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