Suet-Dumpling-Butterball in a Little Neighborhood Whorehouse

The idea is widespread of a Cuba that opens its doors to foreigners. In my judgment, the presence of a unknown foreign accompanying our young people causes any family more concern than pleasure. Reasons abound.

The visit and statements in Amsterdam’s Red Light District of Mrs. Mariela Castro, director of the Center for the Study of Sexuality (CENESEX), have added fuel to the fire of prostitution in Cuba.

I’m pretty sure my childhood friend, G, agrees with me. She had the bitter experience of receiving a foreigner in her home, who from his car, was trying to give a massage to her daughter who at that time had a contract to work in Madrid.

Cuban to the core, G’s blue eyes turned to steel on seeing the “character” — she told me later — and instead of politely greeting him shouted from the doorway:

“Where the F… is my daughter?”

With such a greeting even the Dalai Lama would lose his composure, so the individual, stunned, ipso facto remembered the words “good manners” and “decent family.” He had to get out of his rented car, explain everything in detail, call Spain on his cellphone to speak with the girl, abundant apologies and excuses, while G told him what evil he was going to die of.

I commented that her attitude seemed exaggerated. G, still bristling over the incident added:

“When I saw him coming I thought it was the pimp who’d come to take my other daughter.”

L went with her daughter on the bus, and with no respect for her presence, a “yuma” — American — insisted on talking to the girl, on  the point of crying from shame. The mother was furious and the passengers insulted by the nerve of the man. Luckily the two women got off soon. The collective anger was taking an unpredictable turn.

The young profession T, approached by someone from “abroad” whom she barely knew, who wanted to try “my heaven, my love.” The anecdote isn’t complete although I imagine the end… T is one of those who doesn’t put up with things, even from her colleagues at work.

There is a little brothel near by house. The lovely neighbor, recently arrived in the neighborhood, created it years ago, always “dressed chastely” like a famous Harlequin romance character. One part of her suit had the color of “good person” and the other, active informant.

The costume she wore was worthy of Mata Hari. But to keep the tradition, she also involved some of her family, who were still young but who had had their own clientele for some time. The nationality of the clientele didn’t matter when the time for “hosting” them came.

The turned the music up high, encouraged the young people to imitate them, and nobody saw a thing. For years moral blindness has become an epidemic, until several went abroad and those who showed up for them had, it seemed, better vision because most didn’t deal with them.

There were those who accused them of jealousy and another colleague of the “trade” was the one who took the blame. No one had any pity, nor the necessary courage to defend her, not even considering that she prostituted herself to feed her young son. Straight to jail for being like the character “Suet Dumpling Butterball” in a story by Guy de Maupassant.

Anyway, I endorse the idea of a red, pink, violet neighborhood. To be a worker in the oldest trade in the world is each person’s decision. There is not always a helping hand or good advice nearby in difficult times. Suet Dumpling Butterball was a good person, but the price she paid is what made the story and its author famous

In truth, I want to receive visitors in my house without fear of becoming “prey” to the neighbors. I wish people would not confuse decent people with others from the sex guild.

Since the arrival of Christopher Columbus, the island “Key to the Gulf” has always shown kindness to visitors. We Cuban women and men are, for the most part, decent, but equally we are tired of the humiliating confusion. Cuba is virtuous, let’s not turn it into a pigsty. Trying to clean with our hands and mouths bound.

November 25 2011

Posted on March 18, 2012, in Dora Leonor Mesa. Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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