My Cuban Lover.


Because I’m a woman who strongly believes that “word is bond” and because I feel like shit and reminiscing about him will warm my heart, among other things Ima go ahead and blog about my Cuban Vacation Lover like I promised.

So four whole days went by with no sign of Raul. I laid on the beach replaying the kiss over and over in my mind, hating myself for what I could’ve, would’ve, should’ve done to him instead. I listed the pros and cons of possibly sleeping with a strange man in a strange country and only came up with cons, sighing out loud in relief that we had only exchanged a very heated embrace.

Raul was now a fantasy. He was a character in my storybook of life, another man I had let slip out of my fingers, untouched, vehemently blaming my mother for raising a good girl and wishing on all of the stars in the sky that the dirty girl inside could win this battle within.

I sauntered drunkenly into my room the second last night of my vacation, heading directly to the washroom to wash away the filthy thoughts of Raul the sand from my feet. I turned on the faucet. Instead of the slow stream of water that I had become accustomed to throughout the week, a loud screeching noise rattled from within the bathroom walls instead. But no water ran out. I turned off the faucet and tried again. Same outcome.

The Cuban rum in my bloodstream had me feeling too good to let this little problem bother me so I laid back on my bed and called concierge to advise them I had no running water. The senorita at the end of the line said she would send someone over as soon as possible.

I got down to my skivvies and put on the fancy hotel robe, pouring myself another drink. I walked out onto the balcony to enjoy the ocean-view. And you know I am NOT skimping on details here. I want you to see what I saw, feel what I felt. I’m big on imagination and transferring the imagery into my readers’ minds and the anticipation that I know you’re anticipating is super exciting. So I’ll stretch this out as far as I possibly can.

It’s not quiet oceanside. The waves lap at the shore and if it’s windy out, it sounds like a storm is nearing. I could hear the soft salsa sounds coming from the club nearby, the giggles from the couples in love and the motors humming from the golf carts driving guests back and forth. Ahh, the golf carts. My thoughts went back to Raul and his mouth. His gorgeous, dark eyes looking down into mine that first night we met. That feeling of regret started to creep over me again, self-hatred at having pushed him away.

There was a pounding at the door that startled me. I arose from the lawn chair, a tad upset at the disturbance. This was not the way to knock on someone’s door at this time of night.

I cracked the door open through the chain and felt my knees weaken and buckle underneath me.

Lo’ and behold, in all his glorified sexiness, was my Raul.

You’d have thought we were long lost lovers from the way I struggled with the door lock and chain and the way we rushed into each others arms. He grabbed me tight and whispered into my ear, “Ôla mami”.

Major swoon at “mami”. At this point in my life, only non-Latino wanna-be thugs tryna holla had tried calling me “mami”. To hear the native Cubano say it?!?! Damn, damn, damn. Instant moisture.

Raul explained that he had been looking for me secretly, that he’d watched me leave my room many mornings but was unable to get my attention because of the other guests and staff. He said he’d seen me at the pool and the beach and the bar but it had always been too risky to approach me. #NoStalker.

Oh man did I ever want him right then.

He continued speaking fast Spanish, telling me how he had been at the concierge when they received my call and immediately realized it was my room with the water problem and how he jumped at the chance to see what was wrong.

What. Are. The. Fucking. Chances. Of. This. Happening?

This was a sign. Of course it was a sign. I couldn’t let him get away. I was on vacation. Aside from my husband, sex on vacation had never happened before. My mind reeled beyond belief, my head spun with rum-laced thoughts. I had to. I had to. Just look at him, I kept repeating to myself. I had to do this!

I took his hand then, and fighting the good girl inside and shaking with nervousness, I placed his hand on my thudding heart and said, “This is the problem”.

I brought him into my room and locked the door and allowed the dirty girl to take complete control.

I don’t need to detail what went on. I’ll leave the erotic stories up to Savannah over at

This is where YOUR imagination comes in.

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