february 2000

Angels with Dirty Faces

I had the opportunity of catching a spot of rugby on ESPN or something the other night. There is no doubt about it, rugby players are hot - hands down! In my opinion, there is no sport that is more competitive, exciting, or that causes me to get a bigger erection. Rugby matches make American football look about as interesting as a pot of boiling water. Every year, when football season kicks into high gear here in Kansas City, I have to deal with every yahoo and redneck stuffing red and gold in my face until they inevitably fuck up and everyone puts their Chiefs paraphernalia away. I mean, what is the deal with American football anyways? It stops way too often to hold my interest, and then there is all that padding, leaving nothing to ogle. Screw that! Make mine rugby!

I think my facination started with soccer first. Back in high school, there was this kid in my English class who was also the goalie for our home team, the Spartans. Jessie was about 4 or 5 inches taller than me, killer smile, perfect skin, and wicked charming. He was everything I wished I was in my early teen years. I had it bad for him, and to top it all off, he was totally punk rock. He often wrote in ballpoint pen all over his army green book bag all the bands he liked. Jessie was always easy to spot walking around the halls between classes. He usually shaved the sides of his head and left a strip of hair on top of his head, which he occasionally twisted into spikes in the front. His girlfriend was a year ahead of us, and she was cool as hell, too. She was in my art class, and I liked talking to her. I got to live vicariously through her stories about doing mushrooms and putting them on pizza and stuff like that. If I was really lucky, sometimes she'd confide in me and talk about Jessie.

Every now and then, I'd go to a soccer match and watch him defend the goal. He was pretty good, as I remember, and I would just stare and wish he were mine. But I was one of those ugly duckling type kids. I had glasses, fucked up teeth in bad need of braces, greasy hair, maybe weighed 90 pounds, and had an inferiority complex the size of Texas. Jessie would get so sweaty and dirty -- he was such a stud. I sometimes find myself wondering whatever became of him.

Catching a soccer match on TV is like porn for me. You think I'm joking, but I sometimes whip it out and beat it thinking about this player or that player I find attractive. But I'm a pervert, and you knew that. All the running, the movement, the camaraderie, and when a team scores -- that's when all the butt slapping and kissing starts. Sure makes me wish I was more athletic. To tide me over and satisfy my needs, I often venture to my local magazine shop and purchase several soccer or rugby magazines.

I knew that rugby was out there, but never really saw pictures or much less a game. I'm not sure when I got introduced to the sport of rugby. Maybe it was in college. I remember being at somebody's apartment looking through pictures that were among his knicknacks and coming upon this one picture of this guy with a smile so wide, decked out in what looked like soccer gear, but the ball was funny shaped.

"Who's this?" I asked.

"Oh, that's my brother. He plays rugby. You think he's cute, huh?"

It all came flooding back to me, compounding all that I had experienced sexually up until that point. Jessie, soccer, sweat, my foot and sock fetish, the dirty clothes -- the whole enchilada.

"Um... yeah... of course."

I excused myself to the bathroom to splash some water on my face. I must have looked ridiculous, like I was embarrassed or something, because I felt my face get red. I decided to find out more about this sport called rugby. If it was anything like soccer, I was sure I'd like it.

When I saw my first game, I think my mouth must have salivated the entire time. All these men, who are at least two times larger than any soccer player I've seen, throwing themselves on each other, shoulder to shoulder, makes it look like a huge orgy out there on the playing field. When it's rained or is raining, they continue to play in the mud like happy pigs in a pen. No real protective padding is worn except for a mouth guard, some tape or a helmet to prevent cauliflower ear, and maybe shin guards worn inside those fucking sexy socks. Bruises and broken noses almost seem to be a requirement, too.

I'm not too familiar with the rules, but it seems relatively simple enough. There are penalty kicks and tackles, throws and rules for passing, and things called "mauls" and "rucks" which I'm not sure what they are, but seem to resemble styles of group tackling, which I'm all for (wink!) But I guess I'm not really a sports fan anyways, I like it purely for the homo-social elements. The dirt, sweat, grunting, thick tree trunk-like legs, the scrum... Oh fuck! Where do they make men like this, and where can I get a position being a towel boy in a locker room somewhere?



illustration © 1999 by shane tanner