(So What) If I’m a Puta?, originally published on author Amara Moira’s popular blog of the same name, consists of fourty-four crônicas that wryly portray her experiences as a trans sex worker in Brazil. In a brazen, funny, and at times heartbreaking voice, Moira explores the political and personal textures of her encounters with the men who buy sex from her, and the complex reality of her labor of a sort of love.
Woven through Moira’s essays are reflections on transition, safe sex, desire, whorephobia, consent—in the grim context of Brazil’s record rates of violence against trans women. Ultimately, Moira writes to “give a voice to us prostitutes” and center trans sex workers in Brazil’s putafeminist movement, modeling a feminism that envisions inclusivity, safety, self-determination, and joy for us all.
Sitting on the bus on the way home, almost morning, a cold and empty night, phone in hands: This is how my story takes shape, gains color, comes to life. What I’ve just experienced still fresh in my mind: makeup smudged, the taste of condoms in my mouth, my client’s smell still on me, his manly smell so different from mine—is it the hormones? Certain words come to me as soon as I start writing: teeth, tongues, fingers, lips, one naturally grabbing the other, the words coming from our meeting but also from before, from when I stood on the streets, plotting love, playing nice: a travesti who becomes a writer by being a puta, and a puta playing a writer.
There was no light, only smells in the bushes, and the many, many used condoms scattered on the ground making plopping sounds as we walked, looking for a quiet spot, me in my heels stepping on the soft earth, him—my first ever client—pushing the motorcycle. There was no light, but as soon as he pulled down his underwear there was a smell, sweat, the smell of a man, deep in my nostrils, making my mouth water. That is where we work, all of us, in whatever dark corner we can find, behind the avocado tree, or in the client’s car when there’s a car, or in a motel room or boarding house, when they’re willing to pay extra, and usually they aren’t. Him on the motorcycle, he said he only had twenty reais in his wallet (he even opened it to show me)—just a blowjob, make it quick but nice.
I went back out there, a second time, still self-conscious, unsure of what to expect from myself, let alone from clients, anxious after the first time. There’s no class or book to teach you anything, nothing comes easy, it’s all blood, sweat, and tears. Looking out of the corner of my eye with restless hands, wearing less than usual, a chill running through my body, my feet hurting from the heels, I stammered out my price, afraid I didn’t look worth the amount. “How much?” Twenty reais, imagine! I was too rough around the edges, though maybe that was my charm, because in less than half an hour several men stopped to talk to me, and this time, stuttering and all, I hooked one with ease. Fresh blood stands out, I was told. Who the hell is the new travesti, the one in modest clothes?
And there I went, unzipping the man’s pants with that skill I’d forgotten to forget, my mouth searching for the base along the cock without ever even touching it with my teeth, my throat deep, choking, beyond the glottis. “Slow down, I’ll come like this,” he said after just a few seconds, and then, “What a mouth!” The mouth of someone who does it with gusto, the mouth of someone who does it happily even with tears streaming down their face—imagine my surprise that I was aroused, my surprise at an erection in a member I considered dead. I’ll admit the strong smell did something to my sexual appetite, us in the dark, me nibbling, swallowing only his little head so he would last longer. Condoms for what? Who’d cast the first stone? He was to be one of many. I was so horny I couldn’t stand it, he was paying in advance and all I needed to do was what I already knew by heart from public restroom encounters, the dark corners of life. The difference was that now I was getting paid, finally getting paid, my great gifts recognized. For how much? Twenty reais, a fraction of what this book is worth, but that didn’t matter back then, and it doesn’t matter now, because there would be no book today if it weren’t for those twenty reais that I accepted in exchange for my worth that day.
Nearly a year as Amara, and this man, this client, started to like me. He liked the trance I went into during a blowjob, me discovering sex, pleasure. But more than an orgasm, he wanted to kiss, and he asked me to. He brought me out of this trance to taste him on my lips and tell me how much of a woman he thought I was, how beautiful I was—everything I needed for my first steps as a true puta, my first steps as Amara. So, I kissed his manly mouth, this man who didn’t come close to matching my type [though my type was hardly a type as I desired the anonymity of it all, which was why I thought I’d make a good puta]. I kissed him, and the next one, and the one after him, all of them. I never felt disgusted or dismayed by their manly mouths, foul breaths, bristly beards scratching my face: being with men was so much easier now that I was a travesti, it all made me feel more like myself, more of a woman.
My dick swelled, my panties tightened like never before. There went the client looking for my body under my dress, pulling my panties to my thighs to see what I had getting harder under there, feeling up my ass but going through great lengths to dodge my dick, which I thought was funny. Then he led my face back down to his little head and came almost immediately, I did my best to hold back the urge to swallow: I made him pull out before he came and covered my face, my mouth still half open, hoping for a little taste, and he was delighted by the scene. He even took my number before leaving and made a point of calling me right then to make sure it was mine. He promised to be back, but I never saw him again.
In twenty minutes, if that, I was back on the street, euphoric, still in shock at what I’d just discovered in myself, this gift of making cash by giving pleasure: my first bit of cash on the street, finally a puta, feeling a job well done, that was enough excitement for one night, I was thinking of maybe going home. I saw in my little mirror the liner smudged around my eye. I got cum on my face, what else? I fixed what I could, but I barely got situated before a car stopped, the guy wanting whatever he could get, everything he could get, for the fifteen bucks he had in his pocket.
“Pretty face, feminine, and sweet on top of that. You kiss too? Then do it for me for fifteen, come on… I’ll take good care of you; I know what you need.”
I liked him flirting with me like that, my hair still short—the first few times I allowed myself to go out without a wig, no mane. I told him I was practically a virgin, first day on the streets. He said okay, and I agreed to the experience. I climbed into his car, and we went to the vacant lot, right away I put my hand on his groin to size up his package. Huge cock, thick as a log: I exercised all the muscles in my mouth so I could go as deep as possible without my teeth getting in the way [no condom again, I didn’t even try to ask this time]. A fresh soap smell wafted from his cock, recently washed; that was the only thing that upset me, I’m a sucker for that smell of manly sweat. It was still worth it, though, and I gave it my all, but he wanted more. He wanted to fuck, and I was dying to find out if I could, so I let him. We got out of the car, everything moving along now, me lying with my back on the hood, my legs wrapping around his body, right out in the open, other people doing the same only a few meters away. Lube, condom, finger, more lube, push, push, but it wouldn’t go in, it just wouldn’t. His wasn’t made for assholes, I thought, though I’d soon find out his wouldn’t even be the biggest one of the night.
Understanding the situation, he took off the condom and I sucked and touched him until he came, half on my face and half in my mouth, but not before he sucked me too. I was terribly horny again. I promised to make more room next time, and he promised to come back. He said goodbye with a peck on my lips [I forgot to say how much we kissed, how affectionate he was], leaving me in the dark, among the bushes, wiping my smeared face and asshole with pieces of toilet paper. He gave me the fifteen reais as soon as I got in the car, before I even had to ask. Easy-peasy.
The third one, he was different. We’d met before, him all over my good girl act [Travesti Nun was the nickname he gave me because of my modest clothes]. He got my number and called some fifteen times before I finally picked up; he was crazy about me without me even lifting a finger. I had to turn off my phone while I worked with the other clients that night, that’s how persistent he was. I got rid of the second guy, slapped on some makeup, and ran to where he was, some kind of boarding house, a makeshift motel. He was at the door with a beer in his hand and offered me a sip from his own can, which I declined. He wanted to make conversation, hear about my boyfriend [I know that trick!]—if he gets pissed off about my job [good one!], about my first day on the street. I played along, acting all innocent, and soon he took the opportunity to ask me to be his girlfriend, the first of I don’t know how many requests—“oh, but we just met, honey.” Bullshit on top of bullshit, we only moved on because I finally asked, annoyed, if I could do my job already or what!?
“Sure, all right, do you want to go to the bedroom?”
“That would be nice, but we haven’t discussed the price yet.”
“How much?”
“Forty.”
I tried the boyfriend angle with him, as we call it on the street, and the act lasted for more than an hour, he’s the only client whose name I remember [we went out several times after that], the only one who never haggled the price or belittled my work [“the poorer they are, the more respect they have for us… I had one come every month counting his coins, never asking for a discount,” a friend said when I told her this]. As soon as he turned the key to lock the door, he took off my clothes and jumped on top. Stale beer breath, but I didn’t mind, because it was there, in this bricklayer’s arms, that I was learning to feel like a woman, to hug and kiss as a woman. His tongue made me his, invaded my mouth, rough hands running all over my body. I quietly let him feel in control, enjoying this pleasure that had been foreign to me until now.
We lay on the bed, arms and legs intertwined, completely naked; free from hierarchies, from control, from getting ahead of ourselves or trying to finish first. He didn’t want to have anything to do with my cock, though it was plenty hard. He was only interested in the female me: my breasts, which he hungrily caressed with his mouth and calloused hands; my ass too, he fervently fondled my tight asshole with his fingers too. I followed his lead, groping the volume in his jeans, shivering all over just imagining his cock inside me, which I had barely noticed before.
That manly smell coming from his cock, him playing with the limits of my throat, my eyes watering, my nose running, me careful not to gag up my lunch—is there anything better than this? If up to me, I’d have stayed there forever in bliss [the next day my throat would be sore, a sign that I went too hard]—but of course he wanted more. I told him this was my first time in over a year, playing up the desire and innocence in my eyes; he promised he would take it easy, and off we went.
I lay face down on the bed with his tongue in my ass, the taste of lube from the earlier attempt maybe exposing my truth [like there was time to take a shower, you think I’m paid enough for that?]. If that’s what he thought, he didn’t show it at all. He seemed to be having a damn good time, and I was too. Once his tongue had enough, he pleaded sweetly to me, wanting to rub his dick on my asshole without a condom, infamously “just at the door,” “just the tip,” you know, men. An emphatic “no” from me was enough for him not to insist.
I opened the free packet of lube from the clinic to carefully grease the place he would go in, and then started putting his dong in the condom that came with the lube. But who said it would fit? I called the other dick from before a log, but this was the first time in my life I’d ever see one not fit a condom… imagine my desperation: me, an inexperienced prude. Maybe he was used to it; he quickly grabbed his dick, and with two fingers on each side of the condom ring he stretched it wide, unfurling it along his blessed limb. Imagine me watching this scene, in awe… either the condom would rip, or my asshole would, those were the only two options.
[A year and a half later, imagine my shock: the pain I felt every single time I had sex after that night was because of an anal fissure! It took me a long time to realize that I needed a doctor. I kept thinking I was just weak, or needed more practice, so I let in dick after dick, making matters worse. Two months of prescription ointment, three daily applications, and it got better, but I almost ended up on the operating table. Almost. As I said before, there’s no class or manual to teach you these things; not even the doctors quite knew what to say.]
Back to where we were: me face down with my legs splayed like a rotisserie chicken, him on top of me. The only light was coming through the window, just enough for us to distinguish our bodies. And he put that big head inside me, and started pushing his way in, negotiating every painful inch with me. Many, many different positions, all terribly painful, maybe because the earlier attempt had already lacerated me, but eventually he got in. And when he got in, then yes, he could finally start to thrust with pleasure, and I just let him take my body, go ahead, do whatever you want, proving to myself that I could handle it: lust, I mean, my own, another’s. I didn’t have a boner anymore, only pain, a lot of it, and the will to get through it.
At some point, he finally noticed me wincing in pain, and stopped. He took off the condom and let me get back to what I do best, sucking, swallowing. A glorious idea, it even got me aroused again [and again now, as I write this, how obsessed I am!], between blowjobs and handjobs he finally blew his load on my face. I playfully licked up his milk with the tip of my tongue—oh my Lord! We started to get dressed, he continued to be super affectionate, as I moved in a haze, unsure of the best way to ask for my money, when he spontaneously offered me fifty reais without even an utterance from me. And when he saw me pretending to look for change [no one ever has change—not putas, not clients—I would soon learn], he gestured for me not to worry. We said our goodbyes; and I went out to tell the world.
No specific type, each one electrified me. Giving pleasure was my bittersweet fate. Yes! Giving, but also receiving. If getting pleasure from work is an important objective for choosing your career, mine was already chosen. So what if I am a puta? Clearly, I am now.
