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A aranha vive do que tece.

Boca fechada não entra mosca.

Brasilian proverbs.

I am a spider, and I kill flies. Or mosquitoes. I usually don’t need to cast a web to be dangerous. It is true though, that a spider lives on what it weaves. When we meet, it is already too late for you. I strike, you die. It’s that simple. The spider tattooed on one shoulder will always be alone. You will join the swarm of flies on my other arm; yes, the swarm is becoming too large for just my shoulder.

I used an emergency exit out of Australia. I had my fill of Asia, so I thought I’d try my luck in South America. And let me tell you: flies live all over the planet. I did visit a few countries in South America. It turns out, I find the women there very attractive – in general. Maybe it’s the variation and the mixes that exist there, due to wave after wave of migration – either by choice or by force. It has led to a multitude of skin tones and body shapes. I started to understand that for me, the beauty of a women is in her shape and smoothness of skin, not in the colour. Had I encountered a mistique South American woman with bright blue skin, I would’ve fancied her.

I have to admit that a large percentage of the women I had a thing for; a lot of potential flies I met, all with one drawback: “I have a boyfriend.” And though I tend to kill flies, it’s my way of setting me free. I’m not in the business of liberating another man. I know the correct answer to “I have a boyfriend” is “I’m not jealous”, but I won’t lie: I don’t share. If I keep my mouth shut, flies won’t get in.

Not until I got to a little rundown port city on the Xingu did I see a girl in a beauty contest who proclaimed to be single. She wore nothing but a zebra coloured bikini with a pink cloth across her breasts and oily reflecting sunglasses. Her chestnut skin smooth as silk. She was two sizes too big for a miss universe contest, but semi-anorexic wasn’t my favourite anyway.

I put her out of my mind at first, for looking like that, being on stage, stating you’re single, is well more effective than a nude picture on Ashley Madison if you are looking for attention. A few hours later, though, things changed.

I saw her. Fully dressed in skin tight jeans and a green blouse, she was being harassed by two men. While two dogs fight over a bitch, the spider swoops in and runs off with her. I hugged her and whispered in her ear: ‘pretend I’m your boyfriend, I’ll get you out of here, and you’ll never have to see me again.” The result was quite unexpected.

She swallowed the hook, lifeline and sinker. I took her out of there, while she said that she’d lied about being single to get votes. And while I remained chivalrous, she fell for me. That same night I opened my mouth to let a fly cum in; her juices flowed as she came before she even touched me. And as I gently penetrated her soft and tender body, she moaned in pleasure, moving to my rhythm. We reached orgasm simultaneously, not ten minutes later.

Brasil was a pleasant place to be, and this beautiful woman, looking and behaving not a day over 25 but actually being 31, fucked me like a nymphomaniac who’d not had any in a year.

Twenty-seven times we had sex in the first nine days we were together. Fourteen in the first three. It was pleasant, and mutually satisfying until, not a month into our affair, she became controlling and mistrusting. I’d got me one of those brand new smart phones everyone was on about; ‘finally’, she claimed.

However, the moment I connected this device to the new social order of Facebook, MySpace and Skype she wanted to check everything I did. As if I had time, stamina and libido to flirt with anyone else.

This bugged me. So for her thirty-second birthday I treated her to a private boat trip – just the two of us – over the Xingu. Out of sight and downstream of town, I stabbed her, and before the blood dripped down to the boat, I threw her overboard. I’d heard stories of the aggressive black piranha’s in this river, but hadn’t anticipated the speed of their apearance. Only ten seconds did she scream and splash. After that, all I could see was a red soupy bit of river.

Careful not to drive the boat through the blood, I turned her and went back to town. I was disappointed that the only way out was a bus to Santarém. I couldn’t leave the country that day; I couldn’t even get far away. Nor the next day, as I took the time to have a fly tattooed on my arm.

As you see, flies are everywhere, and I have the habit of killing them. For I am a spider. Fear me. Run, when you still have the chance.