Four months after my eventful trip in Havana, I’m ready to share what went down in what happened to be one of the more interesting nights of my life.
I was grappling with what happened from a moral point of view for a while and then said ‘fuck it’, you can take what you will from the story.
**Even though I write a lot about sex and decadence, I do compose my stories with a conscience, a reader pointed this out recently, and this pleases me.**
My decisions are my own, the lifestyle I lead is one of constant risk and chance taking–of course there are going to be times when my life is in danger. I don’t condone trying to emulate me, but these experiences are too interesting to keep bottled up.
I wasn’t dubbed “The Indiana Jones of the Redpill” and consistently getting compared to The Most Interesting Man in the World for nothing.
Whenever I travel, I have a routine each morning where I take detailed notes from the day before with my coffee so events can be remembered accurately.
I had started this draft a few times before, but it wasn’t until now that I could fully process what happened.
A special thanks to a reader who made this cool painting that came about after he heard about my plight.
The following events took place during Christmas week of 2016.
Robbed by Russians in Havana, Cuba
Havana is a city filled with energy.
The paint that covers the walls and buildings is vibrant, the people are loud and always moving, the air is dirty from heavy traffic consisting of cars from the 1950s, and the architecture is fascinating.
When the taxi from the airport dropped me off in front of the Casa Particular (private residence) I was staying in, I was smelly and tired.
American phones don’t work in Cuba and I was stuck outside banging on the large front door in the Vedado neighborhood.
After 15 minutes of wondering what to do, a woman approached and showed me that there was a tiny doorbell hidden 6 feet up and behind a potted plant.
When I buzzed it, I felt a slight electric shock, and a little old lady poked her head out of the second story window and yelled something in Cuban-Spanish, a variety of language that I couldn’t come close to understanding.
She came down and led me upstairs, opened a strong iron gate that protected a locked wooden door, and took me inside to her living room.
She insisted that I called her “Tata” (nanny/babysitter), and showed me all around the house, stopping at each of the many ancient photographs of her family–when she got to a picture of her father, she said “Chino, Chino!” and did that thing where you pull your eyelids to make them look Asian.
That got me laughing really hard, and explained her unique look of a blend of Cuban and Chinese.
The room I was staying in was filled with Buddhist artifacts and just about everything was red.
We barely understood one another but ended up talking for an hour while she brewed coffee and fixed up my bed.
I expected to have the apartment to myself, but Tata was staying in the room right next to mine.
She had to be in her 70s or 80s and I figured that she would go to sleep early and not be bothered if I ended up coming home with a girl.
That evening I was exhausted from the previous all night party in New York, and after wandering a bit around the neighborhood, I ate an entire chicken for dinner, it was a small one, and then went to bed.
The next day I was up at 7a.m. exploring the city on foot and figuring out what to expect from the local population.
The girls in the city were immediately drawn to me and during my morning walk I was catcalled many times.
“Argentino? Chile? Italiano?!” was their preferred method of starting a conversation with me, and when I responded “Nueva York” their eyes brightened.
The girls who did the calling looked like cheap whores and I didn’t keep talking with them, but it was a good indication that the females in Havana were drawn to my look and attitude. This got me excited for the nights activity.
When I got back to the apartment, Tata had one of her family members there and introduced him as “Baby”.
He was a local Cuban guy in his early 30s and as soon as I looked at him I could tell he had the ability to party.
We got to chatting in languages neither of us knew, but agreed on meeting that evening and going out on the town together.
I never understood his real name, but as the night progressed, I started calling him ‘Pancho Sanza’–a riff on the character who followed Don Quixote around on his adventures.
Pancho took me to a small club, and on the way I told him that we were going to meet girls–it was something I was good at. Pancho got really excited at this and before we arrived, he took out a little bottle of rum and we shared sips.
The first spot we went to was a house that had been converted into a bar/club. There were DJs spinning dance music on the first floor and girls were everywhere. After getting a drink, I told Pancho “Watch this…hablermos con chica sexy” and approached a group of three girls while yelling out my favorite Spanish opener:
“Hola! Habla Ingles?!”
Pancho couldn’t believe it when the girls all started laughing and getting involved in conversation instantly. He was nervous around the ladies and I pushed him to go dancing with one. While I was chatting with one of the cute Cubans who spoke English, word got around the club that the guy with the hat and beard was from New York and when I went to the bar to get a drink, girls were approaching me.
Half the fun was watching Pancho’s reaction as I rolled around saying Hi to every girl in my radius and spreading the joy.
The attention was getting to my head and I was trying to decide which girl I was the most attracted to. Scenes like this have only occurred a few times in my life and of course I enjoy it–I found three girls dressed in black who were by far the sexiest ones in the place and asked them where they were going.
They said they were on their way to another bar and about to get in a taxi. I grabbed Pancho and we got into a giant Ford Customline and rumbled over to the next spot.
The girls were fun and enjoyed telling me how much sex happens in Havana every night and I told them it was obvious, the people in the city were so happy.
The atmosphere in the streets and in the clubs was incredible, even the guys were laid back, there wasn’t the pent-up aggression that was so common in places where the culture isn’t as open sexually.
The place we ended up at wasn’t nearly as good as the last and I was disappointed we had left. The girls went to meet some of their other friends and me and Pancho sat down together with a round of beer.
We were both smiling at everything, we barely understood a word from one another, but when we both communicated that it felt like we were old friends and knew each other from 10,000 years ago when we were monkeys in the jungle, we were doubled over in laughter.
I went outside with Pancho to have a cigarette and we decided to go to another club that he knew was going to be good.
We pull up to Fabrica de Arte and there was a huge line to get. Pancho said something in Spanish that sounded like we didn’t have to wait on line and we start walking up to the entrance.
On the way, there was a group of four girls, one of them looked exactly like Shakira.
Blonde hair, petite, light skin, and a little dress that amplified her voluptuous figure.
“Hola! Habla Ingles!?”
I started chatting with Shakira, she spoke good English, and she said that her friends wanted to go in but didn’t want to wait on line.
I told them to follow Pancho.
We got to the entrance, Pancho said what’s up to one of the bouncers, gave him some money, and he ushered us all in.
Me and Shakira went exploring the massive club and when I went to get drinks, a girl came up to me and asked to touch my beard.
When Shakira saw, she grabbed me by the hand and looked me in the eyes like she wanted a kiss. So I kissed her.
At this point, I was feeling so good that I felt that anything was possible, so I took Shakira into a room where a band was playing and pushed her against a wall while feeling her up.
Her Cuban curves were incredible and the passion was so high that when my fake tooth fell out, she kept kissing me before I could put it back in.
We wandered around the club, watching bands and DJs that were playing in different rooms, and reconvened with the others.
In the Taxi ride over to the next place, we had to squeeze in a smaller car, and Shakira sat on my lap. I told her “don’t to worry about the big lump poking you in the ass, its just my hard cock” and she started rubbing it.
After going to a couple more places, dancing with the girls, and getting ever more horny, I suggested that we all go back to party at Tata’s. Pancho was yelling “No, No, No Tata!”, I ignored him and we cabbed on over.
It was 2:30 in the morning and I told the girls that we were going to sneak up quietly and go hang out in my room.
Pancho had his head hung low and was shaking it slowly when we got to the top of the stairs.
I quietly started unlocking the iron gate on the front, and before I could get it open, Tata threw the door open, saw the girls, and locked the iron gate from the other side.
Tata was screaming in Spanish, screaming at Pancho, screaming at me, and screaming at the girls.
“No Tata, its okay, these are my friends” I pleaded through the gate, and when I tried to unlock it again, she started punching me in the hands and face with her 80 year old arms. Tata was strong for a little old lady but the blows still felt more amusing than painful–like when a cat swats you.
I was laughing and told her to calm down and go to bed, but the situation was futile. We went back down the stairs and tried to come up with a plan.
The girls all lived at home, there were no hotels with rooms available, and Pancho lived in a place that looked like a dumpster (I saw it a couple of days later and it was the dingiest living spot I have ever seen in my life).
One of the girls said she knew someone who could rent us a room and looked something up on her phone. I began fooling around with Shakira again and told them to do something, just get us somewhere we could party together.
Another car came to pick us up, Shakira got in my lap, Pancho pulled out the rum, and we rumbled far out of town.
I was so intoxicated with the combination of booze and Shakira that when I took her tits out of her dress and she pulled my cock out to the sound of her friends cheering us on, it just got me more excited.
We were deep in to it in the back of that car and I managed to get my dick into her a few times before we arrived at the destination.
Wherever it was, it wasn’t close to the city, there were no streetlights, and we walked up the stairs of an apartment complex.
A fat Russian guy opened the door and took us in. His wifebeater was stained with coffee and he ashed his cigarette right on the kitchen floor.
When he opened the refrigerator, the girls started raiding all the sweet cakes inside, Pancho picked up a cigar that was on the table, and I snuck Shakira into one of the bedrooms.
We started rolling around on the bed together, and before I could get her dress off, she started giving me a glorious blowjob.
A blowjob from a new girl for the first time + the rum in my system + the high energy from all the craziness that had already transpired = me not hearing a heated argument that had flared up in the kitchen.
One of the girls came bursting into the room screaming and interrupted my bliss.
I heard mens voices yelling, pulled up my pants and entered the kitchen to find Pancho up against the wall with the fat Russian yelling at him–he was joined by two other of his fat wifebeater wearing buddies–and they were both carrying baseball bats.
One of the girls was screaming that they were going to kill us and I yelled “No one is going to fucking kill anybody! What the fuck is going on?”
The Russian guys yelled words at me that were impossible to understand, and Shakira said that they wanted $600 for the room, plus the booze, food, and tobacco that our party had taken.
I had $380 on me, Pancho was broke, and the girls had almost nothing.
The fattest Russian came up to me screaming with his bat up and I told him to calm down while I took out my wallet.
I showed them all the cash I had, the girls piled up their money, and then the fuckers ran through my pockets and took my cigarettes too.
It was incredibly stupid to bring all that cash out with me, but I hadn’t been robbed since I was a teenager, and forgot about the danger. At least I had left my useless phone at Tata’s.
The Russians took the money and went out on the balcony to talk.
We all went out the front door, ran down the stairs, and ran down the dark street in the middle of nowhere.
I picked up a stick and armed myself with a rock before stopping everyone and making sure that we weren’t being followed.
It didn’t seem like the fat guys would be able to run far at all and there weren’t any headlights coming, so I figured we were going to be fine.
When we finally got phone service, the girls called a car that took 30 minutes to arrive.
I wandered around collecting rocks that I felt I could throw really hard and made jokes about how places in the world that had the most wars always had a lot of good throwing rocks.
We got in the car and drove back into the city. Being robbed like that stripped all the sexual energy out of the group and Shakira was on the verge of crying.
We arrived at Tata’s at 4:30 in the morning and Pancho came up with me to get some money from her so we could pay the driver.
Tata was still awake waiting for us and barred the door again, making sure we didn’t have any girls.
Pancho explained to what happened, and she unlocked the door to let us in an give him fare to pay the cab.
I tried to convince her one more time to let my ‘girlfriend’ stay in the room and then she got mad again.
I went back downstairs to say goodbye to the girls and had Shakira write her information down in my notebook.
For the next four days in Havana, I had less than 20$ to spend. I went to the Central Bank and the Ministry of Finance to see if there was any way I could get money and it was useless. Americans are screwed in Cuba without cash. It felt like I was in purgatory and I couldn’t do much more than walk around and hang out in parks with other vagrants.
I ended up getting along very well with Tata, she made dinners for me, we had a Christmas feast together, and she bought a nice bottle of wine. By the end of the week, it felt like we were family and she cried when we said our goodbyes.
Leaving Havana was a relief, and when Uncle Tommy picked me up in Miami, I went right to an ATM, straight to a stripclub that specialized in Cuban girls, and had my way with the one who looked the most like Shakira.
Havana is a place I certainly want to visit again, this time making sure that I get my own apartment or hotel room, bring plenty of cash to carry in increments, and keep the energy high from the get-go.
The Cuban people were some of the friendliest and trustworthy I’ve ever met–the Russians though…
Its always easy to blame the Russians for your troubles.