With another successful venture under my belt, I called Rick Munday, head of VIP Services at the Las Vegas Hilton. He was reluctant to go into detail over the phone but confirmed he was in the market for Cuban cigars. He suggested I reach out when I had a larger supply available.

The cigar boom was booming and the demand in LA was increasing exponentially. Now that Hollywood stars like Arnold and Sly were featured on the cover of Cigar Aficionado, everyone wanted to be part of the new fad. I had celebrity contacts in the film industry who smoked so now I needed to increase my supply to a minimum of 25 boxes per month.

My travel itinerary was getting stale so I rerouted through Mexico City for a change of pace. The downside was flying via Mexico City was it required a red-eye flight out of LA.  I’d arrive in Mexico around 6:00 am and the connecting flight to Havana didn’t depart until mid-morning. Before I knew it, I was back on the road again.

I arrived at LAX around nine and checked in. There was a nice bar across from my gate where I had a couple of Vodka Martinis and a few tall IPAs. I thought the booze would help me sleep on the overnight flight but I was wrong. I even took a sleeping pill to ensure some rest but to no avail. By the time I arrived in Mexico City at five in the morning, I was a fucking zombie.

Now I had to deal with a four-hour layover. After clearing through immigration and customs, I went to Baron Rojo Restaurant and ordered some breakfast. After some lousy pancakes, burnt bacon and coffee, I staggered to my gate and crashed in a chair until it was time to check-in.

Every minute of the layover was painful. I felt that I was near death. But somehow, some way, I made it through again. At nine, I got in line with mostly Mexican and Cuban passengers carrying large bags, giant boxes and silly Western hats stacked five high on their heads and checked in for Havana.

Three hours later I walked out of Jose Marti International Airport and into the suffocating July heat.  Harry was there to pick me up. He had found a new apartment for me in the Miramar district called Reparto Nauticol. Once a gated community for the wealthy, Nauticol was now a residential neighborhood for government employees and Fidelista’s to reside. According to Harry, even Fidel’s son, Alejandro, lived on the next street.

Nauticol was only a block from the ocean and I was also moving onto the same street as my boxing idol and new acquaintance Teofilo Stevenson. My new place was an upstairs studio apartment owned by a large middle-aged divorcee named Teressa who lived next door with her teenage son Alejandro.

We dropped off my bags off and went for egg rolls and fried rice in Barrio Chino. After a mojito stop at Café de Farnes, we rolled to Old Havana and picked up Dolce Maria. She was such a sweet little girl, I enjoyed banging around with her. Short and petite, she had thick brunette hair and large brown eyes and a very hairy pussy which I found kinky. I didn’t mind spending a few extra dollars on her.

Being with Dolce Maria was almost like a real boyfriend/girlfriend experience. At night we’d strolled down to the water hand in hand and sit on the break wall of a large rock that was dumped in the water from a nearby construction site. With the sound of the black waves stirring around us, we’d lay there looking up at the twinkling night sky.

One night, lying there I made the decision to become a writer.  Dolce Maria asked me what I wanted to do with my life and told her write. The night sky is extremely clear from the Caribbean. I pointed up to the brightest constellation above us and told her I would take its name as my “nom de plume”…it was Orion’s belt.

Maria smiled and whispered, “Daniel Orion.”

Later that night we had a few Cuba Libre’s and watched a Latin soap opera for an hour or so and went to bed. We fell fast asleep without fucking but horny little Dolce Maria woke me up in the middle of the night. Laying like two spoons in a drawer, she moved close and started rubbing her little ass against my dick.

 Although I was half-asleep and half-drunk, I was hard in five seconds. As I was climbing on top of her, she spread her legs wide to receive me and we started pounding away.  Little Maria must have been dreaming about sex because she started thrusting her hips up and down to create a rhythm. Our passionate lovemaking transported me to another world. It was one of the best fucking experiences I ever had.

The next morning when I came out of the shower, Maria was sitting topless, her back against the headboard. She asked me about a bottle of Smirnoff Vodka I had sitting on the mini-fridge. She wanted to give it to her father as a gift. “Si,” I said. “no problema. Un regalo para tu papa.”  She motioned for me to throw the bottle so I grabbed it off the fridge and tossed it over to her.

I threw it too high and the bottle bounced on the bed and then I heard a dull clunk sound. Suddenly she had her head in her lap and was holding her mouth. When she removed her hand, her front tooth had been knocked out. Oh my God…. now what? The tooth had been broken off at the gum. I could see the root dangling in the center.

I called Harry and told him we had to get Dolce to a dentist immediately. The wait time for a dentist in Cuba was weeks if not months so we had to take her to a hospital used by tourists called Clínicia Cira Central Garcia in Miramar. I could pay cash there and get her treated immediately.

We arrived at the hospital we had a dentist assigned to us within 15 minutes. He and his assistant performed a root canal on Dolce Maria to eliminate the pain. The whole procedure only took about 30 minutes and cost me $100.

We made an appointment for the following week to see about getting her a dental implant but when we got to Dolce Maria’s house her father said she had gone to the beach with friends. Cuba never ceases to amaze me. Oh well, apparently hustling money day was more important than having a front tooth.

I found a new cigar supplier named Ray who lived downtown on Obispo Street. Obispo Street is in the heart of old Havana and it’s one of the main drags that cuts through the city. This famous old Calle was constructed in the 1500s.  It’s a crowded, narrow walking street lined on both sides with stores and restaurants.

At one end of Obispo is the El Floridita Restaurant/Bar the opposite end of the street is Hotel Ambos Mundos where Ernest Hemingway resided in the 1930s. His room on the fifth floor is now a museum. Hemingway had a home in Key West at the time but moved to Havana permanently in 1940 when his third wife Martha Gellhorn found a home in San Francisco de Paula

Ray was a great guy and had a striking resemblance to Hollywood actor Armand Assante. He charged $25 per box and offered to extend credit if I didn’t have enough cash. It takes him a few days to find the boxes together so I have to order them as soon as I arrive and pick them up the day before I leave. I think his black-market (La Bolsa Negra) cigars are rolled in homes or possibly stolen from the factories, but the samples he showed me looked great.

With Dolce Maria MIA, I decided to hook up with Melanis. She was a nice Mulatta girl, a little low-key for me but I knew I could trust her.  Melanis was always glad to see me and told me that her sister Yoani had someone she wanted me to meet.  It turns out it was Yoani’s boyfriend William, a Canadian guy in his 60s who lived on a cabin cruiser in Marina Hemingway.

William was constantly going back and forth between Key West and Havana bringing televisions, microwaves, electronic equipment, and anything else he could sell in Havana.  Yoani thought that he might be able to help me transport my cigars to the States. It was a great idea depending on the parameters of the deal. I wanted a sit-down with William.

Yoani arranged a meeting for the next day and we met on William’s yacht in the Marina. I pitched him on the idea of muling cigars to Key West for me.  This way I could bypass Customs in Cuba and Mexico and rendezvous with him in the US. If he could bring 25-50 boxes to Florida, I’d return to Los Angeles on a train. This would solve my numbers problem. From Orlando, I’d go straight to my VP friend at the Las Vegas Hilton. I could probably unload 30 boxes at the Hilton alone.

When doing business with Vegas casinos, price was no object. ­William had never thought about cigar smuggling but when I explained the profit margins, he was in. It was a win-win situation. Now he could make money going both ways. Our plan was to take 50 boxes each and he would find someone to fence his in Florida.

The first thing I had to do was convince Ray to front me as many boxes as he could. I could buy 25 boxes and maybe persuade Ray and Juan Carlos to spot me 25 each. William wanted  $100 per box to transport them to Key West. He would allow me to defer payment until they were sold. William kept his car in a Key West marina so he could drive me up to Orlando, then the Sunset Limited all the way home.

It took about 10 days to get the order together. Convincing a Cuban to defer payment is harder than meeting Fidel Castro. By the time we were ready to go, Wiliam had 50 boxes and I had 100. The problem we faced was hiding the cigars on the boat. Our solution was to remove the wood paneling from the walls and bury the boxes in the hull, away from the prying eyes of Cuban agents.

At the last minute, I decided to sail to Key West with William. There was too much money at stake now to blindly trust someone I didn’t know very well.  My only concern was clearing Customs at Key West. William laughed when I asked him about it.

“Do you think we’ll be okay clearing US Customs in Key West OK?”

“We’re not clearing any Customs in the US Danny,” William said.

“We’re  going to expand our route and come into the US further East as if we were returning from the Bahamas, not Cuba.”

“Sounds good to me,” I said.

The last night I stayed at Manny’s so I’d be able to grab an early taxi from the hotel. As promised, I met with William at his boat at 5 AM. He was sitting in the cabin drinking coffee when I arrived. He had sandwiches and cokes ready for the agents who would be Inspecting the boat.

The first group to arrive was immigration. They took our passports and visas to their office. A few minutes later Customs boarded and last but not least the damn Cuban Navy even came aboard. They probably just wanted a free sandwich and drink.

They were extremely cautious with cabin cruisers leaving Cuba. A large boat was a perfect way to traffic Cubans out of the country. Most Cubans had rich relatives living in Miami who were willing to pay up to $10,000 to get a loved one out of this shithole. It was a lot safer muling cigars than people, but if we’re popped, they’ll probably confiscate William’s boat and boot us both out of the country.

William knew a few of the government agents considering he travels in and out of Havana so often. The boys ate their sandwiches and drank their cokes before nonchalantly snooping around the cabin and engine room below. The whole process took less than an hour.

Once we were cleared and our passports returned, William kicked up the engines and navigated us out of the harbor and into the deep blue sea where the Atlantic and Caribbean collide. As we churned across the whitecaps, light was breaking on the horizon. The morning air was warm but the humidity had not yet risen.

I took a moment to reflect on my latest adventure and truly believed it would work out right. As we pulled out of the harbor, William set his barring to NNE 20.58°. The estimated travel time would be around 8 hours which kind of surprised me.

From the deck, the warm salty breeze caressed my face as I watched the horizon slowly transform itself from a deep purple to a swirl of amber-orange and azure blue. The sea reflecting the changing sky mirroring the brilliant colors that danced on the water’s surface. As Havana faded away, the boat left a gentle, rippling trail in the water.

William piloted from the flybridge on top of the boat. I asked him if he could just put the boats navigation on autopilot but he was an experienced sailor. He explained that fact that we were traversing the Straits of Florida which is a busy shipping lane and a collision with a tanker is a real possibility.

I spent most of the journey in the cabin, out of the blinding July sun. The boat’s constant bouncing and pitching started to make me nauseous which apparently was normal. William suggested I focus on the horizon but lying on the cabin bunk made the dizziness go away.

Two hours into our journey, William called me to the flybridge.

“You’re doing good, Danny,” William yelled. “Everyone who sails across with me has thrown up over the rail by now. So, you’re doing good man. Take a look in the distance.”

A couple miles east of our course, a massive container ship was cutting through the shipping lane which was directly in front of us.

“That’s why you have to stay alert Danny,” William said

“If you run on autopilot and fall asleep, you could lose your life.

Approximately seven hours after we departed Cuba, we chugged into a small marina in the Florida Keys. Once we were settled, we dismantled the walls of the cabin and removed the stash from the walls. Almost immediately, I noticed a problem. William had put the cigars in plastic grocery bags that were not sealed air-tight.”

I noticed moisture on the inside of some of the bags. If that salty seawater seeps inside the cigar boxes they’ll be ruined. We could inspect the product closer once we made it to a hotel room in Ft. Lauderdale. We finished unloading the cabin, washed down the boat, and pulled out of town.

As we drove the seven-mile bridge, I crunched the numbers in my head. I had 100 boxes in my possession. The resale value at $300 per box was $30,000. William was owed $10,000. My cigar guys were owed $2,500 then my profit would be $12,500. In Vegas, I could bump up the prices to cover my travel expenses. After a good night’s sleep in a cheap Lauderdale motel, William drove me to Orlando Station to catch the Sunset Limited.

I boarded the train for my two-day journey through the southern states of the country. It would make stops in New Orleans, San Antonio, Phoenix and Tucson. After a pit stop in Las Vegas, it was on to Los Angeles. I booked a first-class Roomette on the lower level which allowed me some privacy. It had two comfortable seats that transformed into upper and lower bunks at night.

I stacked the boxes on the top bunk and wrote “FILM ELEMENTS” on them in case anyone inquired about their contents. I stayed to myself most of the time and had my meals delivered to my room. The only time I left my space was for the bathroom, shower and occasionally a walk to the Bar Car for a cocktail. As we rolled across the wide open country $12,500 kept dancing in my head. Vegas or Bust!

The post Chapter Ten appeared first on The Cigar Diary.

After spending Christmas in Los Angeles, I was back in Havana in early January. The weather was perfect, averaging 80° in the day and 70° at night with very low humidity. According to a taxi driver, tourism is picking up and they’re seeing a lot more Americans now. Now even Hollywood celebrities like Arnold Schwarzenegger and Michael Keaton adorn the walls of the Golfo Bar at the Hotel Nacional along with famous historical figures.

When I arrived at Manolo’s house my new friend “Kurt the pilot” was sitting on the balcony smoking a cigar. As promised, he had returned to the pussy capital of the Caribbean.  He was happy to see me and called me “the producer” referring to my days as a filmmaker.  He confessed that since his return, he was spending most of his time and money on Jineteras.

Once he got back to LA and crunched the numbers on cigar profits, he decided to dip his beak into the lucrative cigar smuggling business. His new suppliers were two guys from Old Havana named Juan Carlos and Hassan. He had just placed an order with these guys and since I had more experience in the cigar trade, he wanted me to tag along and check out the product.

Juan Carlos claimed he had a line on the best cigars in Havana. Everything original! I heard the same line from everyone I met on the street but still, I was curious and wanted to have a look. After a chicken sandwich and a beer at the Hotel Inglaterra, we made our way around the corner to Juan Carlos’ house.

At first impression, Juan Carlos seemed like an honest guy. He was flexible on the prices depending on how many boxes we ordered. He said with enough lead time, he could provide us with anything we wanted for $35 – 45 dollars a box.  For another $20 he’ll supply us with an official government receipt or factura. I liked him so I thought I’d give him a try and gave him an order of (3) Romeo y Julieta Churchill Tubos and (2) Hoyo de Monterrey Epicure No. 2.

Kurt ordered five boxes of Montecristo #4’s. They were a small corona-sized cigar, five inches long with a 42-ring gage. He said he could easily transport them in his flight bag without drawing attention from customs. As a test, I asked Juan Carlos to find me a box of Montecristo A’s. 9.5 inches long, 47 ring gage. I offered to pay $100 for them since their resale price in the States is $900.

After our business with Juan Carlos, we made our way back to Vedado. George said he’d be around the Nacional at 2 o’clock, so we planned to meet in the park on the Malecon. I arrived early and no sooner did I sit down when a tall back kid comes up and introduces himself in English as Santiago.

He was obviously a Jinetero. He asked me if I was looking for anything special. I told him to sit down and have a beer and we could talk about it. Santiago was a tall, handsome, nineteen years old who lived on 23^rd street with his mother and sister. Luckily, he learned English from his grandfather. Now he hangs around the hotels looking for English-speaking tourists to sell in the Bolsa Negra.

I asked Santiago if he knew any girls who weren’t working the streets yet but were willing to hook up with a foreigner. He said there was a pretty girl living next door to his grandmother’s house that might be available. I gave him the 6-digit phone number of Manny’s house and headed home.

 As I’m walking up Calle 21, I see two girls sitting on the wall in front of the house. I say hello as I’m passing them and they smile and both say “hola.”  Looking closer, I notice that one of the girls appears sort of masculine. Immediately, I think, “Oh, this could be fun.”

I asked the girls if they were Amiga’s. They say “si” and I follow with “amiga, amgias?” Both girls laugh and nod their heads in unison. I raise my arms, Vamos! Fiesta! Instantly the girls jump up laughing and the next thing I know, they’re flagging down a taxi.

As I’m climbing in the back seat, I notice Melanis is watching the whole incident unfold from Manny’s balcony.  She must have come over to surprise me and now she’s the one that got a surprise. I like her a lot, but once the party starts, all bets are off as far as my loyalty to a Cuban girl.

 I had no idea where the fuck the girls were taking me. We rolled down La Rampa to the Malecon. After a short, five-minute drive we pulled up in front of an apartment building in Centro Habana. We get out and the girls knock on the tall door on the ground floor.

A middle-aged, dark-skinned guy opens the door and invites us inside.  We’re standing in a large, circular living room area where several people sitting around watching a black & white TV. The man whispers to the girls and they turn to me and ask for $10; which I gladly hand over. The man stuffs the bill into his guayabera and points upstairs. I follow the girls up a spiral staircase to a room at the top.

We turn on the air conditioner and fall into bed. The room is sparsely furnished with just a bed, chair, and a table. We start kissing each other while slowly losing one article of clothing at a time. Like three snakes shedding their skins, we’re intertwined in sin, fused in naked lust

I watched with hungry eyes as the girls embraced and kissed each other as passionately as summer lovers. The man-girl held the petite fem-girl to the bed by her hair and started sucking on the fem-girls big, hard nipples, causing waves of pleasure to course through the soul of her submissive body.

Fully ignited with passion now, the man-girl rolled over on her back and the fem-girl buried her face deep between her legs. With slow rhythmic movements, she licked her lover’s pussy until man-girl grabbed a handful of her hair and pulled her closer to her sex.  She humped her pussy into fem-girls face until her orgasmic pleasure grew until she exploded in trembling ecstasy.

The whole scene made me as horny as fuck. As the man-girl thrashed with joy, I pulled the girls apart and fell in between them. The man-girl and I began to kiss deeply, while our subservient fem-girl started licking the shaft of my cock up and down until it was nice and wet. She wrapped her hand around my rod and began stroking my moist shaft as she sucked the head in and out of her pretty little mouth with each tug.

It was hard to catch my breath with man-girls tongue halfway down my throat. In what seemed like an eternal dream, I suddenly shot a hot load into Miss petite’s soft, wet mouth.  She didn’t even flinch as her lips continued going up and down over my swollen head, draining my balls, causing every drop of love to pulsate out of my throbbing cock.

When she finally paused her mouth was full of milk. The kinky little cunt pressed her lips against man-girls mouth and as they kissed deeply, they shared my white, creamy cum between them. What they couldn’t swallow poured down their cheeks, dripping off their chins onto their tits and bellies. It was a gloriously sinful experience. Whether mortal or venial, I’ll never know.

The room was silent now, save for the hum of the air conditioner and the ceiling fans overhead making a rhythmic creaking sound with each wobbly rotation of its blades. After several minutes, we climbed out of bed and went into the one-man shower with a plastic drape hanging from a bar across the front.

We were happy as we washed each other, packed together in this tiny shower.  We intuitively knew that we had shared something special. Although we only spoke with our eyes, we all understood the language of love. Three separate souls, becoming one, leaving behind cultures, language, religion, and politics. Maybe I had found the truth? Or maybe it was just a lie to help me realize the truth.

We toweled off, got dressed, and made our way out of the house and onto a dirty calle in Centro Habana. The spell was instantly broken by the sounds and smells of the busy street.  The girls stood there, as straight-faced as poker players. I handed each girl a $20 bill. They kissed me on the cheek and walked in the direction of Old Havana. I paused for a moment, wondering if I would ever see their nameless faces again.

That evening I made my usual rounds through the neighborhood and then decided to make one last stop at the Monseigneur. As I approached the front steps, a man was walking up the stairs toward the street.  He grew taller with each step until he towered over me. We both paused and looked at each other. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I immediately recognized his handsome features and upright posture. Momentarily, at a loss for words, I finally said, “Stevenson?”  The big man smiled back at me and replied “Si.”

As fate would have it, I was standing in front of arguably, the greatest amateur boxer in history. The three-time Olympic heavyweight champion and Cuban national hero, Teofilo Stevenson.  In 1972, Stevenson became Cuba’s first Olympic gold medalist when he won the heavyweight championship at the Munich Games.

I offered to buy him a drink so we went back into the restaurant and sat at the bar. To my surprise; Stevenson spoke very good English. He said his parents were Jamaican and English was his first language.  He was very friendly and considering I knew a lot about his boxing career, he seemed to enjoy our conversation.

“I remember the ’72 Munich Games,” I said to Stevenson. “Duane Bobick of the United States was favored to win Gold but you knocked him out in the semi-finals”

“Yes, it was a big day for my country when I beat the American,” Stevenson said. “And a bigger day when I won a Gold Medal for Cuba.”

Bobick had defeated Stevenson at the 1971 Pan American Games the year before.  But Stevenson had greatly improved between the Pan American Games and the Munich Olympics and was by then, virtually unbeatable. Teofilo Stevenson went on to win the 1976 and ‘80 Olympic gold as well. He never turned professional so no one really knows how great he could have been.

Our barman Efrain kept the drinks flowing. I was having Cubata’s (7-year rum and coke) and Stevenson drank short glasses of 3-year white rum. We sat there long past closing time chatting about everything from the current situation in Cuba to “the greatest” Muhammad Ali.

In 1979, boxing promoter Bob Arum arranged a series of exhibition bouts between Stevenson and Muhammad Ali. They were scheduled to spar in five cities beginning in Los Angeles and ending at Madison Square Garden. Muhammad Ali canceled the tour at the last minute. He was at the end of his long career and had nothing left to prove in the ring.

I asked Stevenson if he thought he could have beaten Ali. “At the time, I believed I could have won,” Stevenson said. “But now I know I could have only beaten him in my dreams.”

“Did you ever consider defecting to the States and turning professional? I asked.

“What happens to professional boxers in your country when they retire?” Stevenson asked. “Here in Cuba, champions are taken care of by the government for the rest of our lives.”

I couldn’t argue with him. Most ex-champions in the states end up broke or brain damaged or both. Many times, they end up destitute, living on the street. In Cuba, champions are treated as heroes forever.

Stevenson has been a faithful supporter of Fidel Castro and the Cuban revolution all of his life. When you ask Cubans about the success of the revolution, they always highlight the same three virtues. Free education, free healthcare, and free housing.  But if you examine them closer, they are not what they appear to be.  The system never adapted to changing times and today they’re caught in a time warp that they can’t get out of.

It was almost 2 a.m. before we said our goodbyes. He gave me his home number and told me that I was invited to his house anytime I was in Havana.  He would be a nice contact to have and maybe we could help each other in the future.

 When I was leaving my house the next morning, a white Russian Moshvich was sitting in front of my building.  A kid yelled out the window “Need a ride?” in very good English. He said his name is Enrique but they call him Harry.  I told Harry I had ordered some cigars the day before in Old Havana and would like to go back and see how my order was coming along.

I offered him three dollars, there and back, so off we went. We drove up the Prado to the train station and then right past the Partagas Factory to the first street on the right. I knocked on Juan Carlos’ door and his mother answered. She said Juan Carlos was out on the street getting my cigars ready and he’d be back later in the evening.

On my way back to the car, I noticed a young girl standing next door at the entrance of an apartment building. She’s dressed all in black.  New jeans and a nice black tank top. I walked over and introduced myself and she said her name was Yuneisy. She is a very petite young girl with big brown, almond-shaped eyes. I asked her if she wanted to go for ice cream but she said no, she was waiting for her sister

I told her that Juan Carlos was my amigo and I would be back tomorrow to see him.  When I arrived at Manny’s he told me that Melanis had come by to see me and was waiting at the cafeteria. She was sitting at the counter when I walked in and looked very pretty in nice new jeans, white top and red lipstick. I figured she probably doesn’t get out to restaurants very often so I invited her to have lunch with me at Dos Gardenias.

No sooner do we hit La Rampa and a guy yells “Taxi?” He tells us to wait for him on the corner while he’s getting his car. So we stood there until his car came around the corner and we jumped in the back seat. It’s not an official government taxi so it’s illegal for him to drive tourists. So naturally, on the way to the restaurant, there is a police checkpoint set up on 5^th Avenue.

When the police wave for him to stop, he slows up for a few feet then punches the car around a police barricade makes a sharp right turn speeding toward Third Avenue. I look out the back window and see the police radioing for help. He traveling at a high speed when suddenly a cop car pulls alongside us and waved for us to pull over.

The cop runs up to our car and pulls the driver out of the car and stuffs him into a police car.  Malenis and I try to get out of the back but the cop jumps in the driver’s side and tells us to stay in the back seat. He starts the car and we all drive away.

We’re brought back to the police station in Vedado for questioning. I just sat on a bench in the front waiting for somebody to call me. They brought Melanis into a room alone and questioned her. After sitting for about 30 minutes, I tried with my limited Spanish to explain to the officer at the front desk that I had to leave.  “I’m having dinner in one hour at the Hotel Nacional with my good friend Teofilo Stevenson,” I said.

He nodded when I mentioned Hotel Nacional and his eyes lit up when I mentioned Teofilo Stevenson.  He understood enough to let me go but Melanis had to stay until they finished questioning her.  As far as the taxi driver, I’m not sure what happened to him. He had mentioned to us that he was an attorney just trying to earn a few extra dollars driving a taxi.  “Life is hard for the Cuban people,” he said.

I’d had enough drama and adventure for one week. I needed to finish my business and get the hell out of there as soon as possible. I’m depending on Juan Carlos to come through with the stogies and the receipts. If I don’t get back safely, my Cuban dream will end abruptly. Little did I know, the drama and the adventure were only beginning.

The post Chapter Seven appeared first on The Cigar Diary.

It took about a month to get all the boxes sold and distributed but the customer base was expanding rapidly. Once the word got out that Cuban Cigars were available the pre-orders started rolling in.

I thought I would try a different travel route this time.  I decided to fly direct to Havana from Tijuana Mexico.  I had some friends drive me down to TJ and pick me up when I returned. It’s still as risky as flying. I have to get across the border at TJ taking my chances there at the US Customs checkpoint.

The return trip to Havana turned into one long party day. We started drinking at a bar in Redondo Beach at about one in the afternoon before heading south to the border. San Diego was about a two-hour drive and from there, it’s only 18 miles to Mexico.

Once we crossed into Mexico we made another pit-stop at a cantina on Revolution Blvd. The Tequila shots and Corona’s were flowing like water. After a few greasy tacos and a few Margaritas to wash them down, they dumped me at the airport around 5 p.m. for my 8:30 flight. It was roughly five hours to Havana.

With the time difference, the direct flight landed at Jose Marti around 5 a.m.  I got through immigration and customs rather quickly and took a taxi to Manny’s house. When I pulled up, Manolo was waiting for me on the front steps of his building and helped me carry up my bags.

He told me an American was staying in my room but he was checking out around ten in the morning.

“Let’s go for a beer, Danny,” said Manny.

“Sounds good to me”

We put my bags in Manny’s room and he gave me a Monte number two for the ride.

I grabbed a few bucks and my black beret and exited down the back steps into the garage.  Manny owned a Czech motorcycle with a sidecar. Coolest thing I ever saw. We pushed it outside, gunned it up and I jumped in the car.

It was another “peak experience” as Psychologist Abraham Maslow called it.  We were cruising down the Malecon as the sky was turning from dark to light, casting its first streaks of sunlight across the ocean. With the cool breeze blowing on my face and the waves crashing over the sea wall, it was magical. I was back in Havana.

He took me to the famous Hotel Deauville in Centro Havana off the Malecon. It was built in the casino/hotel boom of the 1950s by American mobster Santo Trafficante, Jr. It was co-venture with President Fulgencio Batista who in the 50’s offered tax incentives to encourage construction and Casino projects in Havana.

The Hotel Riviera, Hotel Capri, Hotel St. John, and the Havana Hilton, all resulted from these government incentives.

The Deauville is just a shell today of what it once was in Havana’s glory days.  We sat in the front lounge and drank several cans of Bucanero.

We went back to Manny’s at about 9:30 as the American gentleman was getting ready to leave. He was a unique-looking individual. About six feet tall, with long blonde hair, and dressed in a commercial pilot’s uniform. I assumed he was a pilot for an American Airlines company but the look didn’t match the profession.

His name was Kirt and he was also from California. He said he was in Havana looking for airplane parts. He claimed he’d be back in a week or two.

“The pussy is amazing here, and cheap,” said Kirt.

Well, he was right about that. As soon as Kirt was gone and room was cleaned, I hit the sack.

The next thing I know someone is knocking on my bedroom door. “Hey, Danny, what d’ya say, Danny?” “It’s noon Danny.”

Jesus Christ! “OK George,” I yelled through the door. “Give me five minutes.” I crawled out of bed, took a quick shower and we walked down to Wakamba for a bowl of spaghetti.  Afterward, we stopped at the Hotel Nacional for a few drinks on the back patio. After the second drink, I told George I’d catch him later and went back to Manny’s for a nap.

Later that evening I went to the Monseigneur cafeteria and had a couple of drinks.  Alfredo was there so we shot the shit for a few minutes then I headed up La Rampa.  I took a slow walk around the block, past the theater and ice cream park, past La Roca restaurant, and back down 21^st Street to Manny’s.

Manny had an authentic Cuban dish of chicken and rice prepared when I got back. After a dish of flan for dessert and an espresso, I went across the street to a little outdoor bar on the side of the Nacional. There were several plastic tables with chairs to sit down. They only served beer so I grabbed a Hatuey and lit a cigar.

I noticed two young girls hitchhiking across the street on the Malecon. One was a dark-haired girl and the other one was a petite blonde wearing powder blue spandex shorts, a black tank top, and flip-flops. They kept staring at me so I gave them a high sign and they started walking in my direction.

As they approached the table I asked them if I could buy them a beer and they both giggled at each other and said “Si.” They pulled out some chairs and sat down. I shook their hands and said, “Daniel.”  The dark-haired girl was Clara and the blonde was Sonya. I went back up to the counter and ordered two more beers.

After a few minutes of struggling to make conversation, a man and woman appear in the distance and begin walking toward us from the Malecon. I saw them earlier, sitting on the break wall about 30 feet down from where the girls were hitchhiking. Maybe they were some kind of a tag team of scammers?

Sensing something was off, I proceeded with caution.  The girls were young and pretty and probably bait for some kind of a tourist trap. The lady walked up and introduced herself as Sonya’s mother and the guy as her friend from the neighborhood. I invited them to join me for a drink. I grabbed a few Cristal’s and sat there trying to communicate without much luck. They seemed a little intimidated talking with an American from California.

I don’t know how old little Sonya was but she was stunning. Her blonde hair fell to the middle of her back and she had beautiful dark chocolate eyes and a perfectly round little ass.  After a few moments of chitchatting, the mother invited me to their house the following evening for dinner so I could get to know their daughter better.

I went up to the counter and grabbed a pen and pencil and had her write down the directions.  After another round of drinks, Mom got up and said hasta mañana.  I hugged Sonya and told her I’d see her the following evening. I couldn’t get that image of the little blonde’s ass in those tight, blue spandex pants out of my head.  Still, in the back of my mind, I sensed something wasn’t right.

Maybe this could be some kind of a setup. The dude that was tagging along looked like a cop and was wearing those black Army boots that Cuban cops wear. Better safe than sorry, I needed to let this one go. There would be another one of Castro’s cuties around the next corner.

The next night I was sitting at the same place when a couple of guys came rolling up on bicycles. They introduced themselves and asked me if I needed anything in broken English. Half kiddingly I said, “Yeah, I need something… a beautiful young girl with really big tits.”  If you can help me out, I would appreciate it.”  They looked at each other nodded their heads assuredly and told me they could bring a girl tomorrow. They asked me to meet them on the corner past the Hotel Capri at 7 pm.

Manolo and I shared one of his famous lobster dinners again with lots of melted butter. Butter was harder to find in Havana than lobsters. On the side, we had white rice and plantains. After dinner, we enjoyed an espresso on the balcony and drank a couple of shots of Havana Club 7-year rum.

Manny legally owned the house that he lived in. It was originally his grandfather’s place. When his grandfather died, his father brought the family in from the country to live in Vedado. His father who worked in the sugar industry was jailed at the beginning of the revolution for being considered a wealthy capitalist.

After Manny finished college at the University of Havana, he bought the deed to the house from the Cuban government so now he owns it free and clear. Because of the location, I think it will be worth a fortune in the future – in post-revolution Cuba. If there ever is a “post-revolution.”

Since it was approximately 7 o’clock, I thought I’d saunter up the street to see if I could spot the bicycle boys. When I reached the Capri, I noticed my jineteros were sitting across the street, and lo and behold, they had a girl sitting betwixt them.

The girl appeared to be a pretty teenager with dark features and really big tits, all wrapped up in a low-cut, full-body red spandex, one-piece bodysuit. HO-LEE-SHIT!

My eyes almost popped out of my head when I got a closer look at the chick.  She was really cute and when she stood, she showed me had an incredible ass to go along with the big tits.  I invited everyone for a drink at a little outdoor restaurant on La Rampa. Her name was Alyeska. She offered to stay with me that night but would need $30 in the morning for her mother. Of course, I agreed.

The boys made their exit and I walked Alyeska back to Manny’s house. We went out on the balcony and she sat on my lap in the rocking chair. It was another romantic experience. Feeling the warmth of her skin against mine, we didn’t try to speak. When our eyes met, a silent conversation ended between us.

Then the gentle, hesitant touch and our lips finally met. A soft delicate kiss, our lips molded to one another, a perfect fit. I walked the young lady into my bedroom.  She showered and climbed into bed naked. I turned off the light and climbed in next to her.

The room wasn’t entirely dark. There was some light filtering through the slates of the window. There was Latin music coming from somewhere in the distance. As Alyeska lay on her back, I reached over and pulled her close, and pulled her head to my chest. It was a way of relaxing her and letting her know that everything would be alright.

I slowly pulled the covers down exposing her large breasts and I slowly began to message them one at a time. Her nipples grew hard when I pinched them and she started to moan when I began to suck them. They stood erect like large studs in the center of large brown areolas.

She had a shy, passive nature, which brought out my domineering side. The more passive she behaved the more domineering I became. I grabbed a handful of her thick, curly hair and held her head against the mattress so she couldn’t move.

I brought my middle finger down and slid it over her pussy. Then I let my fingertip slip between her folds and felt her wetness. She sighed and tried to turn away but she was pinned. Her eyes rolled back into her head.

I parted her with two fingers and found her little wet clit and began rubbing it in small circles. She gave a crying sound as I put my lips against hers to muffle her voice. The taste of her, the smell of her, the feel of her, so close to my skin was unforgettable. She was lost in a sea of pleasure now. There was no turning back now for my little girl.

She started thrusting from side to side but couldn’t break away from her powerful master. She was convulsing against my hand and I was rubbing faster and faster when she released her squirting wet orgasm into my large worker’s hand. She gasped for her breath and then slowly began to relax as her breathing quieted. She lay there, hot and damp from the exertion of her orgasm.

Our lovemaking was completely unselfish. She was spent from my domineering play so I forfeited my moments of pleasure for hers. There would be more nights together. I just wanted to give her a forced orgasm that she wouldn’t forget. If you can make a girl cum like that, you can get away with a lot thereafter. She was mine now.

The following morning, we were awakened by the sound of laughter coming from the adjoining room.  She lay there with a stoic look as I messaged her tits and sucked her nipples.  We took a shower together and went out on the balcony for coffee.  As promised, I gave the busty bitch $30.   I wrote MOMMY on the envelope and folded it into her hand.

My guess is she paid a $10 commission to the bicycle boys for their introduction and brought $20 home to her family. What a night. It was another incredible experience. I had full intentions of exploring this relationship further but didn’t think it would be so soon.

The following morning Alyeska returned to my apartment and brought a cute, young friend named Marta. Her petite little friend had sandy blonde hair and beautiful brown eyes. We sat around my bedroom for a while drinking beers and then I invited them to the pool at the Hotel Nationals. I brought a bikini with me and as luck would have it, it fit Alyeska like a glove, exposing her big breasts and the tops of her beautiful chocolaty brown areolas.

Marta was satisfied wearing shorts to the pool.  The security guard stopped us at the entrance and started berating me about bringing teen girls to the family-friendly pool. After a minute or two of this guy’s bullshit, I looked at the girls and said “Vamos.” We walked up LA Rampa to the Habana Libre pool on the second floor.

Besides the lifeguard, we were the only ones there. We frolicked around for a while and played some tag. When Alyeska rode on my shoulders around the pool, her tits kept falling out of her bikini top.  The lifeguard didn’t seem to mind.

As the afternoon began to fade away, they had a poolside lunch of Cubano Sandwiches and cokes while I downed a few Cuba Libres’.  Since the hotel was close to Centro Habana, we said our goodbyes in the front lobby. They went one way and I went the other.

That evening George showed up with a plastic bottle of “gooney” rum.  It’s the rum that’s made specifically for sale in Cuban peso stores and not for retail outlets. We sat there under an awning in the drizzling rain on the corner of calles O y 21 drinking rum and cokes. It took a few glasses but I was catching a buzz from that crap.

George told me stories about the glory days in Havana especially when this street corner was THE place to be on a Saturday night.  Hookers dressed “to the nines,” men in dark silk suits, stretch limousines pulling in and out of the Casino Nacional all night long. When Havana was the glamorous, gambling capital of the world.

 The following night I went for a walk and found myself at the Habana Libre again hunting for pussy.  As usual, there were lots of girls sitting at the front of the building. As I walked around the circle, a girl called out to me, “Daniel.”  It was Anna from Centro Havana. Shifting back to business, I agreed to meet her Uncle Francisco the following afternoon.

The next day, I went to lunch at the Capri Hotel then headed over to the Habana Libre for my meeting. Sure enough, as soon as I approached the hotel, I saw Anna sitting in front with a large black dude. She introduced me to Uncle Francisco who looked like a smaller version of Mike Tyson. He was stocky, about five foot nine and dark skinned

Anna told me he worked as a roller at the Partagas factory in Old Havana and could get me anything I wanted. It sounded too good to be true. Only Partagas cigars or other brands as well? After every brand I mentioned, he said ‘SI.” I didn’t know that they made a variety of brands at the Partagas factory. I’d give him a shot.

We went to the Atrium for a drink and I drew up a list I needed delivered in three days. Could I trust them? If they don’t come through, my time to acquire 10 boxes somewhere else will be very limited. Anna said he could also provide me with a factura (factory receipt). Anna explained it was the blue, serial-numbered receipt from the factory or retail store I would need to show customs when I left the country.

I didn’t need a receipt last month. I just checked them underneath and that was it. Is he hustling me for ten extra bucks or is he telling me the truth.? I’m not sure, but I guess it’s better if I have a receipt just in case. I agreed to the deal and we went our separate ways. They went to work and I walked around the corner and headed for the Hotel Nacional to see if my favorite bartender Israel was working.

 That evening I sauntered over to the Monseigneur cafeteria and guess who’s sitting there?  My new friend Francisco and his niece Anna. They had a friend with them from Centro Havana named Melanis. She was a very cute Mulatta girl in her early 20s with a cute smile.  She spoke a little English so we chatted for a while and I bought her a Coke. I knew immediately she wasn’t a jinetera.

Melanis had gone to a sports school in Cuba and competed in the 1991 Pan American Games that were held in Havana. She won a bronze medal in the two-person Kayak event. She was a girl I wanted to see again.

I promised her I’d look her up when I came back to Havana at Christmas.

On my last afternoon, I was getting kind of frantic because I hadn’t heard from Francisco all day when the doorbell rang around 5 o’clock. He didn’t have the cigars with him but they were ready for pick up in his neighbor’s house in Centro Havana. He was worried about the policia stopping him if he was walking on the street with a large duffle bag. We were out the door and in a taxi within minutes.

We arrived at Calle Neptuno within minutes and went to a ground-floor house with tall doors and knocked. A man named Rene opened the door and let us in.  On the floor of the living room, all the goodies were stacked up. Partagas, Montecristo, Ramon Allones, Cohiba and even hard to find Trinidads. At $40 a box, I’m looking at a resale price of at least 8x.  I paid Francisco, borrowed his duffle bag and headed back to Manolo’s.

On my final night, I hung around the house, drinking rum and packing my red canvas duffel bag. When I finished, I went to the Nacional for one last drink. Israel was working the bar upstairs in the pool room so I hung out for an hour and made it back to Manny’s by midnight.

The following morning, I arrived at Jose Marti about two hours early. I checked the red bag with 12 boxes and went through customs with two boxes in my carry-on.  When my bag got x-rayed, the officer asked me if the bag was mine. He asked me where I bought the cigars. “Partagas Factory,” I said.

My receipt total was 1,240 dollars. He told me there was a one-thousand-dollar limit on cigars you’re allowed to depart the country with, but this time he would let it slide. Strangely, there’s a limit on the number of boxes you can export… but Cuba is Cuba.

I landed in Tijuana and passed through immigration quickly and claimed my bag. The customs agent looked at my form and told me to push the button on the traffic light. It came up green and I didn’t waste any time exiting the airport under the watchful eyes of Mexican Federale’s, local police, customs agents and who knows who else.

Joey and John were waiting for me when I came out of the terminal.  Joey told me that his truck had a hidden compartment behind the seat where I could hide my cigars as we crossed the border into the US. So I look behind the seat and there is only about nine inches of space.  Now what am I going to do?

Joey thinks for a second and smiles at me. “Just put the bag in the bed of the truck like we ain’t got nothing to hide.”

“Are you fuckin’nuts?” I replied.

Then I thought for a second and figured maybe he was right. We didn’t have much choice now and maybe a bright red bag sitting alone in the bed of a bright red truck would ease any suspicions an agent might have about hidden contraband. Guess it’s better than having him find a bag full of Cuban cigars hidden behind the driver’s seat.

At the US checkpoint, the agent ran Joey’s California license plate and asked to see his driver’s license. Then asked each of us individually where we were from. He wanted to know the nature of our trip to Mexico and we told him just a weekend of drunken nonsense in Tijuana.

The agent smiled. “You look like three hungover fools.”

We were laughing when he handed Joey his driver’s license and the gate went up. He told us to have a nice day and proceed into the “Land of the Free and Home of the Brave.”

The post Chapter Six appeared first on The Cigar Diary.

To my surprise, Manolo, or Manny as I call him, is a great chef. He made me an amazing lobster dinner. Lobster is illegal in private homes but Manny had a connection in La Bolsa Negra and only paid a dollar per tail.  He baked them with lemon, garlic, and a special sauce he whipped up. Along with a salad and rice, it was truly a tremendous culinary experience.

After dinner, I went for a walk up La Rampa to check on Rudy at the Habana Libre. Turns out it was Rudy’s day off so I hung around the Atrium and had a Cuba Libres.  The live music was a pianist accompanied by a violin. They were classically trained musicians but were unappreciated by the sparse crowd in the lobby.

During the break, I complimented the violin player and told him I was enjoying their music. He confided in me that he was trying his best considering his strings were telephone wires instead of violin strings. I promised to bring him some new strings on my next visit.

There wasn’t much going on so I finished my drink and took a walk outside. A girl sitting on the curb of the driveway asked me; of all things, if I needed cigars. Here we go again, I thought. She stood up and introduced herself in English, “Hi, I’m Anna,”

“Daniel,” I said and shook her hand.

Anna was a tall Mulatta with a large build. She claimed her uncle worked at one of the cigar factories in Old Havana and had access to all the top brands. Seems like everyone I talked to now has an uncle who works at a cigar factory.

Anna said she was originally from Guantanamo but was living in Centro Habana with her uncle Francisco. She wanted us to meet but I explained to her I had all of the cigars I needed right now, but would be willing to meet him on my next trip. Anna got a pen and slip of paper from the front desk and gave me her number.  I promised to call her as soon as I got back or from Los Angeles if I had any questions.

I went to the retail store and grabbed a couple of Montecristo #2 and took a stroll down to the Malecón. Watching the sunset with my favorite cigar. It doesn’t get better than that…  No sooner did I light my stogie when a young girl in a jean jacket approached me. “What is your name?” she asks me in broken English.

“Daniel,” I replied.

Where are you from?” she says as she sits done next to me on the wall.

“Estados Unidos.”

“How about you” I asked.

“Havana,” she replied.

“No kidding,” I said. What’s your name?”

She smiled and said, “Mislady.”

Although she was legal, she looked young so I couldn’t take her back to Manny’s house. Araceli would freak out. I asked Mislady if she wanted to go somewhere where we could be alone.

“Si, casa de la abuela” she said.

Her Grandmother’s house? This place is fuckin’crazy. Well, so much for a relaxing night a home, I said to myself. It’s really hard to focus on business here when there’s so much pussy walking around, it’s just hard to say no. I guess I was suffering from what locals called “Cuban Fever.” I flagged down a taxi and we drove in the direction of Old Havana.

We got out on a side street off the Prado and walked to a high-rise apartment building. Up two flights of stairs, Mislady knocks on a door. A grey-haired, bespectacled white woman in a drab gray housedress opened the door. Mislady brushed by her pulling me by the hand.  I embarrassingly shook the Granny’s hand and introduced myself.

She knew why we were standing in her living room and I’m sure I wasn’t the first fish that little Mislady reeled in brought to Granny’s doorstep. Granny playfully slapped me on the shoulder and called me, I’m assuming a “naughty boy” or something similar that made Mislady laugh out loud. Granny walked out the door and shut it behind herself. Mislady took off her jacket and sat down on the couch.

She was a young, petite mulatta girl and although she was blessed with light skin, she had thick kinky hair that Cubans refer to as “pelo malo.” She wore it pulled back into a short ponytail. Probably a couple of generations removed from her African heritage but I think ol’ granny may have “pulled a boner” back in the day. No pun intended!

Without any small talk, Mislady and I began to softly kiss. I slid my hand under her t-shirt and cupped her little, braless titties, running the tips of my fingers over her nipples until they became hard and erect. I didn’t want to fuck her with granny snooping around so I motioned for her to take off her pants.

She didn’t hesitate to peel everything off including her panties. She spread her legs as wide as possible, exposing her little pink gateway to heaven. Without missing a beat, I slid off the couch onto my knees and pushed my wet tongue into her tight little pussy and began softly licking her little slit from north to south and east to west.

As her big brown eyes began to close, she leaned her head back on the couch and began to hump her groin up and down on my face.  We found our rhythm and as she’d thrust her hips down, I licked up over her clit and caught it again on the way back up. She was far away now, in a blissful state, somewhere close to heaven.

She pulled my head closer and rubbed her cunt on my face faster and faster, then gave a little moan when she came and whispered, “Dios.” I didn’t want to stop and continued to lick her little sensitive little clit side to side as fast as I could until she sat up shaking and pushed my head away from her throbbing pussy. By this time, my cock was so hard I could barely stand up.  It was my turn.  As she looked up at me with those wanton, loving eyes, I pulled my pants down and let my erection stand and breathe.

My little lady leaned forward and took my cock in her hand and guided it into her mouth. The feeling of her warm mouth around my hard shaft was amazing. She sucked the head in and out of her mouth as she stroked the shaft in perfect rhythm. Moments later, I put my hand on the top of her head and fucked her mouth, blasting a hot load into her gloriously warm, wet mouth. She didn’t hesitate to swallow. I flopped down on the sofa next to her feeling spent.

I could have sat there all night but I wanted to be gone when little old Granny returned, so I handed Mislady the twenty-dollar bill from my shirt pocket. I told her that I had to vamos and we could meet Manaña at the same time, same place. I gave her a peck on the cheek and walked briskly down a flight of stairs to the dirty, dark street below.  As a car passed, I yelled “Hotel Nacional” and he stopped on a dime. A man said “Vamos” out the passenger window and away we went.

The following morning knocking on my bedroom door woke me out of a sound sleep.

“Daniel,” said Malagra. “Tu amigos aqui.”

“Ok,” I mumbled.

I peeked through the door slates and saw George and another guy sitting on the sofa in the living room. I pulled on some shorts, splashed water on my face and went out to greet the Jineteros.  George and his sidekick jumped off the couch and came into my room with a large canvas bag.  I didn’t catch the cigar guy’s name but he had an x carved into his forehead that I wouldn’t soon forget.

They started pulling boxes of cigars out of the bag and stacking them on my bed. It was like a fucking mirage. Romeo Churchill Tubos, Ramon Allones, Montecristo #2, Montecristo #1, Cohiba Robustos, Cohiba Esplindidos, Partagas Serie D. #4 etc. Fuck, I’ve hit the jackpot.  Boxes virtually impossible to get in the States. George claimed they were all factory cigars and not to worry about the quality…which usually means you have to worry.

He was only asking $50 a box. I didn’t give a damn if the cigars were rolled in Alaska as long as they were good. George had earlier quoted me prices between 25-40 dollars. They tried to put the “Bogart Squeeze” on me but I didn’t care. George spewed out some crap about the great quality and the fact that all the boxes have factory stamps on the bottom to prove they came directly from the factory.  I’ll have to look into all of this later but for now, I was happy.

Georgie had added a higher commission which bumped up my prices.  Still, $50 a box is a great price if these are factory cigars. Just on principle, I beat them back to $45 per box anyway. The total order came in under $300 and I knew the resale price would be almost 10x, so what the fuck!  As soon as I paid them, they were out the door.

Anyway, I had my cigars and only two nights left in Havana so I went out on the town. After a couple of pops at the Nacional, I made my way over to Monseigneur Cafeteria. My buddy Alfredo was in the middle of his 12-hour night shift. He was a nice kid who spoke English so I sat at the counter and we shot the shit.

When I got back to Manny’s house, he was sitting on the front steps of his building with a young lady. He was obviously waiting for me and introduced me to Tonya and told her I was Daniel from California. I was taken aback and figured that Manny had known her for a while.

She was white, 20ish with beautiful auburn hair which gave her a wholesome, natural look. I knew immediately she was different than the other girls I’d been with She was alive, vibrant with a spirit that was uplifting and contagious.  This wasn’t just a job to her.

I threw her on the bed and gave her a playful slap on the ass which she immediately returned. We sat at the foot of the bed and looked into each other eyes. When we kissed it brought me into the moment. There was nothing else, only the heat of her kiss. It gave me a tingling sensation that’s hard to describe but different from the other girls. A moment that would last forever

We laid on the bed and I began to undress her. She reached into her purse and pulled out a condom. I took it from her and threw it on the floor. She giggled as she stood and removed her underwear.  We never fucked. We began what seemed like endless hours of lovemaking.

When the room began to grow light, her head and was on my chest, her wavy auburn hair covering me like a warm blanket of love. She told me she had a son at home and needed to leave. As she took a shower, I walked over to the Nacional and changed a hundred. When I got back, she was dressed and sitting in the living room.  I handed her two folded twenties and walked her outside.

I kissed her on the sidewalk and asked her again to stay. She said her mother would be worried and promised to return later that evening. The sky was turning blue as we hugged and said goodbye.  I stood there and watched her walk up the street past the Hotel Capri and the ice cream park. I walked across the street to the Nacional with sixty dollars in my pocket and Tonya on my mind.

I was all packed up and ready to go when George and his driver Angel arrived the next morning to take me to the airport. Manny gave me a shot of rum to soothe my nerves and I lit a cigar for the ride. It’s funny, but on the way to the airport, you hang on to everything you see like a kaleidoscope of images burnt into your soul.  Girls walking in the street, children running, men playing dominoes, the sounds of trucks and horns and salsa. The multicolored shacks, bars on windows, even the litter in the street you somehow take with you back to wherever you’re from.

I hadn’t even left yet and I already missed this place. We rambled along in Angel’s faded brown 80’s Lada and made it to the airport by 9:30 for my 11 o’clock flight to Cancun.  As we pulled into Jose Marti, the usual crowd of onlookers were standing at the exit door, waiting for salvation to arrive. Nameless faces of all ages, sizes and colors mingled together. I get out of the car and pull my suitcase and large red duffle bag out of the trunk.

“Twenty -six dollars,” said. George. “And he’ll be waiting for you the next time you arrive.”  I hugged them both, wished them well, and filed through the crowd into Terminal No. 2.  I grabbed a can of Chrystal on my way in and took my place in line.  As the line moved forward, I felt a mild anxiety building in my stomach. What if my cigars get lost? What if Mexican customs take them? Think positive thoughts I tell myself.

I checked my suitcase with the cigars underneath, got my boarding pass, and slipped through Immigration and customs without a glitch.  I buy another beer on the other side and sit down near my gate. Sitting next to me is the former Black Panther and devoted Commie Angela Davis.  She is on my flight to Cancun.

Before I knew it, were boarding. The flight is only long enough to order one Cuba Libre before we start our descent into Cancun International Airport.  Cancun is a sea of humanity with international flights landing every hour.  I grab my stash and stand in another very long line leading to immigration. My anxiety level is rising now. Mexican Customs has this silly traffic light with a green and red light on it.

After the agent examines your customs form, each traveler is required to push a red button on the traffic light. If the light blinks red, you’re being searched. If it blinks green, you’re free to go. It’s a crap shoot here. I know if I press Red it’s over. It’s the end of the cigar business and the party’s over as far as ever going back to Cuba.  The agent takes my custom declarations that specifically ask you to declare all tobacco products.  I push the silver button on the traffic light blinks… GREEN.

I take a sigh of relief and check in at Mexicana Airlines for my boarding pass for Los Angeles. Back upstairs my boys are waiting for me. Jose, Jose and Augustine are bartending at the Lion Bar. I immediately ordered a corona and a shot of Cuervo Gold Tequila. Before long I’m boarding Mexicana Airlines flight #947 for Los Angeles.

The fight to Los Angeles takes almost five hours. I arrived at LAX around 9 pm and we were forced to wait on the tarmac for about twenty minutes until a shuttle arrived to take us to the terminal.  Once the shuttles are full, we’re whisked off to Tom Bradley International.

I’m feeling a little nervous as I walk through the maze of stairways that leads to immigration. I’m looking to the left and right for an open door to sneak out but there are none. It’s the final checkpoint of the trip and probably the most difficult one to get through. Customs agents in the US are like military police. Most are ex-military. I have to be strong. Maybe I had too many drinks on the plane. It’s hard to swallow.

My bag drops down the shoot and I pull it off the turnstile and throw it on my cart. I partially unzip the bag with cigars and pull a handful of clothes partially out of the zipper to show I’m not trying to hide anything. I take a deep breath and walk to the first customs checkpoint.

I handed him my declaration form and birth certificate. Since we don’t need a Passport to travel to Mexico, I tell the agent I’ve been fishing in Mexico for the past week. On the back of the form, I scribbled a list of purchases I made in Cancun. Shoes, magazines, books and crap like that.

“Nothing to declare?” he asks. The officer looks through my eyes and into my soul. “No,” I reply. What was the nature of your trip?”

“Fishing.” He hands my paperwork back and tells me to proceed to the next checkpoint.

At the last stop, the agent takes the form. It’s the last stop.  I try to look as nonchalant as possible. He took my customs declaration and asked me if I caught anything. I’m startled for a second and I continue walking then realize he was referring to my trip to Cancun.  I yell back “Yeah, a cold!”

I made it! What a feeling!!! I walk up the ramp and into the crowded LAX International Airport terminal feeling like a million dollars.  My brother is waiting there to greet me. As he’s walking toward me, I give him the thumbs up. We drive along Pacific Coast Highway and wind up into the green hills of Rancho Palos Verdes. “I have so much to tell you,” I say. “You won’t believe it.” “Can’t wait to hear it,” he says. “But first thing tomorrow, book your ticket for Havana.”

The post Chapter Five appeared first on The Cigar Diary.