THE SCORPIONS SWEET VENOM
THE SCORPIONS
SWEET VENOM
The Diary of a Brazilian Call Girl
Bruna Surfistinha
Interviewed by Jorqe Tarquini
Translated by Alison Entrekin
Copyright © 2005 by Raquel Pacheco
English translation copyright © 2006 by Alison Entrekin
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used
or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written
permission from the publisher except in the case of brief
quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
For information address Bloomsbury USA,
175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
Published by Bloomsbury USA, New York
Distributed to the trade by Holtzbrinck Publishers
All papers used by Bloomsbury USA are natural,
recyclable products made from wood grown in well-managed
forests. The manufacturing processes conform to the
environmental regulations of the country of origin.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
has been applied for.
eISBN 978-1-40880-639-5
Originally published in Brazil as Doce Venemo do Escorpião
by Panda Books in 2005
This English translation first published in the UK
by Bloomsbury in 2006
First U.S. Edition 2007
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
Typeset by Hewer Text UK Ltd, Edinburgh
Printed in the United States of America by Quebecor World Fairfield
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
A WORKING GIRLS DIARY
BRUNA THE SURFER GIRLS FORBIDDEN STORIES
BRUNA THE SURFERGIRLS TIPS ON HOW TO SPICE UP YOUR SEX LIFE
BRUNAS FIFTEEN COMMANDMENTS
EPILOGUE
PROLOGUE
A beautiful day dawned. I don't know why, but something happens inside me when the sun shines on a cold day. Everything feels unreal, as if I'm in a waking dream: that bright light in the blue sky that doesn't heat up. A beautiful lie. This was the first thing I saw when I woke up at ten o'clock in the morning. Soon the enchantment of this dreamlike scenario gave way to the reality of my dilemma. Was this really what I wanted to do with my life? I knew that if I left it would be for ever. There would be no going back. Not for me or my parents.
I packed a few items of clothing into my schoolbag. I couldn't walk out of there with a suitcase. As I was going through my wardrobe, I saw so many beautiful clothes and was sad I couldn't take all of them. I packed some underwear, pyjamas, a T-shirt, a top, a few bikinis to work in and, along with the clothes on my body and a coat, my luggage was ready. My little cat just watched. I tried to hide her in my bag, but she didn't like the idea. Well, I thought, another thing I have to leave behind, along with my designer clothes, bedroom and memories.
I went into the living room and sat at the dining table, pretending to do my homework. I was really watching my mother, silent, with her back to me, making something in the kitchen. I recognised that she didn't deserve to go through all that. But it was what I wanted to do. Or had to do. I sat there thinking that in a short space of time she had lost two daughters. My oldest sister (who was also my godmother) had never come back from America.
I was euphoric on the one hand, but sad on the other. Watching that woman, who once upon a time had given up her own life to get married and look after a house and kids, including me, who wasn't her natural daughter, I felt a strong urge to tell her about my decision. To show her that none of this was because of her, but me. I could even follow in her footsteps and sacrifice myself, do everything she had done . . . No. I'd made my decision.
I started writing everything I wanted to tell her on the piece of paper in front of me. It wasn't premeditated. It was spontaneous and sincere, in a way that I hadn't been for a long time. I thanked her for everything she'd done for me, asked her to forgive me for the pain she'd feel, but made it clear that I was going to seek my own happiness, wherever that might be. I hoped that this would mean she and myfather could be happy again, without me, without my problems. I reread the letter, which looked like a suicide note. I was unable to write things differently, however. In a way, something was dying in me that day.
I left the letter on the table and got my file and schoolbag. I always left through the kitchen door. I passed my mother, leaning against the sink. 'Bye, Mum.' She didn't answer. She didn't turn round. I knew I'd never see her again. I stood in the doorway for a moment, looking at her. Still she didn't turn round. I really regret the hug I didn't have the courage to give her at that moment. I love my mum. She didn't know it. She didn't turn round. There was no word, no gesture. From either of us. In silence, I closed the door behind me. Bye, Mum.
The intercom rings. He's here! While he's com-JL ing up in the lift, I go over the last few details: hair brushed, perfumed skin, mouth ready for anything and everything. In the bedroom, the bed is ready, the light soft. To set the atmosphere, I put on a CD (if the guy's a bore, I play something mellow, or techno if I want to liven things up; if he's nice, I prefer Jota Quest, Emerson Nogueira, something more romantic). I'm wearing a really short, provocative skirt and a top that shows off my breasts. All easy to take off. Or have taken off. I'm wearing stilettos. Not that I mind being short. It's part of my charm. The doorbell rings. I let him in. He kisses me on the cheek and introduces himself, since this is his first time with me. Although I don't have to, I do the same. I take his hand and lead him to the sofa. We chat as if we were on a date but the conversation soon gets dirty.
'Today I want to give it to you from behind.'
'But do you want my cunt or my arsehole?'
'Everything,' he whispers in my ear, while his hand roams my thighs.
His mouth brushes against my neck and I can feel his unshaven face. My hands between his legs make him go rock hard. He tugs my top down and my tits pop out. He's like a kid with a new toy; I let him squeeze them firmly, but gently. My nipples go hard as his tongue glides around them. His breathing is hot and heavy. He licks one breast, then the other, then squeezes them together, trying to fit them both in his mouth like a greedy boy. In the jumble of quickly removed clothes, he pulls down my knickers and runs his tongue down to my belly button. Then he stops and gives me a cheeky look.
'Do you want me to go down on you?'
'Yes.'
'Now or later?'
'It's up to you . . . It's your tongue.'
'But it's your cunt.'
'Then do it now.'
I come several times, without any special effort. It's really good. And we're just getting started. We climb the small spiral staircase up to the bedroom. He quickly puts on a condom so he can make the most of my juices . . . then we adopt a very well-behaved missionary position.
'Ride me,' he says after a while.
First I straddle him, then, when he's completely inside me, I swivel around to face the other way. After a little while he pulls himself out and asks me to return the favour with my mouth. I suck him off until he comes, gently tugging at my long hair.
We barely have time to talk. Still using my mouth, I revive him. In a delirious sixty-nine, he starts playing with my arse. This turns me on. I can't help myself and climb on. Then, up to the hilt in my arsehole, he picks me up and sets me on all fours. In the end, he asks to come in my mouth again. I let him. The CD ends almost exactly at the same time as our second round. Game over. The end of the CD is the sign that his hour is up. If he wants to, he can have a bath, pay what we arranged on the phone and . . .
'See you la
ter.'
No hard feelings. Life goes on. Job done, payment received (and discreetly checked, without his noticing, of course). He was the first client of the day. There are still five to go. With less than an hour and a shower between clients, I barely have time to get ready again. I prefer to do everything in one go, and meet my goal of five clients as soon as possible, so I can be free for the rest of the day. My system works. When I'm behind schedule or a client is late, the next one to arrive waits in the foyer downstairs. Until it's time to do it all again.
This ritual of running through a checklist of my body and room when the intercom rings is always the same. My second client is the really shy sort that you have to take by the hand. You have to lead him through the sex. It's mechanical. I'm unable to come with him because it's a tense shag - for both of us.
The third, a total kid, has the energy (and speed) to do me three times. It's his third visit and I've nicknamed him 'rabbit', although he doesn't know it. These quickies don't give me time to come. Never mind. We get along well and always talk a lot.
The fourth one brings his lover around for a threesome. A really interesting woman, who knows what she's doing. She isn't beautiful, but she turns me on. If his girlfriend and I don't control ourselves, he might end up empty-handed. Of course I'm not going to let that happen . . . She goes down on me, while he fucks me until I come. Not from the ride, but her tongue.
The fifth is the sort you'd take home to meet your parents. There's no chemistry, but we get along well. He is forty-something, and manages to do something I've never seen before. He comes without me even touching his dick, while I suck his balls. Ah, and he's brought me a lemon pie. Very nice. After riding him a little, our second round ends with him coming in my mouth.
The sixth and last of the day wants me to take him to a swingers' club. It's his first time. Yet another I'm about to lead astray . . .
It's been a while since I've worn a dress, so I choose one that is really only a piece of cloth. It has a plunging neckline and only just covers the essentials. I wear a pair of lace-up sandals. I want to be a knockout, and succeed, of course. I'm the sexiest girl at the Marrakesh tonight. But after a bit of drinking and dancing, my client still hasn't got into the spirit of the place.
'I don't feel relaxed in a room with so many people fucking.'
We go to the only room where unaccompanied men are allowed in. I sit on an empty sofa and he goes down on me. Then out of the blue, some guys show up. Two sit on the arms of the sofa and another two just stand there, watching. When my client notices them he gets a fright and we end up going to a private room, just the two of us. Since we have some chemistry going, I don't even worry about swapping partners. He doesn't want to either. We go for it all night long. Blow jobs, tit-fucking, rimming . . . Whenever I go to a swingers' club, I get excited at the possibility of swapping partners and getting it on with an interesting woman. My client is in luck because today there are only middle-aged women. Nothing against them - they just don't turnme on. Something almost happens with a guy of about forty who pulls me towards him, but he isn't accompanied. Although I don't get to go down on another woman or swap partners, the night is worth it. I get home at 5.30 a.m.
Wild sex, group sex, lots of different men (and women) every day, nights that never seem to end. What might seem exciting to many girls like me, in the full bloom of their twenties, is routine. It has been my daily grind for the last three years. Working five days a week, with an average of five clients a day - do the maths to work out how many times I've had sex for money. Much as I might enjoy myself, and have orgasms, it's still work. Work that I chose because I had no other choice when . . . Well, it's a long story. My personal story, and Bruna's. Yes, there are two. One girl - me - with two stories.
A stranger. I was dancing alone when a boy pulled me towards him and kissed me. My first night on the town. I didn't even ask his name. My first time out on my own at night. Freedom at the age of thirteen going on fourteen. I'd been there for less than half an hour. My first kiss. We went from kissing to groping one another, right there in the middle of the dance floor. Then, when I least expected it, he ditched me. Just like that, without any feelings, without a word. That night, I went with ten other boys. One wasn't enough. I needed lots to satisfy me. Raquel had woken up to sex.
A stranger. Although I was nervous, I used an introduction that I'd quickly rehearsed on the spot.
'I'm Bruna. I do oral, vaginal and anal.'
I finished by stating my false age, eighteen, not knowing that no one markets herself like that.
No one could know this was my first client. I'd leftmy parents' house less than half an hour before to go to that new house. My debut at the age of seventeen. I wasn't going to tell that stranger I'd never had sex for money. He'd chosen me straight up. I wanted to disappear, make a run for it and go home to my parents. Instead, we went upstairs to the bedroom. I thought about my mother. The stranger touched me and wanted to have sex without a condom. She must be suffering, I thought. I didn't let him touch me. After sticking his finger into me, we had sex with a condom. All I could think was: I'm going to take this guy's money and go home. There's still time to give up and leave. I ended up having six clients that afternoon. I never went home again. I never saw my parents again. Bruna was born.
Little more than three years separate these two moments, so distant from one another. In the first, Raquel underwent a sea change, from sweet, spoilt daughter to lying teenager with no limits. I'd practised lots of kisses on the bathroom mirror, oranges, my arm, always following the tips I'd seen in teen magazines. The real thing had been even better. I'd found in my body, between my legs, the key to freedom and my bread-and-butter, even though it meant lying about my age and putting into practice, for 100 reals an hour, the little I'd learnt the sixtimes I'd had sex with a serious boyfriend and another guy I'd gone with.
Each night I hit the dance floor at the Kripton, in the neighbourhood of Vila Olimpia, I wanted more and more. I wore short skirts to make things easier for anyone who wanted to feel with their hands what the almost-darkness concealed. If I didn't have sex there, if I didn't want to lose my virginity in the middle of the dance floor, it wasn't for lack of opportunity. The pleasure of feeling a boy get a hard-on because of me, rubbing and grinding against me through his trousers, was almost irresistible. Almost . . .
I unzipped lots of boys' trousers there on the dance floor, just so I could pull their underpants down a little and play with their dicks. I hadn't the slightest idea how to masturbate a man, until one of them asked me to in no uncertain terms. 'How 'bout a wank?' There was no way out, so I told the truth. 'I don't know how.' While I leaned against a wall, feeling silly and listening to his naughty laughter, he patiently took my hand and taught me the movement. From then on, I only didn't do it to those who didn't want me to. Making a guy come, giving him pleasure, was amazing. I started wanking off everyone I went with on the dance floor. No one around us noticed, because they were occupieddoing exactly the same thing. I saw lots of couples having sex on the sofas. There was no problem with the bouncers. Whenever they caught a couple being a bit more daring or exhibitionist, they just asked them to tone it down.
I never had sex there. I had lots of opportunities, but lacked the courage. To lose my virginity, it would have to be with someone special. I'm romantic. Not that this stopped me from letting boys touch me more intimately. I'd pull my knickers down a bit under my miniskirt, and just their hands touching my thighs and between my legs would make me really wet. I thought that this was coming. Only later did I discover that 'getting there' was something else again - and better. I've learnt that coming, for me, starts with a chill in the stomach. Even so, I still didn't want to have sex.
I got really close to going all the way. Twice I got in a car with a guy and we took off our clothes. We did everything and I went as far as I could. And that was pretty far. But when it was time to do it, to have a guy inside me, I got cold feet.
'I've
got to go.'
'Now that things're heating up?'
'Dad'll be here to pick me up soon.'
'He can wait,' he'd say, his dick already out of his trousers and his hands like two octopuses, with fingers all over me.
'I can't.'
'But you're almost naked, and we've done nearly everything. The only thing left is'
'Well, it's not happening. Sorry.'
I always made up an excuse and disappeared.
For the boy, who was older, I'd be just 'one more'. And I didn't want to be just 'one more'. I would have felt used. There was still a little reason left in my romantic head. Have sex in that place and never see the guy again? It wasn't my idea of what my first time should be like. Not to mention my fear of the pain and bleeding that teen magazines talked about. I thought I'd bleed a river of blood.
Truth be told, it was inexperience. Not wanting to confess that I was a virgin, and equally afraid to ask the guy to wear a condom, I imagined myself in the shoes of a friend who'd got pregnant at the age of fifteen. She didn't even know who the kid's father was.
'Mummy, who's my daddy?'
'I don't know, darling . . .'
I knew all too well what this kind of talk meant.
On my first day at the house on Alameda Franca, the last thing I wanted was for anyone to realise I didn't have any experience. I arrived at about two o'clock in the afternoon, after walking from Paraiso, where I lived, leaving behind everything I had: mother, father, bedroom, clothes. I was carrying a file and a schoolbag packed with a few clothes and lots of bikinis to wear on my first job. I needn't have bothered. No one worked in bikinis . . .
The Scorpion's Sweet Venom Page 1
