Channelling gay geishas and Muslim messes.

The next day at DC10 (everyone who was everyone was there – including the undeniably hot crowd that were friends with my editor), after dropping a few too many coloured pills (asking yourself the age old ‘Matrix’ question; the red pill or the blue pill? Doesn’t always end well when your answer is, ‘fuck it, I’ll take ’em both). And after getting into such a state whereby the surrounding Spaniards rushed to calm me down with water, Diet Coke and mints I realised I’d gone from hot mess – to MESS.
But at least I wasn’t the only one… After four days, Alfie had gone totally cray on sleep deprivation and thought every conversation in the room was a conspiracy theory, Daniel was doing the Macerena at 10-speed, Brian ‘s already thick Irish accent, had got hilariously thicker – and more abusive “What the fock ar’ yu lookin’ at, yer fat fockin’ betch yer”. So it was safe to say, that after partying way harder than we were used to, we’d all become a little unhinged…
Things were a lot more relaxed the next day at Bora Bora, chilling on a double bed on the beach while sipping champagne. Until…
“Shall we drop a pill?”
Does the Pope shit in the woods? Obviously. Loved it when Sean got cray in the afternoon – it totally made me feel less trashy. So, that we did.
“Do you want a shot?”
Is Madonna a complete embarrassment as a mother, and a human being? Duh! Gotta love your generous new friends, so that we did!
“Do you want some MD?”
Would Gemma Collins sell her first born down the river for a Krispy Kreme? You damn straight. (And while we’re on the subject of Gemma Collins, I read your column, and guess what? Nobody gives a flying fuck what you’re eating, okay? ‘Real people’ only care what ‘celebrities’ eat when they’re thin. We don’t need advice on how to triple in size, but thank you. So, you wanna behave disgustingly towards people’s sexualities on TV? You’re not the only one with an acidic tongue).
But anyway, half an hour later, I was in my almost invisible swimwear and running for the sea, taking a new man from the beach with me.
In the water, the pants came off and skinny dipping on the shore of Playa Den Bosa had me feeling crazily liberated. Who knew if it was the dangerous cocktail of narcotics I’d just dropped into an empty stomach or if it was the salt water brushing around my nads, who cared?
We emerged from the sea, just before his boyfriend got back, thinking we’d pulled it off well – until I looked down to see his hard-on through his transparent Calvins. Whoopsie, I guess we dropped the ball on that one. Oh and FYI, they’re not a monogamous couple, before you start throwing shades of judgement at a sister.
After Anfora and an extremely buzzing chill out at the ever so plush *cough Jet Apartments, we took a trip to the gay beach. Warning, don’t even venture there unless you’re prepared to walk. And I mean, walk FAR. I felt like someone had signed me up to a Charity trek, and then told me I was going to watch hot men in speedos just to get me to do it. Take sun cream, wait til dusk before trekking back and wear dark sunglasses. The last one may seem like a given, but with more saggy scrotums and ratchett cracks than Louis Walsh’s home sex videos – better to be safe than sorry.
Back at Bora Bora, I bumped into the guy from yesterday’s ‘sea stroking’. I went back to theirs to pick up more narcs, and while his boyfriend went to the cash point, I thought I should shower down – as once again, I’d been raped by sand.
Naturally, we ended up in the shower together. One foot on the basin, one foot on the soap dish, and next thing I knew, we were in a three-way.
Oh, so this is where his boyfriend comes home? No girl, this where the shower head gets involved, getting more intimate than Christian Grey.  After moving to the balcony, with our legs wrapped round each other like a cheap scarf. It was time for me to pack up my clothes, and my sketty behaviour, and head home. Well, almost.On the final night, I ditched La Troya for a Grindr meet in San Antonio. That was, before getting rejected entry to the hotel by the concierge for being a prostitute. He didn’t exactly say that, but ‘guests’ that rock up at 3am with their legs and tits out could only lead to so many conclusions. Asshole. And that’s why you’re a 65-year-old receptionist. Cut to me screaming ‘PRUDE!’ at the old wench, before taking my broken heart (not, broken hole) back to Playa Den Bosa.
It was only natural that I decided to drown my sorrows in a slice of pizza. Ok, bitches – don’t be hating on a sister for eating carbs at 4am, she’d just missed out of on hot sex because of a frigid bell boy. So I’m at the pizza kiosk or whatever it’s called, and just when you think you’re at the low point of your night.
“Yu wahnt sex?”
And no, it wasn’t an even hotter replacement. It was, instead, a ratchett Patwan hooker.
“No”.
“Eh! Wha Not?”
“Because I’m gay” (and you more gold teeth than the girl gangs in Lewisham).
“Yeh, yu luk lack dat. ‘Ow can yu jus’ say it lack dat? Ahm gay?”
“Why wouldn’t I?” I know I should’ve let it go, but if she wanted to argue, let’s roll Propecia!
“Becos’ it’s not raght…”
“It’s not right? But you preaching that you have sex for money with your nasty fillings, is?” Mhmmm, bitch got served colder than the pepperoni slice I was carrying. They may have only been selling pizza, but I was dolling out PIES! Mmkerrrr…
And just when I thought I’d got her good. SPLAT. No, she wasn’t hit by an anvil – this wasn’t Cartoon Network. But she did almost get hit by a water bomb someone had dashed at her head off a balcony. Cut to her screaming in whatever native tongue that was, and me creasing like Brenda from Scary Movie. That’s as wet as you’re getting tonight ho! *Fits of laughter
So though it wasn’t a week of filthy frolics, but was more eventful than this blog can cover in full (without veering off on tangents and incriminating my social circle any further), at least I could cross sand, sea and sea-view-balcony off my list of places to have ‘sex’ (albeit none of them full sex)… But I can’t deny that I think I was ready to start dating again… *Carrie B reflective moment.
But back to the guy I was pash-rashing via WhatsApp (in part one)… We continued talking… So after falling around the sand dunes, into the sea, onto the balcony and out of my speedos – was it now possible I was actually falling into something worthwhile? I don’t know yet, but I was prepared to find out…