The Scorpion's Sweet Venom (7 page)

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 clothes 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'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.

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'.

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.

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.

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.

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.