By Paul Nelson

Drugs, alcohol, and viagra. No one expects viagra when Callum spins his Four Days in Ibiza tales to his oldest friends in the beer garden of The Red Lion on a lazy Sunday afternoon, talking of VIP rooms in clubs his boys’ll forget the names of because they’re all family men now, work work work, more accustomed to a BBQ and ciders on a Friday evening until the rains push enthusiasm into the earth.

A different rain in Ibiza. 1k bottles of champagne. Pool parties of onlyfans models, but everyone’s on onlyfans these days—doesn’t ruin the story though. Callum dressed as Buff Waiter, the six pack he spent six months on, a three-way kiss as phones recorded his decadence. “We should shoot footage together,” they’d said. “Yeah, I’m up for that. I’ll do it, you know,” Callum said.

And he did and he filmed it all and they were on their knees either side of his shaft and he filmed the lot, birds-eye view, but “Ah left my phone in the taxi and it’s gone lads, all those videos,” he tells the lads.

But they believe.

“We started a three-way relationship.”

“Who?” I sez.

“Me and the two onlyfans girls.”

New phone. He has their numbers, and they send through their own holiday snaps and footage from Ibiza.

“I was gonna move to Hull with them and we was gonna make films together for onlyfans and like, pornhub.”

“So why you here?”

Everyone laughs at that one.

“Ah, you know how it is. They’ve already got boyfriends at home.”

Buff waiters, too? Leaving their phones in taxis, too? Maybe for the best he’s unfindable, burner phone and a new number, working the length of the country on the railway. How does he go from pool parties to this? No answer, just, “There was that pornstar there, as well. The blonde British one, you know? What’s her name again?”

Drugs and viagra, though. Callum didn’t do a lot of drugs while he was there.

“Isn’t viagra a drug?” I sez.

Callum laughs. He was in this bar with his leather shorts around his ankles, his hands in the air, while his mate grabbed his dick and guided it into this girl’s mouth.

Callum sez, “I was just waving my hands in the air and all I could hear was this other bird screaming across the bar ‘that lad’s gettin’ sucked off’ and I’m like YEAH.”

“Who was the doris on her knees?”

“Onlyfans. The brunette. I think.”

That was filmed too but he lost his phone in a taxi because his shorts were so small, soon as he sat down everything popped out. Everything. He lost his Gucci wallet, too. Skint by that point.

“The Viagra?”

“Yeah, yeah, so. Don’t you guys do it?”

It’s not required—but it’s required. Can’t be a disappointing shag in 2024. Unheard of. Callum tells them all you gotta keep banging after you’ve cum. Have to. Gotta keep pumping until they’re happy, that’s how you win.

He was fuming that first night after the pool party with the two onlyfans girls.

“That British porn star was flashing her tits everywhere but we couldn’t get near her.”

Then came the three-way kiss. The two girls were surprised at how unthreatened Callum was in their presence, that he was game for making movies together. “Really?” Wide-eyed monosyllabic questioning. “Yeah, let’s go. Now.” How many men would’ve bottled it, if they’re honest with themselves?

He hit the hotel room first on their way through the Ibiza night, a journey through heavens and hells, needed a V for this one, and his mate stood in the lobby and gave it the “Ah mate, soz like, but I just popped the last one, gonna try it with that Spanish barmaid at—”

“I was fuckin’ fumin’,” Callum tells his audience.

He was raging, about to embark on the odyssey of every lad’s dream and he had to go in natural, no chemical assistance, relying on his own reflexes.

Kinda funny now, though. He came through it good, they enjoyed the ride, wanted more, and he spent the remainder of his four days in their bed.

“Brunette one was game,” he sez. “The blonde worn’t that happy about it.”

He thought the girls were together, men for the kicks only, not to be kept around. Now he knows it’s the lad back home probably clueless about her antics. Nah, the boyfriend knows. Everyone knows how these things play out, how an Ibiza long weekend is scripted. Forgives her for fuck knows what.

“I know why,” Callum sez with a smile.

The girls are mad. He shows the guys at work pictures he’s been sent to replace his own collection, and these girls, he informs them, these girls don’t pay for a thing. The really good ones jet set, just hop from bed to bed. This bird had told him she’d met some rich dick so she’s doing Dubai with him for a month. She’ll bang for the free ride until she’s had enough then move onto somewhere else, and when the freebies run dry, she’ll go home, but nothing runs dry when bodies of lust are on show, the perpetual motion of chase and fuck.

“Not judging, I think it’s mint,” Callum sez.

It is mint, we all agree. We’d do same as him but we’re British middle-age full of lager and kebabs, hairy and pale. Would jump at it in a heartbeat, swallow that V and drop tonnage on the VIP champagne.

“Imagine it was birds with all the money and mansions and us lads just jumped from bed to bed for a free ride,” Callum sez.

Yeah, Callum, imagine that.

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Paul Nelson (He/Him) is a railway maintenance worker and military veteran who describes himself as a writer with ambitions to upset the literary scene with something different. He has no formal education in the arts, but his previous work can be found in Gargoyle, The Brussels Review, and Viridine Literary.