I Shag Oscar the Irish Bodybuilder and His Twink Boyfriend

Philadelphia, November 6th, 2012

Election Night.  Following my tradition of Election Night Hookups, I went out to Woody's, an enormous twink bar with nonstop cruising.  There was a surprisingly large crowd, some watching the returns on a big-screen tv, but most ignoring them, believing that politics was a game for homophobic heterosexuals, not for us.

At 51, I was one of the older guys there, but I'm a twink magnet, so I was getting cruised by a number of Cute Young Things.

I was NOT being cruised by Oscar the Grouch, a short, very muscular guy, probably my age or a little older, with a round face, a stern military haircut, and a constant scowl.

Oscar was not being cruised by anyone, in spite of his physique.  Maybe his age and scowl were turn-offs.  He stood by himself at a little counter, beer bottle at his side, grimacing at everyone.

I never do well with older guys, but I thought, he's got an amazing physique,why not give him a try?

I sidled up and introduced myself.   The first thing he said was:  "Aren't twinks the worst?"

"Um...beg pardon?"

"Frilly little wankers, so soft and sassy, wouldn't know what to do with a real man if he bit them on the arse."

Well, this was a twink bar....what did he expect? "I'm from West Hollywood..."  I began.

Before I could finish my sentence, he continued, "Why is America full of stooks?"

"Um...beg pardon?" I said, trying to place his accent.

"Idjits.  You get into a big row over gay marriage, when civil unions do the same job.  What's the difference?"

Um...


"And your tv is bollocks!  The other night I was watching Parks and Recreation.  'Oh, you have to watch,' my friend said.  It's cor deadly, right?'  Infantile drivel, more like."

Ok, he was annoyingly downbeat, but I was entranced by his enormous pecs and huge round biceps -- and by his the accent, which I finally placed as Irish.

Oscar (not his real name) grew up a fell jackeen in Kilkenny, Ireland, a small town known for its Medieval castle and abbeys, and the nursery rhyme about the Kilkenny cats:  there were two of them, but "each thought they were one cat too many," so they fought, and now there's none at all.

"We're fighters in Kilkenny," Oscar told me.  "Always ready to get our hop on.  Not like you American ponces."  He grinned.

I reached out and felt his chest, and moved my hand down to his crotch.  Thick mass, semi-aroused.  Talking of fighting turned him on!

After getting his degree at Trinity College, he moved inside the Pale, downtown Dublin, the biggest, best gay neighborhood in the world.  West Hollywood  is all tacky and tawdry, full of dosser twinks with nothing to do but file their nails and tool, but in the Pale, there's a big leather bar, the Boiler Room, a stone's throw from Parliament, and the George is just down the street from Triners!  You can see the Book of Kells and ride a bloke on the same afternoon!

I was starting to bristle.  I defend West Hollywood as if it were my home town -- which, in many respects, it was.  But I kept my eye on the prize, a hookup with an older guy, and a bodybuilder to boot.

"There are museums in Los Angeles, too.  The L.A. County Museum of Art, the Getty...and....and Pacific Design Center..."

"Please, those blue and green building blocks?"

"So...what made you leave the gay paradise of Dublin for our tawdry, twink-infested U.S.?" I asked.

"Me fella had a job here. If we ride it tonite, we'll be sharing with him.  Doug. You'll like him -- all the Yank brills think he's savage hot."

Two older guys, and probably bodybuilders with Irish accents? I'm there!

"I hate America though.  I keep telling Dougie boy we should leg it back to Dublin, or at least move to Canada, where people are a little more civilized, right?"

Insulting my country on Election night?  I was about to give him shade and leg it out of there, two bodybuilders or not, but then Oscar put his arm around me and squeezed hard, and leaned in for a boozy kiss.  I felt his huge hand on my back, his hard bicep, his aroused Kielbasa pushing against me.

"Well, I'm locked and fell langered.  Why don't we pop off to me gaff?"

I assumed that meant go home with him.

Oscar took me by the hand and led me toward the door.  " At least you're a real man, not one of these barmy goslings with piercings everywhere and too-tight jeans.

"Yeah, I get swarmed by twinks all the time, too.  It will be nice to hang out with a couple of guys my own age for a change."

 We left the bar around 11:00 pm, took the metro to the 52nd Street SEPTA station and walked three blocks to an upstairs apartment on Peach Street: small, cluttered living room, kitchenette, dining room, two bedrooms.  Doug, the partner, was already asleep, snoring softly under the covers in the darkness of the master bedroom.

"Go ahead and jump in bed," Oscar said.  "Snog, if you like, for a bit of a larf."

Worried that I was about to be the butt of a practical joke, I gingerly took off my shirt and pants and climbed into bed next to the snoring mass of Doug.  I reached over and felt for a hairy, chubby bear -- and got a slim, smooth chest, skinny arms, and an average sized penis that hardened under my touch.

A twink!

"Did you bring me a present?" Doug murmured.

American accent!

So Oscar the Grouch hated twinks and Americans, but his partner was an American twink?

Well, a penis is a penis.

After we kissed -- snogged -- and fondled, Doug went down on me while I was kissing Oscar, and then we double-teamed Oscar's very thick uncut Kielbasa until he finished.  I finished between Doug's legs while fondling Oscar.

At least I got to shag one older guy that night.

See also: The Surly, Crazy-Eyed Guy