Tag Archives: growing up in brazil

My library stalker (a true story)

12 May

My sister and I must’ve been really hot prepubescent girls because not only were obscenities shouted at us on our way to school, we also were stalked once. It’s possible he just couldn’t help himself as he caught a glimpse of the training bra through my blouse – whatever the case, it was a pretty freaky afternoon.

Sister, friend, and I giggled and skipped down the boardwalk, stopping at kiosks to look at cheap jewelry and stolen watches up for re-sale, when one of us (not me, that’s for sure) noticed a creepy, sweaty, moustached guy on our trail. We sped up and he did too. We stopped, and he stopped. We knew we couldn’t let him get close; if he had a gun or knife, we’d be forced to stay quiet and no one would notice anything abnormal. So we went into a record store. Our girl friend was shaking, but she was to keep guard as my sister and I asked a clerk for help. I held on to her hand and kept looking back at the creep; he also came into the store, though he stayed near the door pretending to sift through records while watching us.

Hi, can you please help us? We’re walking home from school and that guy – that one over there – is  following us and he came in here too, we’re really scared, can you help?

My sister’s frightened tone is what actually scared me; up until then I’d been more curious than anything.

The guy realized what was happening and fled. We stayed inside the store for some time, then sprinted home.

These strange, scary situations taught me to be observant, I think. If I’m paying attention, I’m not caught by surprise – but if I pay too much attention, I might get a little paranoid, as I did at the library last night.

I dragged my sleep deprived zombie body to the computer station for a search on titles to take home. When I got up for a pencil, I noticed a tall outdoorsy type dude in a semi-hidden spot, checking out some girl’s pictures on Facebook. I went back to my computer, wrote down my call numbers, and headed to the magazines section. As I sat on the comfy, elderly-scented armchair reading The Paris Review, outdoorsy dude showed up. I realized he was a ginger – a tanned one – sporting very baggy mustard-colored corduroys, a windbreaker, and work boots. He picked up a newspaper and sat across from me. I chuckled out loud as I read funny bits of a Ray Bradbury interview, and I could feel his gaze on me each time. I looked up to confirm this and, while he tried to be smooth, he was a little slow in looking away.  Haha, you think I’m cute, I thought.

[Unintelligible] Mount Ida?

I’m sorry, what? I asked, as we were the only two people in the sitting area.

Is Mount Ida nearby?… near here?

You mean the college?


Umm, yeah, it’s in Newton. About ten minutes away.


Oh, you are creepy, my friend, I thought. He stared intently yet expressionless, with his mouth open long after his words were spoken. His pupils looked unnaturally large.

I’d just gone back to the magazine pages when he said, Is that where you go to college? You go to school at Mount Ida?

I… am flattered. But no, I’m no longer a student. I’m 27. [Fuck, fuck! He tricked me! Why did I tell him my age?!]

I mumbled something to myself, gave him a smile and went to the reference desk to inquire about borrowing the magazines. While the librarian searched for information, I looked to the couch section; he was staring at me, mouth open, his whole face in a psychotic, catatonic state.  Not good. Must go, I thought. Turned out the ‘zines were the latest issues and I couldn’t borrow, so I had to put them back. I knew that would give him time to leave the couches unsuspectingly (or so he thought) to resume following me. Sure enough, when I got to the lobby, he was pacing back and forth, cell phone in hand. I went up the stairs and looked back; he was looking at me. I internally freaked out a bit and ran up the stairs to the third floor. I’ve been having a few too many cigarettes and not enough treadmill time, so it was disconcerting to acknowledge how screwed I‘d be if it came down to a chase situation. So I weaved in and out of aisles, back to the second floor, peered down at the lobby between columns – sniper style – and finally went back to book hunting, reassuring myself I’d lost him.

I hurried through check out and walked briskly to my car, with no sighting of the Ginger Stalker. I’m hitting the gym tonight, and maybe buying a keychain knife.


Daddy Love

4 May

When I was about 7 years old my siblings and I walked to school together. They were congested streets one might imagine to be safe, but not really – not in Rio. Where there’s commotion, there’s distraction for picking pockets, yanking gold earrings off a girl’s ears, opening a kid’s backpack, as he walks with his friends, and stealing a wallet. We learned to be alert from a young age. I carried my backpack in front of me, I brought my watch to school in my bag, and only put it on when inside school gates. I never wore my cool sneakers without dad by my side (or later, my brother). A lot of the kids did, and once in a while, someone would get to school sans backpack, with ripped ears or barefoot. They’d all be crying, of course.

We did our best to avoid trouble, but there was one kid – an attendant at a periodicals stand, who would yell obscenities at my sister and me. I understood some words like ‘cock’ and ‘pussy,’ but his language must’ve been so foul that I honestly didn’t know exactly what he wanted to do to us, but I  could tell it wasn’t good. No one would say anything to him, and he never missed us when we walked by. Since there was no other path to take,  my dad told us he’d take care of it.

He took the following morning off work and walked us to school.

Show me who the guy is, he said. As we approached the stand, my sister and I extended our arms and index fingers to their limits and said, That one, dad!

We waited a few feet away. The kid was sitting on a folding chair outside the stand. My dad went inside it, motioning for the boy to follow him. He looked confused and amused, but he complied.

Forty seconds later my dad came out and called us over. We stood outside the stand, close enough to see the kid inside, his pupils enlarged, looking like he might piss his pants – or already had.

Do you see these girls? You remember their faces, right? You say one word to them, you even look their way when they walk by, and I promise you, I will end your life with my own hands. Do you understand me, kid? Now apologize to them.

I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.

I hope so, my dad said.

He led the way out, my sister and I followed, huge smiles on our faces. Dad dropped us off at school and we milked that story during lunch and in between classes. Sure enough, the poor kid never spoke a word to us again; he never so much as made eye contact.

Moments like that were few and far in between; I never doubted my dad’s ability to go beastly to defend my honor, yet most of the time he was running away from me with my candy, helping me paint flowers on my bike, or giving me math lessons on our blackboard.

Years later I thought about the kid who harassed my sister and me, and realized he wasn’t older than 14, 15. I imagine if he’d had a dad at home helping him fix his bike, he wouldn’t have my dad threatening his life.

We’re all perverts

17 Apr

Growing up, I shared a bedroom with my sister while my brother – the only boy and the eldest kid – had his own room. Especially during his tween-teen years, the entire family was happy for the fact that he had a private dungeon to hide in and contain his death metal, body odor, and attitude. Except for me. I thought my brother was the coolest ever and wanted to be a girl version of him. I’m sure the fact I had a huge crush on his best friend added  fuel to the fire of my fraternal infatuation.

My brother was protective of me, which was good when I was in trouble with bigger kids, but not so great when I hung out with boys at school dances.  There, he and his friends would follow me around, crossed arms rested on puffed out chests, making sure I wouldn’t get too cozy with any boys. I was around 10 years old,  and though I had already kissed my cousin a few times, I was positive no one knew about it – I would’ve kicked his ass if he ever told a soul. While I kind of wished my brother would leave me and my friends alone, I was happy that he cared enough to pay attention to me.

In his teenage years, my brother hid a stash of porn magazines in his closet. I’d snoop around his bedroom, looking for what he was reading, listening to, drawing… I wanted to know what I had to like in order to be cool too. I guess it didn’t suffice that I was already a fan of Guns N’ Roses and Metallica, and had a yellow belt in TaeKwonDo from the same school where he trained.

The porn ‘zines were hidden in the bottom of a box filled with boy crap, all buried under clothes. Yes, I dug deep. Obviously I was good at it because he still doesn’t know.  The black and white photos told stories of lingerie-clad babes somehow lost in the woods, and found by one or a few hunter-types. There also were school girls coming of age together while the parents weren’t home, housewives who offered more than lemonade to their hard-working pool boys… all sorts of original, compelling and realistic scenarios. Brazilian television programming had pretty racy content but I’d never before seen explicit sexual imagery. I liked it.

My mother rarely ever censored films at home. I remember picking out Christiane F. at Zebra, our local video rental store (aptly decorated in zebra stripes), as my brother protested our mom’s leniency with this particular title. One glance at the back cover and I was sold: “sex,” “prostitution,” “heroin,” “death,” “David Bowie.”  It turned out to be an excellent film with imagery that remained ingrained in my brain for years to come, warning me of the dangers of drug abuse. It also got me into David Bowie and enamored with European nightclubs.  I watched Disclosure at age 11 with my mother sitting five feet away from me; I used to talk a lot during movies, but was speechless as Demi Moore sort of raped Michael Douglas… with the power of boobs, or something.

I wasn’t a shy kid and I indulged my curiosity.  I’m still like that.  So it’s undoubtedly with a bit of a proud grin that I present to you a selection of internet search terms used by individuals ’round the world who ended up on my blog. The content may not have been exactly what they were looking for, but the mere fact they landed here makes me happy.

russian pornhub
dirahea sex video [sp]
huge titted moms
verbal sex tape
http://www.porn in the douche.com
daft sex ass ebony
twizzlers +side effects on male libido
toilet sex girls good [sp]
beeg friends hot mom deep throats her so [sp]
boy eating man diarrhea
slash penis
genital tatoos [sp]
sex pictures&pictures
inspirational words for menstruation
picking out groupies

I embrace my audience and will feel thoroughly accomplished when someone searching for “japanese octopus sex” skims through my silly words and leaves a comment.

Sampson the bunny and second grade cheese

3 Apr

Until I was about eight, my father had a very well-paying job at Shell Corporation, but chose to leave it so he could  spend some time at home to enjoy his children growing up. My mother was a public school History teacher –  in Brazil this means she went to work every day but would sometimes go months without seeing a paycheck – the government “had no money.” My father tried self-employment after leaving Shell, but his business went under months after (something or other about thousand per cent inflation and all of his investments suddenly being worth less than a pair of dirty knickers). That was the toughest time financially our family had.  My dad spent over eight months officially unemployed, doing odd jobs here and there – he left early in the morning, returned for lunch, and was out the door again until dinner time. Out on interviews, at employment agencies, doing temp work, soliciting interviews at companies… doing whatever he could to bring home good news.

I knew things weren’t the same because amenities were cut here and there. My after school English language course was no more, our country club membership was cancelled, eating out became a special occasions only deal, and most memorably, the cheese I was consuming looked different. My ingenious, money-stretching mother started buying cheese scraps – the bits that don’t go into the deli bag after going through the slicer. Same taste, lower price.  But what mattered; tuition for the best school in the city, film and book rentals, trips to museums, zoos, parks, family quality time; those were as certain to me as the sun rising the next day.

Tivoli Park

I was 8 years old when my father resigned his position at Shell and I was PISSED at him for it. See, Shell sucked all the blood out of its workers but the company spared no pennies on Christmas season. Every year they rented out the largest amusement park in the city of Rio and bussed entire families of employees to spend a Saturday,  providing meal tickets and Christmas gifts. Oh yeah, and each family could bring a kid friend, who also got a gift. It was a LOT of fun and something to brag about at school. It’s no surprise I disapproved of my father’s decision to cut ties with the best company ever. I  remember sitting on his lap one afternoon as my mom prepared dinner a few feet away from us.

Ju, dad doesn’t work at Shell anymore. It was a very tough job and I had to spend too many hours there, and it wasn’t good for my health (he apparently was this close to a heart attack and the doc told him to lower his stress level ASAP).

You don’t? What are you gonna do?

I’m going to own my own business now.

You are? But what about the Christmas parties? Can we still go?

No, I don’t work for Shell anymore.

But, DAD, I never got my Barbie house! They’re gonna give me the Barbie house when I’m 10! Can’t you work there for two more years?

My mother must’ve interjected with some logical argument about having to make sacrifices in the midst of an unstable economy and a promise that I’d be able to use my sister’s Barbie house whenever I wanted.  I, a genuinely good and empathetic kid, spoke no more of the issue.

That’s how my parents dealt with everything; calmly, reasonably, and truthfully.  A toy wasn’t offered in exchange for good behavior; I behaved because that’s how I’d get others to respect and listen to me. I studied because the more I learned, the more I understood about the world around me. I thought twice on how to spend my money because I had to earn it – and that took time, effort, and lots of good behavior. I remember so well walking into a store to buy a stuffed animal I had been eyeing for months. It was a replica of a toothy blue bunny that my favorite cartoon character lugged around and occasionally threw at the heads of insolent little boys. She was feisty and so was I – Sampson the bunny had to be mine. It took weeks of chores and good behavior to save enough for that weekend afternoon when my dad and I walked into Lubene store.


That one. I want that one, please. I inspected the box, the painted eyes, the plushness of his fur and took big whiffs of the new toy smell. This one would do. I parted with my money at the register and walked out, clutching to my dad with one hand and my new inseparable toy with the other. I still have the little guy – he survived a  left leg amputation, courtesy of my ex-boyfriend’s pit bull, but his toothy smile brings me back to these irretrievable days of joy and simplicity.