I was honestly quite pleased not to have to leave the house on Saturday. St Patrick’s Day in England is not top of my list of things to participate in. Despite it being the day worldwide that any fucker who has ever drunk a pint of Guinness claims Irishness, it’s also the biggest day of the year for people to tell me I’m not really Irish because I’m from the North.
I mean legally you’d be right because I haven’t got round to sending my Irish passport application off post Brexit. I was waiting for the rush of suddenly green Brits to subside first but honestly don’t tell Northern Irish people what nationality you think they are. It’s literally why we had that whole conflict thing in the first place and neither side takes it well.
Seeing some Twitter beef about ‘proper’ Irish-ness after the rugby on Saturday first made me shake my head and then laugh when it reminded me of one of the finest slutty moments of my twenties in the fair city of Cork (which FYI, is quite definitely Irish by anyone’s standards even if has an English Market.)
Readers may remember me fucking a hot man who partook in extreme sports for a living. Well about six months later I happened to bump into him again in Cork over St Patrick’s weekend (and by happened to, I mean I willingly got on a bus and drove for eight hours with a bunch of hyperactive fellas with too much adrenaline and not enough sense knowing he was going to be there.) I promise it was much less stalker-ish than it sounds.
Luckily because English people don’t have a particularly good sense of geography about Ireland he didn’t look that surprised I was there not knowing it was such a trek to get round such a small island in those days and assumed I’d had not much else to do that weekend. I didn’t bother to correct him in case it scared him off.
We ended up in a pub on St Patrick’s Night in that post parade pre piss up stage of the evening along with my also Northern Irish female friend who was also on a slut hunting mission of her own that weekend hoping to impress one of the boys we’d come down with.
The craic was good when suddenly one of the local girls who had acquainted herself with the out of town men at the event earlier spoke to me. I may have had no common sense when I was twenty but being a massive slut I could always spot the other girls who were equally keen on cock but not on admitting it. We rarely ended up friends shall we say?
And sure enough there was no love lost at this moment. She very carefully directed it at me and my friend that we weren’t really Irish so what the fuck did we think we were doing in an Irish pub pretending we were? Knowing that was likely to kick off actual warfare at the table, I went to change the subject but she wasn’t finished and informed me that no wonder I only wanted to fuck fake Englishmen in that case.
There was that kind of total ‘oh fuck’ silence at that point when the air goes out of a room. The guy I was with was black along as was his friend who was sitting with us and the inference was clear. I wasn’t exactly au fait with racism in a country as white as bread but this was so overt it was impossible to miss.
I stood up picking up someone else’s perfectly poured pint of Murphy’s as I did. The silence remained for the split second that every single person in the pub thought I was about to chuck the stout in her face. Instead I necked it in one long swallow I’ve never managed before or since, banged the glass down on the table and left the pub with both the men she’d insulted allowing the shouting to start behind us.
We walked up the street a bit and the friend bumped into some other people he knew and left us to it. He was quiet after the scene in the pub and I was frankly pissed in both senses of the word. We ended up sitting on the bed in my hostel room drinking the remains of the bottle of gin we’d started on the night before and talking.
It felt like one of those nights you’d set the world to rights instead of anything else and tipsy on gin I assumed we wouldn’t end up fucking. But when I went to get more tonic I came back to find he’d moved the twin beds round for just that purpose. I was supposed to be sharing the room with my friend and having been watched before neither of us wanted an audience this time.
We pushed the bed against the door so it couldn’t open and then he pushed me up the bed with my legs open and started licking my cunt. I had always been ambivalent about oral sex until this point finding it pleasant enough but ultimately pointless for orgasms. Not this time. This guy had both a knack and a love for giving head that I had never encountered before.
He licked me into a literal haze of orgasms with absolutely no interest in stopping and taking any attempt from me to collect myself and my clit to push me into another orgasm with his tongue and fingers. The bed banged at one point as someone tried to open the door and he didn’t stop. Nor did the noise that told us the St Patrick’s party had arrived back at the hostel.
I remember getting to the stage of so many orgasms that my legs actually started to go numb and he flipped me over so I was face first in a pile of pillows on my hands and knees as he fucked me to yet another orgasm for me and his first of the evening. I was so spent with orgasms I barely noticed the bed bang again as I collapsed forward ass in the air as he licked his own come out of me for the final orgasm of the last few hours.
I lay in a completely fucked senseless heap, out of breath and unable to sit up and marvelling that my ears were actually ringing from it all. That bus journey seemed like the best decision I’d ever made. And then two things occurred to me at the same time as him. Neither of us could sit up because we’d broken the bed. And the ringing was actually the fire alarm going off.
He rolled over and reminded me that we were staying in the same hostel as the guys who would go on to host the show Dirty Sanchez on MTV and they pulled stunts like this on the tour all the time and that if we wanted to make sure there wasn’t a fire, we were going to have move a broken bed.
We thought no more about it and went to sleep on the other bed instead. We woke up hungover and fucked in the still standing bed before trying to hide the evidence of the broken one. We gave up repairing it and wen to meet our friends in the pub instead.
Turns out that everyone else had had to evacuate the building the night before not because there was a fire but because the hostel had called the Gardai to turn the alarm off and stop the party getting properly out of control. Everyone who was anyone in Cork seemed to have been there and so our absence had been well and truly noticed.
He and I walked into the pub to a chorus of jeers and cheers designed to make a scene with my nemesis from the night before sat with a face like soured milk on her. However there was a noise behind us and the cheers stopped as soon as they’d started falling into shocked silence. Unbeknown to us the only other person unaccounted for during the fire alarm was the friend we’d left the pub with and he had just walked in behind us making everyone assume we’d actually been having a threesome.
Enjoying rendering another pub speechless with my sluttiness, none of us corrected them and my fuck buddy and I very much appreciated his friend loudly and obviously buying us breakfast to add to this impression. I’m sure my comments over the soda bread about real Irish hospitality didn’t compound that suspicion at all…