The Cuban Doctor

M.e.a.n.d.h.e.r.l.u.s.t entry #1

by Luna Maria de la Cruz

I met the Cuban Doctor on the train, the overnight train from Bangkok to the southern coastal town of Surat Thani. We had both decided to leave the city ants behind.
I lugged my bag down the aisle, beads of sweat hanging off my arms. He was big, buff and bald. He struck up an awkward conversation in English, but I quickly detected his ultra-latino accent so we just talked in Spanish. Mucho gusto de conocerte. He was a foot surgeon who, since Cuba went haywire, divided his time between hospitals in Barcelona and Angola, where he once served as part of the Cuban infantry during the Angolan Civil War in the 80’s. I had so many questions.

Although he claimed to be apolitical, the Cuban Doctor gave me a heart-wrenching, beautiful account of his marvelous youth growing up under the Communist regime in rural Cuba, during the 70’s. No trademarks, no brands, only goods. One of each kind of thing, one store in each village. ‘Bulgar’ juice that always came from Bulgaria. Boots from China that all Cuban children always wore. He admits that under capitalism he does not know how to shop, too much choice! It made us laugh.

He had just arrived in Thailand from Angola. The hospital where he worked was under rebel attack once again so he had quickly left the country on the next available flight, which happened to be to Asia. And now here he was, across from me, and we speeded past the green green palm trees of the Thai countryside, beach-bound. We stared at each other. He was so happy to speak to someone in his native language.

Donde bajas? He was going to the island of Koh Samui, the party island, and I was headed to Koh Phan Ngan, where I planned to kick it in a hut on the beach for 5 days. We switched from the train to a crammed tourist cruiser boat, where the Cuban Doctor, so gentlemanly, insisted on buying me a slightly revolting ham sandwich. As we slid off to sea, huge waves began to rock the cruiser and I felt this panicky, vomitous feeling. Soon I was swaying, gagging and puking up the now chewed-and-swallowed ham sandwich, all over the his muscular legs. But we must remember that he was a doctor, so he was perfect. He held back my hair, supported my queasy body, and murmured kind words over the roar of waves in my ears. No te preocupas, estoy aqui, tranquilita… I fell asleep curled up in his lap on the deck.

When we reached Koh Samui, there was an exchange of e-mails, and a long, hard stare that quickly banished the preconceived gayness I had attributed to him. Maybe he will come see me in on Koh Phan Ngan a couple of days, nothing definite. He got off the boat. The dock began to retreat from my view but I could still see him waving madly and grinning his golden Cuban smile. The waves carried me away, and I though nothing more. I arrived on the next island and found a cheap little hut where I planned to do very little. But that night, under the mosquito net, alone, I wondered what the Cuban Doctor would look like naked.

The next day, I lay on the beach for many hours, staring at the green green island of Koh Samui in the distance, drinking mango shakes from the tiny snack bar nearby, contemplating the turquoise tide. All of a sudden, I felt a pang in my gut, a sharp feeling that something important was about to occur. Could the Cuban Doctor be on his way to see me? How should I send him to word so he could find me? The closest village with Internet was on the other side of this mountainous island. I sprang out of my reverie, my mango drink dribbling all over the sand. I put on a sun dress and called out to the family running the snack bar, ‘Sawadeekha! I would like a motorcycle please!’

Laws on those Thai islands are non-existant, because within 5 minutes I was racing up and down the mountain roads on a somewhat functional motorcycle, even though I don’t have a driver’s permit in my own country. I noticed a significant number of Israeli tourists, horribly drunk and high on ecstasy also riding motorcycles; I decided that they were much more dangerous than the steep cliffs that hugged the roads. I somehow made my way to the town, dreaming of the Cuban Doctor’s golden face. I raced past the falafel stands and shell necklace stands, to an internet joint where I saw that, sure enough, the Cuban Doctor had written to me. Koh Samui sucked, he was having a horrible time there, and he was on his way to see me on Koh Phan Ngan; he was ready to scour the island and find me. I typed him some quick directions and raced back over the mountains along the cliffs back to my little hut to freshen up.

I waited on the beach for him at sunset. The sun was red and hovering lazily above the sea. I saw the Cuban Doctor stumble past the snackbar, looking around. He was limping. I ran up to him, “You’re limping!” He explained that in his hurry, he had fallen off his motorcycle on the way from the dock. But he was a doctor, so he had dressed the wound with iodine and had fashioned a bandage for his leg out of a large banana tree leaf. He collapsed on the sand next to me with a sigh.

I took off his shirt, damp with his sweat from the day’s sun, removed his glasses, kissed his closed eyelids. I saw an old bullet wound on his chest that had healed but had left a zig-zagged scar. “From the minefields in Angola,” he breathed. No further explanation. I traced it with the tip of my finger; the skin was uneven. He took my hand and put it to his lips. He kissed my fingers and brought my wrist to his cheek. I examined his strong yet delicate features in the dying light. His eyes were tired, but they shone. This man was in need of relaxation, and I felt I could provide some. No worries. I cupped his face in my hands and kissed his cheeks, his forehead, his nose and his lips. Olividete de todo, estamos de vacaciones.

He took hold of me and lay me down on the sand next to him, then rested his head on my belly. With both hands he grabbed my thighs and he began to massage them gently. His hands moved towards my ass and firmly gripped onto it, all tension in my body melting away. He groaned with pleasure at the same time as I did. Si… He lowered his head and removed my bikini bottom with his teeth, sliding it down my tanned legs. He opened his mouth to reveal his moist, pink tongue and slowly began licking me in between my thighs. I got incredibly wet. The surge of liquid encouraged him to lick faster and deeper until my whole body arched on the sand and all I could see through my half-open eyes were upside-down palm trees.

I heard a rip of material and realized he had ripped part of my dress in his eagerness to reach my breasts. He gave me this so-sorry-but-I’m-so-hungry look and bit down on my exposed skin, sending ripples of pleasure pain throughout my nervous system. The Cuban Doctor’s dexterous hands massaged my back, pressing me against his body. We sat up for a moment, our eyes locked. He quickly got up and lifted my entire body into his arms in one swoop. I pointed him toward my hut, a few paces away, and he pretended not to limp while he carried me there. I protested, but he insisted on carrying me there. Inside, we removed the rest of our clothes in one ultra-smooth ballet gesture we were lying entangled under the mosquito net, on the bamboo bed, his strong body moving against me like we were the tides. He gave me firm kisses on my throat, down my chest, onto my ribcage and waist, then dove into my pubic hair, eating, slurping, drinking me like coconut milk. My eyes began to roll back in my head.

He suddenly stopped and stared down at me, relishing my glistening, newly tanned skin. Ay, que rico que eres. The mosquito net floated behind his head like a sea of clouds. Then, in a deft, strong move, he turned me over so my ass was facing him. That was when he pulled his crazy move. I turned my head back just in time to see him raise his hand to mouth, spit heartily onto his palm, and rub it all over my ass and cunt. I had no time to react because within five seconds he was already fucking me with his long, hard, golden penis. The particular move will stay forever ingrained in my mind as The Cuban Doctor.

I could feel him, fantastically firm and warm inside of me. The tension that was released in our bodies was enormous. He pulled in and out of me with such vigor and grace that I thought golden sand and turquoise water would come pouring out of my mouth and ears. The way he fucked me was so heavenly, we were soon flying above fluffy clouds, and my small bamboo bed was transformed into a sensory explosion chariot made out of banana leaves and sunshine dust. He rode me until the very foundations of my body quivered, and the hut lurched, teetered and shook in the night. A flock of tropical birds fluttered and twittered exotically nearby, disturbed in their evening slumber by our ecstatic cries.

Afterwards, we lay panting on the bed. As our breathing quieted, he surprised the golden silence by bursting into song. It was a bolero version of a beautiful poem by Rafaela Chacon Nardi: Puro como las flores del coral más antiguo, o un espejo de conchas entre la arena virgen, el transparente verde de tu raíz marina, crece y se mueve al aire tranquilo del verano…