Ibiza, or El Dorado mediterranean. In my onanistic and desolate adolescence, before the male assertive and proactive which today cuases watery havocs in the more fortified crutchs crop out into the flash of a stellar collision now i am, Ibiza appeared in my dreams as the Promised Land where my wounds heal and rebuild the unlucky fortune of my non-existent sex life. What was impossible elsewhere, there was a habit, and routine standard. I was not looking for a miracle, i looking for something real, with a texture, measures and concrete way: pussies.
Eventually yourself realizes that it is not Ibiza or Sebastopol. Is what are you and she is, is the way and not the place, that is the play and not latitude. That you are you, it doesnt matter much to show your cards in Shangri-La or throw the nets of love in the happy Arcady. A pussy has its times and his instincts, not always the same and change from vagina to vagina. You have it in your hand and then it turned repentant with a Prince Charming who is not you. I ended up learning four tricks and trusting the fate and dick welfare to they ever work. Ibiza only been a place with more pussies to bet on.
So, the moral is; dont go to Ibiza for girls and party, go for the island, the beachs, the feeling of forget the time and his dictatorship, now turned on allied , the spirit of the Love Island. The expericence of be alone with yourself watching a sunset with the eternal sea as the only witness there. Once you truly know the island and his places, you see everything else as a waste of time which you could do in a thousand of different places.
Thats what really Ibiza is.
pd: dont get twisted, its ok to spend a day on Space too, and fuck a girl if you can.
