When Marv Shanken launched the monthly publication of Cigar aficionado Magazine in 1992, it spurred the cigar boom of the decade. The magazine helped to change the negative perception associated with cigar smoking and create the image of a leisurely pursuit of rich connoisseurs and people in the know.

Cuban cigars have long been considered the finest cigars in the world and during the boom, the demand for Cuban products increased as well.  Cubans were regularly in the Top 10 of Cigar Aficionado’s ratings. Many factors contribute to the high quality of Cuban cigars.

It begins with the combination of wet climate and fertile soil specific to the far western Vuelta Abajo region of Cuba. The agricultural conditions for growing tobacco are far more conducive there than anywhere else in the world. The soil of Pinar del Rio also produces unique properties for growing flavorful and unique-tasting wrapper leaves.

Cuba grows several different varieties of tobacco each with their distinct flavors. The Criollo and Corojo strains produce a very unique and distinct flavor. Unlike many cigars from other countries, a Cuban is unblended and completely free of preservatives and taste enhancers producing a signature smoke.

For well over 500 years, Cubans have been cultivating their leading export. The tradition of their cigar rollers “Torcedores” has been passed down from one generation to the next. Over the centuries, they’ve honed their craft and perfected the art of cigar rolling and today boast more master rollers than anywhere else in the world.

Each cigar brand manufactured in Cuba creates its own unique taste like Montecristo, Cohiba, Romeo y Julieta, Hoyo de Monterrey and Partagás to name a few. Their long history has established them as the premiere cigars in the world. These are the brands that my clients request most often and I can only find them in Cuba.

With Juan Carlos assembling my list of cigars, I wanted to get out of town for the day. Looking for a taxi, I ran into Harry parked in front of my building. “Perfect timing Harry,” I said walking down the steps.

“How much to take me to the beach for the day?”

“Twenty dollars, plus you buy me lunch,” Harry said.

“Sounds good to me, Vamos!”

We made a pitstop on the way and picked up George. George lived in a vicinity called Reparto Camilo Cienfuegos located east of Havana on the way to the beaches in eastern Havana called Playas del Estes. It was a lot easier with George around to interpret for me, plus he kept me entertained with his stories of yesteryear.

As soon as we approached the tunnel that leads to the highway east, several girls were hitchhiking along the side of the road. Harry beeps and asks them where they’re going and I hear “Playa.”  He reaches back and opens the back door and a petite blonde and a beautiful brunette hop in the back.

After 10 minutes on the highway, we get off to pick up George. He’s living with his gay son David and his blind, 90-year-old mother. They live on the ground floor of a three-story apartment building that used to belong to George’s deceased wife.

I let George sit in the front seat and I jumped in the back with the girls. The petite little brunette was wearing a Yankees baseball cap and a skimpy one-piece swimsuit. I introduced myself and she said her name was Dolce Maria. “Sweet Maria.” Perfect name for a pretty young senorita. As soon as we hit the road, I have my arm around Dolce Maria and she lays her head on my shoulder.

Santa Maria Beach is about 20 miles from Old Havana. It’s stunningly beautiful and clean with small sheds on the sand that serve food and drinks. We went to the main bar with bamboo walls, a thatched roof with wooden tables and live music.

The ocean is a stunning aqua blue with dark clouds on the horizon. There seem to be a lot of Europeans on the beach today. The dark-skinned Italians are easy to spot usually accompanied by black girls. The bar has some Brits drinking tall cans of Bucaneros and maybe a few Germans at the table along the wall.

The Salsa music is pounding and the drinks are flowing. Some Cuban girls are standing around the perimeter of the wall hoping to make eye contact with a foreigner and invited into the party. In Cuba, once you make eye contact, you’re a goner.

George has been coming to this beach since the 1950s. He said that back in the heyday there were small cabañas set up on the beach.  You could rent them for an hour to fuck a girl. “It was wild Danny,” George says. As if Cuba’s not a fuckin’ wild place today.

We have a table and order a round of drinks and everyone is having a good time. Since Dolce Maria is wearing a New York Yankee hat, I’m sure I’m not the first foreigner that she’s been with.

I try to make a light conversation with Dolce Maria.

“Are you a Yankees fan?”  “No Comprende” she says.

“Where you from?” Dolce Maria asks me.

“I’m from America.

Norte Americano? Estados Unidos? She asked.

I nodded my head and she followed with “Miami?”

“No. All Americans don’t live in Miami,” I tell her.

It’s probably better that I don’t speak very much Spanish. Fewer questions I have to answer. Dolce Maria, like most Cuban girls, is uninhibited. She sits on my lap and lets me feel her ass “Tu y yo?” I ask. Todo la noche?”

“Si,” she whispered.

Lucky me! She’s agreed to stay with me for the entire night. My mind was running now. Through her little powder blue swimsuit, I could see her small, firm breasts and swollen areolas. I imagined her lying in bed next to me naked.  I knew little Maria had a very hairy pussy.

It’s odd that Cuban girls only shave their legs from the knee down. They let their thick, black hair grow on the thighs. It drives Cubans guys crazy and I have to admit, I like it as well. I feel Dolce Maria’s pussy through her suit and ask her if she has mucho pelo and she giggled and nodded yes.

I asked George if he ever saw Ernest Hemingway around Havana in the 50s.

“When I was a taxi driver Danny, I drove Mr. Hemingway home from the El Floridita bar,” George said. “His home in San Francisco de Paula Finca Vigía is still there. Now it’s a museum.”

Hemingway had been a patron of the El Floridita since the 1930s when he lived down the street at the Hotel Ambos Mundos. Hemingway would write early in the morning then walk down Obispo Street and spend his afternoons at “la cuna del daiquiri” El Floridita. Legend has it, that Hem holds the record for drinking 16 double daiquiris at one sitting. They named the double daiquiri “Papa Double” in his honor.  Now that’s a record I’d like to break.

Hemingway’s boat Captain Gregorio Fuentes had lived in the fishing village of Cojimar when he worked for Hemingway. To my astonishment, George said that he was still alive and kicking and residing in Cojimar. Hemingway based the character of Santiago after Fuentes in his Pulitzer Prize winning Novella “The Old Man and the Sea.”  Meeting the Old Man is definitely on my to-do list.

Enough history for today.  It was a bright sunny day in Havana and I was sitting at a white sandy beach with a cute little Cuban girl in my lap telling me she was tengo hambre.  I ordered another round of drinks and a hamburger for my little cutie Dolce Maria.

It didn’t take Harry long to make his moves on the blonde girl. Within minutes she was sitting on his lap and eating a piece of chocolate out of his hand. He was already planning the next move with the girls who were naturally following our lead.

After another hour of beach fun, we decided to get the hell out of Dodge. We piled into Harry’s Moskvitch and headed back to Vedado. I gave George a “ten spot” for hanging out and we dropped him off on the way back to town. Dolce Marie came home with me and Harry disappeared with Dolce Maria’s blonde friend.

Once I got sweet Maria back to my apartment, it didn’t take long to get down to business. Dolce Maria couldn’t wait to jump in the shower and let the water wash away the sand and some of her sexual tension. Clad in nothing but a towel, she made her way across the room and into the shower –. The door closed, the towel removed she let the hot water, running full blast soak her from head to toe.

I walked in behind her. She felt the touch of my hand start at her hip and work its way up the right side of her body as I pressed my naked frame onto hers. I turned her around to face me and without a word, I kissed her deeply, passionately. Her hands rose to the back of my head pushing my tongue deeper into her mouth.

I wrapped my hands around her back and slid them down to grab that perfect backside of hers. I broke the kiss and she tried to pull me back, but instead, I turned her body to face the wall and put her hands against it; bending her over, ever so slightly.

My right hand ran up her spine as the water from the shower head above pulsed down. Kisses are placed all over her neck and back while my hands cupped her breasts, pinching and rolling her nipples between my fingers. She could feel my manhood pressing against her opening and tried to grind on it to force it in…but not yet.

My hands slide down from her breasts, over her cute little belly, and to her inner thighs. I spread her legs and bend down so that I can taste the juices that have begun to run down her legs. As I ran my tongue over her wetness she began to moan as I ground my tongue deep into her pussy.

With each lick her body tensed and her moans turned into screams of delight. The intense passion of our encounter was beginning to take over her body. At that very moment, I gently wrapped my lips around her clit and begin to suck on it hungrily. Soon her body exploded from the pleasure and I received my reward of tasting the deliciousness of her very essence.

As steam surrounded us, we leaned against the wall and breathed deeply, holding each other close.  Finally, we walk into the light of the room as two strangers. I open the window and the sounds of the street come pouring in. Honking horns, voices yelling, and trucks changing gears as they pass our window remind me where I am. We lie silently on the bed and fall to sleep in each other’s arms.

When I awaken, Dolce Maria is standing at the foot of the bed dressed in her swimsuit, flip-flops and Yankees cap exactly the way I met her.  I unlock my suitcase and pull out $30 for her.

We hug and stare into each other’s eyes momentarily. We’re both wondering the same thing; if we will ever see each other again. She wrote her address in my organizer and I walked her to the front door.

 As soon as I returned to my room the doorbell started to ring. It’s good ol’ George just in time for lunch.  After a Cubano sandwich at the cafeteria, we walk down the street to the Hotel Melia Cohiba on the Malecon. Built by a Spanish firm, it’s one of the newest hotels in Havana.

That afternoon, quite by accident, we made an amazing discovery. An incredible blind jazz pianist working in the lounge of the Media Cohiba. The room was dark and cool and George and I were the only ones sitting at the large circular bar. I ordered a Cuba Libre and George had his usual glass of “Anejo doble.”

Knowing drinks would be expensive, we bought a pint of rum in the lobby store and brought it to the bar in a plastic bag. The pianist was sitting on a platform above the bar playing jazz with a Latin feel.  On this quiet Sunday afternoon, we were treated to a private show by one of the finest piano players I’ve ever heard. An experience I’ll never forget.

We ordered a Coke and ice. As George turns around to reach for the bottle he kicks it off the marble footrest and it smashes on the floor. Well, needless to say, our jazz experience came to an abrupt end. As we slowly made our way to the door, the smell of the rum was overwhelming. So much for Media Cohiba Hotel. But the pianist, I had to see him again. The sign at the door said his name was Frank Emilio.

After that fiasco, we both ended up at our usual spot in the back patio of the Nacional drinking Anejo dobles and licking our wounds. Every day was another unique experience. There wasn’t a better way to make a living but it had to be run as a business. Otherwise, I’m just going around in circles.

When I showed up at Juan Carlos’s the following morning, he was sitting there with his sidekick Hassan. They have 15 boxes stacked on the table. They made a little bait-and-switch move on me but it turned out OK. I ordered Cohiba Robustos and he brought Cohiba Esplindidos. I ordered Montecristo No. 1 and he brought No. 3. But all in all, everything looked original and the prices were the same.

Montecristo #2s, $40 dollars. Cohiba Robusto’s $50. Partagas Serie D. #4 ‘s $35 dollars. I think to myself, holy shit, I’ve struck gold. The retail price in the States is 10x Havana prices.  Juan Carlos handed me a blue receipt filled out with the code numbers of the boxes on it.

I pack the boxes, 14 in total into a large canvas bag. Hassan stops me from walking out the door. He wants to walk up and down the street first to make sure the coast is clear.  Juan Carlos, standing in his doorway, gives me the high sign. I grab my grip and stroll out into the Havana sun and flag down a taxi.

The next morning I show my “goony” receipt to customs and it works like a charm. I got out of Havana safely again. In Cancun, I have a new, safer strategy that guarantees my cigars will not be taken by Mexican customs. When I land in Cancun, I take my bag with the cigars and I walk directly to Oficina Transito.

The transit office is an office for passengers who are connecting through Cancun Airport to another flight. The point is they don’t want you selling your cigars in Cancun. You leave your cigar bag with agents in the transit office along with your flight information and they bring your bag to your flight as you’re boarding for the US.

Getting through Los Angeles is always the most unsettling part of the long journey. I usually have too many free drinks on the Mexicana flight and when I arrive in LA, my pipes are so dry that I have a hard time lying to customs agents.

This time going through, I’m pulled to the side by an agent who wants to ask me a few additional questions.

“Where are you coming from?’ the agent asks.

“Cancun”

“How long were you there?’

“One week,” I answered.

“What was the nature of your business?” asked the agent.

I had to think fast. The bag at our feet was loaded with illegal contraband.

“I was producing a boxing documentary”

“Who did you interview”

I had produced a documentary on boxing with Latin fighters five years before and I drummed up the names of the fighters I had worked with.

“Alexis Arguello, Julio Caesar Chavez, and Carlos Ortiz,” I said.

Then the agent threw me a curveball.

“Hey man,” he says, “Julio Caesar Chavez is not in Mexico now.”

I stood there with a puzzled look, staring into the agents’ dark eyes and experiencing a sinking feeling in my stomach. The airport noise was silent. I felt that all of the travelers had left the airport and it was just the two of us standing under a light.

Suddenly, he hands my passport back to me and says, “Have a nice day Mr. Orion.” The light and the noise of the crowded airport returned. I Iift my cigar bad and walk around the corner up the ramp and out of Tom Bradley International Terminal airport and into a taxi at the curb. We head south on Pacific Coast Highway.

That transit office in Cancun was an important discovery. One less point of risk on the Silk Highway to Los Angeles.  Although I have around 15 regular clients, I need to build my leads and expand my business. I should take a little trip to Las Vegas and see if I can drum up some contacts at the big hotels. We’re in the middle of a boom and high-rollers love to smoke.

A few days later I’m on a flight to Vegas. It sounded easier than it was.  When you walk into a legitimate business i.e. Casino a & Gaming in Las Vegas and try to sell them illegal contraband, you’re met with a certain amount of distrust.

For the next two days, I made my way around Sin City. I went to the big hotels and casinos, cold calling and trying to get some leads. I found some interest at Hamilton’s Bar and Cigar Lounge in New York-New York and the Mirage. They wanted to see the product before making a decision.

I knew without a doubt that all of the casinos and shops have Cubans for sale but they will not deal with you walking in off the street. On my second day, I went to the cigar shop at the Hilton Casino. Talking with the guy who worked the cigar shop I explained my frequent travel to Cuba.

On a business card, he wrote the name of the gentleman at the hotel who’s in charge of the “whales” who come to the hotel with ‘fuck you” money, ready to spend. His name was Rick Munday. He was my first call when I got back to Los Angeles and prepped for my next trip to Fantasy Island.

The post Chapter Eight appeared first on The Cigar Diary.