Lisalla Mon­tene­gro Wil­son

Maxim - - CONTENTS - by IAN DALY

The im­pos­si­bly gor­geous Brazil­ian su­per­model has an in­sa­tiable need for speed.

SU­PER­MODEL LISALLA MON­TENE­GRO WIL­SON LOVES FAST CARS, FAST­BALLS, and OB­SESS­ING CRAZILY OVER GAME OF THRONES. GOT a PROB­LEM WITH THAT?

“COPS DON’T CARE THAT I’M a MODEL. I HAVEN’T TRIED the SQUISH­ING-THE-BOOBS THING TO GET OUT OF a TICKET YET. MAYBE THAT’LL WORK NEXT TIME.”

“I WAS TRY­ING TO KISS HIM AND BE friendly, but he wasn’t into me at all,” re­calls Lisalla Mon­tene­gro Wil­son of her Valen­tine’s Day date from hell two years ago. So what kind of guy spurns the ad­vances of a 5'9" Brazil­ian su­per­model—one with a fig­ure flaw­less enough for Vic­to­ria’s Se­cret, a face wor­thy of May­belline, and a smile straight out of our dreams? Turns out: the kind with feath­ers. “We were do­ing a shoot in Brazil with a huge par­rot,” she says, “and he bit me! I screamed: ‘Get this thing out of my hand!’” Not to worry. Since then, the 26-year-old has stepped up her re­la­tion­ships, land­ing a dude with no (vis­i­ble) feath­ers, a left arm like a light­ning bolt, and a $77.5 mil­lion con­tract with the Los An­ge­les An­gels of Ana­heim: pitcher C.J. Wil­son. I catch up with Lisalla in a quiet café down­stairs at the Mon­tage Bev­erly Hills ho­tel. She’s straight from the gym, dressed in skintight black yoga pants and a blue baby tee.

Af­ter check­ing out your In­sta­gram and Twit­ter, I have one ques­tion: Three-hour daily work­outs? Se­ri­ously?

I have an amaz­ing trainer, and she’s al­ways push­ing me to go fur­ther. We amuse our­selves by com­ing up with these re­ally funny names for ex­er­cises—dirty names. Some of the other train­ers will come over and be like, “Yeah, I was go­ing to use this equip­ment,” and we’re like, “You do this? This is for girls only!” And he’s like, “What?” We say, “For­get it, dude. It’s an in­side joke.” So, yeah. We keep it dirty.

You’re from Brazil, and C.J. is Amer­i­can. So how’s his Por­tuguese?

It’s pretty cool. He mixes the Por­tuguese words he knows with Span­ish, which for us is easy. He was talk­ing to my dad, ex­plain­ing how hit­ting a base­ball works and ex­plain­ing the pitch, and I’m like, I’m gonna marry this guy. Some­one tak­ing the time to ex­plain their pro­fes­sion to your fam­ily? In their lan­guage? I mean, that’s effort. That won a lot of points.

Did you fol­low base­ball in Brazil?

I wish. Be­fore we ac­tu­ally met, I didn’t know what pitcher meant. I had a lot to learn. I re­mem­ber the first time I watched a game on TV, I was like, Wow, this is like some­thing in Chi­nese. There’s so many rules, so many de­tails! I thought it was the hard­est thing. Now I’m ob­sessed. I read the ar­ti­cles, I talk about it, I get mad. I curse some­times. It’s like soc­cer: You get into it, and it be­comes your pas­sion. It’s my life, and I love it. I couldn’t see my­self with­out base­ball now.

You’ve mod­eled for Lexus, and C.J. is a gear­head. Is it rub­bing off on you?

We have a lot of car books in our house, we watch a lot of races, and it’s one of the main things we record on TV. C.J. knows all the rules and rac­ers. He even makes the noises! I’m not re­ally into spe­cific de­tails. I’m more into the feel of the car.

Would you say you’re a fast driver?

When I’m driv­ing with some­one, I’m more cau­tious be­cause it’s an­other life with me. But then when I’m by my­self, I’m like, Let’s do it! YOLO! Kind of like, how you guys call it? Speed de­mon.

Do you play the su­per­model card when you get pulled over?

They don’t re­ally care. I haven’t tried the squish­ing-the-boobs thing yet! [ laughs] Maybe that’ll work for me next time. I got a speed­ing ticket one time in Texas. I was late for my flight—not that that’s re­ally an ex­cuse—and then I got lost go­ing a zil­lion times around the air­port and couldn’t fig­ure out ex­actly where to exit. The Dal­las air­port is crazy big. And the cop was hid­den. I was go­ing, like, 90. The speed limit was, I don’t know—55?

Your home­town is a place in the mid­dle of Brazil called Goiâ­nia. What’s it like?

Lots of na­ture. We have cow­boys, farms, water­falls, a lot of color­ful clothes, great food. I lose my mind when I go back to Brazil. I cheat on my diet ev­ery day. It’s re­ally hard to eat healthy in Brazil. C.J. was like, “This is weird. I thought Brazil­ians were healthy.” I was like, “No, babe—look at their butts.” Look, but don’t re­ally look!

Do you and C.J. have any weird things in com­mon?

We both are crazy about cer­tain things—like when you go to sleep in a ho­tel room, if a lit­tle light comes through the win­dow, both of us freak out. The light of a watch both­ers me. I need to cover it up with a piece of cloth­ing.

He’s the same way as me. We lit­er­ally put our shoes up to the win­dow to close it up tight. We use the pil­lows, some of our clothes. We use ev­ery­thing that we have. We push tow­els un­der the doors. Freak cou­ple!

I also know from your Twit­ter that you’re emo­tion­ally in­vested in Game Of Thrones. Maybe too much. When they aired the “red wed­ding” scene a cou­ple of sea­sons ago, I ac­tu­ally cried. I was so mad, I couldn’t sleep for two nights. I tweeted that I hate the show. As soon as you get at­tached to some­one, they kill them—and it’s like, What?! How dare you guys! Who wrote this shit? No!

But clearly you’re go­ing to watch the next sea­son.

Ab­so­lutely. I’m ob­sessed. C.J. is ob­sessed now, too, so we’re go­ing to watch Sea­son 5 to­gether. I love the drag­ons. I was like, “Can I get a dragon tat­too on my back?” I’m still think­ing about it.

What was it like watch­ing the World Cup from Cal­i­for­nia?

When Brazil was scor­ing, I was jump­ing on my couch. My puppy was jump­ing on the couch. I would run crazily around the house. And then C.J. was up­stairs in his of­fice, and I would go up there and just yell, “Yeah­h­hhh!” and I would kiss him and go back down­stairs. I don’t have that many Brazil­ian friends in L.A., so I was just par­ty­ing by my­self.

What kind of mu­sic do you lis­ten to?

I’m into love songs. I’m all about the ’80s. I like U2, Jour­ney. “Don’t Stop Believin’” is my jam. You can’t ever change that. Ev­ery time it comes on, I’m singing out loud—in the car, the shower—ev­ery­where. I love karaoke. It’s fun. But hon­estly, I’m not great at it. Ev­ery­body who hears me singing would agree that’s def­i­nitely one thing I need to get bet­ter at. I could never make money singing.

How do peo­ple re­act when you sing?

“Please don’t do that again.” It’d be nice to sing cool. But ev­ery­body in my life— even my father-in-law—tells me, “Please don’t do that again.” He’s like, “Liz, I’m glad you’re a model.” ■

“MY TRAINER AND I AMUSE OUR­SELVES BY COM­ING UP WITH THESE RE­ALLY DIRTY NAMES FOR MY WORK­OUTS.”

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