It’s no understatement to say that the Irish can drink. We drink in the same way that other men breathe. I’m not bragging, I’m merely stating a fact. The Paddies can drink. This particular Paddy drinks too much when he is depressed. Depression, the elixir of life. Sounds odd? You have not lived until you have been depressed and drunk. So here I am, pissed as a priest at a wake and pining for a guy who hates my guts. I must really be alive.
“Hey, man.” It’s one of the lads from…ah, I’m too drunk to remember. But not so drunk that I can’t spot a hot top when I see one.
“Hey yourself, kiddo. Which team are you from?”
“He’s from the Texas Rangers, so am I.” Ah, a double act. Two good looking, shirtless tops. You know the type. Muscular, hairy, pretty, and always crap at rugby. In most guys, drink dulls the senses. They fail to take in details, slur their words and act like general bollixes. Okay, I’m slurring a little. I was acting like a stupid bollix before the gig started, but I’m not missing any tricks now. But then again, no one overlooks red hankies against tanned skin, the universal symbol in the gay world for being a “fister.”
“Well lads, have you boys enjoyed the tournament?”
“We’re not boys.” Okay, so that’s how this is going to play out. Two Doms come to piss on my leg and mark their territory. Do I really send out a vibe that I am some submissive slut? Fuck if I do. These boys are just chancers. I’m pissed, not stupid.
“Easy tiger, I can see that you are all man.” My smile disarms him, and he grins at me like a cat toying with a mouse.
“What’s your name, Irish?” The first Dom cuts back in.
“Conor, Conor Murphy. Star back row forward and a total dumbass.”
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