Free Confessions of a Gay Rugby Player (Charlie Harding Presents) by Patrick Darcy

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 .