Jinetero: A Cuban Romance on Amazon.com
An erotically-charged romance set in Havana, 1991.
Amidst the crumbling splendor and austerity of Cuba in the 1990s, a love story – or is it just another transaction? – between an American tourist and a Cuban escort. Includes a graphic sex scene.
A realistic depiction from a former Miami Herald reporter of Castro’s Cuba, down to the food lines, rampant uneployment and neighborhood spy networks. A remarkable look at the resiliency of a people who push forward under the most adverse conditions, as seen through the eyes of a young American tourist.
“Jinetero: A Cuban Romance is one of nine stories in the debut ollection of sexy gay-themed speculative fiction “The Man Who Lost His Gayness” by David M Hancock. Buy “Jinetero” as a Kindle single, or as part of the collection, available in ebook or paperback.
Sexy speculative fiction where magic is manifest and disaster lurks in every trick gone bad.
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From “Jinetero: A Cuban Romance”
Donny refrained from jerking off for four weeks before the trip. He didn’t know why, it just seemed the thing to do. By flight day he was a jangle of pent-up sexual energy. His body felt juiced with testosterone and his thoughts were tinted in trippy orange hues of horniness. He felt a little high, marijuana buzzy high, and filled with a sense of magical potential over his first visit to Cuba.
Not that Havana needed any of his sexual energy to be a magical place. She did fine all by herself at being both sexy and magical. Her fame was legendary worldwide – a city frozen in amber from the 1960s when Cuba’s economy went off the tracks into a parallel dimension of government-run enterprise and Soviet Union subsidies. Donkey carts and ’58 Thunderbirds, crumbling Spanish architecture and ration books; Havana moved at her own antiquated pace, an enchanted kingdom living under a spell of ideological poverty amidst the hustle and bustle of the Caribbean.
I say she. Havana is a woman, don’t you think? Havana is an African woman, una negra, with firm breasts and gleaming white teeth. She parades down the Paseo de Marti with a twitch in her hips, music in her legs. She slits chicken throats with her knife and sings praise to Oshun, goddess of love and gold. Havana is the Malecón, the ocean boulevard where Cubans throng each night to take the sea breeze. On the Malecón, Havana struts with an invitation in her eyes; and, if you’re not watchful, a cock up under her skirt.
Apart from its mythical status as a surviving Communist regime, Cuba had an extra sheen of perception for Donny. His interactions with his Cuban American co-workers in South Florida had polished a new facet on the Cuban diamond, a rancor towards Fidel Castro that expressed itself in a desire to strangle Cuba economically. As the song goes, we all hurt the one we love. And nothing was truer of that than the twisted love-hate relationship between Cuban exiles in South Florida and their Castro-controlled motherland.