I landed in Cayo Coco in the evening again, around 7–8 PM. I like me a 4 PM flight out, that’s always the goal. There’s nothing like that first big, deep breath when you step off the plane and walk down those steps onto the tarmac. It’s thick, dense, and muggy—and I fucking love it. Everything went smoothly with customs and luggage.

I figured out which bus I was on, walked over, handed off my luggage, and grabbed a cold beer. Gotta have a Cristal Cerveza when I land—after 21 years, it’s part of the program. I was just watching—watching people come and go. Looking for their luggage, trying to find their bus, seeing how they act. People-watching has become one of my favorite things to do. I can tell in an instant who’s new and who ain’t.

I sat on the bus, watching the crew just outside—smoking, acting all ratchety. I was eyeballing them, judging—yes, I was! Hahaha! I’m a Virgo; we do be judging! They got on, hooting and hollering—a sloppy party crowd for sure. And when they announced where everyone was going, of course, the loudest was Memories Flamenco. I sat there, counting my fucking lucky stars, because, as I’ve mentioned, the crowd over there has gotten pretty mucky over the years.

I scanned the bus, checking out who else was on board and potentially heading to Costa Rey, my resort. I always look. And to my surprise, it was the first stop—just ten minutes from the airport—and I was the only one who got off. I can’t even tell you how much I loved that.

No families scrambling all over the place, no one rushing to line up at the front desk—it was just me. I knew right away this experience was going to be different.

I walked up to the front desk. The resort was absolutely beautiful—new, shiny, polished and clean. I had a glass of champagne upon arrival, and I hit it off with the woman behind the desk. She was super friendly and accommodating. She booked me a solid room—dead center between the beach, the pool, and the buffet. Couldn’t have picked a better spot.

You know, I think when you’re a female traveling alone, at least from my experience, they try to keep you in a centralized location so you’re not walking far by yourself at night or whatever. It makes sense because every time I travel solo, I end up in the best location possible—but as soon as there’s another name tagged onto my itinerary—fuck knows where I end up. Another perk of traveling alone.

I got my luggage to the room, unpacked a little, changed, and went down for a snack. I just wanted to take a peek around, see what was up. It was quiet as fuck. Nobody was there. Nobody was out. A couple of people were upstairs in the main lobby, but that was about it. The resort was beautiful.

I went to the 24-hour bar, they had a chalkboard listing everything you could order, sort of like the bistro at Flamenco, but not. Tuna, chicken, fish, ham and cheese, pork. I asked, what was available.

"Everything." Well then! One whole star up—made such a difference! A 24-hour menu with several items, and all of them were actually available. That’s different.

I ordered a pork sandwich—which was absolutely delicious. Stuffed with juicy, perfectly cooked pork, and the bread was fresh. The sandwich was loaded—I couldn’t even finish it. For the first time in Cuba, I actually felt guilty throwing any of it out—so I didn’t. I finished it.

I checked out the pool, got a feel for the place, then went back to my room and unpacked.

I woke up the next morning, went to the buffet for breakfast, and to my surprise—they had everything. Bacon, sausage, all the smoothies, waffles, pancakes. The service was on point, and the tables were all clean and proper. I’m not usually too fussy about that stuff—couldn’t care less really—because the beach is the main attraction for me in Cayo Coco. But I won’t lie, those little niceties made my experience feel special. I wasn’t used to seeing that in Cuba, but let me tell you, it exists at Meliá Costa del Rey. I would go back in a heartbeat, but not alone. Memories is too wild, and this place is just a bit too lonely to go solo. I need something in between. I’ll find it.

Went back to my room, loaded up on SPF, packed my bag, and walked down to the beach. Damn, I love that beach. The sand is so pristine and white, it’s almost blinding. You definitely need sunglasses on when walking toward it.

I walked down the long deck—hit the little bar on the left—grabbed some ice and water, added the lime Crystal Light, and headed onto the beach. To the left. Don’t know why I always go left, but I do. There were a couple of people on the right—maybe six in total—on the whole, huge, wide stretch of beach.

I walked way down, probably 30 palapas over. Nobody around. I was chilling, had my music playing, blew up my floaty—I was in my glory.

Next thing I know, a guy pulled up a few chairs before me—a bit further down to the right of me at first, but then he moved a few chairs past to the left of me, a palapa or two over. I saw him walk past me, but I didn’t care. I’m used to that. I’m a professional when it comes to telling dudes to fuck off. I wasn’t there for that.

I’m not a vacationer who goes down south for dick—not at all! If I want dick, I can get dick right here—all kinds. Not saying it’s never happened—I mean, there’s been a tourist or two I’ve mingled with in the past—but make no mistake: if you’ve ever traveled with me, you know—I am all about the beach.

He said he liked my music… I had no idea what the hell he actually said—it sounded like mumbo jumbo in French. I was like, Huh? With an annoyed look on my face.

Oh ya, you like the music? Cool, cool. I put my head back down, continued breathing in that air while soaking up the sun. I was playing 70’s hits.

I can tell you right now—accent or no accent—the one accent I cannot do, that I do not like, is French. Hearing that was like, Ya, alright, buddy. Au revoir. No Voulez-Vous shit in my ear, please and thank you. I don’t find it sexy, I don’t like it, and I don’t wanna hear it. It’s an immediate turnoff for me. And if someone tries to put emphasis on their French accent, thinking it’s all sexy and shit to impress me? I shut it down quick. I hit them with, "Huh? What are you saying? I can’t understand you." Forcing them to drop it. And when they do? I hit them with, "Ya, keep talking like that, it sounds wayyyy better." Accent gone. This guy was Qubecois, well versed in English. He had the accent but tried real hard to drop it.

I got up and went into the ocean—back and forth all day long, that’s what I do. He was already in there. I mean, there’s a huge stretch of beach, nobody else around—just me and him, basically. I couldn’t help but notice… he wasn’t bad-looking. Not at all. Probably around 6’3”, tanned, older, definitely in shape—handsome.

We started talking in the ocean. The conversation went deep, real quick. We introduced ourselves and somehow jumped straight into what we wanted in life. When I think about it now, it was strange—but it wasn’t in the moment—it flowed effortlessly.

The first thing we talked about—love. And if we wanted it again. I answered immediately: Absolutely, yes I do. I want that. He said he wasn’t sure. Said he was divorced and recently retired.

This encounter felt different. I felt different. I felt different about myself. I allowed myself to enjoy his company. I wasn’t weird or trying to get away from him—usually, that is exactly what I would do. I’ve walked around for the past—God knows how long—with a “Fuck off” sign on my forehead. Not that day. That day, I was in the ocean, floating, and actually enjoying his company.

The day flew by. He walked the stretch of the beach a time or two to grab us drinks. I stayed relatively sober that whole trip. We agreed to meet for dinner in the lobby at 7 PM.

And again—that’s not something I would normally do. I’m always closed off, and most men are 100% intimidated by me. I’ve gotten used to that. But this guy—he was a breath of fresh air. He wasn’t intimidated at all.

He was also a retired CO from Bordeaux Prison in Quebec. I know someone who did time there, and they told me that prison was tough as fuck, so I knew this dude had grit. Ya gotta have grit!

I did my hair—which was a complete waste of time, but hey, I had time to waste. It was humid as fuck.

I felt light. Relaxed. No anxiety at all about meeting up with him. That was rare for me.

I definitely was not a dater. I’ve never dated. Dating always felt awkward—even the word date made me uncomfortable. I’d be talking to some guy, making plans to meet up later, and then they’d say, “It’s a date then!” Huh! Nope, no, it wasn’t—not anymore! That was it—he just blew it. The use of that word guaranteed I was going to cancel. I’ve made so many dates throughout my life and never followed through with any of them. I would get all done up and always cancel, literally an hour before, because I just couldn’t go through with it. I mean, I think I wanted to, but I just couldn’t. It’s so weird, I know, but that’s how I was—and how I’ve always been. So fucked up and definitely not normal.

I sat in the lobby with a glass of champagne—I was early, Virgo early. He was about five minutes late. He walked over looking all sexy. I was like, alrighty then! His name was Monty. Dressed proper—no socks, no toes! His style was on point. I wasn’t expecting that. I mean, we met half-naked in the ocean.

We had dinner, then went back up to the lobby for another drink while a saxophonist entertained us. It was lovely.

He walked me to my building, and we said goodnight.

The next morning, after breakfast, I walked down the left side of the beach—same spot as the day before. A few palapas over, there was an occupied chair, someone was in the ocean. I set up, not sure if it was him or not. Couldn’t see. Didn’t care. I was there, and that’s all that mattered.

I went into the ocean, and yep—it was Monty. We got to talking again, and he felt obligated to tell me he had just wrapped up a reality show—some kind of hookup-type thing. He said he couldn’t say much more than that.

Loved it! That kept things light between us—no expectations—but that bit of information had me thinking, hmmmm, ok. Most definitely, one of those hungry bitches in the house he was sequestered with was all over him. For sure!

We circled back to love. I asked him, if he was in love—remembering our conversation from the day before. He stuttered, then said he didn’t know if he wanted that again. I said, "Well, you ain’t in love! ‘Cause we talked about this yesterday, before you told me about the show and if you were, you would’ve said it, right then and there.” But would he have? I don’t know. The conversation felt honest.

Dude had just wrapped up a reality show that was set to air in October. I thought to myself, This guy is a character for sure. There he was on vacation, figuring out his next moves in life. And there I was, figuring out my own.

I had blurted it out the day before, within minutes of meeting him—I absolutely wanted love. That’s what was next for me.

Just saying that out loud was huge for me. I want love. I don’t want to be alone anymore. I learned something about myself. And, oh—I’m going to have it. That’s happening for me, 100%. I don’t know who, and I don’t know when, but I do know it’s going to happen—it has been written.

We were ten years apart but at the same place in life, more or less. I was embracing new beginnings, him—without the usual reluctance or hesitation. I was given a new life, a fresh start. He couldn’t reveal details about the show or if he had hooked up with a potential keeper or not. And honestly—I didn’t care. I was just enjoying the open, real conversation we had going on.

We talked all day about his relationship with his ex-wife, his dad, and how he ended up on that show, along with the prep that went into it. He told me how he put his whole wardrobe together—ordered everything online himself. I told him, he did a damn good job! This guy had just renewed himself. I resonated with that—big time. The vibes between us were easy, chill.

We packed up and agreed to meet up again for dinner. Honestly—this was a two-day date!

I wore a slinky, black silk spaghetti-strap dress, sexy as fuck. The girls were out. It was his last night. I sat in the lobby, sipping champagne. About 5-10 minutes later, Monty walked up—dressed to impress. I like that shit! As he walked toward me, I thought, damn, we actually look good together! Loves me an Aries man, even though I know they ain’t no good for me!

Bubbles! “Make me so happy, make me feel fine…”

We finished our drinks and headed to the buffet. But as we passed the Japanese à la carte—the kind where they cook right in front of you—I stopped, backed up, and said, "Wait—wanna go here? I do." The maître d’ was already looking at me. Monty hesitated. "We don’t have reservations." I said, "Don’t worry about that."

I walked up to the maître d’ just as he was already looking at me. I had a ten-spot in my hand—just in case.

“We don’t have reservations, but we’d like to eat here tonight if possible,” I said.

“One moment,” he replied.

The people in the lineup were pissed, just staring. To be fair, we were a hot couple. He was dressed. I was dressed. We looked good. We belonged in that restaurant. And that’s exactly where we ate.

I didn’t even need the $10. Fuck a reservation—and fuck the lineup!

Classic Jaye move, right there! I’ve been navigating shit like that my whole life. No, I’m not better than anybody else—but I know how to move like I am.

I learned that skill when I linked up with Kayla’s godmother way back in the ’80s, and believe me—it is a skill. Life Skills 101.The way you act, the way you carry yourself— the way you look—is exactly the way people will treat you.

As much as people love to talk about being nonjudgmental—it’s all bullshit. The world is a very judgy place. The sooner you learn that, the easier life will be. That shit ain’t never gonna change.

We got nothing but dirty looks from the lineup—and from the people at the table they sat us at. I paid no mind.

The guy cooking didn’t seem to mind either. Luckily, the two guys sitting next to us were friendly. They were from Montreal—younger dudes. One looked a little rough around the edges, but the other one? He was fine.

Younger dudes aren’t really my thing, but fuck—shit—ya just don’t know!

We finished up dinner, and when we left the restaurant, I asked, “What do you want to do?” He didn’t seem to have an answer, so I told him “I know! We’re going in the pool. I’m going back to my room, grabbing a bottle of champagne, changing, and I’ll meet you right here.”

I went back to my room, changed, and came back with the champagne. He was already there—wasn't late that time. We were getting closer, and it didn’t bother me. It didn’t feel awkward. I liked it. He wasn’t gropey or sloppy. We canoodled and frolicked, lightly, in the water for about an hour and a half, maybe two, before we went back to his room and got a little more intimate. What was about to go down was well overdue for me. We enjoyed each other’s company, and a few hours later, I got up to leave.

He asked me to stay, but I wasn’t staying. I’m not big on that hugging, spooning and cuddling shit. I didn’t want to be there in the morning. Didn’t want to see him in the morning. I don’t want to wake up with someone beside me in bed, especially just a fling.

I went back to my room, fell asleep, and in the morning, I went to the lobby to say goodbye. He was catching his flight home. We said our goodbyes, exchanged contact information, and that was that. When he left, the resort, which was already pretty empty, it felt even emptier.

Looking back now, it all seemed pretty romantic. I had a pleasant, romantic time with him—something I’d never felt before.

Romantic—I’ve never used that word in connection with myself, ever. Or pleasant, now that I think about it. Those two words were never used to describe my encounters. Usually—I’m a fuckin’ animal! Drunk! Definitely the aggressor. This with him was not that. Not at all.

If he had stayed one more day, we would’ve been all up in that ocean together as one, and he would never have looked at the ocean the same way again in his life. That thought did cross my mind. But he left, and I went to the beach. It was scorching hot—blazing, not a cloud in the sky. 35°C every single day.

The beach was dead—maybe two people to the right, and me, about 20-25 palapas down by myself. I was there for about an hour when the two guys from the Japanese restaurant showed up and sat down. We started chatting. His friend was chain-smoking like a chimney, and I commented on it. Of course I did. The critical Virgo strikes again. The good-looking one told me he was taking care of his friend—he’d treated him to the trip. His friend was a recovering addict.

We hung out for a bit, chatting in and out of the ocean. Dude was babysitting his friend, who couldn’t sit still, so they left to do an activity somewhere.

By 2 o’clock, there I was on the beach by myself, bored, and it was roasting hot. I thought, "Fuck it—I’m gonna go to the gym for an hour and then come back."

I went back to my room, changed, and walked over to the gym. The gym and the spa were in a completely different section of the resort—an actual real spa. This place was already five stars, and I was loving it. They had a section called The Level, an extension of the resort that felt like 5 1/2 to six stars, if there were such a thing. Very quaint, quiet, and luxurious, no kids. To me, that’s what a VIP section of a hotel should look like: beautiful and secluded. I saw maybe one or two people there the whole time.

My body came back! I was feeling myself—looking good and feelin’ great!

The gym was great, except for the mosquitoes. I ended up going back a few times and got my little workouts in, which, by the way, was the first time I’d ever gone to the gym and actually worked out on vacation in my life. I went back to the room, changed, and headed back to the beach. This resort was fuckin’ hot—extra hot. No shade. None at the pool and none walking back and forth to the gym. After 4-5 days in, I got to a point where I was reluctant to even leave my room—because as soon as I walked out the door, it was on! The sun was blaring hot, and the mosquitoes were chowing down!

They were bad at this resort. I’m not sure why. They had planes going around with fumigation spray every day and night. I felt that because this was the first resort on that stretch of beach, maybe that’s why they were so bad—we were first in line to become their victims? I don’t know, but they were bad.

That day, all sorts of things were going through my head—my granddaughter, my daughter. The fact that my granddaughter was born the day before I left, and that I got to meet her.

Somewhere between that day and evening, a sense of loneliness began to creep in. It felt ugly, and I didn’t like it. I had just spent two days with Monty, and while it was sad to see him go, I was also glad he left. It was fun, and it served its purpose. I learned things about myself being with him. But once he was gone, the loneliness settled in, and I wasn’t used to that feeling. I never experienced loneliness like that before… or maybe I had. When I was with Earl, Kayla’s dad.

Cayo Coco 111

Heart To Heart

Cayo Coco 111

My First Whatever

Umbriel

Heart To Heart