According to immigration officials, marriages of convenience between Canadians and Cubans has become a significant problem. In a quality assurance exercise in 2011, officials contacted a sample of Canadians who had married and sponsored Cubans. About one-third of those relationships had ended soon after the new spouse's arrival in Canada. Fraud and misrepresentation were often cited as the reason, resulting in many broken Canadian hearts and fleeced pocketbooks. The scams were perpetrated on both Canadian men and women, typically those with significant financial means.
How does it happen? As one John Doe, 56, put it: "It's the allure of the Caribbean. It's the novelty of a young woman showing attention to an old guy like me. You do things sensible people don't do. My friends had warned me to be careful, but I never listened. I have myself to blame."
Stories like John Doe's have resulted in some legal changes. Under more recent immigration rules, sponsored spouses must remain married for two years before receiving permanent resident status in Canada. It can be revoked if they are found guilty of marriage fraud, but the process is lengthy and costly.
In my own personal situation, I have a half-sister (we have different last names, hers was Jacqueline Twist, mine is Brian Burley) who I dearly love who was scammed by a good-looking Cuban by the name of Ernesto Acebo. While she -- with much expenditure of effort and money and with my behind-the-scenes financial, moral, and emotional support (I never met Ernesto) -- was able to extricate herself, it was only after paying off the scumbag to the tune of $100,000 sent to a Cayman bank, and after suffering a broken heart. Fortunately she found a great Canadian guy by the name of Harold Logan a year after the breakup and now is living a happy life as Mrs. Jacqueline Logan -- but I have always resented the pain that she was put through.
Given the statistics and my personal situation, you might wonder what I, a recent wealthy divorcee, forty three years of age, was doing in Cuba and how I could fall for a Cuban woman? I guess my answer is -- the heart wants what the heart wants.
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It was my third trip to Cuba for business purposes. While business opportunities for a wealthy capitalist like myself are not that great (significant understatement) in Cuba, it is a good place to meet businessmen from South America, who are some of my best customers and partners. On this particular trip, the first after my divorce was final, I planned on taking at least a week's vacation at one particular beach town that I had had investigated by professionals. Things worked out even better than expected in my Havana meetings with Argentinians and Chileans, and I concluded the work part of my trip two days early.
I made it to Varadero the night of the day that I concluded my business. I was looking for a relaxing time, but also wanted to check out the possible activities and importantly including -- if fate smiled on me -- the local pussy. I arranged for a few charter fishing trips, participated in some water sports, went golfing at one of the few golf courses in Cuba, went on the only excursions in the area that were offered to tourists, and on the prowl went to different restaurants and after-dinner clubs at night. I was delighted that I was approached by many decent looking Cuban women, and even had the pleasure of spending the night with a nineteen-year-old "unofficial" prostitute, but no one really floated my boat; that is until about four days into my trip when I ran into Zamira.
I saw Zamira at what passed for the most popular "club" in Varadero. Zamira was spectacularly good-looking, better than I expected. It soon became obvious that most of the single men in town would kill for a legitimate chance at Zamira, especially since she never had to buy her own drink; but it was also quickly evident that she was what we in North America would call ambitious -- even "high maintenance." I bode my time the first night there, but made sure to come back early a second night after I paid for reliable information that she would be returning.
With my seemingly rudimentary Spanish, and being sure to flash my Rolex watch (my fake one -- it's identical in appearance to my real one except for zirconia stones instead of diamonds; I'm not stupid enough to wear a real one in a place like Cuba where someone could comfortably live the rest of their life on what they could sell it for), I offered to buy Zamira a drink. She pretended to be a little standoffish, but quickly changed to coquettish when I flashed a roll of American dollars when offering to buy her the drink of her choice.
While I'm a decent looking guy, and in very good shape for someone who is forty four and gets his exercise in a health club rather than working in a manual-labor job for a living (and luckily never having ruined my knees or other body parts playing Canadian football for eight years), Zamira is in a different league in the looks department. She could probably best be described as a more refined, bigger-busted, version of a young Selma Hayek. In view of her obvious "ambition," however, I didn't think that I was wasting my time even though she was only twenty one, especially since she loved to dance and I was actually a decent practitioner of Latin dances including the Salsa and Habanera. Learning them was one of the only positive things from Jacqueline's relationship (if you could call it that) with Ernesto.
By the end of the evening, while we were dancing the Habanera at a slower pace and with more body contact that is conventional, I got the feeling that Zamira was warming up to me. We kissed as we parted after the last dance that night.
Zamira worked for her brother in what appeared to be the most upscale local business in Varadero, and I was able to talk her into acting as a local tour guide for me the next day, ending up at an out-of-the-way beautiful beach. Seeing her in a bikini -- very unusual beachwear in Cuba -- was enough to make a eunuch spontaneously ejaculate. After we went to dinner that night she seemed more than willing -- maybe even anxious -- to accompany me to my suite at the Hotel Royal Hicacos Resort & Spa, the most upscale hotel in Varadero.
Tenderly removing Zamira's clothes as we lightly kissed in my suite was one of the most erotic activities of my life. It was like unwrapping what you hoped would be your best Christmas present ever times 1,000. Her olive skin glistened in the moonlight streaming through my suite's skylight, and it was almost like a halo was framing her gorgeous hair and face. Her body was the most spectacular in my experience, seemingly having been cloned from Aphrodite and then enhanced -- especially in the breast department.
Very unusual outside of North America, Zamira even had a sparse bush -- not natural, instead mostly shaved. I gently laid her on my king-sized bed and started licking and fingering. Apparently Cuban men don't give a lot of oral or even foreplay because at first she was a little apprehensive, but quickly got with the program. After her third orgasm compliments of my tongue, lips, and fingers, she turned from prey to predator.
After giving my rock hard cock a couple of perfunctory licks, just to make sure that it was to her liking, Zamia mounted me cowgirl and proceeded to fuck my brains out as she pulled my chest hair, bounced up and down like on a bungee cord, and swore a blue streak in Spanish. She seemed to have perfect control of her pc muscles, which allowed her to milk every milliliter of cum out of my throbbing cock as I grunted like a sty full of pigs and she let out a scream that would make a Banshee proud.
Over the next seven hours I sucked more tit and fingered more clit than I had in an average month, even when I was married, and we fucked three more times. We both had to sleep in with a "No Molestar" ("Do Not Disturb") sign on the door. When we got up at noon and Zamira called her brother to tell him that she'd be late for work (she already was), from her reaction and what I heard from her end of the conversation he did not appear to be too perturbed.
After work the next day Zamira met me for dinner. She was bubbly and effervescent and encouraged me to stroke her beautiful thighs under the table, hidden by the checkered tablecloth. We went for a stroll after dinner, enjoyed a couples' massage at the Hotel, and then retired to my room for another fabulous fuck, after which we both were still so tired from the previous night's marathon session that we passed out more than slept.
The next morning Zamira got up early enough to make it to work on time, and even to eat breakfast. Unfortunately for her -- maybe not -- her breakfast time was taken up, however, by me getting into the shower with her, lifting her up, pinning her backside against the shower stall tile, and then proceeding to fuck the shit out of her.
By the time that I had to leave Varadero I had had seven of the best twenty fucks of my life. Zamira was a walking (and fucking) fantasy.
Since Zamira spoke essentially no English, in Spanish she pouted "So, Brian; now that you've had your way with me are you just going to leave me here, never to see me again?" as I packed my rental car for the trip back to Havana.
In seemingly the best Spanish that I could muster -- I know that I got a couple of words wrong, but she got the message -- I replied "Actually, no, Zamira. You're what every man looks for in a woman; beautiful, sexy, smart, passionate, and interesting. Could you see your way to a relationship with someone old enough to be your father?"
"If that someone fucks as well as you do," she whispered into my ear and then got a big grin on her face.
"I have your email address," I retorted while grasping her arms -- her brother's business had one of the few Internet hookups in Varadero even though it was rudimentary -- "and I'll be contacting you early next week."