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for God's sake. If a girl was to make any sort of living here, she'd have a regular day-job and then go out to hook at night. That's why the club owners didn't want single girls coming to the clubs alone- they didn't want their place turning into a sex market and they certainly didn't want hookers stealing their clientele away from the ever-profitable bar. There were probably certain areas of Havana that were reserved for prostitution and this place wasn't one of them. It all suddenly made sense. It made too much sense. And I realized with astounding clarity, (given my intoxication), that no, I didn't want to be known to my classmates as "that dude that had sex with the hooker in Cuba."

When I got out of the bathroom and took a good look at the scene, I saw it all. My classmate had been right- it was obvious. Every guy in the club had a Cuban girl on his lap. Every single one. Some were more far-gone than others. While some of them danced innocently on the dancefloor with their red-faced male tourists, others were hidden in darkened corners of the club, doing God-knows-what under the cover of darkness in those shady club booths. My female classmates were among the only non-prostitute females there- every other girl was a scantily-clad Latina with her arms around some drunk Canadian tourist, whispering Spanish nothings in their eager ears. And sitting there at my table, leaning back with her smooth mid-riff still exposed, was my very own drunk Cubana who, despite her shady history, was still looking damned attractive. She flashed me a devilish smile as I sat back down next to her.

"How are you feeling?" she asked me in her perfect Spanish.

"Oh, I'm fine," I told her in my not-so-perfect Spanish.

She leaned closer to me and wrapped her arm around mine. The rum had made her more aggressive. Now she lay one of her smooth tan legs over my own.

"Do you want to get out of here?" she asked.

I smiled nervously at her. "And go where?"

"I don't know maybe back to my place."

Now I played it dumb. "To do what?"

"I could give you a massage, we could just get away from this loud music"

Now, at this point I knew the girl was a hooker. I straight-up knew it. And yes, in the United States of America, I would have thrown her lovely slender leg right off my own and stormed out on her with my dignity intact. Yes sirree, in the United States of America, I would not even be tempted by this scantily-clad Latin harlot, I would not even bat an eye lash at her seducing curves and her sexy Cuban

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