toe in a white sheet clearly marked Centaurusβ it was a moment of international recognition for the sex house.
But in Rio, the locals β the cariocas β have long been familiar with the place. Climb the stairs, go under the water tower.
Everyone does this. I did this! The conventions at these places are the same: walk in, get handed a locker key, get naked, put on a robe.
Downstairs are the spa accommodations. Upstairs, the girls. As the legend goes, Aeroporto had two partners, a guy named Isaac and a guy named Mr. There was some dispute between the two and Mr. Williams set off on his own, opening Centaurus.
