Free The Scorpion's Sweet Venom by Bruna Surfistinha Page B

programme P â nico (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