WEIGHT: 59 kg
Services: French Kissing, Domination (giving), Sub Games, Deep Throat, Anal Play
By Katie Hopkins for MailOnline. Especially not as a mum of three with pink hair and a face to frighten pit bulls. But that's Havana for you. And it's on offer everywhere. It is all-pervasive, gushing out at you in a thick soup of bodily fluids and an oozing of soft parts and fleshy bits thrusting out amongst the crumbling ruins of a city in decay. It's strangely titillating, the possibility of momentary escape in a country locals are forbidden to leave.
Scroll down for video. A 'Jinetera' Cuban slang for prostitute waits for foreign tourists outside a five-star hotel in Havana with her boyfriend, who is actually her pimp and protector. But it is a trade which is as forbidden as it is ubiquitous.
The uniformed police are best avoided by the men and women pimping their pelvises for foreign cash. Falling into the police's hands can mean a night in a cell or, for those in the city illegally, deportation to some province in the hinterland. He adds, 'There will be money involved. And if you think you aren't paying to play, the women will be back on your doorstep the next day, a crying baby on their hip, demanding money for formula. All the men who enjoy what's offered by the girls acknowledge that sex is a transaction, a deal.
Some say they struggle to find a 'normal' woman who might want them for something other than their cash. Most acknowledge that without their money or their American or Canadian passport or dollars they would never find beautiful women like this. As for the women, they are drawn by hope. Hope of food for their children or maybe something more long-term — perhaps even a ticket out of this country they are forbidden to leave. The boys seem to trade their wares differently; most want drinks, a meal or foreign goods they can't get their hands on in Cuba.
For some, just a good time will do, a diversion from the daily grind of life on low wages and a ration book. Just like any lads, looking for distraction. A British lady I meet at my hotel tells me about her Cuban boyfriend. Her face is kind but old, her waist as rounded as her bust. Her work brings her here regularly and she sees him when she travels. He is young and beautiful and can dance — really dance, a rhythmic currency which hypnotises Westerners, used to bad dad dancing.