I grab a round of drinks for Sean and me, and we eye the available talent. We both still have our sights on Bjorn. We bet each other a tenner on who will get to fuck him. Sean says I have more chance shagging Brad Pitt tonight.
“He’s not here, you dumbass bogger.”
“My point exactly, you scumbag Dub.” Like I said, the back row union is tight.
Bjorn gives off this sexy woodsy smell of sandalwood and musk, I reckon. Or some other pouncey shit. I introduce myself as the man who scored the winning try. Bjorn seems nonplussed. My charms are not working. A few more one-liners later, I give up. What the fuck? I really fancy Bjorn, but my luck looks to have run out this weekend. His cute little ass is going to be an anecdote in my glorious history. I just don’t get it. He must just not fancy me. What the fuck is that about? I head back over to Sean and give him his tenner. “All yours, buddy.” Sean smiles and heads over to Bjorn to try his luck. I leave the big cat to his prey.
The food is typically northern European, so it’s pretty crap. Thank God they can brew beer. I feel a nudge to the ribs. Well, well. What do we have here? It’s the Cardiff fullback, and he is looking rather fine. We share a hug and get a couple of beers. He’s telling me a long story about something, but I’m not able to focus on it. He is a great looking guy with a sexy Welsh accent and eyes that light up. His name is Matt. He’s maybe five-ten with a toned, muscular body. He has nice, thick legs and a powerful man ass. I’m sure he must be saying something important, but all I can think of is sticking my cock in his cute ass.
“I’m sorry I gave you that slap on the pitch, but you know us forwards can’t help ourselves.”
“It’s okay, Paddy. I know it’s just a sign of affection from you guys.” You bet your sweet ass it is.