- Name: As Irish as they make them. First & last.
- Googlable: Highly. We are talking legit Google Image search.
- Age: 26
- Height: 6”+
- Occupation: Athlete
- Alcoholic Units Consumed: Many
- Non Alcoholic Units Consumed: 1
- Time Expended: 18 hours
- Scale on which my hotel believed me a trollop (1-10): 9.5
- Overall Assessment: I can swing a 3 year visa independently, but then we really have to get it together & have many blue-eyed babies that say quaint little things like “Eirinn go Brach.”
In the spirit of my quarter life crisis I decided to hop across the pond for QT party time. Namely to check out grad schools in London, with a weekend layover in Dublin. Oi mate.
My sister – a shorter, blonder trainwreck version of myself – came with. We took the red eye in, had a chat with the concierge, napped it up a good five hours, duty free downage and out on the town. Our goals were pretty clear: complete & total obliteration via whisky, baileys and beer.
Two bars in and 3-7 drinks down began my rendezvous with Gaelic Football Player (or, to feed my love for acronyms – GFP). He was a tall, blue-eyed, curly-haired pro athlete and better than anything the tourist bureau could have whipped up for Intro to Ireland 101.
After I finished ripping on him for what I deemed to be “too tight jeans” and he finished expressing admiration for my class (pearls, burberry & a pre-slurrage state, oh my!) we had a pretty serious dance party. I’d say we reached an unprecedented level of breaking it down. GFP summed it up best with how we “busted many, many moves.” Totes helps that Temple Bar is big on Billy Joel.
After closing down Temple, GFP suggested we go to an after-hours club where he introduced me to all his footie player friends. Amazing. Anytime a drunk Irish boy would attempt to hit on me GFP would put his arm around me and say I was his GF. Legit protective. I’m not even all too positive that the last American guy I dated wouldn’t try to push me in front of a moving vehicle if given the opportunity. Let the comparisons begin!
The club closed at 4. Ireland. Doesn’t . Do. Diners. Shock, horror. GFP suggested we go back to his place to play with his (foot) balls & have coffee. “Just coffee?” “Just coffee.” My mind clearly wasn’t on the purity of Irish intentions as I was so distracted by the absence of grilled cheese in my future.
True to GFP’s words, back at the hearth I played with his balls. He pulled a couple out of the trunk of his car and we went to town bustin’ both moves & balls. Then, coffee it was. I was too mesmerized by the fact it was instant coffee to zone in on the fact we were actually having a 5 AM cuppa. Weird. We then sat, coffee in hand and had a chat around the coffee table. Weirder. We talked for about two hours. Weirdest. I defi got the dirt on how his athletic career was stilted by an affair with a teacher. And then, “ok, let’s go to bed!” Not so weird.
GFP was all “do you mind if the bed is on the floor?” Did I mind? Of course I didn’t mind! A mattress straight to the floor was actually the perfect solution to my newfound post-splitting-my-head-open “headboard phobia.” I’ve had a couple of incidents to label said phobia perfectly rational. Mattress to floor sounded pretty sweet to me. Hooking up, however – not so much. 7 AM plus serious jetlag plus serious inebriation = a handjob & ball play the best I could do before promptly passing out on said mattress on said floor. So much for the potency of instant coffee.
Despite a couple of attempts every 2-3 hours to wake me out of my slumber I remained completely and totally passed out. I really do hope no one ever wastes a roofie on me. Legit unnecess. Due to a lack of natural light infiltration we accidentally slept until 2 PM. In the words of my friend post-incident, “2 PM? Why didn’t you just stick around for more coffee & a dinner date.” As, initial reaction: “my sister will KILL me.”
GFP drove me back to my hotel that I didn’t know the street of. He provided a lovely scenic tour of Dublin along the way. Due to my complete and total lack of direction/sense of navigation he volunteered to go up and down every side street in the quest for the MIA boutique hotel. A couple of times GFP would go, “watch this, I’m bustin’ a move!” – to correlate with sharp, perilous corner turns. That boy. All sorts of upset he’d never again hear from the Yank that busts moves, I scored some digits at the end of my tour.
FYI – I look pretty awesome when walking in from all nighters. And by awesome I mean eye makeup nowhere near the vicinity of my eyes & a follicular disaster. Hence not so perfect timing in running into my new BFF the concierge at 2ish PM looking like disaster central from rolling about on a mattress on a floor with a well built Irishman. It wasn’t even a legit walk of shame. If I’m going to have judgment passed I damn well best come back with jizz upon my garments.
“I was just touring the city!” “Your sister said you were sleeping!” Foiled. Ubs. Foiled. Small boutique hotels + me on a bender = not recommended.
