I am lying on the Estero Ciego beach of the Sol Club Rio De Luna, located 72 kilometers from the town of Holguin in the Republic of Cuba.
I am drinking a rum with mango juice and have just taken off my bikini top. My breasts suckle the sun and my nipples are hard with warmth and delight. Men find it necessary to make frequent trips to the bar on the other side of me to admire my breasts which, even from this angle, look quite beautiful.The men try not to be obvious when they walk past but they are obvious. I adore my breasts.
None of the other women on this beach look at me or bare their breasts to the sun like me. Most of them are from the frozen North and are unhappy. You can tell from their faces that they feel somehow betrayed, that life has not lived up to their expectations, that the world has not delivered what they deserve.
There are no Americans here because American governments so fear the 11-million people of Cuba that they've blockaded their island for more than forty years. Instead of Americans, the women who come here are from Canada and Germany and France and England and other northern places where the sun has no warmth at this time of year. Compared to the Cubans who serve them at this resort, these women have unimaginable wealth. But they are not happy.
Their faces are tight, their mouths thin and their eyes cold. And when they talk to other tourists — and to the Cubans who serve them with great generosity and considerable grace — their voices are abrupt and chilling and without courtesy.
These women spend most of their time complaining. It is too hot or too cold. The food is too spicy or too bland. The entertainment is lousy (which happens to be true but, on the other hand, it’s also free).
These women wear ugly, elaborate swimsuits too small for their abundant, cellulite flesh. As a passionate woman myself, I suspect that if they ever knew real passion — the sort of passion that brings unendurable pleasure and, inevitably, le petit mort — it was long ago and would be too embarrassing to repeat.
I think they should bare their breasts to the sun like me.
So their nipples harden with warmth and delight like mine.
That's what I think.
Samantha Jones is a Canadian journalist publishing her erotic memoir at www.lulu.com)
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