Fuck Me Friday: English ass

tea queen


It’s a well known fact that all Englishmen are at heart bottoms.

Did you not know?

Let me educate you.

The Brits, they like to fuck people, but deep down they want to get fucked.

The want it, like they dish it out.

Make sense?

No?

Let me explain.

It’s a colonial thing.

All past imperial types want to be bent over and ridden.

Sins of the father and all that kind of thing.

Absolution, through buggery.

The English, as former rulers of most of the gin drinking world, are in dire need of buggery.

All that past naughtiness.

Deary me!

Who better to wash away the misdeeds of the past than a Paddy?

Exactly!

It’s my duty to ride the livin be’hjeazuz outta them.

I know what you are thinking.

You know some English tops.

You poor ignorant creature.

It’s not that they are tops, they just didn’t think you was man enough to top em.

I know.

Crushing isn’t it?

No matter, where you have failed I will succeed.

These English boys, they need to see that you are the man.

That you can dominate them, and take charge.

What?

You didn’t know that all Englishmen are kinky subs?

The number of times a Londoner has asked me to pee on his face and let him call me daddy.

I lose count.

Sad isn’t it?

And yet strangely arousing.

Anyway, must go now.

Need to go pack my ball gag.

No one likes a whiny sub.

Oh and yes. Go buy my books!

Confessions of a Gay Rugby Player Part 4. BUY IT NOW!

Excerpt:

“Warm up, I’m putting you on in the second half. I want you match sharp.” Match sharp? More like, he is fed up talking to me and wants me to shut up. Why do men never say what they mean? Oh yeah, Oprah says we are emotionally stunted.

At half time, we are twenty-four to nil, and the coach and Captain give their speeches: stay sharp, stay focused, and respect the opposition. The opposition is weak, we could beat them with two men in the sin bin.

“Conor, you’re on for Frank. Work the channels and just tackle.” Al-righty then. I simply don’t understand straight men some days.

Suffice to say, I totally rock Glasgow. Big hits, turnovers, intercepts and a try, the full repertoire of my greatest hits. By the time full-time sounds, the Scots look totally crest fallen. I am, as they say, “the man.” Even Oisin, who just about knows a rugby ball from a football, is patting me on the back. I’m the man, and I’m going to pound the hole off Oisin tonight to celebrate. 

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