TALES FROM IBIZA: PART ONE

No holiday is complete without the towel weave and shades shoot

The first night out saw scantily clad London skets (that would be us) head down to SuperMarXté. I loveSuperMarXté, so how much better would it be in a hot country with even hotter men? Not at all. In fact, as extravagant and impressive as the stage shows were, what I did not need on the first night of my holiday, was to watch a ratchet 70-year-old pornstar sponging up her vadge, while badly-dressed trannies sponged down a Cadillac, aptly dubbed ‘PUSSY WASH’. The toilet paper hanging from the ceilings, although sounds like a Friday night at The Hoist, was totally fierce. It was like Chariots with wind machines (and minge); so kind of like a Mariah Carey video.
But literally, lesbian porn on wide screen and a miserable ho flickering her bean, were not what we expected, LATER!

After leaving we decided to smoke a joint more engorged than the slags clit. Combined with lines of k, we were sent us into a head-fucked frenzy, where I thought I was Tyra Banks – sliding down the wall, Philippa thought she was the human centipede crawling along the floor (minus her top), and Darren had suffered a facial seizure that resulted in him dribbling down himself. Time for bed, perhaps?

The next night at PoolDisco was significantly better. Bouncing in the VIP while two-stepping with some of Londons finest men was definitely more our style. As was leaking pure verbal diarrhoea while licking our eyelashes before passing out in my friends elegant Ushaia suite.

While in Ibiza, I’d found a new confidence that I didn’t have before… A confidence that gave me the courage to step up my game with men back home, as well as abroad. And after WhatsApping an indulgent I had my sights on, after a couple grams, I was more-than-happy to be sending photos of myself practically naked. Although, when I didn’t get much of a response (it was more ‘case of the ex’ than, ‘case of he didn’t want me’) – I felt like I’d mugged myself off. In fact, the closest I’d been to a MUG than tea-bagging. But thought that if I had to move on, what would help me more than sun, sea, sand and….

WE Party on the beach, with it’s bouji beds, beautiful boys and banging beats was definitely the one! We were channelling gay-sket-chav-lad-camp-ghetto-summer-glam for the look. More accessories than actual clothes, naturally. I continued to flirt (hopefully, although doubtfully inconspicuously) with my new crush; a hot DJ, before bumping into a one night stand from back home.
What can I say? He wasn’t my holiday shag of choice, but we were 3 days in and there had so far been no action. None. Nada. Apart from the degrading display from the appearing unwilling lezzas two nights before. Even the Grindr in Ibiza was dregging. You get better mandem in Sydenham. So off we went for a little walk down the beach. And while I wasn’t salontro’ing along the shore with a toned new indulgent, at least I’d be able to cross pash-rashing in the sand off my list. ‘Pash-Rash’ (new word) is when two guys are getting it on so passionately, they’re practically giving each other a rash. It can range from kissing to everything but sex. So we’re rolling around in the sand like Beyonce in the Dé Ja Vu video and after getting my mouth (and trunks) full of sand, it was time to pull up the trunks and return to the party.

Now, usually I’m more than happy to divulge others ratchett experiences, so, it’s only fair I divulge my own too. When we got back to the apartment, I needed to go drop the kids off at the pool, if you get me. When I got up to wipe my crack, don’t think there wasn’t a self-made sand box around the toilet rim! AS IF letting one rip had blown all the sand off my cheeks onto the toilet. It was hilarious, before becoming totally embarrassing after repeating online.

In order, to erase the image from readers minds and take the ‘scarlett shade’ off me – I’ll leave you with a hot dancer from the Bora Bora beach. And I thought we got trashy, shit.