The Irish Guy

**Warning:  this post is rated NC-17, which means patently adult, children not admitted**

I went to Ireland in March of 2010 with my favorite gay.  We arrived in Dublin on St. Patrick's Day.  I had been told before that they don't celebrate St. Patrick's Day in Ireland.  Well, that information was incorrect.  They have a parade, people dress up, paint their faces, everyone is drinking - it was like Gay Pride and the Fourth of July had a butt child.

Our flight got in quite early and we knew we weren't going to last all day drinking so we took a nap midway through our day.  We chose our favorite pub from the afternoon to go back to that evening.  There was a live band and dancing, it was perfect.  (I don't remember the name of the pub and I blame that on the whiskey.)

My gay and I took turns buying drinks and it happened to be my turn when this attractive, black leather jacket wearing guy (he was very Kenickie from Grease) approached the bar.  We hung out and talked there for a bit and then I remembered I had to bring my gay his drink.  I brought the Irish guy, too.

The three of us talked for a while and the Irish guy kept buying us both drinks.  Such a kind lad.  My gay kept taking smoke breaks outside and during those moments I was left alone to make out with the Irish guy in the pub.  At first I resisted because I don't like to make out in pubs.  Then I looked to my left and a couple was making out.  I looked to my right and a couple was making out.  I looked across from us and a couple was making out.  I figured it was just something they do in Ireland and I should respect their customs while I was in their country.  I mean, I didn't want to be a rude American, did I?

Then the time came when Irish guy asked me to go home with him.  I said something like, "What, you think I'm some slutty American girl who goes home with a guy the first night she meets him?"  The answer to that question is, of course, yes.  Yes, I am and yes, I do.  But I didn't want him to know that...at least not right away.  When my gay came back I asked him what I should do, "It would be stupid to go home with him, right?  Stupid and dangerous?"  My gay said, "It's up to you, honey."  I translated that to mean, "Absolutely not stupid!  And what's dangerous about it?"

So I had my gay take a picture of me with the Irish guy (in case I turned up missing, we'd have photo evidence of the last person I was seen with) and I went home with the him.  His flat looked very much like what I imagine a serial killer's flat would look like.  White walls, no pictures or art, a couch, a bed, a dresser.  Obviously, he was not a serial killer because I am still alive to tell this story.  Yay for being alive!

He took me in the bedroom and that was where I learned that huge penis does not necessarily equal good in bed.  This guy actually bruised my lady bits.  (Details of the bruising would be more appropriate in a different forum.  I don't want my rating to go from NC-17 to X)  And there was a lot of upper body movement, but nothing going on in the lower body area.  Which is kinda the most important area for movement. 

During sex he would say stuff to me like, "You're a dirty little whore!"  and, "You're a dirty little slut!"  and, "You're a dirty little bitch!"  All in an Irish accent, so it was delayed reaction insulting.  First I'd think, yeah, talk to me in your sexy accent!  And then I'd think, wait, did he just call me a whore?  It was the weirdest, meanest sex I'd ever had.

The next morning I asked him to call me a cab, but he offered to drive me to my hotel.  Very chivalrous for such a nasty little leprechaun.