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

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.
    Sean and I hunt in packs with Captain. Today will be no different. The next breakdown is twenty meters to the left, and there is a ruck. San Fran tries to counter ruck us off the ball. Mickey O' Toole, our number nine, sees what is happening and orders in reinforcements. Sean and I get in there to secure the ball. Sean is struggling as his shoulders meet theirs. They're big fuckers and strong, each of them broad shouldered and buffed up. I charge in behind Sean, bind onto him and secure a clean ball for Mickey to distribute.
    This is going to be a hard game, and they are up for the fight.
    Our turn to test them out as, Cian, our little right wing, decides to run straight at them. Why are the little fellas so completely nuts? You have to hand it to him. Everyone knows he is a complete power bottom and as fearless as they come. With a swerve of his hips, he beats their number eight, but there is no more space and two props right in front of him. He introduces himself by running straight at the first one at full pelt; he positively bounces off him, knocking the big prop onto his ass, but he’s nabbed by the second one. I can't help but think these lads are going to be pounding the hole off him at some stage this weekend. Fearless.
    Sean and I charge in to clear the breakdown. These lads are bigger than we are, but we are crazier. We have them rattled. I know what they are asking themselves, “How can these wee men be so fucking crazy in the contact?” Because we are Irish, and we love the fight. So front up, you big Marys.
    A knock-on brings the first scrum of the game, and it’s Green ball. Let’s see what they got.
    "Crouch, pause, engage." The ref gets the game restarted. I'd say their pack is, by the man, an average of two to three stone heavier than our guys. They are as strong as bulls, and we struggle to hold them off our 'put in'. Hardly surprising, all of them having huge legs and huge power asses. Impressive, really. The kind of butts that you break rocks off of. I have to confess that I am a sucker for a hot ass. Who would not want to bite and pound a powerful man ass? Fuck