The Scorpion's Sweet Venom (3 page)
Read The Scorpion's Sweet Venom Online
Authors: Bruna Surfistinha
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 getting 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 remove 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.
In my attempts to prove myself, I also started smoking in secret in the school toilets. I was a real sheep. I hung out with
the tough kids. Many of them, at twelve and thirteen, already smoked dope. I didn't want to be labelled a square, but I was
happy with my clove cigarettes for the time being. What was so great about taking a few tokes on a bit of weed rolled in fine
paper while hiding in the alleys of Paraiso, near the school, while we skived off? Just to laugh at nothing and talk shit,
say things that made no sense? I burnt my tongue when I lit up my first joint, when I was just fourteen.
At that age, no matter how grown-up we think we are, deep down we're not really all that sure about things. When I started
smoking, for example, I didn't like the taste and the dizziness I felt. I didn't even know how to inhale properly - and that
was hell for me. 'Look at Raquel - she doesn't know how to inhale . . .' Act like an idiot in front of the gang? I practised
a lot until I was able to forget the bad taste and the cough. All to fit in, to be the same as my friends. Same? Friends?
These 'friends' aren't around any more. But the bad habits are. And not just these ones.
With alcohol it was more or less the same. I didn't like the taste and didn't see what was so great aboutit. One day, to show
that I was cool, I asked an older guy from school to buy me a can of beer, which I drank really quickly so I wouldn't have
to taste it. I asked for another and another, also duly downed in a single gulp. After the third, everything was spinning.
Although caught up in the euphoria and heat of the binge, I worried about getting caught by a plain-clothes school guard roaming
the neighbourhood looking for students up to mischief.
All this effort to be cool, smoke, drink and party started to show in my school reports, which - when I didn't manage to intercept
them from the mail with the help of the building janitor - mysteriously appeared in my mother's hands. There were the missed
classes (which I always tried to justify by saying that the teacher hadn't heard my 'here' in roll call) and the marks that
were getting worse by the day, which were more difficult to explain. None of this, however, stopped me from lying and getting
up to no good.
Because of my bad behaviour, I couldn't afford to let my school marks drop. Since I skipped classes every day and couldn't
understand a thing in my textbooks, I started cheating. Tests at Bandeirantes were printed on different-coloured paper for
the different years. It was easy. I bought the same coloured paper as that used in the test, then copied everything I thought
would be in the test on to it athome. It wasn't my idea; lots of Bandeirantes students did this. As usual, I followed the
crowd. When the teacher wasn't looking, I'd shove the page into the test papers. It was perfect!
This tactic worked for me until the last test of the year - history. I only needed one point to get through, but I fell to
temptation. And the teacher's wrath. Kicked out of class, on my way home, I was a bit stunned, scared about what Dad would
say or do, and I almost got run over. I wish I had. When I got to my building I stalled before heading upstairs. I rang the
doorbell. Dad opened the door. 'Hi there. How'd your test go?' I burst into tears. To my surprise, he hugged me. I cried even
harder, ashamed. 'If I tell you, you're going to kill me.' I told him the truth, expecting to feel his hand come down on me.
I don't know why; he'd never laid a finger on me. He just wanted to know why I'd done it and made me promise never to cheat
again. That was not my only surprise, nor the only lesson I learnt from the episode.
