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The immediate interaction with Jamaican men is defined by an almost unreal level of confidence and virility that makes it easy to understand the type of magnetism that draws women to Jamaican men. Jamaican dancehall music has had some far reaching consequences on sex, reaching as far as Guyana, where men will quote dancehall singers to you on matters of love making. As a Jamaican man who has lived in Guyana, I can understand the feelings you are experiencing living in Jamaica. There was some generalizing in your post, you only mention your interactions with men who seem quite crude. I hope you find a smart assertive Jamaican man who can rock your world and help you find and develop your groove, (which I suspect you have not lost). LOL As I am not looking for a husband, this is not an immediate pre requisite but let’s say they have to be able to pay their own way. 5cm jagged edge tear on the bottom edge near left corner, small edge tear on bottom edge (right), Small edge tear on left edge (bottom), a couple of tiny slithers cut from left edge (near bottom), Two tiny white crease marks on the top edge (right), slight yellowing along the bottom edge, Main image very good.
Stella Payne is forty-two, divorced, a high-powered investment analyst, mother of eleven-year-old Quincy- and she does it all. Her readers may be surprised that, after the gritty, tell-it-as-it-is Mama and Waiting to Exhale, McMillan has now written a fairy tale.
Stella, the star of McMillan's (Waiting To Exhale, Viking, 1992) new novel, finds love in an unexpected place.
McMillan takes it easy with this tossed-together tale of a 42-year-old black, female professional who falls for a young Jamaican cook.
Having been here for six months now, I realise that some of the things that I find attractive about Jamaican men are the same things that can be desperately unattractive to me. I know these are generalizations and there are exceptions to the rule (Thank God), but the fact is, these are extremely common tenets of Jamaican manliness. It is the part of me that allows me to step into the light despite my inhibitions, insecurities and fears and live life effusively. After all, it is one Caribbean, and we are all for regional integration in whatever form it takes. Enabling JavaScript in your browser will allow you to experience all the features of our site.
In fact, if she doesn't do it, it doesn't get done, from Little League carpool duty to analyzing portfolios to folding the laundry and bringing home the bacon. Her "forty-fucking-two-year-old'' heroine, divorce Stella Payne, possesses a luxurious house and pool in northern California, a lucrative job as a security analyst, a BMW and a truck, a personal trainer and an adorable 11-year- old son-but no steady guy. All I knew was that as much as I loved my son, I was glad to see him disappear after those doors to Gate 3 closed this morning.

She does it all well, too, if her chic house, personal trainer, BMW, and her loving son are any indication.
On a whim, Stella decides to vacation in Jamaica, and she narrates the ensuing events in a revved-up voice, naked of punctuation, that alternates between high-voltage energy and erotic languor. Quincy's on his way to Colorado Springs to visit his daddy and now I have the house all to myself. Jamaica, though, is the type of heady, intoxicating place that can make you discover that you are a missing groove that you never knew you should have had all along. Stella doesn't mind it too much; she probably wouldn't have the energy for love - and all of love's nasty fallout - anyway. Gorgeous, seductive Winston, the chef-trainee with whom she enjoys passionate sex (explicitly detailed), is shockingly young: he's not quite 21. When her son, Quincy, flies off to visit his father, workaholic Stella spontaneously signs up for nine days alone at a resort in Jamaica. Despite Taye Diggs’ awful attempt at a Jamaican accent, the shower scene between him and Angela Bassett made the film a must watch and had women all over the world salivating and desiring their own Jamaican encounter.
But when Stella takes a spur-of-the-moment vacation to Jamaica, her world gets rocked to the core - not just by the relaxing effects of the sun and sea and an island full of attractive men, but by one man in particular.
Naturally, Stella wonders if he really loves her; endless soul-searching and a few tepid complications occupy the remainder of the narrative.
The last thing she expects to find is an unquenchable passion for a 20-year-old chef's assistant; on her return home, she discovers that she can't quite relegate her happy thoughts of Winston Shakespeare to the vacation-fling portion of her memory bank.
Of course there are a million things I want to do and now I can do them without being distracted. They know that it is a desirable thing and seem willing to tell you up front that they do it and they love doing it. He's tall, lean, soft-spoken, Jamaican, smells of citrus and the ocean - and is half her age. When Stella loses her job, it's no sweat; she has enough savings to maintain her lifestyle. So Stella arranges for Winston to visit her in San Francisco—where the easygoing boy charms her son, her sisters, and her friends, and even talks Stella into dumping the stock exchange and returning to her artist's life.
The tropics have cast their spell and Stella soon realizes she has come to a cataclysmic juncture: not only must she confront her hopes and fears about love, she must question all of her expectations, passions, and ideas about life and the way she has lived it. When fate throws two other gorgeous men her way, she immediately decides they are boring and isn't tempted for a minute. Despite Stella's repeated protests that Winston must be out of his mind, there are few serious barriers to this MayOctober love affair.

Told in Stella's own exuberant, dead-on, dead honest voice, How Stella Got Her Groove Back is full of Terry McMillan's signature humor, heart, and insight.
Meanwhile, her intense preoccupation with feminine deodorant sprays and the smell of women's public bathrooms is rather strange, to say the least.
Long, run-on, train-of-consciousness sentences give the impression less of the characters' mental states than of a hastily written novel.
More than a love story, it is ultimately a novel about how a woman saves her own life - and what she must risk to do it. McMillan's expletive-strewn narrative accommodates such musings, however, and readers who have been yearning for a Judith Krantz of the black bourgeoisie-albeit one with a dirty mouth and a more ebullient spirit-will be pleased with this fantasy of sexual fulfillment.
One hopes McMillan will follow her heroine's example and slow down a little on her next book. We are not used to it but this does not make us any less assertive, confident and independent. And thank the Lord there's nowhere I have to be: no can't-wait portfolios to review and I don't have to pay attention to any of the four computers in my office, I mean I can actually be off-line for a change and I have no meetings no planes to catch, nada. The men I have had conversations here come across the spectrum in terms of class (which is a huge deal here). There education and income levels also vary greatly and the majority of them have expressed dislike (often unsolicited) for homosexuals. I've got a house full of trees and straggly vines that need to be transplanted which is what I'm planning to do today but of course when I go out to the garage I have no big pots and just a drop of potting soil and not a single pair of those gloves with the little rubber dots on the fingertips, all of which means I have to go to Home Depot. I hate going to Home Depot because I always end up going down the plant rug toilet or sink aisles when I have enough plants rugs toilets and sinks already.
But by the time I get to the checkout I usually have to exchange my cart for one of those flatbed numbers and then I realize I didn't drive the truck so I have to have them put my stuff to the side until I come back and as I'm driving home it occurs to me that they're probably going to switch some of my merchandise and not think I'll notice but by the time I pull the truck up to their automatic doors I'm usually totally pissed at myself for buying all this shit I don't need because despite the fact that I am not a landscaper handywoman or carpenter I have all these useful new tools with which to express my fantasies of do-it-yourselfness and what is really bothering me is that I have most likely spent somewhere in the neighborhood of a thousand bucks which seems to be my going rate here and at Costco and which is also why I am right this minute changing my mind about going today. He fixes everything that breaks around here, and since he is ultrareligious and I think maybe even a participating Buddhist, out of respect I sort of watch my mouth in my own home. He cleans under and behind everything which is the main reason I have no Saturday morning cleaning to do.

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