I returned from this trip truly happy, which I hadn't felt for a long time, and I don't know why but my parents didn't even look away from the TV when I sang out, 'I'm home!' My mother never spoke to me again. I couldn't have cared less if my father never looked me in the face again. But never again to hear my mother call me 'daughter' in that comforting voice of hers was perhaps the closest I'd ever been to the solitude of death. I never wanted to feel like that again. Never again.
* * *
The uncomfortable silence dragged through the days, heavy. Whatever it was they'd thought about doing with me, like sending me to a boarding school, emancipating me so they could kick me out of home, or something like that, I wasn't sticking around to find out. My time was running out. I started buying newspapers for the classifieds. I realised that my inexperience was going to be an insurmountable obstacle. All paths led to the only thing a girl like me could do. That was how I began my pilgrimage through the houses that placed ads in newspapers for girls between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five looking to earn '1000 reais per week'.
I visited massage parlours, brothels and even nightclubs. On 8 October 2002, twenty days before my eighteenth birthday, I summoned the courage to tell my father that I was going to leave home and get a job. Repeating that he wasn't going to give me another penny if I left, he asked how I intended to survive. In my incredible naivety, although determined to confront him, I said I was going to be a masseuse for executives. But I really believed it, because that's what the ads said: massage. A girl in one house I visited had said that just a massage was one price, and if the client wanted sex, he'd pay the difference. I was going to just stick to the massage. Of course, heflew into a rage. I was ready and willing for him to beat me again.
But instead of a heavy hand came a voice, confused, disorientated, disconcerted. He started talking to me. Upset, yes. Angry, yes. But he did try to talk to me. But it was too late to start talking. He really didn't have the slightest vocation for it. And I went on, sincerely, in my naivety, 'But, Dad, it's just massage, not sex. I'm not going to have sex, I'm just going to give massages.' Everything he hadn't said in my life, and especially since the 'law of silence' had been laid down in our house, he vomited up that night. What he really wanted was to convince me not to leave. I listened in silence. My silence got him even more worked up. You little whore . . . slut . . . His words came out in an endless string, as if he didn't even need to stop to breathe.
He was worn out and the conversation ended when almost a death-sentence (or perhaps wish) escaped his lips. 'All prostitutes get Aids. I'm really sorry that you're going die alone of Aids at Emilio Ribas Hospital.' Fine. If being free meant I had to be a prostitute, then that's what I was going to be. And if that meant I had to die, then so be it.
I'd already had sex with lots of men. Some I couldn't even remember. Of course there were others who were unforgettable. Like a really insecure guy that showed up one day. He clearly had problems. He was sad. Like someone who is far away, talking to himself, he started singing along with the music that was playing. The scene moved me, I must confess. Here was a man who needed refuge. But that wasn't why he'd booked me. When I saw his naked body, I got a shock. First, because the guy was really skinny. Second, his dick was huge! I think it was the biggest I'd ever seen. The sex was awful, because I was worried about what he was feeling. He needed help and I didn't know what to do . . . I also had a hard time sucking him off. He was so big that only his little head (so to speak) fitted in my mouth. Getting a condom on him was a nightmare. It was too tight and made him lose his hard-on. Even so, we managed to have a bit of sex. It was one of the few times I felt a guy's dick hit my uterus. A new sensation, anyway. He came while wanking off over my tits, emptied out a litre of come and went. I was left with the odd impression that something had been missing in that session. What? Perhaps I should have said something. Or maybe it was just my impression. But I knew very well what it was like to feel unhappy . . .
By December 2003, I'd already bought myself a computer. It was a way to fill my moments of solitude. I'd always loved surfing the Internet andhad discovered blogs. Everyone had their own and it looked interesting, fun. I decided to run a Google search for blogs by working girls, just to see what their lives were like, the day-to-day life of another girl like myself, to compare. You can find everything on the Internet, can't you? Well surprise surprise - no hits! I searched again, using every available search engine. Nothing!
I was alone a lot, which I hate. It scares me, I don't know why. I'd met a girl who was really nice-Gabi, who rented a flat in the same building as me and who is now my best friend. One night when I was feeling down, I called her over the intercom and asked her to come and keep me company, but she couldn't. I almost went crazy. So I decided to write in my blog everything I'd wanted to tell her that night. Someone would see it. Who knows, maybe even my family would see it. What I really wanted was for someone to come to my aid, save me. From my life, my story. From me.
I was really down. I wrote a sketch of my life and said that prostitution wasn't worth it and that if I could turn back the clock I'd never have chosen this path. All this in a working girl's blog . . . The next day I was feeling a little better and decided to delete everything. People were going to think that, as well as a pro, I was crazy. I think all this happened because Christmas was near. I thought about mymother, home. My enthusiasm for the blog cooled somewhat and I forgot about it for a while.
On 1 January 2004, I thought: I'm going to go back to my blog. Since it was a kind of diary, it made sense to start that day. I decided to write about my daily life instead of just offloading. And I'd also be able to record in a different way everything that I wrote in my agenda, especially details about each client. I'd always thought about doing a more in-depth statistical study when I left prostitution. For example, I'm 100 per cent certain that 70 per cent of my clients are married. I always ask them why they're cheating on their wives, not to mention paying for sex. There are only two kinds of answer. They're tired of having sex with their wives or afraid to tell their wives their fantasies because they're too prudish. Only 20 per cent are diehard bachelors who don't have time or can't be bothered going out (or can't pick anyone up), and the other 10 per cent are engaged or committed.
I never imagined that other people would find it all so interesting. But I thought it would be fun for me. Imagine being able to classify sex, say what it was like. This was how I came up with my 'categories':
- Mechanical: there's no chemistry, when I'm tired and impatient. I keep glancing at the clockand watching the time, which doesn't pass. I do everything begrudgingly, although I do everything I can to make the client come quickly and leave. Sometimes I even sigh loudly. 'Shall we change position?' the client asks. Completely bored, I answer, 'Humph', since I can't swear. . . . I don't even go to the trouble of moaning.
- Couple: there's chemistry, as if we were a real couple having sex for the first time, at a motel, kissing, hugging, caresses, careful sex, the missionary position.
- Smutty: does smutty need explaining? I feel like a real prostitute, and I let it all hang out. I don't really know how to explain it . . . With couple sex, even when it's hot, I don't feel like a prostitute. In this case I do.
My blog was hosted in the Terra website. One night, when I went to make a post, I typed in my password and a message appeared saying it was wrong. It was a Friday and I'd have to wait until the following Monday to resolve the problem.
On the Sunday, I decided to try again and, to my surprise, I saw there was a new post and, worse, it wasn't what I had written! I realised that someone must have hacked my computer and stolen my password . . . I was so angry I cried!
On the Monday, I called Terra and managed toget in touch with the person responsible for the blogs. I explained what had happened and they managed to restore my password after a week. The person continued posting every day, pretending to be me.
I got scared that this person might write
something compromising. But it didn't happen. The person was happy just imitating me, and they did it so well that I actually thought I'd written some of those posts.
I got my password back, deleted everything I hadn't written and explained what had happened to my readers. A month had barely gone by when my password was stolen again. This time it was much worse, because not only did the person pretend to be me, but they also posted Word files stolen from my computer. They were very compromising, since some chapters of my book were copied and pasted into the blog.
This time I cried even more and lost several nights' sleep, wondering who might have done it and why. I managed to recover my password again, but I gave up on the blog. Until a friend who works with computers suggested I get my own site, where I could continue my blog and also post my photos.
It was with this site that I started to taste success. The photos helped me gain the trust of people who didn't believe that the blog was written by a realworking girl. I'd received lots of emails from people who didn't believe me. Many of them thought I was a man dreaming it all up.
It was with this change of address that my blog started making waves. Many people thought - and still think - that my stolen passwords were just a marketing ploy to get attention.
My blog suddenly had so many visitors that I got a fright. Something so startling was going on that the guys at iBest, the host site, called to tell me my blog was the second most visited link. I had no idea it would go so far. At first, I was frightened. It's strange thinking that lots of people know what's going on in your life. It was as if they'd invaded my house and rummaged through my drawers. At the same time, I discovered that that was exactly what I wanted - for people to read about my life. At least my public life. Not Raquel's, but Bruna's.
I went to bed for the last time in that flat. Our talk had really upset me. My father didn't trust me at all. Not even in my ability to look after myself. He made me feel useless. I promised myself it was the last time I'd allow that to happen. With him or any other man on the face of this earth. I oscillated between moments of distress and great excitement. In a few hours, I'd be free to go wherever I wanted, to do whatever I wanted.
A WORKING GIRLS
DIARY
Wednesday, 28 June
FIRST CLIENT
Client profile: a bit nutty at first. Later, he was OK. And really naughty. There was no chemistry or affinity.
Classification: mechanical.
Interesting fact: he slipped his dick into my cunt thinking it was my arse. But it wasn't my fault. I swear.
Funny fact: he swore I'd smoked pot. It wasn't true. I swear.
Round one: we went down on each other, but neither of us came. Just as well. Then I rode him until his eyes rolled back in his head.
Round two: I got on all fours and we had anal . . . oops . . . vaginal sex until he came.
Since June 2004, my posts in www.brunasurfis-tinha.com have all been like this. Standardised, very simple, without many details. I had up to ten clients a day. I didn't have much time to write, just enough between clients to jot things down on a piece of paper to type up later on the computer. Even so, due to the blog, I inspired the fantasies of many boys and men as they wanked themselves off. And I gained a certain fame. It wasn't exactly what I'd been seeking, but since it had happened . . .
In August 2004, the magazine Época interviewed me and a special edition of the magazine Capricho did a story on me. I gave an interview to Vip, several newspapers and a couple of porno magazines. I appeared in a number of websites, participated in online chats and, one day I was invited to appear on the TV programme Superpop, hosted by Luciana Gimenez. It was a double opportunity.
Firstly, I'd be able to show my face so people would believe I actually existed and was really me. Yes, lots of false Brunas were beginning to pop up all over the place using my name, like a certain Samara, who passed herself off as me in the online community Orkut and even created a community: ENOUGH OF BRUNA, THE SURFER GIRL.
Secondly, I believed my parents would see me and realise that, although I'm in prostitution, I'm fine. I'm not rotting in a corner. That's what I wasthinking when I gave the interviews. I even went on the radio station Jovem Pan's programme Pânico (lots of fun). By the way, they were really nice. I was worried they were going to have a laugh at my expense - but they didn't. They even avoided inviting listeners to ask questions. I guess there's a lesson in it for all of us. I hope that one day, when this is all over, I can have a relationship with my parents again.
The day I went on Superpop, the exposure started to make itself felt before I'd even gone on air - or left home. The production car arrived at my building and the driver asked the doorman to let me know they'd arrived. The doorman, of course, asked if I was going to be on TV and, obviously, watched the programme, which is live. Needless to say, word got around. It didn't change the way the employees here treat me. There was just one time that the building manager got on my case, saying that the other residents were complaining that I brought a lot of men here. I'd never seen a soul in the corridor . . . He was the one who had a problem with it. When they saw that I'd become 'famous', however, it stopped. They started treating me with even more respect (not that anyone had ever treated me badly).
Thursday, 13 July
I'd always wondered what it would be like to have sex with a call boy. Were they as diligent as I was with my clients? Were they able to please a woman, get her nice and wet and make her come for real? There were lots of call boys living in the same building as me. All really cute, but trying hard to cultivate a bad-boy image or a swish, designer look. Since curiosity always speaks loudest, especially to me, I decided to give one a try. I can't even begin to describe it. It was . . . it was . . . HORRIBLE! We were like two little sex-machines: him faking it on the one hand while I faked it on the other. It was like choreography: I trotted out my tricks and he did his. Kiss, suck, lick, stick it in. Really strange. But that wasn't the worst of it. I was completely turned off when I remembered that most of his clients were men. Modesty aside, I think I manage to be a little bit less mechanical with my clients. And, since I wasn't paying (neither was he), there was no reason for it to be a 'free sample' of professional sex . . .
I realised that my blog, as well as attracting a lot of people who didn't used to be my clients, could alsobe 'something extra' for my clients to enjoy. They love seeing my assessment of their performance. So much so that I have a notice: THE 'MOST INTERESTING' OR 'BEST' PERFORMANCES OF THE WEEK. IF YOU'VE VISITED ME IN THIS PERIOD AND I'VE FAILED TO MENTION YOU, DON'T WORRY. TRY AGAIN WHEN YOU CAN . . . And a lot of them really do try several times. Good for business, isn't it?
When things stabilised at an average of five or six clients a day (from Monday to Friday, only after lunch), I decided to spice up my blog. But always taking care not to reveal the identity of my clients. Only they know who I'm talking about. There are things like tattoos, or the location of a piercing, or some detail of their body or personality that can give them away. Which is not my intention. There are prostitutes who end up making their clients' lives hell, blackmailing them even. But this is definitely not my cup of tea. I get my kicks from other things.
Something everyone always asks is if I actually feel pleasure with my clients. The answer is yes. No matter how professional it is, if there's chemistry, affinity and the guy turns me on, why shouldn't I make the most of it? After all, playing is my job. I'm paid to indulge other people's fantasies. (I have myown, but I keep them to myself. As a 'business woman', I have my professional routine and a 'Bruna quality standard' to keep up).
In spite of this playful side to my work and getting to meet a lot of people, I confess that I sometimes feel lonely. I don't like being on my own. I need to care for someone and feel that someone cares for me. I'm not a machine. I sense something good's going to happen when the client really wants to give me pleasure. If that's what he wants, why not give it to him? Or at least try. Of course, sometimes it just doesn't ha
ppen. Not even with what I like to call 'inner effort' - Kegal exercises using the pelvic-floor muscles, which potentialise the strength of an orgasm. I use this technique with the clients who really want me to come. To come more quickly . . . These certainly don't go in my blog . . .
In spite of the life I lead, I've managed to have a few boyfriends, as well as a lot of flings. The last one lasted four months. I know, not long. But, for someone with a life like mine, it was a long time. We met through a mutual friend. Well, he wasn't a friend, until he became one. This guy called me several times, and we started chatting a lot. With me, when you're a friend, there's no sex. I don't have sex with my friends. One night, I was hangingout at my place with Gabi and I told him to come over and bring a friend for her.
No fooling around. I was looking for company, to shoot the breeze, and if something happened it would be personal. He did bring a friend - my boyfriend! When we saw each other, it was like something out of a film, devastating and mutual. He knew who I was, what I did and everything. Even so, I went with him that night and we started seeing each other. It felt great. Once again I was just a girl who liked a guy and felt something for him.
The Scorpion's Sweet Venom Page 6
