We had a driver just to take me to and from school, which was in Sorocaba, since my father couldn't take me and my mother didn't like driving there. Along the way, I'd always ask him to stop at the Real, a wonderful bakery, saying my mother had asked me to buy something. I had the money in my purse and wouldn't even necessarily be in the mood for sweets or chocolate. I did this for a long time, until . . .
I don't know why, but Mum decided to take me to school one day. She stopped at the bakery and asked me to go in to buy something. When I came back, she came out with a really strange story: she'd seen the store security guards hauling a girl off to the office. And she said the security cameras had filmed the girl stealing things from the bakery. I had no idea these things even existed. To this day, I don't know if she knew something (which was quite possible, since everyone there knew her and must have tipped her off) and chose this way to give me a fright, or if it was a true story. All I know is that I stopped stealing outside our home. But only outside. Inside, it was always cash.
Even after we'd moved back to Sao Paulo, I'd take at least 50 reais a day. I did it for the excitement of doing something I shouldn't, because after all, myparents gave me an allowance and, if I needed more, all I had to do was ask. I became so addicted that I didn't let a single day go by without taking money. My mother caught me twice, and her pardon (which I begged for while bawling my eyes out, with real tears and shame) was like an open visa to continue doing it. On a couple of occasions she even mentioned to my father, in front of me, that money was disappearing from her wallet - I think in the hope that I'd come to my senses and stop. Sweet illusion . . .
I started stealing at school too. It was only 10 reals here and there, nothing much. No one took more than that to school. I'd wait for everyone to leave the classroom during the break, then go back in and rummage through people's bags. Until the day a girl left 30 reals on her desk and I didn't think twice. I swiped it without batting an eyelid. I ended up in the head's office . . . Someone had seen me going back into the classroom during break and grassed. When the head asked me if I'd done it, I didn't try to lie, and owned up. 'Yes, it was me.' She asked if I was taking drugs. It would have been silly to admit it, since I didn't spend everything I stole on weed. So I decided to lie. The punishment was to return the money. Guess what I did? I stole it from home. Case closed, or so they thought. But do you think money stopped disappearing from school? The other times, however, I took the blame but not the gain.
I'd really thought that if I returned the money, everything would be OK. But the head decided to call Mum in and tell her everything. She was devastated, and furious with me. We had a huge fight. But at that stage in the game, no matter how hard I tried to stop (and I did), I couldn't. I had to take more and more in order to feed another addiction -compulsive shopping. The things I bought were useless, but I had a crazy need to buy them. And this required more and more money.
I was so out of control that even the US dollars my sister had set aside (left over from a trip to the United States) shared the same fate. Before going back there to get married, she'd decided to renovate her flat and had taken the money to our parents' place to keep it out of reach of the workmen. I kept taking dollar bills until, before I knew it, I'd taken the lot. And it didn't stop. I started selling my books at second-hand bookshops until they were all gone. Then I took others from home. Enough! I promised myself I wouldn't do it any more. When I make a promise, I keep it. This time it didn't work.
One day when no one was at home, I went rummaging through drawers looking for money. I found a recorder and some of those little cassettetapes. I started listening and discovered that my phone calls had all been recorded. OK, so I'd screwed up a lot, but that was too invasive.
At the start of 2002, I thought: If I take lots of money and buy everything I want, then I'll stop. I remembered some Vivara jewellery that Dad had given Mum for their wedding anniversary the year before, which she'd never worn. I tried to sell the ring by itself, but no one wanted to pay more than 50 reais for it, even though the stone was rare. I temporarily gave up on the idea, until, one day, on an impulse, I decided to take the case with the whole set. I'd heard of a place on Oscar Freire that bought jewellery and paid well. I took everything with me to school in my bag. I'd actually forgotten it was there when a friend asked me for something and I told her to get it from my bag. There was a huge commotion. The girl made such a big scandal that the class stopped and even the teacher came over to see what was going on. The teacher asked why I was carrying the jewellery around and once again I lied, saying it was a present from my boyfriend that I was going to lend to a friend to wear to a party.
After the class, off I went to the store on Oscar Freire. The guy recognised the value of the jewellery but told me he could only pay 500 reais. I said no, of course. I took the case home and hid it in thecupboard again, although the thought of having 500 reals was really tempting. That was a lot of money for a seventeen-year-old girl. I thought about all the things I could buy and was unable to resist. My mother had never used that jewellery and wouldn't even notice it was missing. The next day I closed the deal. I took a taxi and immediately started to regret what I'd done. I asked the driver to go around the block and I went back to the store. Guess how much he was asking for me to buy it all back? Two thousand, five hundred reais!!! Where was I going to come up with that kind of money? I gave up. What was done was done.
In May, my mother decided to wear the jewellery to a wedding. Obviously, she couldn't find it. She even asked me if I'd seen it, and I lied, of course. She searched the whole house for that dratted jewellery and ended up wearing another set. I was relieved, at least temporarily. The next day was a Saturday and she turned the house upside down. I swear I wanted to tell her everything, but I didn't know how. 'It was the maid!' she concluded. I felt really guilty, because the maid had worked for my family for almost twenty years and I didn't think it was fair for her to get the blame for it. But I kept my mouth shut.
The next day, my mother arrived home saying she'd been to my school and that the head had told her I'd been behaving strangely, giving presents tomy friends (I'd only been giving away my collections of stickers and writing paper). But the big revelation was that the story about the jewellery in the classroom had reached her ears. 'If it was you, I want it back,' she said, thinking I still had it. There was nothing I could do and I confessed everything, including that I'd sold it. She wanted to know how much I'd sold it for, but I didn't tell her. She freaked out, although she promised not to tell my father, for fear of his reaction or that he might have a stroke - since he was probably still paying off the present - or even beat me.
Some time went by, then one day I arrived home and saw my mother with that terrible expression on her face that only she knows how to make when she's angry. All she said was, 'I couldn't help myself and I told your father.' At that very moment I saw him coming towards me from the living room. Without a word, he started beating me. With his fist, his palm, every way possible. I don't know how, but people started arriving: my sisters, their friends, my brother-in-law. An audience formed. Dad dragged me to the sofa and continued hitting me. When he tired, I begged him to hit me more. Since I hadn't managed to kill myself, here was my chance.
'Go ahead and kill me. I'll let you kill me.'
'I'll kill you all right,' he said. 'I'm going to beat you to death.'
I decided to stand up to him. I didn't shed a single tear. I wanted to appear strong, no matter how much I was hurting. Dad said he'd already spoken to a couple of friends of his who were judges and that I'd be going straight to the juvenile detention centre. He beat me until they left to report me to the police.
My sisters gave me a tongue-lashing, of course. They 'reminded' me that I'd been adopted out of love and that I had everything they'd never had, because my parents hadn't always had money. But I back-chatted everyone, I'm not even sure why. When they got back, Dad continued beating me until he was tired. I went to bed in the c
lothes I was wearing, without even taking a shower. He came into my room, slapped me across the face and said, 'Here's one more.' This went on for three days, until he stopped hitting me. I was never left to my own devices again. There was always someone watching me, at home, in the street, on the way to school. At night, they locked the flat's two doors and went to bed. During the day, they locked the doors to the office and their bedroom, for fear I might steal something else.
A week later, Dad came to me and said, 'Today is your hearing.' Since he hadn't killed me, the juvenile detention centre had to be better. He and Mum went by taxi. I was given a metro ticket and instruction on how to get there. Along the way, I thought about running away, but I was scared and decided to face the judge. When I got there, we waited in a room with lots of mothers of kids who were locked away, because it was the hearing day to see who was getting out. When a line of kids walked in holding hands, obliged to look at the ground without turning their faces away, many of the mothers started crying. 'Start deciding who's going to be your boyfriend in prison,' said my father. I'm not sure, but I think boys and girls are separated on the inside. He said it to hurt me even more. All my mother did was cry; she didn't say a word.
We were called in to see the judge (I was glad it was a woman). My heart was in my mouth. First my father spoke. Then my mother, who confirmed my rebelliousness and the problems I'd been causing, and said they didn't know what else to do with me and were disappointed. When it was my turn, I lied, saying it was all because I'd been smoking dope. Some of it actually was, but not all of it. I said I regretted what I'd done, although it didn't make any difference to me if I went to prison or home.
When it was the judge's turn, I got the sermon. 'I know your family, I used to work with your sister, and I know they're good people. If I were you, I'd be more grateful. You've gone to good schools, andyou have no reason to do what you've done. Since you said the problem is marijuana, I'm not going to do anything with you. I'm going to give you a list of rehab clinics to help you stop. The suit your father has brought against you is going to stay here with me, in a file, because I'm sure this is just a teenage thing that can and will change. I'm not going to put you, who has had an education, in the middle of a group of kids who haven't had (and probably never will have) your opportunities. Since your parents didn't give you a chance, I'm going to give you one, so you can prove you've changed.' And that was it . . .
I didn't end up going to a clinic because my father had sworn never to spend another penny on me, and the clinics were all private and expensive. I actually saw him looking at the list a couple of times, but the subject was never mentioned. His promise to dry up my source of money was strictly kept. I was transferred from Sao Luis to Brasilio Machado, a state school. They cut my allowance and took me out of the gym. I only received public-transport tickets to go to school. I went from Parafso to Vila Mariana on foot and sold the tickets for 10 reals per week. Almost nothing, but I made do. I was able to buy cigarettes, at least. Go out at night? No way . . . I met a lot of good people at this school, but I also met a lot of bad people, who stole, even thoughthey weren't exactly needy . . . I almost ended up one of them, but I escaped.
There was a Japanese guy who was always after one of the girls at the house on Michigan. But he ended up with me when she turned her nose up at him.
'I've got a fantasy.'
'What?'
'I love shaving pros.'
'But I've hardly got anything '
'No problem. I want to shave everything off and leave your cunt nice and bare.'
Taking a razor and shaving cream from his bag, my 'Japanese barber' started removing my few pubic hairs. He left me bald. An exciting, new sensation. I tried to initiate sex, but the fantasy session wasn't over. He wanted to take pictures. I let him. It was only after he'd taken loads of pictures that he went down on me. Law of the jungle: you kill it, you eat it. In my case: you peel it, you eat it. Only after this ritual did we actually have sex. In spite of his fetish, we did it in the good, old-fashioned missionary position.
In this profession, we come into contact with a more honest, less hypocritical side of people. They don't hide their most secret desires, and let fetishes out of the bag that they'd never admit to anyone, not even under torture. With a working girl, no one needs to pretend anything. They come to me to indulge their fantasies. We play the role of therapists sometimes. My understanding of normality has changed a lot since I started making a living from sex. Even so, certain situations are hard to forget.
Working in brothels, I have discovered that there are many, many married men, generally between the ages of thirty-five and forty-five, who want you to play the 'active' role.
'Have you got toys?' they ask on the phone.
'Yes, lots.'
'What have you got?'
'Everything. Just tell me what you like to play with.'
'Have you got a vibrator?'
This is a really common question, believe me. Which made me become a regular in sex shops. It's a fun world, as well as perverted. There are lots of 'toys', gels, creams, clothes, costumes, perfumes, lingerie items, and condoms (which I buy to give my clients), as well as a bunch of completely normal-looking people who overcome their shame and go into sex shops in search of excitement. There are enormous dildos, rubber pussies and inflatable dolls on display. It was in one of these sex shops that I saw a guy buying a doll and thought tomyself: If one day a boyfriend or husband of mine tells me that he's had sex with one of those things, it'll be the end.
These days I go to a sex shop here in Moema that's such a hoot - only women are allowed in. You feel more at ease, without any guys watching you to see what women buy. And there are some really funny things: a straw and cutlery set in the shape of a penis, which I bought for my place. Sometimes I go just to see what's new. Oops, I almost changed the subject.
Anyway, what these men want is for me to become 'Bruno', stick a huge vibrator in their rear end and really give it to them. I often have to strap on a dildo and give them a good pounding. Modesty aside, I think I do a good job of it. These are guys that you see in the street, family men, your everyday guy. These 'family men' aren't the only ones I've had. I've also fucked lots of pumped-up iron men up the arse - the ones who act all macho and have it in for homosexuals, but who, deep down, between four walls, like to get on all fours and be dominated. I don't think they have the courage to find a guy, and feel less gay if a woman fucks them. At the end of the day, it all becomes 'normal'.
Just as it's normal not to be able to get it up. Only men don't know this . . . One day a tall young manturned up. He was really shy. I hugged him. I'm short, so my ear was pressed against his heart. It was beating fast. As well as shy, he was anxious. We didn't talk much, but I can say it was an 'exotic' encounter. He started sucking my nipples and I noticed something was different. He wasn't sucking - he was suckling! And he stayed there for a while. When he let go, I discreetly pinched my nipples to see if any milk was coming out. Only joking . . .
After the suckling, it was my turn to go down on him. I don't think he'd had a wank for a long time, because his come was very intense and there was a lot of it. His dick throbbed in my mouth for ages. I went to the bathroom to get cleaned up and when I came back he took my hand and placed it on his limp dick. Wow! He didn't even want to take a quick break! I went back to sucking his limp dick. I stayed at it for half an hour. There's nothing worse than sucking a limp dick. And no sign of it coming back to life. He's lucky I didn't charge for the millilitres of saliva I spent that day. He got angry and swore at his dick, complaining as if he were talking to it. He was embarrassed at not being able to get it up for the second round. I'm not surprised - I've never seen someone go two rounds without a breather. He ended up going into the bathroom for a wank to see if he could get it up again. How did I know? I could seehis shadow on the door. A typical case of a problem with the upstairs head.
A period with two different sentences. This was what came of
the fight with my father. I needed to escape and go and live my life before he decided how I should live it. In that house of locked doors I was a kind of human guinea pig. First the locked doors, then the recordings, and now total silence. No one spoke to me any more. I only had my cat to keep me company. Me, who hates being alone.
One night I overheard my parents talking about sending me away, although they didn't say where. I didn't even know what to think. I felt like a little girl again, alone, still and petrified in a dark room, scared as I had always been (and still am), imagining a monster under my bed. In my case, it slept in the bedroom next door - and its evil seemed to be an unconfessable secret. If I'd escaped being sent to the juvenile detention centre, what could he have in mind? It was the darkest and longest night of my life.
One day in July, out of the blue, my mother told me I was going to Guaruja the next day. Now who, after a crazy story like this, sends their daughter off to have fun on the beach? I realised, in part due to her silence, that this wasn't a sign of regret. They really were planning something for me and wanted me out of there.
Can you believe that my father only gave me 50 reais to last two weeks? OK, so I was going to stay at a friend's place, but that wouldn't even last a day. And it didn't. Since I didn't want to take anyone else's money, not even if they lent it to me, it occurred to me to have sex for money. I don't even know where I got this idea, but off I went. I went out alone one night to walk along the pavement and flirt with men who were alone. If someone came on to me, I'd tell them I was a prostitute and that they'd have to pay if they wanted to have sex with me. Several men stopped and some even came close. But I didn't have the courage to say a thing. It wasn't something I wanted or knew how to do. I didn't know how to sell my body. I gave up and borrowed some money from a friend who was keen on me. He gave me 150 reais. 'Pay me back when you can.' I never saw him again . . .
The Scorpion's Sweet Venom Page 5
