The Past Never Dies

I don't know if it's the same for you, but as I walk down the street, I often see faces that are somewhat familiar to me, that remind me of someone I know, or at least someone I've seen somewhere. But other times, I feel this déjà vu in a different way, like I've met these people before, but I can't find any record of them in my memory, like it's something from another lifetime. I say all this because of something that happened to me this week: already a few times, watching some talk shows, late at night on TV, I saw the participation of a journalist. From what I know, she works in the newsroom of this TV network in another state. She is very beautiful, always well articulated. The times I saw her, she always attracted more attention to me until the interview itself. One detail in this woman, apart from those already mentioned, always caught my attention: her eyes in a beautiful green tone. Which reminds me, I don't know any TV journalist personally, however, that feeling of having actually been with her has stuck with me. But what about déjà vu? Yesterday, on my way home, I went to a big bookstore here on Avenida Paulista, browsing through the books on display, looking at the releases, and I found a book by none other than this woman. It's a collection of her major interviews with great national and world leaders, but in the first chapter, which I happen to open, she talks about her upbringing, her college education in a rural town. When I read the name of the town, another memory comes to me, I go to the coffee shop, I order a cappuccino and I remember. About 15 years ago, the company I worked for sent a team to this city, and we had an exhaustive amount of surveying to do, preparing for a new venture. There was not much to do at night. A few restaurants, a choperia, we stayed there. In these trips, a bunch of men, mostly married, always end up being proposed the idea of seeking an adventure. Slightly difficult there...but a colleague ended up discovering about a so-called "House of Olga". Most of them didn't want to go to a brothel, but two or three of them insisted. Anyway, they argued, there was a bar there, no one would be forced to do shows if they didn't want to. We ended up going... In a neighborhood near the university, on a quiet street, there was a four-story building. Without an elevator, you had to climb the stairs, passing through the typical floors with that corridor full of doors, most of them open. The "operational headquarters" of the piece was on the fourth floor, where there was a well-stocked bar, tables, sofas against the walls and girls in the range of 18 to 22 years old, more or less, wandering around, all in high-heeled boots, tiny shorts and tops with half the breasts exposed. I didn't stay there long, I wasn't interested in shows with prostitutes, the bar served cold beer, sugar-coated caipirinhas, everything at salty prices. Going down the stairs, going through the floors, I found more girls standing at the doors - we had come very early, now the movement was starting. The first floor was empty. I'm passing by there when another girl comes down the stairs. She painstakingly carries seemingly heavy boxes, wears a mini-blouse and a skirt just above the knee, suggesting beautiful thighs, and for the environment, she's even too modest... One of the boxes escapes her, falls open, scatters the contents on the floor, I go to help her, and I'm surprised to see that they're books, an intellectual in that piece... Seeing her all messed up, I insist on helping her, and I carry the boxes to her kitchenette. I did that, and not being on the hunt for programs I would leave, when a bang happens in the kitchen. Looking back, I see that the sink drain has been released. Water is flowing on the floor. Does it all happen to me? Once again, there goes the gentleman saviour -- it wasn't difficult at all -- one of those low-grade PVC parts with a badly threaded connection. She thanked me, insisted that I stay for coffee, and I watched her move around the tiny apartment, she's the average age of the other girls, but she talks more casually, but she seems pretty inexperienced in the craft, and I wonder what her story would be. We drink coffee until it's quite reasonable and when she goes to wash the cups, she opens the faucet too much. - Well, I knew today wasn't my day!...- runs out to the bedroom, a space separated from the living room/kitchen by a closet to the ceiling. She doesn't come back, the minutes go by and she doesn't return. Wanting to leave, I go over there to say goodbye. When I go in, I catch her fiddling with clothes in a drawer. She's half-naked, only in her underwear. What's that? - Sorry, I was just going to say good-bye... She tries to quickly find something to cover herself with, but she can't, so she ends up sitting on the bed with her hands covering her breasts, which I can't help but notice: appetizing... - Look, I haven't even thanked you properly. I stand at the entrance of the room, waiting for that typical sad story to generate sympathy and a more generous payment. She continues to sit in the same way, but it seems that now she touches her breasts, not to hide them, but to caress them. Once again, you strike me as a novice. - Don't you want to spend a little more time with me? - I'm feeling so lonely today, if you didn't help me I think I'd be desperate. I say to myself: It's true that you're not from the dating program, but today you can make an exception... I'm looking at her... long hair, brownish hue, stuck behind a ponytail... green eyes, very pretty... a girl's face wanting to be a woman... or maybe vice versa... in a well-proportioned body. She is delicious! I sit next to her, I pause for a static moment, staring at her, those green eyes staring at me, questioning what I want, and I gently place my arm on her shoulder. It was like lighting a dynamite fuse, and she looks at me, and she smiles, and she gives herself up. She abandons her hands from her breasts and embraces me. She comes to me in a breathless kiss. Without finishing the kiss she opens the buttons of my clothes. She opens the zipper of my trousers and finds my member very hard. She goes to him. She takes him in her hands. She looks at me provocatively and starts her attack. She sucks him like someone who is very thirsty. She would go, or hold him massaging with her hands while licking his purple head, or swallow him whole. She does not stop, does not want to stop until she gets my enjoyment. She receives it in her mouth with an expression of great pleasure stamped on her face. I just had to retaliate, I ripped off her panties, left her naked, found her sex in the warmth and humidity that only very, very excited women get. I fell on my face, sucking her to the soul, and she moaned and writhed until she cried out, I can't take it anymore. She sat on my dick and rolled, took it all inside of her, and we were in this rhythm, going higher and higher, going deeper and deeper, and I stood there, enchanted by her act of total sensual surrender, feeling the delight of her vaginal musculature welcoming me, drawing me deeper into it. I confess that I was surprised, she had seemed inexperienced, but we had a deep orgasm, very special. I could be just a showgirl, you might say, but I assure you, the kind you don't forget. She stood there and hugged me and told me that she wasn't from the city, that she had just arrived, and I prepared myself for the sad story again, but she didn't say anything about it, just commented on the change, the difficulties of adapting, being alone in a city where she didn't know anyone, etc. As I listen to her, I run my hands over her body, and I see that she's giving up on conversation, that her delicious breasts are stiff, that she wants more. - You know, I have some friends who say that certain things you only learn even from older men <unk> look at me with those green eyes... Not that I think you're old, of course. She says that, lying on her stomach next to me, the sight of her ass is ecstatic, and she continues in a conversation full of roundabouts, as if she wants to say something and because of shyness or some other reason she can't. I 'll make it easy for you . You've never had anal sex, have you? It's just that... - I know, but you want to, don't you? You have a visible tremor in your body. I take the initiative. With great affection I caress her body, I whisper in her ear how delicious she is. I tell her that everything that is done without haste, with care and affection, will always give us great pleasure. (At that time, my hands are already massaging that provocative ass...). I tell her it's all a balance between desire and fear, and I look into those green eyes and I say, - Do you want it or not? At first she hesitates, takes a deep breath, then: Yes, I do, but slowly, please. I begin the long preparation. I court her forbidden entrance with one finger. Previously moistened in that fountain of hers that had served me so well, soaked in that spicy honey of hers. Little by little this finger deepens. Then another comes, making unhurried circular movements. She moans, sighs, but does not ask me to stop. On the contrary, she tells me: - Put it on, honey, because I really want to... I put my stick in that unexplored territory. Slowly, first the head settles and stops, waiting for it to adapt and open. Little by little the head negotiates and gets the entrance, then it franchises me this still virgin space of its body. I stuff everything. I feel a warmth coming from her that infects me, inspires me, excites me to the fullest, and I continue to take her for granted in a really delicious way, even more delicious because I see that she feels very, very pleased. There's a thrill while I'm going through this penetration, and there's a thrill afterwards, when I'm extremely aroused, and I feel myself thrilling inside her. She says she really wanted this experience, but she was afraid, but it had been wonderful for her. He spoke in such a way that if we had not been there in the building of "Olga's House" I would have believed without a shadow of a doubt. In fact, I almost did. But thinking about how much I would have to pay for this staging. Admitting that it was worth it... She offers another coffee. I put on a robe and go to the kitchen. I get dressed and follow her. We are there when a shout comes from the upper floors. People's footsteps running down the stairs. In the middle of the noise I hear the voices of my colleagues. I explain to her that I left some friends upstairs, I have to go and see what's going on, I tell her to close the door, I'll be back. I run up the stairs and find out what happened, five of my colleagues stayed there, about three did shows with the girls, two stayed there drinking. When they saw the absurd bill... - both already quite tall, they were exasperated. Everything ended in a fight, with the intervention of the lions of the piece. It was obvious, only they didn't catch more because the other three came back before me and calmed down the thing. But they were badly injured, and one of them fell during the fight and apparently broke his arm, and he was screaming in pain, and we had to get him to a hospital, and the only one who was sober to do that was me. We ran out of there, all the arrangements were made, but luckily there were no major problems. It wasn't until I was in the E.R. that I realized I hadn't come back and paid my delicious hostess' fees. I wanted to go back there, but I was persuaded to come back only a few days later, and that night we were persona non grata in the place. The next day, however, we were called back to São Paulo. This project took some time to get into the implementation phase. I didn't return to that city until about three or four years later. I never saw that girl again. In theory, casual encounters with program girls are things you forget quickly, but I've never forgotten the taste of it, and I can't explain why. Memories of more intense things, events and emotions always follow us out of life. The past never dies. But I was talking about déjà vu, wasn't I, because I keep reading the first chapter of the journalist's book, and I get a chill, and I almost spill my cappuccino. Recounting her education, she recalls an episode that she says is fun now, but that made her embarrassed at the time. She lived in a republic with some colleagues. An environment of a lot of mess, where she had no peace to study. She went to look for an apartment to live alone. A realtor, who later found it dishonest, got her a kitchenette on the first floor of a four-story building. The next day he discovered what was there: from the second floor onwards it was a brothel, the so-called "House of Olga", and from the early evening and early morning there was a constant movement of men coming and going. He left the premises in a hurry, had a hard time, but managed to get that unqualified broker to return his money. It was as if that book had been put there to trigger all these memories in me and reveal to me a surprising discovery: that delightful green-eyed girl was actually a student who had moved into the wrong apartment. Today she's an intelligent woman, very beautiful, and yes, very exquisitely sexy. Naturally, I felt a great urge to get in touch with her. I would have no difficulty in getting phone numbers to talk to her. An email for contacts is even available in the book credits. But it's been so many years, I don't know how I'll meet her, how she'll receive me, she must be married, of course I can be extremely inappropriate, inconvenient, creating constraints if I arise like this without warning from the past. But I remember on one of the recent shows she was talking about her interest in researching further into the world of erotic literature, she was talking about Hilda Hilst and new names coming up, she was saying that there are a lot of people with high-level jobs posting their work on websites. I made a decision and here it is: All written in the form of that tale. I'm sending it to her now. Will he answer? . . . I 'm a wolf Copyright reserved: Prohibited reproduction, in whole or in part, as well as its transfer to third parties, except with the author's formal authorization, in accordance with Law 5988 of 1973