psychoblast
Bluelighter
A day in Ibiza.
(relating some stuff I overheard once)
I looked at the pill in my hand. Ecstasy. Would I take it?
A few years ago, I was living in Austria and a friend had just gotten back from Amstedam. She had tried ecstasy while she was there and she told me, "It felt like I was walking on a cloud. It feels so good, you shouldn't even try it once."
Why was I thinking about trying this? I escaped high school without trying a single drug. Even my drinking was relatively light. I can recall maybe half a dozen high school excesses involving beer bongs or Bacardi 151. In college the drinking increased, but I didn't get into much else. I managed to surround myself with stoner cokehead friends, but both drugs disappointed me the first time I tried them and so I wrote them off forever (or so I thought). I can recall my brother (who attended the same college) sitting around with his friends getting backed, inviting me to join. And I'd look at him pityingly, and shake my head no.
And now I had ecstasy in my hand. I was sure my brother had never tried this. How did an ultra-conservative (at least, with respect to drugs--I was always pretty liberal politically) come to be holding, and thinking about swallowing, this hard drug.
Blame Las Vegas, maybe. A year of dating strippers with big, silicone breasts and deviant sexual tastes had opened my eyes quite a bit. My moral compass had definitely moved at least a few degrees. Already, many degrees. I'd experience things I'd never expected involving lubricants and various toys and straight women, bisexual women and even a couple lesbians. A strap on was in there somewhere to. Yeah, I know what your wondering. Well, keep wondering because that's not what this story is about.
This story is about Ibiza. I once read Las Vegas described as the "Ibiza" of the United States. I still don't see it. No, Las Vegas didn't bring me to Ibiza. It was Lou.
My best friend Lou had a lot going for him. Money. Lots of money. Were talking about house on the beach in L.A. kind of money. And he was younger than me. He didn't have the money when we became friends, which I think is why we remain close to this day. Sometimes people just decide to trust each other, and to respect that trust, and nothing can beat that. That's real friendship.
Lou had quickly acquired expensive tastes. It was funny because he had all this money, but his tastes made him no more satisfied with his financial lot in life than I was. Anyway, Lou wanted to go to Ibiza for our annual summer holiday. I'd never heard of the place (this was a couple months before E's Wild On show made Ibiza a household name...well, almost). Lou said it was where the jet-set young beauties in Europe went to vacation. I had no better ideas, so we were on. I couldn't afford it, but that's what credit cards are for, right?
The trip started out weird from the start. I flew from Vegas to L.A., the from L.A. to London, then London to Barcelona, then took a ferry from Barcelona to Ibiza. I pulled an all-nighter at work before leaving town, getting everything set for my extended leave. Then on my layover in L.A. I went on a few job interviews in L.A. (Considering I'd had no sleep in 36 hours prior to the interviews, it is not surprising that I got no job offers.) When I boarded the 10 hour flight to London, a woman wanted my seat so she could sit near a friend. But my seat was an aisle that could recline, hers was neither. But I agreed, being an inherently nice person when other people are watching.
As further evidence that some form of karma existed, two stewardesses showed their appreciation for my charity by inducting me into the mile high club. Okay, that didn't happen. But if this story is ever turned into a movie, we'll just pretend it did. Actually, the stewardesses just let me move up to an open seat in first class. Wow! My seat was nicer than my apartment. It took me half the flight to figure out all the different ways the seat could adjust. And I liberally imbibed the various free drinks that were plied on me and wondering where the punk in the next seat got the money for his first class ticket, his prada bag and his portable dvd player. Yeah, some people just fall into money and I resent the hell out of them, at least if I am forced to acknowledge their existence (though in my defense, it is not a subject I often dwell on unless I'm forced to sit next to one of these little fuckers for hour after hour. Anyway, let's just say it was a good flight, and I was enjoying myself too much to sleep, and move on.
In London, I took at taxi to the Metropolitan to spend one night before flying with Lou to Barcelona. Lou was already in London on business. The Metropolitan was the trendiest hotel in London--out of my price range, but I was just crashing in Lou's room sans charge. It had an ultra-exclusive bar called the Metro. To get in, you had to be Somebody. Or a guest of the hotel. The night I was there, Bruce Willis visted and spun. I can't recall how he did. I was beat and fell asleep shortly after midnight.
The next day, we were off to Spain. Barcelona. Everything Europe is supposed to be, from the charming sidewalk cafes, delicious and unusual food and a population that looked like it was 50% fashion models. Seriously, these people dress like Italians and look like Brazilians. If you know what I mean. Hot.
The first night clubbing in Barcelona, I mainly recall Lou insisting we share a cab ride home with two very ugly girls. Lou was much drunker than I. Both girls seemed very interested in me. The end result is no one got laid that night. The next night, still in Barcelona, we decided to try something different. A spanish strip club we saw advertised. 100's of beautiful ladies. Well, we thought it was a strip club. Turns out it was a brothel.
We walk in and there is a rectangular bar surrounded by about 15 guys and maybe 50 girls. Nice ratio! The girls are mostly wearing lingerie in various stages of undress. There are a couple stages with poles on either side of the room. We don't yet realize that these are just for show.
Now we are at the bar, drinking, and quickly attract two girls, cute but not the hottest that I saw. The were up close and getting personal. Major groping going on. Even with my poor Spanish, I understood they were asking us to fuck them. What to do....what to do... Of course, we said no. But we did learn that the cost would be $60 for half an hour in a back room. I had some notion that this was very cheap compared to, say, Las Vegas escort prices. But still, neither Lou nor I wanted to sink to the level of going out whoring together. How weird would that be?
So, we shoo the girls away and then we see these other two. Wow. Both were model-quality, if shorter (which I prefer anyway). Lithe, caramel bodies, perfect faces, sensual lips. Staring at us. A girl with beauty you might dream about. And they came to us.
Well, what could we do? With a shrug and a grin, I watched Lou take one of the girls to the back rooms. Five minutes later, I thought, "What the hell!" and took the other girl back there. 26 minutes and $80 later (including the cost of the condom and a tip for the girl) and it was over. All in all, much less seedier and more romantic than I ever thought paying for sex would be. And with much less regret. I mean, I was single and in a country where this was pretty much accepted. So who's to judge?
That was a day and a half before our ferry took us to Ibiza. My addictive personality and lust for...well, lust...was showing itself, as I made 3 trips back to my girl at the "strip club" in that time. More money on my credit card, but what is credit for, if not to pay for sex?
Okay, now that I have perhaps lost some (all?) of your respect, let's get to Ibiza. Finally.
The ferry travels overnight. We don't get a bedroom, just share seats with a couple hundred other young travellers. The inside room was stifling from human body heat and cigarette smoke (those Europeans will smoke in hospitals if you let them). The outside night on the sea was freezing cold. I alternated going between the two. Finally, we got to Ibiza.
Off the boat in the early a.m. Off to the hotel, then to the beach. The interesting thing about Ibiza is how many people are young and beautiful. Seriously, nearly all of them. It really doesn't hit you till you leave and return to normal life and suddenly think, "Why does this place seem like an old folks home? WHy are there so many old and ugly people around?"
Anyway, you know what goes great with young and beautiful people? Sunny, topless beaches. I could say more, But Lou's photo album speaks for itself. He'd brought a very expensive camera for the purpose of capturing the local beauty, and he did a pretty good job of it. The down side was that I--usually considered quite attractive--felt like Quasimodo among all those model-types. Men and women were just too damn hot! (In retrospect, I realize I was staying on the side of the island that catered mostly to Italians and gay men. The opposite side, which catered mainly to English tourists, had a more usual number of unattractive people. Thank god.
So, now we are in Ibiza, it is day time. A day in Ibiza. That's what this is all about, right? The day starts with a couple drinks at a beach bar. Then we walk to THE early afternoon party spot. Bora Bora. On the beach, this open-air bar had pumping techno and a super-crowded dance floor at 3:00 pm. Topless girls in g-strings bounced here and there. Periodically a hose sprayed dancers. More drinks were had. I was offered coke, but declined. Same with valium.
Sun and drinking and having slept badly the night before, and I was soon tired. Some paella for dinner, and I was ready to crash and go check out the Ibiza nightlife tommorrow. But Lou wouldn't hear of it. He berated my wussie-ness soundly until I finally agreed to go with him. To Pacha.
Ibiza has a club for every night and every hour. There are the "main" places to be each night, starting around midnight and going till around 6am. Sunday you go to Space, Monday you go to Privilege. Wednesday you go to Amnesia. Etc. And there is a place to go in the midmorning for a tribal beach set. And there are beach bars to go to midday for more partying. And then there are the cafes for sunset lounging, the most famous being Cafe Del Mar. The island is so absurdly full of great electronic music and djs and people just looking to have fun.
Anyway, Pacha was the "main" place to go that night, a club particularly popular with the Italians. We pay the $40 cover, walk in, walk around. It seems huge. Probably held 2000 - 3000 (?) It had a side "blue" room with progressive trance. And outdoor patio with deep house and, in the main room, some kind of faster, lighter house (hey, I was a techno novice at the time and am not much better today). We wound up standing on the patio. And that's when Lou tells me, "I got some Ecstasy for us to try."
"How'd you get it?" I asked.
"I asked the bartender, and she pointed to the guy selling it." He said.
That simple. Somehow, I doubted it was that simple in clubs in America.
He handed me a little white pill. I don't recall the logo on it, at the time it didn't occur to me to look for such a thing.
So, how far was I going to go into the "dark" world of sinful pleasures that "decent" society shuns? And I recalled what I'd told friend for years, when the occasion arose, based on what I'd heard. "If I ever do another drug, I think it would be ecstasy because I've heard how great it makes you feel." That's what I used to say. Now it was in my hand.
Who was I kidding? When offered a choice between prudence and safety, or something fun and wild, I always went with the fun and wild. With a laugh at my soul searching and a nod at Lou, I swallow the pill. It was 1:00 am Saturday night (Sunday morning, really) standing on the Pacha patio in Ibiza. I had just taken ecstasy.
(to be continued if there is interest, sorry I didn't bother proofreading)
(relating some stuff I overheard once)
I looked at the pill in my hand. Ecstasy. Would I take it?
A few years ago, I was living in Austria and a friend had just gotten back from Amstedam. She had tried ecstasy while she was there and she told me, "It felt like I was walking on a cloud. It feels so good, you shouldn't even try it once."
Why was I thinking about trying this? I escaped high school without trying a single drug. Even my drinking was relatively light. I can recall maybe half a dozen high school excesses involving beer bongs or Bacardi 151. In college the drinking increased, but I didn't get into much else. I managed to surround myself with stoner cokehead friends, but both drugs disappointed me the first time I tried them and so I wrote them off forever (or so I thought). I can recall my brother (who attended the same college) sitting around with his friends getting backed, inviting me to join. And I'd look at him pityingly, and shake my head no.
And now I had ecstasy in my hand. I was sure my brother had never tried this. How did an ultra-conservative (at least, with respect to drugs--I was always pretty liberal politically) come to be holding, and thinking about swallowing, this hard drug.
Blame Las Vegas, maybe. A year of dating strippers with big, silicone breasts and deviant sexual tastes had opened my eyes quite a bit. My moral compass had definitely moved at least a few degrees. Already, many degrees. I'd experience things I'd never expected involving lubricants and various toys and straight women, bisexual women and even a couple lesbians. A strap on was in there somewhere to. Yeah, I know what your wondering. Well, keep wondering because that's not what this story is about.
This story is about Ibiza. I once read Las Vegas described as the "Ibiza" of the United States. I still don't see it. No, Las Vegas didn't bring me to Ibiza. It was Lou.
My best friend Lou had a lot going for him. Money. Lots of money. Were talking about house on the beach in L.A. kind of money. And he was younger than me. He didn't have the money when we became friends, which I think is why we remain close to this day. Sometimes people just decide to trust each other, and to respect that trust, and nothing can beat that. That's real friendship.
Lou had quickly acquired expensive tastes. It was funny because he had all this money, but his tastes made him no more satisfied with his financial lot in life than I was. Anyway, Lou wanted to go to Ibiza for our annual summer holiday. I'd never heard of the place (this was a couple months before E's Wild On show made Ibiza a household name...well, almost). Lou said it was where the jet-set young beauties in Europe went to vacation. I had no better ideas, so we were on. I couldn't afford it, but that's what credit cards are for, right?
The trip started out weird from the start. I flew from Vegas to L.A., the from L.A. to London, then London to Barcelona, then took a ferry from Barcelona to Ibiza. I pulled an all-nighter at work before leaving town, getting everything set for my extended leave. Then on my layover in L.A. I went on a few job interviews in L.A. (Considering I'd had no sleep in 36 hours prior to the interviews, it is not surprising that I got no job offers.) When I boarded the 10 hour flight to London, a woman wanted my seat so she could sit near a friend. But my seat was an aisle that could recline, hers was neither. But I agreed, being an inherently nice person when other people are watching.
As further evidence that some form of karma existed, two stewardesses showed their appreciation for my charity by inducting me into the mile high club. Okay, that didn't happen. But if this story is ever turned into a movie, we'll just pretend it did. Actually, the stewardesses just let me move up to an open seat in first class. Wow! My seat was nicer than my apartment. It took me half the flight to figure out all the different ways the seat could adjust. And I liberally imbibed the various free drinks that were plied on me and wondering where the punk in the next seat got the money for his first class ticket, his prada bag and his portable dvd player. Yeah, some people just fall into money and I resent the hell out of them, at least if I am forced to acknowledge their existence (though in my defense, it is not a subject I often dwell on unless I'm forced to sit next to one of these little fuckers for hour after hour. Anyway, let's just say it was a good flight, and I was enjoying myself too much to sleep, and move on.
In London, I took at taxi to the Metropolitan to spend one night before flying with Lou to Barcelona. Lou was already in London on business. The Metropolitan was the trendiest hotel in London--out of my price range, but I was just crashing in Lou's room sans charge. It had an ultra-exclusive bar called the Metro. To get in, you had to be Somebody. Or a guest of the hotel. The night I was there, Bruce Willis visted and spun. I can't recall how he did. I was beat and fell asleep shortly after midnight.
The next day, we were off to Spain. Barcelona. Everything Europe is supposed to be, from the charming sidewalk cafes, delicious and unusual food and a population that looked like it was 50% fashion models. Seriously, these people dress like Italians and look like Brazilians. If you know what I mean. Hot.
The first night clubbing in Barcelona, I mainly recall Lou insisting we share a cab ride home with two very ugly girls. Lou was much drunker than I. Both girls seemed very interested in me. The end result is no one got laid that night. The next night, still in Barcelona, we decided to try something different. A spanish strip club we saw advertised. 100's of beautiful ladies. Well, we thought it was a strip club. Turns out it was a brothel.
We walk in and there is a rectangular bar surrounded by about 15 guys and maybe 50 girls. Nice ratio! The girls are mostly wearing lingerie in various stages of undress. There are a couple stages with poles on either side of the room. We don't yet realize that these are just for show.
Now we are at the bar, drinking, and quickly attract two girls, cute but not the hottest that I saw. The were up close and getting personal. Major groping going on. Even with my poor Spanish, I understood they were asking us to fuck them. What to do....what to do... Of course, we said no. But we did learn that the cost would be $60 for half an hour in a back room. I had some notion that this was very cheap compared to, say, Las Vegas escort prices. But still, neither Lou nor I wanted to sink to the level of going out whoring together. How weird would that be?
So, we shoo the girls away and then we see these other two. Wow. Both were model-quality, if shorter (which I prefer anyway). Lithe, caramel bodies, perfect faces, sensual lips. Staring at us. A girl with beauty you might dream about. And they came to us.
Well, what could we do? With a shrug and a grin, I watched Lou take one of the girls to the back rooms. Five minutes later, I thought, "What the hell!" and took the other girl back there. 26 minutes and $80 later (including the cost of the condom and a tip for the girl) and it was over. All in all, much less seedier and more romantic than I ever thought paying for sex would be. And with much less regret. I mean, I was single and in a country where this was pretty much accepted. So who's to judge?
That was a day and a half before our ferry took us to Ibiza. My addictive personality and lust for...well, lust...was showing itself, as I made 3 trips back to my girl at the "strip club" in that time. More money on my credit card, but what is credit for, if not to pay for sex?
Okay, now that I have perhaps lost some (all?) of your respect, let's get to Ibiza. Finally.
The ferry travels overnight. We don't get a bedroom, just share seats with a couple hundred other young travellers. The inside room was stifling from human body heat and cigarette smoke (those Europeans will smoke in hospitals if you let them). The outside night on the sea was freezing cold. I alternated going between the two. Finally, we got to Ibiza.
Off the boat in the early a.m. Off to the hotel, then to the beach. The interesting thing about Ibiza is how many people are young and beautiful. Seriously, nearly all of them. It really doesn't hit you till you leave and return to normal life and suddenly think, "Why does this place seem like an old folks home? WHy are there so many old and ugly people around?"
Anyway, you know what goes great with young and beautiful people? Sunny, topless beaches. I could say more, But Lou's photo album speaks for itself. He'd brought a very expensive camera for the purpose of capturing the local beauty, and he did a pretty good job of it. The down side was that I--usually considered quite attractive--felt like Quasimodo among all those model-types. Men and women were just too damn hot! (In retrospect, I realize I was staying on the side of the island that catered mostly to Italians and gay men. The opposite side, which catered mainly to English tourists, had a more usual number of unattractive people. Thank god.
So, now we are in Ibiza, it is day time. A day in Ibiza. That's what this is all about, right? The day starts with a couple drinks at a beach bar. Then we walk to THE early afternoon party spot. Bora Bora. On the beach, this open-air bar had pumping techno and a super-crowded dance floor at 3:00 pm. Topless girls in g-strings bounced here and there. Periodically a hose sprayed dancers. More drinks were had. I was offered coke, but declined. Same with valium.
Sun and drinking and having slept badly the night before, and I was soon tired. Some paella for dinner, and I was ready to crash and go check out the Ibiza nightlife tommorrow. But Lou wouldn't hear of it. He berated my wussie-ness soundly until I finally agreed to go with him. To Pacha.
Ibiza has a club for every night and every hour. There are the "main" places to be each night, starting around midnight and going till around 6am. Sunday you go to Space, Monday you go to Privilege. Wednesday you go to Amnesia. Etc. And there is a place to go in the midmorning for a tribal beach set. And there are beach bars to go to midday for more partying. And then there are the cafes for sunset lounging, the most famous being Cafe Del Mar. The island is so absurdly full of great electronic music and djs and people just looking to have fun.
Anyway, Pacha was the "main" place to go that night, a club particularly popular with the Italians. We pay the $40 cover, walk in, walk around. It seems huge. Probably held 2000 - 3000 (?) It had a side "blue" room with progressive trance. And outdoor patio with deep house and, in the main room, some kind of faster, lighter house (hey, I was a techno novice at the time and am not much better today). We wound up standing on the patio. And that's when Lou tells me, "I got some Ecstasy for us to try."
"How'd you get it?" I asked.
"I asked the bartender, and she pointed to the guy selling it." He said.
That simple. Somehow, I doubted it was that simple in clubs in America.
He handed me a little white pill. I don't recall the logo on it, at the time it didn't occur to me to look for such a thing.
So, how far was I going to go into the "dark" world of sinful pleasures that "decent" society shuns? And I recalled what I'd told friend for years, when the occasion arose, based on what I'd heard. "If I ever do another drug, I think it would be ecstasy because I've heard how great it makes you feel." That's what I used to say. Now it was in my hand.
Who was I kidding? When offered a choice between prudence and safety, or something fun and wild, I always went with the fun and wild. With a laugh at my soul searching and a nod at Lou, I swallow the pill. It was 1:00 am Saturday night (Sunday morning, really) standing on the Pacha patio in Ibiza. I had just taken ecstasy.
(to be continued if there is interest, sorry I didn't bother proofreading)
