The Scorpion's Sweet Venom

by Bruna Surfistinha

I tried to leave again, but he didn't let me.

  'You're not escaping without at least giving me a blow job.'

  There was nothing else I could do. I'd only get out of there if I sucked him off. I couldn't say I didn't know how. How embarrassing! I'd never put a dick in my mouth and didn't have the slightest idea what to do. I imagined myself sucking an ice-lolly. I squatted on the ground while he leaned against the wall with his trousers down, holding my hair, controlling the rhythm. I didn't like the way he kept pushing my head. I held his dick at the base, near his balls. If I'd let him, he would have rammed the whole thing in. I was afraid of choking, but very excited. By the situation, his taste, his smell, the act itself, the fear of getting caught. Before long he started moaning, panting, shoving his dick forcefully between my lips. Then, a stronger shove, and I tasted something strange in my throat. He'd come in my mouth. But I didn't have the courage to swallow.

  I don't know if it's true, but he told me it was the best blow job he'd ever had. So I made my debut with critical praise . . . All I know is that he really moaned as if he liked it. Once again I didn't have the courage to say that it was my first time. We promised to keep it to ourselves.

  I was really silly and broke the promise myself. I told a 'friend', who worshipped the guy. And by the look of things, he didn't keep his mouth shut either. The gossip spread throughout our entire year in a matter of days. No one came to ask me if it was true, to hear my side of the story. I just heard the laughter and felt people staring at me. Some with malice. Others with disgust.

  As if with the wave of a magic wand, everyone disappeared. Not even my 'friends' stood by me. I ended up completely alone. People were ashamed to be seen with me. One girl came to ask me how much I charged. I said nothing. Big mistake. I felt hard done by. Even the girls who were no longer virgins helped make and spread my reputation as a slut around the school. But I kept it together. I went to school as if nothing had happened and even though I felt alone and hurt. I shed few tears over it, although I was really suffering. I was only fifteen!

  Then one day I'd had a gutful of the hypocrisy and said, 'I did it, I liked it and I'd do it again.' That shut a few people up. I knew I hadn't committed a crime. Then I realised something else. What exactly had the boy told people? Guys have this stupid, childish habit of blowing everything out of proportion, bragging. I never found out if that was what happened, since no one spoke to me. Not even him. But I think he must have made out that he'd had sex with me.

  The story ended up in the head's office, of course. I denied everything and would have continued to my last breath. That day, I crumbled. I arrived home crying and told my mother everything. Well, not everything. I told her I'd left the school grounds to kiss a boy and that people were saying I'd had sex with him, that I'd performed oral sex on him.

  It was the end of my eighth year of school and Mum thought it was better to change schools. I don't know if she believed me or was just pretending, like me. Bandeirantes was about to become history. That is, if another boy hadn't also left Ban­deirantes and gone to study at Maria Imaculada -and ended up in the same class as me. The story was duly spread and once again Raquel was margin­alised. Know what? Fuck them!

  The 'Big Twenty' experience had really been very interesting. But it wasn't for me. I work with mybody and, of course, I get tired. It isn't an easy life. Ten clients a day is bordering on insanity. Everything hurts. I had to try a different house, catch my breath and start again. But with a different mind. I ended up in a house on Rua Michigan, in Brooklin. Now I know why I had to spend some time there: it was where I earned my name. I've always loved the ocean. One of my sisters had a holiday flat in Guaruja, on the coast, and I used to go there a lot. Good times . . . My only moments alone were in the sea, without anyone else around. I even went body-boarding and surfing at some of the beaches there. But no one knew that.

  There were two Brunas working at the house. A client asked for Bruna and the manager took him the other one.

  'Not this one,' he said. 'I want the little surfer girl.'

  I liked the guy. We had chemistry and got along well.

  'Why did you call me a surfer girl?'

  'You look like one.'

  'Good, I like it!'

  When I left this house and started working in my flat, I had to come up with a working name that suited me. I remembered the episode and didn't think twice. I'd be Bruna, the Surfer Girl.

  * * *

  I've already mentioned that one of the things that most irritated me about the brothels was the issue of the linen. Well here's another behind-the-scenes story. In the house on Rua Michigan, the girls had to wash the towels themselves (the bed linen went to the launderette). There were four washing machines and a bunch of clotheslines to dry them on. Except that when winter came and business picked up, the sun didn't come out and the dratted towels just wouldn't get dry. There was a heater in the room where we sat and waited for clients. We'd come downstairs after each client with the towel, and the manager would hang it in front of the heater, let it dry a little, check for stains and wrap it up again. Looks brand new, right? Several men would dry themselves with the same towel. Gross . . .

  All the confusion, discovering sexual desire, gossip, losing my friends, and the fact that I'd always been chubby, sent me into a painful spiral. I fell into a depression and ended up on Prozac and the lot. And with all this going on, my fear of getting fat again led me to bulimia. I'd stuff my face with sweets, then stick my fingers down my throat and . . . it became a compulsion. I was hungry and ate a lot, I think because of the medication and my anxiety, then I'd rush away from the dining tableto bring it all up again. On my way home from school, I'd stop and buy twenty reals' worth of sweets and chocolates every single day. I'd wolf them down practically all at once, just for the taste, then get rid of them a few minutes later. My mother caught on, probably because of the sound of the toilet flushing after every meal and the way I'd rush off. I took to vomiting in a newspaper so I wouldn't have to flush the toilet.

  Who knows why I went into such a bad depression. Well, actually, I do know. I thought I was fat and ugly, I was adopted, and I had problems with my dad . . . As if that weren't enough, when I turned sixteen, after the fuck-up at Bandeirantes and the fact that the story had also spread to Maria Imaculada, I found myself with no friends. It got to a point where I couldn't see any way out. I decided to kill myself. It'd have to be something quick, where I wouldn't feel any pain or run the risk of staying alive, but quadriplegic, for example. A gun would be the best way. Dad had one at home. Legal, of course. Not that he'd ever used it; it was from the days when we'd lived in the country. I knew where he kept it.

  One day, alone at home, I really hit rock bottom. I got the gun from its hiding place and, although I was shaking, stuck the barrel in my mouth. It's strange holding a gun. It's cold and its weight doesn't seem to match its size. It was as if I washolding something from another planet, a place that might well be my final destiny after firing the first and last shot of my life. I closed my eyes and got ready to pull the trigger with my thumb. There was this ridiculous pressure inside me, my head, my chest. I counted to three and . . . CLICK! The fucking thing wasn't loaded. Even so, I decided I still wanted to go through with it. I turned the place upside down and found the bag Dad kept the bullets in. I don't know what happened to me, but I was unable to load a single bullet in the revolver. I decided to give up. For the time being.

  A week went past and I was still really bad. I took Prozac to stay awake and something else to get to sleep. I don't think either of them had the desired effect, because I spent seven nights in a row going over my life, seeing just how much I had to work out. I decided to try again. I waited for everyone to go to bed, placed a chair by the living-room window, which was the only one that didn't have bars on it, and figured that falling from the ninth floor would be fatal, which was my intention. I climbed up, stuck a leg out the window and, with half my body inside and the other half hanging out, I
thought about all the bad things in my life. That would give me the strength to jump. But I couldn't think of anything bad enough to make me do it. Only good things came to mind: my dreams, the desire to make peacewith my parents. My courage, which was already dwindling, threw itself out of the window before I could. I never tried again. I wanted to live. So, I'd have to do something for myself.

  I'd already had two boyfriends, one at Bandeir­antes and the other at Maria Imaculada, without ever having gone beyond a bit of heavy petting and oral sex. You'll think I'm lying, but I was still technically a virgin at the age of seventeen! In other words, no guy had ever had his dick in me. Which, technically speaking, is what qualifies a girl as a virgin. Honestly, I have no reason to lie about this now.

  Since Mum kept a tight rein on me, and I didn't want my first time to be up against a wall in a dark alley or on a dance floor, it was hard fulfilling all of the requirements. Of course, I also had to be truly in love. I dreamt of finding a boyfriend and going to live with him, regardless of my age.

  I found my third boyfriend on the Internet. At home, Dad and I both had our own computers, which ensured me a certain amount of privacy, even if only in the virtual world. I'd always been crazy about the Internet and spent hours surfing, writing and, of course, flirting on-line. Until the day I fell in love with a boy through the computer screen. It's true. We arranged to meet. Face to face, I thoughthe was horrible. If we hadn't been in love . . . We started going out for real.

  At home, we suffered a lot of prejudice because he was a delivery boy. Daddy's little girl, middle class, going out with a guy like that? Dad refused to accept it. 'I don't want you going out with a poor guy, a delivery boy. Imagine if you married a guy like that - he wouldn't be able to support you. You'd have to work.' In his mind, all families were like his. Mum had never worked after getting married, although she had a degree in Language and Literature and had worked as a teacher for a while in Sorocaba before she married my father. The poor thing - how boring watching TV all day long, looking after the flat and her daughters, chatting on the phone.

  Love is blind, deaf and mindless. But mute, never. I fought with my parents every day. I think that's why I did everything in my power to put an end to my virginity. Imagine the juggling act. My parents were away and my sisters didn't live with us any more. Whenever Mum was away, she asked the maid to stay the night - in the living room, to be specific. The maid always went to bed early, which made things easier.

  I planned everything. My boyfriend arrived at the building and called me from his mobile. Without raising any suspicions, I said I was going to agirlfriend's place. I went downstairs to meet him and we took the service lift back up so we wouldn't have to buzz the intercom. When we got to my floor, he hid on the stairs. It was really exciting. Like something out of a film.

  My heart was beating wildly; I was scared that something might go wrong. Then I ordered a takeaway. When the food arrived, I asked the maid to go downstairs to get it. It was enough time for him to sneak in through the kitchen door and hide in the cupboard in my bedroom, while I behaved as if everything was normal in the living room. I got the food, left some for the maid to eat alone and locked myself in my room. He came out (no pun intended) and had dinner with me. We waited until we heard the maid snoring. With a full stomach, she quickly fell asleep. Then we left my room and, taking care not to wake her, headed for my parents' bedroom. It had to be on a double bed, of course . . .

  It didn't really work the first two nights (of the five) that we repeated this scheme. It was only on the third night that I worked up the courage to have sex. It was crazy, awful, because it had been planned. It was really mechanical. I felt my hymen tear and that was that. All said and done, I'd only lost my virginity. No, that wasn't sex. It hurt a lot, and I couldn't scream or make a noise. It was a while before I got to have real sex. Was it worth it? Yes. I'd imaginedthat becoming someone's 'woman', completely, would be yet another reason for me to decide to leave home to live with him. But I realised that I didn't need to marry someone for that to happen. And I had to do something about it fast.

  My breasts were small, in proportion to my body. I was happy with them, but it wasn't really about me. So off I went with my savings to get a boob job. And it wasn't just my tits that got bigger. There was a new 'dish' on Bruna the Surfer Girl's menu: oral, vaginal, anal and . . . tit-fucking! If you still haven't worked out what that is, I'll tell you. I squeeze my breasts together, creating a generic vagina in the soft region in between. In the beginning I thought it was funny, because it was as if I was watching someone have sex from the inside, with the head of the guy's penis appearing and disappearing, close to my mouth. I was even able to give the better-hung 'two-in-one', with a few licks on the head of their dicks when they got close. I've had clients who could only come that way.

  I'd been working for almost a year when my first couple (in a long line of them) turned up at the house on Michigan. That is, my first pair. They were both married - but not to each other. They arrived and I eyed the woman curiously. I admit Igot very excited. Going down on another girl while a guy goes down on you is indescribable. I came effortlessly. She returned the favour and went down on me with gusto. While she did this, I sucked him off. I was enjoying being the centre of attention. He fucked me lying down, while she offered herself to me, licked my nipples, and ran her tongue all over me. We kissed, caressed and went down on one another. If it weren't for me, the poor guy would have had to wank himself. I came twice.

  This was the first time we'd had sex, and I thought it odd that she'd been more interested in me than in him. Nothing against it, but it just didn't seem natural. If I hadn't paid the guy any attention, it would have been as if he weren't there. I realised that she was turned off by him and avoided his efforts to please her, his touch, his attempts to kiss her, to go down on her. While he was showering, I started chatting to her. She was only interested in him for his money, and not for sexual pleasure. Her husband didn't make enough money to give her half of what her lover did. Brand-new car, jewellery - the kind of presents lovers give.

  They could only meet once a week, for two hours. To free herself of the chore of having sex with him, she started demanding another woman in bed with them. She told him she liked it (and she really did seem to). It made the time go faster during their encounters, she said.

  This woman was definitely an exception. After going out with couples became routine, and I'd been initiated into the interesting world of swingers' clubs, I came to a conclusion about women: they like being with other women. This story about 'indulging her husband's fantasies' is for a minority. It's a useful excuse. Women are shyer, more reserved, afraid of taboos. Of course there are situations where it's clear that it's the husband's doing, insisting his wife sleep with another woman. When they arrive they're afraid, frozen, don't know what to do.

  Once I was in the uncomfortable situation of having a woman cry in front of me because she felt jealous seeing her husband with me. But then there are others who even encourage it. These women swear that they do it so their husbands won't cheat on them, because they're always together in their sexual adventures. If only they knew how many of them came back alone later . . . Not to mention those who've already come before. How many times have I heard them say, 'When she comes, you pretend you've never seen me before in your life, right?' I feel sorry for these women. They're having the wool pulled over their eyes and don't know it. Or they pretend not to know, not to notice, who knows. I'll never fall into the trap of trying tobe liberal to avoid betrayal. Total satisfaction does not exist, nor does anything come with a guarantee.

  It's funny - the reasons why these women actually come to share their beds and husbands with someone else are so many: fear, pleasure, jealousy, curiosity, insecurity, fantasy. But deep down, I believe that all women really like being with other women. Whether men enjoy being with other men, I'm not sure, because when I'm with two at the same time, even at 'parties' with DP and the whole works, I'v
e never seen anything happen between them (which is a shame). If they do it when they're alone, well, that's another story . . . I've shared the intimacy of sex with lots of people, men and women, and I know what I'm talking about. I'm going to be an excellent psychologist, mark my words.

  The delivery-boy boyfriend, the lies I told to get what I wanted, the trouble I got into and my grades at school - all this made my relationship with Dad go downhill. He tried to fix things: I failed my first year of secondary school and when I finally passed, he sent me to Sao Luis to see if a new environment would help. It didn't make any difference. I still couldn't be bothered studying.

  Dad and I had terrible fights, but he'd never hit me, no matter how afraid I was that he might. Deep down, I always thought I deserved it. So I'm going totell you the real story of why he hit me for the first time. I've never told anyone before out of sheer shame. I used to steal. No, I'm not a professional thief. It started when I was about eight and we lived in Aragoiaba. The local grocery shop had a sweet jar on the counter. As there was only one shop assistant, who was busy with Mum, it was easy to take the sweets on the sly - and I also savoured them on the sly. I knew all I had to do was ask and Mum would have bought me as many as I wanted. But the exciting part was the adrenalin, the fear of what was forbidden and the risk of getting caught. I only slipped up once and Mum asked where the sweets had come from. I lied. 'I got them at school.' It wasn't long before I discovered other facets of this uncontrollable urge. The sweets weren't enough and I discovered a compulsion for money. That's right - money has always held sway over me. Imagine - there I was, eight years old, stealing money from my parents! Since my father could barely leave the house due to his illness, there was always money at home. That was before the currency changed to the real I didn't have the slightest idea what the money was worth. All I knew was that asking for it (and my requests would no doubt be met) was less exciting than taking it. I started taking a few notes every now and then from Dad's stash. Then I'd go into a shop and ask the assistant what I could buywith it. Even so, I continued stealing things from other places. Especially sweets.