Part one:
Provincial swear words.
LETTER FROM A RETIRED PROSTITUTE TO HER SOCIAL WORKER.
Dear Ms Dante,
I’ve settled in well into my new apartment in the suburbs. I’m looking for work, which is difficult… but I remain optimistic because I used to work in shops (before abusing credit cards and resorting to prostitution). In the meantime, I am grateful for the financial assistance your office is giving me.
I try to avoid looking like a prostitute, for fear of being rejected in everyday life. Here, all the other men I see on the street or in a café look like potential pimps. Even if I try to dress conservatively – at least in my eyes – I feel the eyes of men, housewives and old grandmothers scrutinizing me when I pass them on the street. They (the women) always have a sour look… which betrays envy and distrust.
It’s not like in Rome or Milan, where many women feel free to behave as they please, some gladly behave like sluts, putting macho men and extreme feminists in their place. Here men take the liberty of making lewd remarks on the street. And the women ignore it, turning their heads to follow me with their eyes. I can feel their burning stares behind me long after I pass them.
And if I react in any way, even with a sigh of disappointment, the bad words come. And they are always sexual. And not very original. How boring these men must be in bed. How disgusting!
Just yesterday I was approached by a man in his thirties as I passed a café not far from my apartment. From the way he was dressed and the way he approached me, I knew he was from the city or passing through. For a moment I shivered and began to walk faster, while he claimed that we had met before. I contradicted him, assuring him I’d never seen him before. He told me, with a twinkle in his eye, that he might be wrong, but that I looked familiar…that he’d seen me somewhere else. I shrugged and told him that I didn’t have time to chat and that I wasn’t interested in men at all (later I regretted this lie, because people might think I was a lesbian and that would definitely get me in trouble, especially here where people dare not live out their fantasies). I continued walking at a brisk pace and, glancing furtively, and I noticed that the man hadn’t taken his eyes off me.
I wish people would stop chasing us paranoid persons. Sometimes I wish I could put myself in someone else’s shoes. It is then that your wise words come to mind: “Act in accordance with your conscience and, above all, do not listen to fools!
Best regards,
Anna
Attention:
Please excuse my bad language in this second scene of the story of Anna, the retired prostitute. I hope to illustrate the liberating power of profanity in responding to a provocation.
Anna’s story – Part two.
Anna’s therapy session.
Therapist: «Anna, your anger is eating you up inside. What do you think about directing it outwards?»
Anna: «Yes, that’s right. I am filled with anger, but if I react to any of the people harassing me on the street or in the shops, then it will be impossible for me to live here – or anywhere else.»
Therapist: «I’m not suggesting a direct confrontation. It’s too early to do that. You must first admit to yourself the depth of your anger and stop hating yourself. I suggest a role-play, in which you use me as the recipient of your anger. Let’s try!»
Anna: «I don’t know. I mean… the swear words and insults I have stored in my mind would demand a thousand Hail Marys if uttered.»
Therapist: «Really, you bitch! Who do you think you’re kidding in those tight business suits? Every single inch of you screams: “I’m a lustful bitch with a juicy cunt and asshole, waiting for every cock that comes my way…».
Anna: (Anna’s face twists and turns red, but she just looks away in denial, shame and self-protection).
Therapist: “Let me drool a little all over your cleavage as I stroke your sweet buttocks….”
He moves towards Anna and she suddenly turns on him, full of rage and looking very Medusa-like.
Anna: «What the fuck?!!! Holy Judas… no, holy shit! You utterly useless piece of shit! Fuck you! I will literally tear you apart and feed you to pigs. Who the fuck are you to call me a dirty bitch!!! You are the whore. You are so unattractive and unlovable that you have to pay for sex. No one would want you, except maybe a desperate fag who gets turned on by the prospect of being abused, or one who would use your filthy asshole as a whining cunt.»
Therapist: “Very good, Anna! Continue like that!”
Anna: “You dickhead! Eat shit and die! Turn around, you bastard… son of a bitch. Your conceited grinning face and half-erect cock disgust me. I want to see your butt, your real face.”
Then Anna spun the practitioner around and grabbed him by the buttocks, biting his neck as hard as she could.
Therapist: “Ouch! Cursed woman, daughter of….”
Anna: “Daughter of what!!! Let’s see what you can do, cocksucker…”
As Anna jerked the therapist’s head towards her and pushed it towards her cunt, the therapist screamed:
“Enough! Time is up and today’s session is over. We will analyze this session next week”.
Anna felt embarrassed, but also strong, as she adjusted her hair and clothes before leaving the office. And she Anna thought: “That guy really is an asshole.”
The therapist immediately realized that a new sexual fantasy had arisen in him. And he knew that Anna would never come back. The situation had changed. Now it was he who needed her, and not the other way around.
Anna’s story – part three.
The absolution.
«God, the Father of mercies, through the death and resurrection of his Son, reconciled the world to himself and poured out the Holy Spirit for the forgiveness of sins; through the ministry of the Church, God grants you forgiveness and peace, and I absolve you of your sins in the name of the Father and the Son.
[sign of the cross].
and of the Holy Spirit.
Amen”.
Anna knew the absolution formula by heart. She had been in the confessional many times, both before and after her retirement. But although the priest, speaking in the person of Jesus Christ, absolved her of her sins, his mind and her soul were still restless and full of guilt. She didn’t feel guilty about being a prostitute, but rather about the hatred she knew she harbored. While she didn’t really believe that Mary Magdalene was a penitent prostitute or the salacious mistress of Jesus, she did find the idea that a reformed prostitute was a good person worthy of the highest expression of love purifying.
But Anna was not Mary Magdalene. Her role-playing with the therapist triggered the release of many demons from her Pandora’s box. She warned him not to go there, but he did.
Suddenly, he was all the men who had ever humiliated her. He proved to her that she was no better than the men who had bullied and insulted her. As her anger grew in intensity, her explosive verbal insults became those of her oppressors: homophobic and misogynistic references to excrement, “fags”, sexual and intellectual weakness, whores, sluts, etc. And when these weren’t enough, she quickly resorted to physical humiliation and vilification.
She not only lost her femininity, but also her humanity and her morality. Anna thought of herself as no better than the vile men and women who molested her.
For this she hated the therapist. And she hated herself for giving him and all oppressive men exactly what they wanted. She was certain that the therapist had masturbated after she left his office, and the fact that this thought of hersgave her pleasure bothered her even more. That initial feeling of self-empowerment was just an illusion. She needed to stop hating, to stop hating others and to stop hating herself.
She decided to return to the sex worker community. Not as a sex worker, but as part of a support network providing personal advice and assistance, she wanted to lobby politically for their rights, for a better working environment, housing, etc. and to unify female, male and transgender sex workers under one local organization.
She looked in the mirror and was surprised by her image: she didn’t have the frown of Medusa, but perhaps rather the quiet smile of Mary Magdalene.
Part four: Good luck.
The next day I was reading some imaginary letters on an American author’s web pages. I got too wrapped up in the plight of a stupid woman named Prudence, who had a similar anti-male meltdown to mine. I had been that woman, that Prudence, and now I eschewed both men and sexual pleasure. This is what I read:
IMAGINARY LETTER TO A.A. FROM AN ANONYMOUS FAN
Dear A.
My name is “Pru” … short for Prudence. I read about your case against that “DickyLeaks” and I felt compelled to write to you. Even if you don’t know me, I feel like I know you. I’m sitting on my deck here in Arizona, watching the bees rape the morning lilies on the trellis, which are now in full bloom.
And I’m furious…
I know it’s a symbiotic relationship, necessary for pollination… but it reminds me so much of a poem I read once, that it provoked me from the very first time I read it – and that I can never finish:
THE RAPE OF THE DAUGHTER OF ALCATHOUS.
Purity of white fleshes outward
With the subtlety of wind chimes
Swaying lithely in the seabreeze …
Sublime fragrances of jasmine and
Virginity meld unwillingly
With sweat and fear
Engendered by threat of violation …
The scent of victimization
Only encourages animal passion and
Further increases the value of the prize …
Beauty – inviting – passion —
Creating – revulsion – increasing —
Attraction – begetting – fear —
Maximizing – passion …
Contorted faces and war-drum heartbeats
Distort humanity as minds are
Dismembered by occlusion …
Peace cannot prevail until
A victor is crowned and
Reintegration is impossible until
Silence shreds its hostility.
The reason I’m sitting on the terrace raving is that I’m tired of not being able to express my need for gender equality and justice…at least not without being called a bitter bitch or a “feminist”. I like manly men…but I can’t stand misogynistic fools who use verbal and physical aggression – and the loudmouth humor that accompanies it – to “hold the bitches at bay”.
Last night was a disaster. Cork, my 27-year-old boyfriend, told a silly story over dinner at our suburban apartment on the outskirts of Phoenix:
«I remember an incident in the apartment building where I lived in New York years ago. A woman downstairs from me had a black lover who enjoyed gambling (she worked at the telephone company and he lived on her expenses).However, one afternoon I was entering the building when a white woman, literally half naked, ran out exclaiming: ‘Hetried to rape me. I’m going to call the police!’.
«I giggled and a few seconds later the black neighbor ran into the street with his ass bare, yelling: ‘I’m cumming, baby, I’m cumming!’.
«Well, I quickly entered the house and closed the outside door, knowing that he had no clothes or keys with him. He looked at me, I smiled and went upstairs.
«Days later, an elderly Ukrainian neighbor stood in the hallway and asked me if I had heard the ruckus. I replied: ‘Yes, and I also witnessed it!’.
«She replied: ‘Yes, me too. He rang my intercom to enter the building. It seems that he left without his keys ‘.
«After a few seconds of silence, she whispered to me: ‘I’ve never seen one so big… and so black before!’»
To tell the truth, I didn’t particularly like the guests. They were all colleagues from Cork, who worked at Ernst & Young. Cork was new to the studio and he tried to impress everyone with his special stories from the Big Apple.
After two hours of cocktails, wine, hors d’oeuvres, main course and dessert – all prepared by me – the “boys” felt cheeky enough to switch the conversation from pleasantries to conquests.
This began innocently enough, but soon turned into a contest to see who had the brightest feathers among the roosters. Naturally, Cork, in an attempt to assert himself and also to test the strength and arrogance of his colleagues (and competitors), managed to turn the conversation into a sexual context. The three male colleagues listened attentively and laughed too haughtily at the Cork story, hoping to evaluate this English émigré and prove their own worldliness and virility.
The only other woman at the dinner was Cynthia, Peter’s wife. Cynthia and I exchanged a few glances, acknowledging that this turn of events was both expected and desperate.
But none of us dared protest or try to change the subject.
I had my reasons for not pretending. Cork had recently suggested that I was being overly conservative and he tried to make associations with my birth name: Prudence. Ohhh how I hated that name — my whole life. My well-meaning parents wanted to give me a special name, something old-fashioned and chic, but also with associations to what they equated with a cultured lifestyle.
I was ridiculed as early as second grade, when my classmates made fun of my name and came up with embarrassing rhymes that haunted me throughout elementary school. Thus it was that for most of my life my name was Pru, while from high school on my full first name was only disclosed under official circumstances, and when it needed to be known.
A brief conversation with Cynthia in the kitchen revealed that she already had a strategy. She was two months pregnant and she intended to break the “news” to Peter when they got home that evening. This shocking news would surely quash any bachelor-and-married desires and any remnants of “man talk” that might have been left over from dinner. She sat and smiled throughout the evening before approaching Peter at 10.30pm and whispering to him that she was tired and that she needed to go home.
To be sure he would leave without further prodding and drama, she added:
“Honey, I went to the doctor recently and I need to talk to you about something.” That was the climax and Peter immediately asked Juan and Ahmed if they needed a ride back to the city. Neither had taken his car that evening and bus communications back to town were infrequent at this late hour, so of course they answered “Yes”; and by eleven forty-six the three were thanking their guests and rushing out the door.
Well, Cork was in high spirits, if not downright inebriated, both from the French cuisine I’d prepared, from the spirits and wine, and from the feeling that he’d ‘smashed it’ with his colleagues.
This is how it all started:
“It went well, don’t you think Babe?!!”.
“Yes Cork. Your new work friends seem very nice. AND…”
Cork had interrupted me mid-sentence and was recounting bits and pieces of the evening’s conversation, all the while analyzing what had been said, the body language, the “masculine grit” of his colleagues. I continued to clear the table and stack the plates, silverware and glasses into the sink and onto the kitchen counter. As you can tell, I was too tired to wash the dishes at this late hour and there was no point in asking Cork to help me tonight. A good night’s sleep and forty-five minutes of kitchen work in the morning and everything would be back to normal in our small two-bedroom apartment. Or so I thought…
Typically, Cork suddenly decided that he was in the mood for love and wanted to get laid. “Hey Pru! Come here. I have to tell you something”.
I tried to mask my slight annoyance at being disturbed by someone not helping me with a thankless task, and replied, “What’s up Cork? I need to organize things here in the kitchen so that there isn’t so much work when I clean up in the morning. Tomorrow is Saturday and I have a lot of business to attend to.” I added, “And I hope you remember that I have to visit my Aunt Martha at the retirement home this afternoon. Come into the kitchen and tell me what it is while I finish.”
Cork entered the small kitchen, already half-undressed by now, and leaned over me from behind. He nibbled at my neck, began rubbing his genitals against my butt and caressed my breasts awkwardly before starting to unbutton my blouse. “I want to tell you that you are the most beautiful and sexy woman in the world”, he whispered in my left ear.
I half-turned my head towards him, gave him a quick peck on the cheek and said, “How sweet, Cork. Now go away and let me finish up here.”
But Cork would have nothing of it. “Leave it until tomorrow morning. I’ll help you”.
“Ha!” I exclaimed, thinking, “How many times have I heard that before?” Cork didn’t get out of bed until ten, and if hewas hungover, not until noon. I replied: “Go to the bedroom, I will be there shortly”.
Cork left me, brushed his teeth, got fully undressed and jumped into bed, feeling great about the evening so far. Of course, in his mind, there was only one last thing he needed to cap off the perfect evening: sex.
However, I had other plans for myself. I slowly and painstakingly peeled off my makeup, took a long, hot shower, and changed into my favorite flannel pajamas before turning off the bedside light on my side of the bed. I leaned over to kiss Cork goodnight on the forehead, thinking he was already asleep since his eyes were closed and I could hear his semi-heavy drunken breathing. (I was relieved that I didn’t have to experience him chasing me around the bedroom tonight. You see, I love sex and I love being chased…but my boyfriend hasn’t yet learned to respect a “no” as a “NO!”).
Alas, Cork wasn’t sleeping – he was only pretending to. Suddenly he grabbed my head, brought me to his face, and buried his tongue in my throat.
“Hey! Wait a moment!” I exclaimed. “I need to rest and sleep now. We can do it tomorrow.”
But Cork wanted sex now. He playfully dragged me onto his back, pressing me hard with his large, well-trained body. His huge arms pinned my upper arms and shoulders so that my only possible movements were to flail with my forearms and hands and wriggle and kick with my legs. Cork then used his muscular thighs and calves to pin down the lower half of my body as I screamed in vain.
“Stop it, Cork! You are hurting me. I do not want to do it. Cork!”
But Cork only tried to stifle my protests by covering my gaping mouth with his, thus burying my protests with kisses meant to silence me.
Before long, Cork had ripped my panties off and was trying to stick his penis into my vagina.
Anna, I got desperate at that point, but the more I resisted, the harder Cork exerted his aggressive libido…and the more aroused he got. I bit him, scratched him and even tried to hit him with my finally free right arm, but Cork was too strong and too drunk… and focused on “one thing”. The one thing men always seem to want and need from women — to feel virile and powerful.
In the end he won, or at least he felt like he did. Right after he ejaculated into my pussy, he rolled over to his side of the bed, still panting, and exclaimed, “Shit! That was fucking exciting, honey! Wasn’t that amazing sex?!”
I was in pain, scared…and pissed off. I felt like a canned sardine… drowned in cold tomato sauce, with no escape from the sugary tension of domestic rape. I was outraged at the violation, and likewise, at the fact that an act of love could be so emotionally and physically perverted into a boxing match that it required my ultimate submission. And all the while he acted like he “could do even better”, and would show me what good sex really is – almost as if it was an act of kindness that I would thank him for once I realized how much I needed a “good fuck”!
I replied coldly: “It was… everything was fine”. My jaws were clenched. I wanted to grab the bedside lamp and bludgeon him, over and over.
But I knew I couldn’t win a physical fight against him. I should have attacked his ego and his manhood.
“Everything ‘OK’? What do you mean by that?” Cork replied.
I wanted to tell him that he knows nothing about turning on or satisfying a woman, and that sticking his big cock in and out of my vagina in a selfish, crude, insensitive way had nothing to do with romance, or even sex. It was basically just him getting turned on and holding me hostage as his “sperm dump”.
But suddenly I felt too tired and reluctantly said, pulling away from him and hugging the pillow: ‘We’ll talk about it tomorrow, Cork. I’m too tired.”
Cork did not elaborate further on the matter and I lay awake for hours watching his heavy breathing and snoring…ready to roll out of bed at the first sign of his waking or sleepwalking.
Men can be such “assholes”…
Best of luck with your case and best wishes from Phoenix.
Pru
^€ ^€ ^€ ^€ ^€ ^€ ^€ ^€ ^€ ^€ ^€ ^€ ^€ ^€ ^€ ^€ ^€ ^€ ^€ ^€ ^€ ^€ ^€ ^€ ^€
And as I got off the bus I saw him: that boy… the Brazilian boy who had stopped me on the street months before and who had insisted that we had already met.
I wanted to ignore it and quickly move on. But it was too late. Our eyes met in recognition. I stiffened, thinking, “Hell, he’s gonna get some of my wrath!”
Part five: Like a deer caught in headlights.
I stood there, frozen, like a deer caught in headlights: I wanted to get away from the situation, but I couldn’t move or speak. My panicked mind quickly recalled a poem I had read many years ago:
BREATHLESS.
Under the guise of feminism and masculinity,
we moved and pursued the definition
with the cunning of a mother lion:
closer and closer, closer and closer,
till our precarious reckoning brought us
face to face with insecurity and dream.
While the heartbeats of a million Amazons
millions of Amazons prepared to defeat
my masculinity at the first indiscretion,
I loaded my tongue with silver arrows
and I mercilessly catapulted the words
‘I love you’ against your cheeky shield.
And at the same time we fell… out of breath.
I suddenly realized that we had actually met before. It was at this Brazilian restaurant, here in Milan… a few years earlier. I had an “appointment” with an elderly client, and this man with a beautiful smile looked at me – just like now – from across the room. He was the maitre d’. I blushed and quickly turned my attention to my knight, who was babbling about a business deal he was working on.
We exchanged glances twice more and soon afterwards I had forgotten the experience. After all, such was not uncommon in my work. I hadn’t recognized him on the street in Bergamo because I hadn’t turned to face him as I dismissed him automatically. I felt embarrassed now, standing in front of him as he walked out of his workplace.
He noticed and immediately came to my rescue, smiling and saying: “So, we meet again – and in the same place. Do you remember me now?!!!”
I blushed and stammered, “I have to apologize for my rudeness that day. I had had a very difficult day and…”.
“Shhhhh,” he said. “I’m the one who has to apologize for intruding on your private moment. I was surprised and delighted to meet you again; and in Bergamo. Look, I just finished here at the restaurant and I have a few hours before I go back for the dinner shift. Can I invite you across the street for a coffee or a negroni?”
Anna felt both intrigued and compelled at the same time: “Of course, why not. I have time”. In reality, Anna felt alone that morning and the young man seemed sincerely interested in meeting her. At 1.30pm there weren’t many people in La Milanesa, so they easily found a table outside overlooking the park opposite the bar.
“He really IS a handsome man,” Anna thought. “And well spoken.”
She took the initiative, preferring to ask questions at first rather than answering his. “So, tell me about yourself. Who are you, where are you from, what do you do in life?”.
“Santos, my name is Santos. And you are?”
“My name is Anna,” she replied, as they held hands gently and electric sparks danced between fingertips brushing against each other.
“Ohh!” Anna exclaimed, as they both burst into light laughter. “That hasn’t happened to me since I was a teenager.”
And Santos replied: “Isn’t it great to feel young again?!!”
Neither had reached thirty, but both enjoyed the humor in briefly regretting those awful teenage years. Santos told Anna about his childhood and youth in a suburb of Rio de Janeiro, how at the age of 16 he left home and worked on a ship bound for Italy, eventually settling in Palermo, then Rome and finally in Milan, where he now resides. He had been working at the Brazilian restaurant («My Brazil») for seven years and had worked his way up from waiter to maitre d’ in a short time.
Intrigued, Anna ordered a second Negroni and asked Santos to tell her more.
Santos didn’t shy away from the question. He explained that where he grew up there were many transgender people and that he had known many of them personally. He told her about those who were matrons and those who worked as prostitutes and/or pornographic film actresses.
He even dated some of them.
Santos watched to see if Anna flinched, but she didn’t. Both began to feel comfortable in each other’s company.
“But enough about me,” Santos said. “Tell me about Anna!”
Anna replied, “I’m afraid my life isn’t as exciting as yours, Santos. And I have to leave for my appointment at 15.00. But, if you wish, I will gladly meet you again to continue our conversation. You decide. I’ll give you my cellphone number so we can stay in touch. I’m moving to Milan next week. Give me a few days to settle down.”
They gave each other a friendly kiss on the cheek and Anna walked away into the afternoon light. If she had turned to look back, she would have noticed that Santos had an expression of excitement and satisfaction on her face.
Walking in the park, Anna stopped for a moment to listen to the birds chirping around her. They seemed to be saying, “Good luck!”
“Good luck!”
The embrace – part six.
Fifteen days passed and I still hadn’t heard from Santos. Somehow he had gotten under my skin and now I found myself thinking of him in those moments when I normally took cigarette breaks to clear my head, or rather to chase the wildest thoughts that claimed their air time and their space cerebral. But I no longer smoke, and those random trips aggravate me more than they give me pleasure. They lead to obsession, and especially infatuation. And the first rule of prostitutes is: “Never get emotionally involved.”
“But I’m no longer a prostitute, I’m no longer that person… I no longer have these rules”, I said to myself. But I can’t quite convince myself. I’m afraid of love…of loving another, of being loved, of not being loved back, and maybe even of not loving myself enough.
Still, I’m an unbearable romantic: when I’m alone in the bath, when I watch romantic movies on TV, when I listen to love songs… Last night I wrote the following in my diary, fantasizing about my next meeting with Santos:
The embrace …
at an outdoor cafe in milan.
face to face:
obscenely close.
whispering softly.
smelling your skin.
warmed by your breath.
getting lost in the tunnels:
your eyes, your nose and
your mouth.
I feel you draw me into you.
I am possessed.
I’m helpless.
Your lips part:
revealing your lizard tongue.
your eyes smile promises:
two cool blue caves.
My lips part.
my tongue sticks out.
moments before…
those moments…
before the kiss.
Of course, it wasn’t about being in love with Santos or anyone in particular, but rather about wanting love in my life, in my body and in my soul. I was falling in love with the idea of love, and falling in love with love itself. “It’s dangerous,” I said to myself.
And since the only image available in my mind and heart was Santos’ smiling face, it was Santos who played the role of lover in my flights of fancy. It was funny and scary. What if he never calls me? What if he has a girlfriend or a boyfriend… or a wife and kids? What if the fact that I was a prostitute dissuaded him? How do I tell him about my past as a prostitute?
I began to hope that he would never call me.
Then I received a message from him: «Hello dear Anna. I hope you are settled after your move to Milan. I’d be honored if you’d join me for dinner at a Brazilian dance venue this Saturday, on my day off work. I’m sure we will have a lot of fun. If you accept, I will pick you up at 19.00. Reply to this message with your address. Kisses / beijos. Santos»
A wave of different emotions overwhelmed Anna: euphoria, fear and everything in between. “I’m going on a real romantic date!” she exclaimed loudly, as she sat in her bathrobe on the sofa, with the lights dimmed and a single candle on the table now burning strongly. She leapt to her feet and ran to the full-length mirror in the entrance hallway. “Oh dear, Mother Mary, look at you. What a mess! Tomorrow is Thursday, shopping day!”.
And she began planning the kiss, saying to herself, “I’m not Prudence. ‘A man chases a girl until she catches him’, and I will get my man’s attention.”
Then she kissed her reflection in the mirror and transferred her fantasies to the bedroom.
Part 7 — the date.
“Done!” Anna exclaimed at the image of herself in the bathroom mirror as she put the finishing touches on her makeup before rushing out the door to meet Santos. Her new dress fit her well and was appropriate for the occasion.
She was smart casual, that is simple but elegant. She had opted for a black leather miniskirt over black lace stockings, with black patent leather boots that barely covered her knees. Her long ivory silk blouse was topped with a loose-knit black sweater that reached just to her navel, leaving the tails of her shirt hanging down to her waist.
Her hair was coiffed into braids, and tied into a ponytail at the back. Around her neck she wore a plain oversized gold chain and carried a Gucci bag with a gold shoulder strap. She looked young, playful, successful and trendy. At the same time she had a seductive air, amplified by her Caroline Herrera “Good Girl” perfume. Her orange-red lipstick and long eyelashes provided onlookers with the perfect starting and finishing point for “the gaze” and “the cruise”: starting from her face, slowly scrutinizing her body, then quickly returning to her lips. Anna tried not to let on that she was aware of people looking at her, but she always gave a slight smile of acknowledgment when the gaze returned to her face.
Here he is! Santos looked fabulous. He’d evidently been to the tanning studio and hair salon since they’d last seen each other. His black locks fell over his forehead in a bit of a mess, allowing him to brush them away when he wanted to attract attention. His hair was cut very short on the sides and back and tapered to a close-cropped neckline. Santos also wore black clothing: extreme black wide-leg pants, shiny black shoes, a red satin shirt with puffed sleeves, and a heavy gold chain around his neck.
Anna thought: “We couldn’t have coordinated our style better than this!”.
“Anna!” Santos exclaimed. “Wow! You look fabulous and adorable!”. He lightly cupped her shoulders as he planted the traditional French kisses on each cheek of hers. Then he pretended to finish kissing her on the lips, but he stopped in mid-air and said, “Your makeup is perfect. I won’t make advances until I’m on the dance floor.”
They both laughed, but Anna understood that Santos really had romantic intentions. This helped her to relax, because she now knew the behavior they both would follow.
They arrived at the restaurant at 2000, and the restaurant was filling up quickly. Santos had reserved an intimate table for two, to the left of the small stage. Santos ordered for them both: capirinhas, small side dishes of Moqueca (fish stew), Bobó de Camarão (shrimps, vegetables, palm oil, coconut milk and a cassava puree), Feijoada (Brazilian national dish), a picanha steak well done, and for dessert: Quindim (a flan-like dessert whose ingredients include sugar, shredded coconut, egg yolks and the occasional heap of butter), coffee and cachaca. And, of course, a full-bodied bottle of South African red wine; all this to be shared between them. The food was excellent and the conversation flowed easily and without annoying silences. Until Santos said: “So, Anna, tell me about yourself: your family.
Anna smiled, but felt a little uncomfortable. This was the moment she’d come to dread. How would he react if she told him that until recently she had been a prostitute? She began just as dessert and coffee was being served. “Santos, I’ll start with the present… and then go backwards in time. I might shock you, but it’s important that I’m completely honest with myself and with you.”
Santos took her hands in his, looked deep into her eyes and even deeper into her soul.
“Tell me what you feel like saying, Anna. I’m all ears.”
So Anna took the opportunity and blurted out: “Santos, I worked as a sex worker until almost a year ago… both here in Milan, in Florence and in Palermo. I didn’t work on the street. I was an escort – for men with power, money and needs. It was all very discreet. But I only did it long enough to be out of debt. So please don’t think of me as a cheap whore…”
“Anna,” Santos said placing his right index finger on her lips to silence the last words. “I know about your work here in Milan. You accompanied some customers of the restaurant where I work.
That’s why I recognized you on the street that day. I had dreamed of you many times and then you were gone. I was excited to see you again, but I was too embarrassed to tell you more. I didn’t want you to think I was wandering the streets looking for a cheap whore. I already felt that I was below your status.”
«Below my status?» said Anna.
“Yes, as the waiter who served you and your important colleagues…” Santos answered.
“So, are you okay about me…and about my past?” Anna asked shyly.
“Anna, I grew up in Brazil – surrounded by sex workers (both male and female and transgender). I too sold my services for a short time to have the money to come to Italy, and at first when I was looking for a job in Palermo”.
Anna was amazed. She thought, “Someone pinch me. I must have been dreaming.” And as she got up to go to the restroom, she was pinched by Santos, who grabbed her attention before turning her around to kiss her softly on the lips. “Anna – you are beautiful, inside and out”.
When Anna returned, she finished telling Santos about her family, her youth, her interrupted college education, and more. And then the band came to her rescue. The couples rushed to the stage and started dancing. Santos took Anna by the hand and led her to the dance floor. “Now I will teach you to dance Brazilian style!”.
A few couples were dancing Samba de Gafieira (and one with some wild variations of Samba no Pé), but most were dancing disco and street forms of samba. Santos was, of course, an excellent samba dancer and soon he and Anna were rocking the dance floor.
By midnight Anna was exhausted and not just a little inebriated. Also, they had shared a marijuana cigarette in the back alley. It was then that Santos gave Anna the kiss she had been dreaming of.
Later she whispered to Santos, “I forgot to tell you my dreams.”
Santos replied, “I think our dreams just came true.”
Anna nodded in confirmation and said, “Take me home… to your home.”
Part eight — making love.
When Anna saw Santos’ expensive car, she realized that his story was more complex than she had thought. And that there was much, much more.
Santos lived in a spacious three-bedroom apartment in Milan’s Porta Nuova district. It had two entrances, with a back garden and patio. The apartment was sparsely furnished with modern Italian furniture and lighting fixtures, with tastefully arranged statues and collectible art photographs. Anna gave a gasp of astonishment and turned to Santos with an expression of “what the fuck…”.
Santos brought her a cognac and took her by the hand as he led her into the master bedroom. “I’ll explain it to you in the morning. Now I want to make love with my beautiful Anna. Come, don’t be shy.”
In that moment they both understood that they were a couple and that Anna would never again live in her apartment across town.
Part 9: a walk in the park.
When Anna woke up at 10:09 that Sunday, Santos was nowhere to be seen. She showered, dressed and headed to the kitchen in search of a coffee. There she found Santos making coffee and breakfast. He was wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt, having gone out for a morning jog.
“Good morning, my beauty,” he said with a pleasant smile. “How did you sleep? Are you hungry?”.
Anna smiled and gave him a kiss on the cheek. Santos said, “What is that?!” before hugging her and kissing her lips properly.
“Are you hungry? I’m actually not a person who eats a lot of breakfast. But coffee is a must”, said Anna.
“You must be half Brazilian,” he replied. “Here it is, a good cup of home-ground Brazilian coffee, just for you… and for me, of course.”
“Have you been up for hours? I didn’t hear you get up,” Anna said.
“I always wake up early, even if I haven’t slept much. It’s a hard habit to break. I think I sleep alone too often.”
“It’s probably your hormones,” Anna said. “They were certainly in fibrillation last night”.
Santos tried to look embarrassed, but couldn’t help laughing. “I like your sense of humour: dry, but with many meanings”.
Anna: “So, what would you like to do today… or do you have another female friend to meet?”.
Santos quipped: “Ahahaha. Yes, I canceled that appointment just half an hour ago, so now I’m free. I have an idea. How about a walk in the park nearby? We can have a coffee in a thermos and some pastries, and talk some more…”.
Anna: “It sounds perfect to me. You promised to explain ‘all of this’ (pointing to the luxury apartment). But I can’t go for a long walk in these clothes. Do you have a shirt you can lend me?”.
Santos looked at her and replied, “I think I have some joggers that will fit you. They’re not as sexy or elegant as what you’re used to, but to me you’re beautiful even when you’re naked.”
Anna reacted: “Even then?”.
Santos replied: “Sorry, especially when you’re naked. But joggers are easier for me to take off.”
Anna: “Aren’t you the naughty one!”
Santos: “But the shoes? You can’t wear those boots with jogging bottoms. Not in Milan!”
“Anna replied: “I always have a pair of jogging shoes in my bag”.
“Which bag?” Santos asked. “I only remember that little handbag.”
Anna: “That ‘little’ handbag easily accommodates the bare essentials. Just as, mysteriously, your briefs host…”.
Santos blushed, but couldn’t help laughing.
Twenty minutes later they began their walk. It was a beautiful late morning, sunny and with a nice breeze.
And so Santos began to speak. Anna was all ears.
Santos: “Okay, I told you nothing but the truth about me; but I didn’t tell you the whole truth.”
Anna: “It seems right to me; and is this what you will now make right?” she said smiling.
Santos: “Maybe… er, at least eventually. Let me start with this story, the story of Santos.”
Anna held his hand as they walked, keeping silent like a cat watching a mouse.
Santos explained that he arrived in Palermo several years ago in search of his biological father: a local mobster named “Benny.” Santos was the fruit of a sexual relationship between Benny and Santos’ mother (Cara) when Benny was in Rio de Janeiro on business.
Santos told Anna that he had arrived in Palermo with no money and no presentable clothes. Also, he didn’t speak Italian. Because of this, he worked all sorts of jobs for three years before he felt it safe to approach his father and tell him of his paternity.
During this period, he sold his personal services in Palermo, but soon decided to move to Rome and Milan to prevent his father from learning about the new male prostitute in town and having him checked and monitored. Santos explained that he returned to Palermo three years later.
By then Benny had retired and his wife had died. Benny had one son from his marriage – Alessio. Santos tracked down and surreptitiously met his son; and he was soon introduced to his father. Neither the son nor the father knew about the paternity.
As Santos had anticipated, the father and Santos eventually became close, and one day the father confided in Santos about a woman he had fallen in love with in Rio de Janeiro. From the description and details Santos knew that this woman was his mother.
When Santos told Benny he was his father and recounted the details that his mother had told him about their first meeting and their relationship, Benny embraced him like a son. He soon formally adopted Santos.
This naturally upset Alessio, who feared that he would have to share both his father and his inheritance. Both sons eventually moved to northern Italy.
Alessio was studying psychology at the University of Milan and Santos had received money from his father to start a business and buy a house. Eventually Santos bought the restaurant where he worked in Bergamo, and an apartment in Milan. The half-brother had started his own private psychotherapy practice in Bergamo.
Both hoped to please their father, and both knew they would have to produce grandchildren for the old man. But both were unlucky in love. Santos’ brother could only have sex with women who dominated him.
The day Santos saw Anna on the street in Bergamo, he had gone to see his half-brother whose therapy office was in the city. They had failed to resolve their issues and conflicts and Alessio had threatened Santos in no uncertain terms.
“Every therapist begins and will end as a patient,” Santos concluded. He thought his brother might actually be crazy enough to kill him, now that his father was in poor health and the inheritance issue was causing more and more friction between them.
Anna had been silent throughout the narration, but now she asked Santos for her brother’s name and was surprised to hear that he (his brother) was her previous therapist. But she didn’t tell Santos that she knew his brother. Instead, she told him that she had only heard gossip about the therapist, and that he was supposedly “all talk” and a cuckold.
“Don’t worry about your brother,” he said, trying to reassure Santos, who had been nervous throughout the confession. That’s why Santos was jittery during the walk and occasionally looked over his shoulder. “Look, there’s a park bench. Let’s have a coffee and something to eat. I suddenly feel hungry.”
While they were sitting, Santos made a proposal to Anna: “Anna, I like you very much. I know it seems premature but… how about you come and live with me? There is plenty of space. You can even have your own bedroom if you like. You won’t pay rent here and you can even keep your apartment and sub-let it to another person in case things between us don’t work out. I now understand that I don’t want to live alone or be a bachelor. Will you think about it?”
Anna was silent on the way back to Santos’ apartment. Upon arrival Santos went to the bathroom and when he came out Anna was standing outside the door waiting for him. He jumped to the side, thinking she was going into the bathroom, but Anna again barred his way. Santos looked at her questioningly and Anna smiled and whispered “yes”.
Part 10 — Alessio’s erotic dream comes true.
The couple’s life had gone well in the first six months of living together. She had matriculated at the university and her internship with the organization for sex workers had been so successful that she was offered a part-time job while she resumed her university studies. It seemed reasonable that her sex work (which had taken her away from university studies) would now bring her back to the university. Santos supported her 150% and she made friends among her co-workers. Finally, Anna could see the outlines of a personal support network; something she had been missing for some time.
Santos shone with energy and enthusiasm thanks to their relationship of love and friendship. Now he spent less time at the restaurant in Bergamo, and trusted his employees more than before. He loved supporting Anna and helpingher get on her feet. And he understood that that small personal investment had immediate benefits for him too.
However, Alessio had harassed him with threatening text messages and phone calls so often that he blocked Alessio’s phone number on his cellphone. Alessio had somehow dug up information about Santos’ previous stint as a sex worker in Milan and Alessio was convinced that Santos was a con artist. He accused Santos of lying to Benny about being his father and suggested that Cara was a prostitute and a con artist as well. Alessio wanted Santos to admit all this and give up any claim to inheritance.
Santos understood that Alessio’s irrational obsession was a disease and even suggested that Alessio needed an evaluation and medical help. But this only made Alessioeven more belligerent.
One afternoon Anna called Santos to give him incredible news: she was pregnant! Santos was delighted. He immediately called Benny to tell him the good news and they were both ecstatic. Then Santos jumped into the car and drove home to Anna. Neither of them knew what was about to happen.
Anna was listening to the music of the rebel Russian punk rock band “Pussy Riot” and she was in the kitchen preparing pasta when she heard an insistent knock and ringing at the door. The door didn’t have a peephole, so Anna opened it just a crack, and asked: “Who are you and what do you want?”
The male voice on the other side of the door said gruffly, “I’m looking for fucking Santos. Open the door and let me in!”
Anna was frightened. That man was very hostile. She replied, “Santos is not here right now. Call him later.” She tried to shut the door, but the intruder had set his foot in the doorway and was forcing the door open.
Once inside, Alessio gave Anna a nasty look and asked her who the hell she was.
Anna recognized him as the therapist (Santos’ half brother) and she immediately tried to cover her face by waving her hands in front of her, demanding that she leave. But Alessio had no intention of going anywhere. He yelled that Santos is a bloody con artist and a thief, and that he (Santos) is avoiding Alessio’s phone calls.
Anna felt encouraged and blurted out: “Well, maybe that’s understandable given your behavior. Go back to Bergamo, to your place… bastard!”
It was then that Alessio realized who Anna was: the whore who had dumped him as a therapist.
“You! Finally we meet again. Now we can finish what you started.”
Anna retorted: “Fuck you, you asshole of a pig! I haven’t started anything with you. Go away now… or I…”.
Alessio interrupted her, saying: “… or what will you do, dirty and juicy bitch?!! Make my fucking day!” He began to undress himself, and Anna panicked. “Where’s Santos?!!!” she cried to the sky.
“Yes, where is Santos… and what are you to him? It’s just beautiful: two whores hooking up as lovers, pretending to be anything but ‘the odd couple’. I’ll take care of you two, but first you have to pay for the follow-up consultation that you missed.”
He reached for Anna’s hair and began to tug at it to pull her closer to him.
Anna suddenly became fearless. She quickly grabbed a vase and smashed it on Alessio’s head, knocking him to the ground. “Alessio yelled: “You ugly bitch. Yes, this is going tobe nice!”
Then Anna fled from the apartment, screaming “Rape!”
At that moment Santos arrived. He pounced on his brother and hit him repeatedly in the face until Anna begged him to stop.
Santos was angry and disgusted. He looked at Alessio and spat on him, saying: “Son of a bitch! You broke into my house and attacked my fiancée. Never do that again…”
Alessio interrupted him: “Your fiancée? Hahaha. She’s a simple whore…just like you. Wait till I tell my dad the truth about you. He…”
Santos had wrapped an arm around Anna’s shoulders. He replied, “Benny – OUR father – he knows we are engaged and he is delighted. And he also knows that he will soon have a grandchild. So, stop this madness, Alessio!”
Alessio replied: “Your fiancée owes me. And I intend to collect on the debt.
Santos looked at Anna in disbelief: “Did you fuck my brother, Anna?!”
Anna screamed: “No. Hell no. Never! He attacked me in a therapy session a long time ago and I haven’t seen him again until now”.
“Who attacked who, you slut!” shouted Alessio.
Santos was now angrier than before and pounced on his half-naked brother again.
“Enough!” Anna said. “I have a better idea.” She disappeared for a few minutes and came back with a roll of duct tape. “Tie him up, Santos. Let’s strip him, tie him to a chair and let him watch you fuck my ass. That’s what he wants. He’s a cuckold and a voyeur.”
Santos said: “Why should we give this pig what he wants?!”; while he affixed Alessio’s wrists and feet to the chair.
Anna said, “She won’t get what she wants. We’ll blindfold him and stuff your briefs in his mouth as a gag. He will hear and smell our lovemaking, but he will see nothing, nor will he be able to touch himself”.
They had sex for over an hour, ignoring Alessio’s desperate writhings. After reaching orgasm, Santos took off the blindfold and the gag. Alessio had passed out. His eyeballs had retracted into his head and he was foaming at the mouth. “Anna! I think he’s dead!”
But no, Alessio wasn’t dead. He was still alive, but far, far away and unable to respond.
Anna said: “Quick Santos, let’s dress him, lay him down on the couch… and call an ambulance”.
Anna explained to the police, the ambulance staff and the emergency room doctors that Alessio arrived at their home very agitated and incoherent. And that they tried to hold him back to prevent him from hurting himself, but suddenly he had some kind of epileptic seizure.
Santos added that his brother had been under a lot of stress at work and seemed increasingly irrational. “Eventually it clicked. It was good that he finally came to us for help, but perhaps it was too late.”
Three weeks later Santos called his father to tell him that Alessio was still not responding. Then he confirmed that he had signed the documents and that Alessio was now hospitalized in a mental hospital in Liguria.
Benny’s health deteriorated over the next few months. It was therefore decided that the baby would be born in Palermo, so that Benny could see him before he died.
On August 2, a beautiful boy was born, whom Benny had the honor of naming August, after Benny’s father: August, after Benny’s father.
Benny died on August 24.
Two weeks later, Anna visited Alessio at the asylum in Liguria. The reason for the visit was presumably to show him his new nephew, even though Alessio was still attached to a life-support machine and was still somewhere in Neverland. She sat in a chair next to the hospital bed and spoke softly to Alessio, telling him that it was time to “let go.” She introduced the baby to him and then said, “He is hungry, just like you, Alessio. He needs my big, juicy breasts. I hope you too can get pleasure from my nourishment. Here, here it is….”
Suddenly the life support machine began to howl and a nurse ran into the room. After two minutes, the nurse said, “I’m sorry. There’s nothing more we can do. He’s dead.”
Anna did her best to look upset. Then the nurse said, “Considering his condition, maybe it’s for the best.”
Anna looked her straight in the eye and replied, “Yes, maybe you’re right.”
While in the parking lot, Anna called Santos and told him, “We’re on our way home to you. Mission accomplished.”
And Alessio? His remains were buried in the family cemetery.
Anna, Santos and Agosto inherited a small fortune and took over Benny’s property. Again, Anna’s university studies were suspended, but she had only one year of classes left to finish her first degree.
She would become an established psychologist.
The end (for now)
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