Read The Scorpion's Sweet Venom Online
Authors: Bruna Surfistinha
The Scorpion's Sweet Venom (6 page)
I'd been working for almost a year when my first couple (in a long line of them) turned up at the house on Michigan. That
is, my first pair. They were both married - but not to each other. They arrived and I eyed the woman curiously. I admit Igot
very excited. Going down on another girl while a guy goes down on you is indescribable. I came effortlessly. She returned
the favour and went down on me with gusto. While she did this, I sucked him off. I was enjoying being the centre of attention.
He fucked me lying down, while she offered herself to me, licked my nipples, and ran her tongue all over me. We kissed, caressed
and went down on one another. If it weren't for me, the poor guy would have had to wank himself. I came twice.
This was the first time we'd had sex, and I thought it odd that she'd been more interested in me than in him. Nothing against
it, but it just didn't seem natural. If I hadn't paid the guy any attention, it would have been as if he weren't there. I
realised that she was turned off by him and avoided his efforts to please her, his touch, his attempts to kiss her, to go
down on her. While he was showering, I started chatting to her. She was only interested in him for his money, and not for
sexual pleasure. Her husband didn't make enough money to give her half of what her lover did. Brand-new car, jewellery - the
kind of presents lovers give.
They could only meet once a week, for two hours. To free herself of the chore of having sex with him, she started demanding
another woman in bed with them. She told him she liked it (and she really did seem to). It made the time go faster during
their encounters, she said.
This woman was definitely an exception. After going out with couples became routine, and I'd been initiated into the interesting
world of swingers' clubs, I came to a conclusion about women: they like being with other women. This story about 'indulging
her husband's fantasies' is for a minority. It's a useful excuse. Women are shyer, more reserved, afraid of taboos. Of course
there are situations where it's clear that it's the husband's doing, insisting his wife sleep with another woman. When they
arrive they're afraid, frozen, don't know what to do.
Once I was in the uncomfortable situation of having a woman cry in front of me because she felt jealous seeing her husband
with me. But then there are others who even encourage it. These women swear that they do it so their husbands won't cheat
on them, because they're always together in their sexual adventures. If only they knew how many of them came back alone later
. . . Not to mention those who've already come before. How many times have I heard them say, 'When she comes, you pretend
you've never seen me before in your life, right?' I feel sorry for these women. They're having the wool pulled over their
eyes and don't know it. Or they pretend not to know, not to notice, who knows. I'll never fall into the trap of trying tobe
liberal to avoid betrayal. Total satisfaction does not exist, nor does anything come with a guarantee.
It's funny - the reasons why these women actually come to share their beds and husbands with someone else are so many: fear,
pleasure, jealousy, curiosity, insecurity, fantasy. But deep down, I believe that all women really like being with other women.
Whether men enjoy being with other men, I'm not sure, because when I'm with two at the same time, even at 'parties' with DP
and the whole works, I've never seen anything happen between them (which is a shame). If they do it when they're alone, well,
that's another story . . . I've shared the intimacy of sex with lots of people, men and women, and I know what I'm talking
about. I'm going to be an excellent psychologist, mark my words.
The delivery-boy boyfriend, the lies I told to get what I wanted, the trouble I got into and my grades at school - all this
made my relationship with Dad go downhill. He tried to fix things: I failed my first year of secondary school and when I finally
passed, he sent me to Sao Luis to see if a new environment would help. It didn't make any difference. I still couldn't be
bothered studying.
Dad and I had terrible fights, but he'd never hit me, no matter how afraid I was that he might. Deep down, I always thought
I deserved it. So I'm going totell you the real story of why he hit me for the first time. I've never told anyone before out
of sheer shame. I used to steal. No, I'm not a professional thief. It started when I was about eight and we lived in Aragoiaba.
The local grocery shop had a sweet jar on the counter. As there was only one shop assistant, who was busy with Mum, it was
easy to take the sweets on the sly - and I also savoured them on the sly. I knew all I had to do was ask and Mum would have
bought me as many as I wanted. But the exciting part was the adrenalin, the fear of what was forbidden and the risk of getting
caught. I only slipped up once and Mum asked where the sweets had come from. I lied. 'I got them at school.' It wasn't long
before I discovered other facets of this uncontrollable urge. The sweets weren't enough and I discovered a compulsion for
money. That's right - money has always held sway over me. Imagine - there I was, eight years old, stealing money from my parents!
Since my father could barely leave the house due to his illness, there was always money at home. That was before the currency
changed to the
real
I didn't have the slightest idea what the money was worth. All I knew was that asking for it (and my requests would no doubt
be met) was less exciting than taking it. I started taking a few notes every now and then from Dad's stash. Then I'd go into
a shop and ask the assistant what I could buywith it. Even so, I continued stealing things from other places. Especially sweets.
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.