confession – (en)

Each of us has his places, his friends, furnished with imagination and life itself. Places linked to people, as people liked to places. Some of us have the benefit that such places are scattered here and there, forming a large territory. After all, when at eighteen you waive the mollusk security taking a backpack, starting to walk, those steps end up taking you, no matter how clumsy you are, to some curious places and situations. They draw you a more or less bumpy life map, short of biography.
For nearly sixteen years, Pacha was one of those places on my map. Pacha was where clubbing really was born, on party island set-me-free Ibiza, a little more that an old finca (farmhouse) at the time of our first arrival, beatnik and hippie leanings with aristocratic pretensions long gone, where we can rub with the good, the great and the gorgeous from across the globe.
You don’t know how glad I am to have my funny memory saturated with what the place was, because it will never be again —hopefully, somehow.
Arriving cool Ibiza, we threw our rucks into a wee funky room bit and hit the strip, first port of call you could imagine, Pacha. We took over a large bent near the dance arena as you usually do on any given Monday breakfast time! I realize that after two hours there I’m not getting in the swing, I nip to the bar for a double after shock, this bird from down cockney says “hello, where you from etc.,” she had a deep gravel voice, a bit like that old bint that used to be on Corrie. However, a minger in laymen’s terms, we agreed to have a boogie later. I thought no more about it and made my way back to my well on the way piss-eyed mates.
We ended up in the flag ship terrace’s 19th-hole, candles out for a bit of extra day-light, plenty of drunken minge to be found, a good time was being had by all apart from my room mate who had hit rock bottom back to the room in an emotional stupor with his Spiderman suit he thought “great”. Can’t remember the time but all of a sudden I get this vice-like-grip on my thing, on turning round I found it to be old gravel voice from the breakfast hour, by now she was looking like Kylie, anyhow, we had a dance or two trying to squeeze juice out of each other, it’s called dry sex apparently. I asked old gravel voice if she had a room on her own, “no, I’m a lover homeless, what about you?” she says in her sexy Arthur Mullard voice, “are you sharing?” “I am but mate’s in K-hole” I said.
After a few more drinks and dancing, me and Arthur made it back to the digs, we crept into the room, she stripped off and laid on my bed face down, I kept whispering in her ear, “keep your nice voice down, we don’t want to wake my mate”. All the time I had been stroking her back she was mumbling away in her deep gravel voice, this would have been a big turn off had I not been zoned, anyhow, my tongue up and down snaking her spine when she says out loud, “roll me over and lick my really small knob” with this, a cry from the other side of the pitch black room goes, “Thank gawd for that, for a minute I thought you’d brought a fella back!” I screamed with laughter, the bird switched the lamp on to see our surreal moment all time, she grabbed her kit and banged off calling us all sorts!!! Anyhow, an eff went out of the window but we still have a good laugh about it!
We went straight on the ale, my ginger haired mate just sat in the sun all afternoon with his Borat less than subtle piece of wear, surrounded by undraped girls believing we were “the nuts”, without putting any lotion on necking ale and by evening was burnt to a crisp. Don’t expect to find God there!
No one can cage a memory. What magical-my-arse-experience happens on holiday… stays on holiday is the motto!  But still I can’t destroy the evidence…
Confession – Dugutigui (on some stories from the net)
Dugutigui - I Like This Post

Acerca de Dugutigui

In the “Diula” language in Mali, the term « dugutigui » (chief of the village), literally translated, means: «owner of the village»; «dugu» means village and «tigui», owner. Probably the term is the result of the contraction of «dugu kuntigui» (literally: chief of the village).
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25 respuestas a confession – (en)

  1. Kirk Fury dijo:

    Great story. The slang puts it over the top.

    • Dugutigui dijo:

      Quite so. The inability to correctly perceive reality is often responsible for humans’ insane behavior. And every time they substitute an all-purpose, sloppy slang word for the words that would accurately describe an emotion or a situation, it lowers their reality orientations, pushes them farther from shore, out onto the foggy waters of alienation and confusion. Wow! That was great! Hahahaha!
      Thanks for your fabulous comment!

  2. Mélanie dijo:

    @Borat… I can imagine the scene… 🙂
    * * *
    P.S. es siempre y realmente muy difícil de leer los textos con el tamaño demasiado pequeño de las letras… dommage!

  3. Aliosa dijo:

    You’re so right!
    I have not met her but my heart never AURA cry about it!
    This article is meant
    and her family mourning
    but also a signal for the Romanian state authorities
    for such tragedies
    it does not happen again!
    In my name as the author of the article on VOLUNTEER
    ION family
    and the Romans who lament the death of the young AURA,
    thank you for you are with us in the difficult suffering!
    With all due respect,

  4. George Valah dijo:

    That can be an extention of: “a place call people around”, “people makes a place special” “writers make happenings unforgotten”… “readers makes writers”? :-/

    • Dugutigui dijo:

      Let’s go one by one:
      “A place call people around”, “people makes a place special”
      I do not like to boast of my life as a traveler. It seems pretentious to say that I have lived in nearly 20 different countries, and I know more than 70 countries, although it is true. That said, from my point of view, apart from a varying amount of garbage, what differentiates one country from another are certainly its individuals and their particular idiosyncrasies. So, absolutely yes, it’s people what makes a place special.
      “Writers make happenings unforgotten”
      Only good writers. Composers of fonts and punctuation marks, can turn the most magical experience in an excruciating affair. So, it depends on the writer.
      “Readers make writers”
      Postmodernism, like modernism and romanticism before it, fetishised [i.e. placed supreme importance on] the author, even when the author chose to indict or pretended to abolish him or herself. But the culture we have now, the pseudo-modernism, fetishises the recipient of the text to the degree that they become a partial or whole author of it. Optimists may see this as the democratisation of culture; pessimists will point to the excruciating banality and vacuity of the cultural products thereby generated (at least so far). So, readers can’t make writers.

      • George Valah dijo:

        “A place call people around” is not…traveling 😛 Is about going to a certain place for the need to be there, to fulfill something in that particular spot, or something to be accomplished there involving your presence E.g.: I go to Mount Athos, I do not “travel” to that place, or that aspect is not the essence.
        “Writers make happenings unforgotten” Only good writers….. Ha! I would say : “Only good and very bad ones!” or “love and hate are very close relatives” 😀
        “Readers make writers” – Well, here I probably have to update my lectures…. or to ingest more from the pseudo-modernism as you named it 🙂 The closest relationship coming through my mind is something like “urban art”or “graffiti literature”? Even there, can be an inner circle readers/competition, to feed the need to keep going in that particular form of expression. But when it comes to get some appreciation, you are already entrapped and start writing for your “readers”, and less “for yourself” or the sick of personal expression… But hey, I’m not a writer, “you are”, it’s your concern, not mine…. 😀
        Change subject: where are you now, as country location?

      • Dugutigui dijo:

        Well, that may be a new sensation! I’ve never went anywhere to fulfill anything. I just went for the pleasure to go.
        Re bad writers, as I am, we better forget about 🙂
        I’m in Alicante –Spain, for the time being…

      • George Valah dijo:

        U R 1% !!! 😀 😀 😀

      • George Valah dijo:

        Never been in Spain before, but you have great wine over there! 🙂

      • Dugutigui dijo:

        Either give me more wine or leave me alone!
        Yes wine is quite good here, and is one of the most civilized things in the world 🙂
        What about you?

      • George Valah dijo:

        I would say three wine names:

        1 Cotnari – The new crop, taste like an old fashioned one
        2 Murfatlar – full of sweet flavors
        3 Tarnave – it makes you a musical composer even if you never listened a symphony before… 🙂

      • Dugutigui dijo:

        It tastes great!!
        My last assignment has been 2 and half years in Argentina and there I discovered [and fall in love] with the Malbec.
        So this is my private symphony:
        1 Chaval-Ferrer
        2 Catena Zapata
        3 Cobos Marchiori
        That doesn’t mean I am not open to new discoveries 🙂

  5. cgbalu dijo:

    Great writing. Triggers my thoughts on my journey from 18 onwards. Love if my son reads such confessions.

  6. Me ha encantado. Gracias por compartirlo.


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