Read The Scorpion's Sweet Venom Online
Authors: Bruna Surfistinha
I've heard lots of stories of girls who find themselves in tricky situations while working. Out of sheer luck, I don't have
many stories to tell. One of the things I feel most uncomfortable about in my work is charging my clients. I'm embarrassed.
I've had two clients leave without paying - and without me charging them. In the ritual of a session, the money comes last.
Like when you see the psychologist. In both these cases, I had to ask Gabi (who answers my mobile and makes appointments for
me, because our voices are very similar) to call and charge them. Silly of me, isn't it? One of these 'unintentional runners'
came back to pay. The other, who was already fairly far away, took my bank details and made a deposit. Decent folks. There
were another two times at swingers' clubs: a Catalan of few words (not just because of the language, but because he really
was the silent sort) took advantage of the fact that I'd gone to the bathroom andtook off! The other one I forgive: I'd had
a lot to drink and was sick, and I don't blame him for not wanting to pay.
It's funny, because it seems that there was a reason for this thing with money. After everything I'd done at home, to my parents,
because of money, getting cheated a few times was a way of 'atoning' for it all. But other things also 'settled the score'
for my bad behaviour. When I was still at the house on Alameda Franca, I had a friend, Taisa. She was pretty lazy and didn't
make much money. Because I didn't have a bank account, I kept my money in a drawer. I noticed that money was always disappearing
from there, but I never imagined it was her.
Even after we were kicked out of that house and had to work in the one in Moema, and the petty theft continued, I never had
the courage to confront her. I didn't want to lose the friendship over money. One night, we went to a club in Vila Madalena.
At the time, I was still doing coke. I also drank a lot that night, and got sick, obviously. In the bathroom, I thought she
was helping me, but I felt her hand rummaging through my pocket. At the time, off my face, I didn't even click. When we went
to pay I noticed my 50
reals
were missing. I dragged Taisa into the bathroom, together with another girl, and gave her a complete search. Nothing. Then,
using force, I made her take off her clothes and, surprise surprise . . . my 50
reals
were rolled up in her knickers. It was the last straw. When we got to the brothel, I went upstairs to our room behind her,
thinking she was going to kill me. Almost. There was lots of hair-pulling, scratching, slapping. I ended it, saying, 'You're
just jealous because I work and you don't. But don't worry, tomorrow I'll make more.'
Another time I lost money was in my first flat. My savings of 3,000
reals
simply disappeared. Gabi says that if it had happened to her, she would have been furious. I didn't even want to know if it
was the maid or a client. Do you want to know the truth? I wasn't at all upset. I think, in a way, I'd finished paying for
what I'd done. What goes around comes around . . .
Tuesday, 4 February
SECOND CLIENT
There have only been a few occasions where I've been so stunned I didn't know what to do. After all, I'm a professional. But
this one was so weird that I decided not to do or say a thing. He came into my flat and didn't want to talk. He immediately
startedstripping, then took off my clothes and put on a condom. I think he'd walked in the door with a hard-on. He jumped
on me in the missionary position and started frantically pumping away. There was just one thing: his dick wasn't inside me
- he was just rubbing it against my groin. I lay there wondering the whole time if he just hadn't noticed or if it was his
way of getting off. I thought it best not to ask. He might be offended. Or what if he thought that he was inside me and I
was really loose? Who knows? Would you believe he actually came like that? And the strangest thing was that he kept asking,
'Are you enjoying yourself?' 'Mmm, delicious,' I answered. Then he asked, 'Did you come?' I wondered if he was joking . .
. But I went along with him and said yes. It's difficult enough for a woman to come with a dick inside her, let alone outside!
I really think it's good when clients get things off their chest with me. There are girls who hate listening to clients' stories.
But I think it's an important part of the 'package' for these men. They don't just come here to unload sperm. And they often
tell you things they wouldn't confess to their friends or wives. There are some who, when the fright has worn off, are actually
quite funny. One guy told me he'd just bought two bricks of mar- ijuana. I gave him a scared look (and I really was). He apologised,
but said he just had to tell someone. Another time, the client really wanted me to know he was the 'big shit', a real gangster.
The sex went smoothly, however, with no frights. But when I came out of the bathroom, I heard him talking on his mobile. 'No.
Make sure he's dead. Because if he isn't, we're going to have to put an end to this.' He used so much slang that I could barely
understand him. Staring straight at him, I thought he really did look like a gangster. You know the ones you see on TV, in
the news? I started to cry, but without him noticing. I was really frightened.
Other times, the fright is something else . . . I like trying to guess what a guy's dick is like when he arrives. Sometimes
I get it right. Especially the ones with small dicks. It's funny, but it seems to be written on their faces. I don't know
how to explain it, although I'm right about 90 per cent of the time. But the really well-hung ones are always hard to pick.
Some guys turn up and your imagination goes wild. But when the moment of revelation comes, not that it's small, but it's not
the monument you thought it was. And there are others who, well, you'd never imagine. But when it's unleashed, surprise surprise!
There've been moments when I've thought: It's not going tofit. If it doesn't even fit in my mouth (just the head), imagine
inside me. I admit that sometimes size can be frightening. But where there's a will there's a way.
I personally don't care much about the way a guy looks or about size. Of course there are some clients I'd like to have met
in other circumstances. Yes, I'd get involved with them: nice men, some handsome, some not. Like all women, I used to dream
of my ideal man. Mine had to be faithful. But I've given up looking . . . It's an impossible dream. But I want a companion,
who gives me affection and protection - and he'll get it all back too. I want an honest, open relationship. I really don't
care about beauty. It's not important to me any more.
Monday, 7 March
FIFTH CLIENT
The client was rude, a real caveman, but he tried to be nice. There was definitely no chemistry, much less affinity. The sex
started out smutty, but then became mechanical. Very mechanical. God, he made me sick, especially his tongue, and I swear
I almost cried. But I took a deep breath and remembered that this kind of thing comes with theterritory . . . He went down
on me, but there was no way I could come, because his tongue was so revolting. He was taking ages to come, so I got around
the situation by sucking him off then getting on all fours. He came inside me.
Work isn't always pleasurable. But sometimes we do things we regret. Don't worry, you're hardly going to get a sermon from
me. At this stage in my life, the only thing I regret is having done that bloody porno film. In my building there are also
several male prostitutes and a few actors. I was always running into them in the lift and they'd say, 'You're pretty. Sure
you don't want to give me some pics to take down to the production company?' I heard it so many times that I ended up saying
yes. I knew they weren't 'art' films. They called me in, and off I went.
It wasn't good. Not at all. It's all very artificial, rehearsed. You have to stop all the time, the director asks you to stop,
shouts 'Cut'. It's hard to make it natural like that. . . You can't look at the camera, because you have to watch the damn
director all the time for his signals. When he lifts his hand like this, you have to change position. Like that, you have
to moan. Having sex with loads of people around you and paying attention to the director's orders is crazy. It was interesting
because at least I foundout what it was like. It wasn't good because I saw that it really wasn't anything like what we imagine
. . .
It also wasn't a good experience for other reasons. The pay is very bad. You don't make much at all. It's actually embarrassing
to say how much I made, because it really is a pittance. OK: 500
reals.
That's because this is Brazil. In the United States it's a profession. They treat you differently.
Everything that has happened in my life - the fame (fleeting, I know), the good and bad things, still frighten me in a way.
The other day, I was walking down my street here, in dark sunglasses, when a passer-by came up to me (I actually thought he
was going to mug me) and said, 'Excuse me. Forgive me for asking, but are you Bruna, the Surfer Girl?'
'No, I'm not.'
'Ah, sorry then, I was mistaken.'
I was really surprised. I'd never imagined someone would come up to me in the street, recognise me. I was so taken aback that
I ended up saying I wasn't me. How silly . . .
On the other hand, I once went with a guy during a swap at a swingers' club, and he turned round afterwards and said, 'You're
Bruna, the Surfer Girl, aren't you? I've always wanted to be your client, but now I've had you for free.' I wanted to kill
the guy. Seriously.
What most surprises me is that usually people's reactions when they recognise me are neutral, although a few times I've heard
sniggering when I go past. But I never know for sure if it was me they were laughing at, me they were talking about. I think
it was, but I don't know why. But I'm not going to get neurotic because of the life I live. Or think a guy is flirting with
me because he knows who I am. I'm a beautiful woman. I'm not going to think: Ah, he recognised me and that's why he's coming
on to me. It's too crazy. I prefer to 'go with the flow'.
Sometimes, after midnight, I go to the building where my parents live. I stand on the pavement for ages. The last time, I
went with my boyfriend. We spent half an hour there, drinking, while I watched the film in my head.
I see a girl in a school uniform coming out of the gate, carrying a bag with a few clothes in it. She looks frightened, disorientated,
directionless-walking towards the fate she has chosen. I look up and see the windows with the lights out in the flat I once
lived in. I remember the pastel-coloured walls of my room, the blinds (no curtains or cuddly toys - I have asthma and hay
fever . . .), the Babylândia furniture (I didn't want 'adult' furniture) and the large desk where I used to study and do my
homework, and spend hours at my computer or watching TV.
I don't go there hoping to bump into them. I go when I do precisely so I won't see anyone. I'm not ready. Neither are they.
How would my father react? And my mother? We've never spoken since. We'll meet again one day, I'm sure, but it will have to
be planned. When I give up prostitution, I want to prove to them that I did it, but I stopped. I hope this will make it easier
for them to accept me back into their lives.
When I finish my beer, I walk past the front of the building one more time, look around and see that a lot of things have
changed. Including me.
I now see that everything I've been through was a phase I had to go through. No regrets. These three years had to be like
this: prostitution, drugs . . . If it weren't like this, far from my parents, I might still be taking antidepressants. As
for them, I have no idea . . . Why has it been good? The reasons are many (I always see the good side of things). I've matured
as a person, learnt to look after and like myself, and I've learned to get along with all kinds of people, to respect them.
I didn't used to respect anyone. If I hadn't been a prostitute, I'd never havelearnt to accept people's differences. I've
met all kinds of people, good and bad. The best one was Gabi. For all these reasons, I know I've become less selfish. I actually
believe that if I'd been more patient, after a time, if I hadn't left home, my relationship with my parents would have gone
back to normal one day. No Bruna, just Raquel. But only Bruna could have reached this conclusion. Raquel never . . .
Last year, I went to visit my grandmother, my mother's mother, who is in a geriatric hospital in Sorocaba. She showed me a
photo album. There were no photos of my father in it. But there was one of my mother holding my newborn niece, who, for obvious
reasons, I still haven't met. I don't know why, but I decided to borrow the photo and photocopy it. I keep it in my diary.
In a way, it brings me closer to my mother - and maternity. I think about my own children (I want two - a boy and a girl,
preferably twins). I imagine myself as a liberal mother who's friends with her kids. I'm living proof that locking them up
and forbidding them to do things doesn't work. I'm going to let my kids come and go whatever time they want to, as long as
I take them and pick them up. My own experiences have shown me where all the world's traps are. I fell into all of them.
Thursday, 21 May
. . . Sometimes I stop to think about what I've done in my life. I know I'll reap what I've sown, or perhaps it's already
happening without me knowing. Today I went over my whole past, but I didn't get depressed, I just remembered things with nostalgia
and affection. If it weren't for my past, I don't think I would have become the person I am. Not the pro, but the other side
of me that few people know. It's so good to remember laughing with my family, holidays, friends from school, everything .
. . After ages watching the 'film' of my past in my thoughts, I dried my tears and lifted up my head. I like to cry-it does
me good.