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Hola Araceli,
Saludos desde Ibiza. I want to apologize in advance for what I am going to tell you, but you are like a sister to me, amiga, and I have to unburden myself to someone who can hear my passions of outdoor sex.
So where do I begin? I’ll start from the beginning… Yesterday, my sister Selena and I rented a Vespa and drove to the north of the island, where we found a secluded cove with the most pristine waters. We had it all to ourselves, so I got to spend the whole day taking the sun and finally trying to rid myself of those hideous tan lines.
I don’t know if it was the day’s heat or what, but later that night, I was feeling a sort of body high, as if I was floating on a cloud. I wanted to stay in and order room service, but Selena was in no mood for that. She wanted to party. We decided to go for a small dinner near Port d’Eivissa and I agreed to see where the night took us. I dressed in a casual white summer dress, hoping that the informality of my outfit would force me back to the hotel before anything got too hectic. But it didn’t take long before a rowdy group of Irish boys at the restaurant started chatting us up. I tried to give her a hint, but Selena was having too much fun with the handsome one—you know her, she loves that silly Irish lilt.
Pretty soon, I was feeling alone and ignored, and I was plotting my escape. Before I knew it, the boys ordered us all a cab and we were heading to Pacha. I tried to object, but they Selena insisted, and I decided to go, if only to support her. When we got there, I was bored. Irish boys only know two things: how to drink and how to laugh. And here I am, a lowly Spanish girl who just wants to dance. I tried to tell Selena, but it was clear that she and Mr. Ireland would be headed back together soon anyway, so I tried to wait it out.
As I was trying to figure my next move, I felt myself yanked powerfully away from the group. I should have been scared, but in truth, I was relieved. All of a sudden, I was pressed up against a sturdy, broad-shouldered hulk of a man. I was tipsy, but it felt safe as if his strong arms were there to protect me.
“Hi,” he said disarmingly. “I’m Nick.” He was ruggedly handsome, with fierce, penetrating eyes, a close-cut beard, and plump, thick lips. He spoke with an adorable Andaluz accent, like a young Antonio Banderas, before he went Hollywood.