I didn't have any decent clothes to work in, so the other girls found me some terrible things to wear. Me of all people - who'd always expressed herself through designer labels, which made up for my chubbiness and ugly-duckling syndrome. I had to accept the situation. I knew one day I'd have my own money and would buy all the designer stuff again.
The madam of the house on Alameda Franca, Larissa, was the only one I told part of the truth. She asked to see my ID, and I couldn't hide it: I was only seventeen.
'Don't tell anyone,' she advised me.
Much as I pretended to be experienced in front of the other girls, I gave myself away right from the start.
'What's your working name?' asked Larissa.
'Raquel,' I said naively.
'No working girl uses her real name. In this place, you're going to have to change it.'
'You look like a Bruna,' said Mari, who ended up becoming a good friend.
I don't remember why, when or how old I was, but I got it into my head that I was adopted. When Iwas five, I asked my mum. When she confirmed it, I didn't have the guts to ask what adoption actually meant. I took my question to my teacher, who explained that people who were adopted had been abandoned as babies because their mothers couldn't or didn't want to bring them up. A couple would come along and choose one of these children for adoption. 'Choose?' I felt like an object. Although my parents had always treated me as a daughter, it was hard not to be angry, even if I kept it to myself. Kids came from their mothers' bellies, for Christ's sake. I only began to accept that that wasn't true much later. Perhaps too late.
I tried to accept things, because I really did have a family. But someone would always come along and say that I was very different from my older sisters and my mum. She is very European-looking, with fair skin and hair, dark eyes, and delicate features. The only thing we have in common is our height. She is as short as I am. Sometimes we even wore each other's clothes. But that was the end of our similarities. My two sisters, on the other hand, look exactly like my mum.
I even had an uncle who never treated me as a niece. For those who knew my dad, the excuse was 'She takes after him'. Never in a million years. He's six foot two, fat, white . . . Sometimes, to protect mefrom prejudice and aggression, Mum lied to strangers, inventing something to shield me. How I envied my friends who looked like their parents, like their real families! My anger passed from my biological to my adoptive parents. When we fought, I called them 'aunt' and 'uncle'. My poor mum . . . But I didn't have the maturity or inner resources to deal with it alone.
When I was seven, in 1991, we all went back to the city of Sorocaba, where we were originally from. That is, we moved to our country house in Aragoiaba da Serra. Dad had had an accident and had to stop working. One day, in the garage, he bent over to pick something up and when he stood up again he hit his head on a low ceiling-beam. I don't know how, but that blow seriously affected his brain. It was only when I saw him black out, in the middle of the living room, that I realised how serious it was. He couldn't continue working, at the height of his law career, and this crushed him. He went into a deep depression. It really was best for us to move to the country.
Although Dad's illness was a very tense, difficult phase, I can't complain. There were breathers: I played a lot, sometimes with Mum and occasionally even with Dad. He hung a basketball net in the garden between the fruit trees, and I'd spend hours practising, dreaming of one day playing professionally. With my height, that was to be yet another impossible dream . . .
To my mind, all the prostitutes in Sao Paulo were on Rua Augusta. I'd been there many times, even with my parents. Look at the pros, someone would always say. How does a woman get to that point? I used to think. I thought that was the only place where there were prostitutes, on that dirty, ugly street. Either there or in those old crumbling houses with heavily made-up women hanging out of the windows, calling to men passing in the street. Inside, all they had to do was spread their legs and wait for the client to come, and that was it. The so-called 'life'. Were call girls like that too? Not according to the newspaper ads. 'Girls between 18 and 25: earn at least 1,000 reais a week attending executives!'
The weeks before I ran away from home, when I'd already decided that that was what I was going to do, I bought newspapers for the classifieds and skived off school to visit a few of these places-clubs, brothels, massage parlours. I didn't see anything as shabby and run-down as on Rua Augusta, much less a bunch of women who'd gone to the dogs. Most places, like the Bahamas, were tasteful, really elegant. From the outside, you don't even realise what's inside. They impressed me. There wasnothing abnormal about the girls I saw there. They didn't have 'pro' stamped across their foreheads, nor did they hang around in doorways offering themselves to passers-by.
The house on Alameda Franca, in the neighbourhood of Jardins, was the one I chose. I didn't know how to do anything. I had no experience and hadn't even finished secondary school. To leave home, I'd have to bite the bullet and give it a try -and earn those 1,000 reais for what I did. My prejudice disappeared and I said, 'That's what I'm going to have to be.' And I confess, I fantasised about having lots of men, and the idea started to grow on me. After all, I'd only had sex six times, very mechanically, and I'd never seen a porno film in my life. It was a chance to discover where sex could take me.
'That's it, open your legs nice and wide.'
'Like this?'
'Now let the doctor examine you to make sure everything's OK.'
First one finger, then another, which he pulls out and sniffs.
'Hummm, you've passed the medical.'
After my debut with the 'gynaecologist', my illusion that all you had to do was spread your legs crumbled. So did my fantasy of having lotsof different men, because I'd only considered my idea of men. But this 'shock treatment' was a good test to see if I really did want my independence.
It was hard going to bed with a stranger, even if he was a neatly dressed would-be gynaecologist. So imagine what it was like going upstairs with an enormous old Japanese man of about sixty. He was my second client. Never in my life had I imagined myself with a guy like that. But he picked me - and paid. To say no, I'd have to pay the house what the client would have paid. That was the agreement. I did my maths. To earn 100 reais, I had to have three clients. Be chosen, don't choose. It's no accident that lots of girls snort coke and smoke a lot of dope. I knew firsthand what that was all about. Snorting and smoking.
The Japanese guy started taking off his clothes, and I tried to focus on the money. I had an hour of him in front of me. He was older than my dad! All I could think about was trying to make him come fast to get it over and done with. We chatted a little. He couldn't get it up. I gave him a blow job, played with him, and nothing. I felt lots of different sensations, smells, things I didn't want to feel. I told myself I didn't feel a thing. He ran his hands over me. I didn't like it.
To this day, I sometimes feel sick when I see ahand stroking my body. I do it to them, but I don't always like it in return. I only have sex listening to music, which helps me tune out, get on to another wavelength (besides which the CD lasts exactly one hour, which helps me keep track of time). Sometimes I imagine another man there, a boyfriend. And I look to one side, so I don't have to see the hand exploring my body, my private parts. It's all about chemistry. But I ploughed ahead and managed to give the Japanese a hard-on. I didn't know what was worse. I put a condom on him, got on top, rode him, let him fuck me and, of course, it wasn't good. It was more than mechanical. That day, I actually cried with another client; I told all of them it was my first day on the job.
People always give themselves something to make up for a bad day, a difficult week. It's no different for girls who make a living from sex. I deserve it! I thought. With the first money I managed to save from prostitution, I gave myself a mobile phone. I felt rewarded, somehow, for every time I'd ignored my nausea so as not to lose the client. It's funny, but I've never been turned off by anyone before ge
tting into bed, no matter what they look like. It's only there, in bed. Not because of anything on the guy's body, a flaw or a scar (although I have my preferences). What gets me is the smell. Their body odours. Some menshower and it doesn't make any difference. Some also have bad breath. They're the worst ones. That's why kissing is such a sensitive issue. I don't kiss everyone. And not all of them want to kiss. The lonely ones are the kissers. Sometimes, even when I don't feel like it, I have to kiss them. It ends up being kind of lacklustre. I don't have much choice. It's part of the job. So I take a deep breath and off I go.
The little more than three years that we lived in the country were coming to an end. Dad had recovered considerably from the accident and they decided it was important for my education to go back to Sao Paulo. After all, I was going to start my fifth year of school in 1995. My oldest sister had already moved to Cajuru, near Ribeirao Preto, because of her work. My middle sister was living in our flat, so my parents bought a new one for us in the same neighbourhood. Everyone would have their own space. Very modern, considering my parents' upbringing - one daughter living in a country town and another living on her own. If it was true that the oldest kids paved the way for the younger ones, I had nothing to worry about.
As a result of the move, I had to leave behind a boxer dog, Lunna (my favourite), a Weimaraner, Fedra, and a mongrel, Paco. But the most importantthing I left behind was a piece of my childhood, my happiness. Much as I loved Sao Paulo, going back became a trial. My parents were afraid of robberies, rape, everything. And they wouldn't let me out. For someone who'd run free, playing in the street or garden, being stuck in that flat in Paraiso was hell. I was eleven and wanted to explore the world. My friends started going to shopping centres and afternoon dance parties, and I couldn't. Since I had no freedom, I started lying so I could go wherever I wanted.
Mum was overly protective of me and showed it. I couldn't have a boyfriend, even if he was the most perfect guy in the world. Now Dad . . . He'd never played the role of father. OK, so he'd had the accident, his illness, he left his brilliant career right at the peak, and went into a huge depression. I now know that his aggression towards me was the result of all the heavy-duty prescription drugs he had to take. While I used to blame him, I understand now that things weren't exactly as they seemed.
The so-called rebellious-teenager phase that the over-protection sparked off almost spiralled out of control, and fights, especially with Dad, became routine. I often thought about leaving home or looking for my biological parents to see if they wanted me back. If their reason for abandoningme was financial, it wouldn't be a problem. I'd work, pay my way. The only place where I might find a clue as to the whereabouts of my real parents was in Sorocaba, where I was born and adopted. But I couldn't quite bring myself to follow this up.
I studied at Bandeirantes, a very traditional and demanding school - so much so that even when I worked my backside off to get into the sixth year, I ended up in the bottom class. Those who study there know well what that means . . . Even so, my parents were proud of me. While on the one hand I wanted freedom, and lied a lot to get it, on the other, I had my own prejudices and insecurities. And I played the good daughter.
My middle sister, who is now thirty, started going out with a guy my parents didn't approve of. She was already living on her own. Well . . . let's say not all the time. My mother found out about this tiny detail. They put a lot of pressure on her to break up with the guy and she didn't think twice. She ran off with him. I saw how much this made my parents suffer. I couldn't remain indifferent. I was so angry with my sister. I prayed a lot for my parents. I think that was the only time in my life that I asked for something in a prayer, and it wasn't even for me. I always thank God for protecting me and that's it. I don't think God does anything for us besides protect us. But I wanted Him to do something for myparents. Little did I imagine, torn between my anger with my sister and the desire to be free, that I was to replay this story myself.
When my sister's relationship ended (the guy's decision, by the looks of things), she returned home depressed, almost sick, going on about death and everything. My parents didn't pat her on the head and say, 'Darling daughter, we love you so much.' They made it clear that they wanted her to suffer for her own mistakes. They ignored her, refused to talk to her. And I followed their example, even though I really wanted to hug her and tell her everything would be all right.
I remember the day I saw my mother having a serious talk with her. I knew that expression. Mum would go red and her eyes would go dry - no sparkle in them whatsoever. She'd speak calmly, but in a strange tone of voice, leaving no doubt as to the seriousness of her words. Her forehead would crease up differently, showing wrinkles that only appeared when she was angry. It was worse than getting spanked - even though she'd never laid a finger on me. In the end, of course, they saw how serious it was and supported my sister. Off she went to the psychiatrist. It was exactly the same with me: why couldn't they talk to us? Why did our problems have to be resolved by strangers? I wanted to talk, but to them. Maybe they didn'tknow any other way to be. But I think I'll be different with my children.
I always thought that the first time for a girl was more important than for a boy. I was wrong. With every guy who loses his virginity to me, I become more and more convinced of this. OK, so in the future they probably won't even remember properly who it was (hard, in my case), but the sensation of being face to face with a woman, being able to touch her, hold her, a flesh-and-blood woman instead of a girlie magazine . . . Finally to discover the consistency of a breast, and learn how to touch it, run their hands around the cave of pleasures hidden between every woman's thighs. To be able to smell, lick her. Some of them - thirteen-, fourteen-year-olds - tremble at the sight of my naked body. I can almost read their thoughts. 'Can I touch them?' is what I hear them say most, wanting to feel my breasts. Their hands are generally cold. I sense a fear of failure in the air. A fear that I might compare their penises with others. Or a terror that they might come much too soon. I lead, teach and indulge. I feel special. In a way, I will always be remembered by every one of those boys -'children' just like me. And there've been a lot.
Since Dante Alighieri School was close to the house I worked in, you can imagine how many lost theirvirginity down that way . . . The boys would come in groups. As minors were not allowed (although I worked there), they'd ring from a public phone to make sure the coast was clear and the police weren't about to turn up. They'd come in a huge group, although it was all very respectful, no messing around. It was like a school outing, the boys wearing blue tracksuit bottoms with a yellow stripe, and plain T-shirts with the name of the school on the front. Dressed like that, they looked even more childish. We'd leave the door of the house ajar and they'd come racing in. We all loved those boys. They didn't stir up trouble and spent well.
There I was, seventeen years old, going upstairs with boys of twelve, thirteen, fourteen. How strange - me, so inexperienced, in bed with someone even less experienced! But it ended up being natural. At that age, boys are in a bit of a rush. In the beginning it was strange, difficult even. But I got used to it. And I learnt how to make them relax and go all the way. 'Slowly.' 'Is it hurting?' 'Yeah, like this, look.' No manual's a substitute for a good teacher . . .
I was almost always the one they chose. After all, I didn't look that much older than the girls they'd already wanked off over, sighing with infatuation. I'd go upstairs with the boy. It was only when we got to the bedroom that some of them confessed.
'You won't tell my friends it's my first time, will you?'
'I don't have any reason to,' I'd reply.
I never laughed at any of them. Who am I to laugh at inexperience? I taught them how to touch my breasts, let them undress me, touch me, smell me, see close up what a woman's private parts were like. I taught them how to remove their first bra, the one no one forgets. I'd put on some music and put on my show. Some were brilliant students.
I liked to remo
ve their uniforms slowly. It was easy to take off those tracksuit pants with a characteristic bulge in the crotch. I'd take hold of their rock-hard dicks, which sometimes accidentally came without me doing anything. The risk of this happening the first time was always high. So I'd suck them off to help them relax. I think they preferred blow jobs to actually fucking. They loved them. Horny little buggers, weren't they? I went down on a lot of these boys without condoms, just because they looked OK. I think I taught many of them very well. And the sex was almost always no-dramas. No acrobatics. The good old missionary position. They just wanted to get laid and have fun. The fantasies and variations come with time. It's a bit different with the more experienced ones.
* * *
I did everything I could to keep up my reputation as a 'little saint' with my parents. I'd come back from the dances and tell them I'd only danced. One night, however, I arrived home with dark love bites on my neck that I'd got from Thiago, a boy I'd gone with several times. We never became boyfriend and girlfriend because, when I saw him in the light, the beauty that the darkness had suggested wasn't the slightest bit evident. I also didn't want to hurt my lips any more with our kisses. The fact that we both wore braces was torture. But the crimson marks were there. There was no make-up that could cover it. And believe me, I tried.
Mum noticed, of course, and made me go to school the next day in a linen blouse that covered my neck. It was useless: I was really hot and it didn't cover the marks properly. But I wasn't ashamed. I didn't care that I had a reputation as a slut at school. It was as if I was a boy. For them, getting around was a sign of masculinity. For me, a love bite was a trophy, proof that someone had wanted me one night. A night of wild sex, who knows? I knew the truth. They didn't. That was what I loved about it. It was my way of getting everyone's attention. Me, a thirteen-year-old girl with a face covered in pimples, still a little on the chubby side, although I'd lost 20 kilos dieting. None of the boys at school paid me any attention, nor did anyone in the street, or anywhere. Only in the night. I must have looked beautiful in the dark. As Thiago had looked to me.
The Scorpion's Sweet Venom Page 2
