Confessions of a Gay Rugby Player (Charlie Harding Presents)

Title Page

CONFESSIONS OF A GAY RUGBY PLAYER

Introduction by Charlie Harding

Chapter 1

Trademark Acknowledgement

About Patrick Darcy

WILDE CITY PRESS

http://www.wildecity.com

Confessions Of A Gay Rugby Player © 2013 Patrick Darcy

Published in the US and Australia by Wilde City Press 2013

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, situations and incidents are the product of the author’s imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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Published by Wilde City Press

ISBN
: 978-1-925031-11-9

Cover Art © 2013 Wilde City Press

CONFESSIONS OF A GAY RUGBY PLAYER

Patrick Darcy

Introduction by Charlie Harding

What's hotter than a manly, burly, masculine rugby player? Teams of gay rugby players at a tournament! I've lived in a few cities with gay rugby teams, and speaking from personal experience, those guys get aggressive and sweaty both on and off
the field. This erotic fantasy at a rugby tournament brings all of the masculinity, raunch and down right man-fucking to a whole new level, so get ready for an intense session!

As I wipe away the steam from the bathroom mirror and take a good look at myself, I can't help but think,
Conor, you are one hell of a ride.
Okay, rugby tournaments are seldom kind to the human body, but I’ve spent the last twelve weeks getting ready for the end of season rugby tournament: extra gym sessions, more cardio, and weights. I managed to put on an extra twenty pounds of muscle. I’m six foot two and two hundred and thirty pounds of hard-earned muscle with pale Irish skin and a smattering of sexy freckles. Right now, I look pretty beaten up even after a long, hot shower. But still a total ride, pep talk over.

We are here in New York for the Gay Rugby World Cup. It's the largest men’s 15-aside rugby union tournament outside of the IRB Rugby World Cup. The tournament is played every two years and alternates between cities in Europe and the United States.

Typically, upwards of 20 teams will take part, and it’s the highlight of the gay rugby season. But it has taken a real toll on my body. The ground has been bone-breaking hard, the opposition players even less forgiving. Think of all those hot, fit men all pumped up, full of aggression, and ready to fight to the death. Well okay, maybe not to the death, but we all want to win and have been putting our bodies on the line. We've had four hard days of rugby, and now we have a night of very hard partying ahead of us.

My aching muscles are covered in fresh cuts and bruises, and I even have a few new stitches added to my head. No matter. They blend in with all those other scars earned from a lifetime of playing rugby. Nothing is going to stop me from having fun tonight.

Looks like I’ll have a real shiner over my left eye by tomorrow. This is how you look after playing rugby for four days. I have an evil-looking graze on my abs that looks like I got a few stud marks from a boot, a reminder that I should not lie on the wrong side of a ruck. The marks are clearly visible through the treasure trail running from my groin up to my belly button. Hmmm, looks kind of hot. The nasty gash just above the tattoo of a four-leaf clover on my right hip does not. It stings like a hurly stick across the ass when I clean it out with ointment.

This was my first “all gay” tournament, and the intensity of the tournament had really surprised me. In the back of my mind, I just assumed that a bunch of gay guys wouldn't be able to play at the same high level as the teams back in Dublin. Sure enough, there were some ropey teams, but the top US and Aussie teams were as good as any back in our league in Dublin. The bruises on my body are proof of that.

Inspection over, I pull on my new jock strap and a pair of blue shorts, spray on some deodorant, and pull on a local club’s green, sleeveless undershirt. It’s so hot and sweltering at night in Manhattan that I need to dress light.

Stepping back into the tiny bedroom, I see my roommate, Sean, is already set to leave. One of the great things about going on a rugby tour is bunking in with your teammate. It’s a great bonding experience, and we’ll have lots of interesting stories to look back on when we get home.

I'm fond of telling Sean that he is like the big brother I'm glad I never had. That's how close we are, thick as thieves even. It's the back row forward’s union. We are as tight as can be. Sean has taken me on a long journey from closet case to an “out and proud” A-list gay. Well, I like to think of myself as an A-list gay, anyway. No one else thinks that, but my ego is not for turning.

“Ready?” he asks.

“Yep. Let’s head out, buddy.”

We stroll out and take the elevator down to the hotel foyer. The large hotel lobby is full of players from various teams and, if you would believe it, a troop of gay cowboys. They have been having their own gay cowboy line dancing competition in New York. They come across as hot Marlboro men, but with tighter asses, and minus the cigarettes.
This could only happen in America
. My teammates, The Dublin Chiefs, are already in the lobby bar and ready to take on the night. Sean and I are the last ones down and get jeered by our rowdy mates.

Our captain calls for a quick 'punishment round'. The lads all get bottles to swig on, but Sean and I get a pint each. There are a great many rituals and traditions within rugby. Most of them involve drinking and singing. We are never going to be the poster boys for some 'drink sensible' campaign. Sure, where would be the fun in that?

Cormac, our captain, stands on a chair to hold court. The man is six foot six but feels he needs to stand on a chair for people to see him.

"These two bollixes have dared to be late too many times over the past few days." Sean and I exchange looks. This is like the first time we have ever been late on this tournament weekend, but we know that any arguing will result in harsher punishment. It's wise to make like a choirboy and take what's coming.

"Ye boys are both deserving of a kick in the hole, but we will settle for a pint each. The 'winner' will wear the classy blond wig, and the loser will wear the even classier ginger wig."

Sweet.

"Chug, chug, chug." The lads’ roaring fills the foyer of the hotel and brings us all the attention Sean and I secretly crave. Even the cowboys look in on the action. "Three, two, one, chug!"

Why the Americans think that the Irish are poets, I will never know.

We grab the pints and neck them, placing the upturned empties on our heads. I beat Sean by a whisker. Who's the big pansy now? Bragging rights are mine, for now at least.

We take our time making sure our wigs are on right. "Sean, you look like a ride."

"Bitch, I'm fierce." God bless him, he is such a bogger.

With our drinks polished off, the gang troops out into the hot Manhattan night, all of us high on a sense of anticipation for the fun that lies ahead. The gay nightclub, XXXL, is only a short walk away, and we are there in no time. XXXL is an enormous venue, covering three floors. Like most nightclubs, it’s dimly lit with pockets of darkness and plenty of hidey-holes. The club smells of fresh sex; we immediately feel at home. The first floor is the biggest, with bars around the outer edge and a huge dance floor in the middle. The other two levels are mezzanine floors overlooking the huge dance floor. They would make good vantage points for cruising, if it were brighter in here. The crowd is a horny mix of players, supporters, and cowboys. Seems like the hot cowboys received an invite, so things could get very interesting.

There must be about two thousand guys in here, all out to party and get laid. The place is buzzing with hot bodies and testosterone, and the DJ is putting out thumping music. This is man fuck heaven. The lads and I fight our way to the bar and order drinks. Alas, no pints.
What is it with yanks and their inability to get pints?
Do they not know that only pansies and women drink halves? Bottles it is then.

The tournament closing party is always the highlight of any gay rugby tournament, especially if you don’t have any silverware to bring home. It's an opportunity to settle some scores and prove, that even if you can't tackle hard, you can fuck hard. The big cats are at the watering hole, scrum down, and green ball. My sights are set on the man making my cock hard all day.

Tonio plays for San Fran, the best gay rugby team in America. He is tall, like me, and has a great physique with a deep tan. Thick, black hair and chocolate brown eyes top off the gorgeous package, and I wonder if he has Latin blood in him
.
Of course he does. He's one hot Latin fuck. Such a contrast to my pale Irish skin. He has great arms and pecs, and I can see the dark chest hair poking out from under his vest. This man is mine.

San Fran had knocked us out of the senior cup. When you consider that not all our best players made it to the tournament, a semi-final was a good performance. The San Fran boys are an eclectic mix of nationalities and races. A real menagerie of people, something for everyone. But one thing all their guys have in common is their physiques. They breed them good and big in the States.

As we line up at the start of the game, I give them all a good eye-up. Fuck me, their front row is enormous, all ex-U.S. football jocks, I bet. Like three tanned hulks, they are
.
Why are front row forwards so ugly? With faces like that, you kind of hope they are going to be doggy position bottoms. But these ugly forwards are always angry tops or depraved 'fist me' bottoms. They must look across at us and see a bunch of smaller white boys, ready for the taking.

They are in for a rude awakening. What we may lack in absolute size, we more than make up for with rugby brains, technique and all-out crazy Irish aggression. In this sport, focused aggression is everything.

We have the honor of kicking off to them. We go long, allowing their full back to field the ball. It's the first play of the game, so they decide to test us out with a run at our center. See if we have a soft underbelly. The full back, a tall, athletic blonde, carries the ball to our defensive line. He's pretty hot, in fact. I imagine he might have been a sprint athlete before he took up rugby. He runs straight towards me, probably thinking he could run right through me.
Americans!
My left shoulder hits him hard in the flank, my right arm wraps around his big, strong thighs, and my left arm grips him tight in a vice-like lock. Sprinter indeed. His legs are thick and powerful, and he has a nice, sexy ass. I make a mental note to seek this fella out after the game; his is an ass for pounding. I lift blondie clear off the ground and drive him back five meters towards his own players. Sean welcomes him to the party by ripping the ball from him and sending it wide.
Hello, from the back row union.