Ibiza

We are probably the last people to arrive because the party is already in full swing. It takes us full minutes to negotiate the 50 yards to our VIP pool bed. This isn’t our first rodeo at extravagant beach party, but this place is at a whole different level. Normally, Dave and DJ would race to take off their shirts at the first invitation, but today they are hanging onto for dear life. The male clientele here appears to be the 300 Spartans. Servers are all ten’s, male and female servers alike. We are normally pretty delusional about our attractiveness, but even we know that we are punching above our weight here. We move about our pool bed tentatively as if reconsidering our places in the world.

“Don’t worry guys. I know a lot of white boys. The more jacked they get, the more insecure they are.”

“Really? Is that true?” Dave asks hopefully.

I think for a moment. “Hmmm…mostly true.”

Sho bursts out laughing. “Does that mean Dave is very insecure?”

Dave’s relationship with his body is akin to that between Scrooge McDuck and gold coins. I have at least a dozen of his gym selfies on my phone.

“Eat shit, Sho,” Dave rebukes, his shirt still on.