Borrowing Just

Chapter 1: Mr. Irishman

Chapter 1: Mr. Irishman

“Any hits on the ad to find your wedding date?” Armin asked as he stood over my right shoulder and studied my iPad’s screen.

Armin Gicco was my best friend, a prestigious banker at Hoffman Financial who just happened to have quite the heavy savings account and proper investments to make money. He was handsome to the core with a bit of boyish nature to him, sported cocoa-brown colored eyes, and stood at five-ten. The guy was 170 pounds with coiffed mussed brown hair that was thick, and had a thin build that was comprised with just enough muscle to call him sexy as hell. He was a twenty-six year old man, had plenty of money and vacation time to travel, was somewhat trite and conceited, a bit bitchy, catty, snotty, irritating at times, and wore lip gloss (usually a strawberry or cherry hue), which caused me to roll my eyes.

I read the advertisement on DatesForYou.com for the umpteenth time: 30 year old single man looking for a wedding date for June 3 of this year at Rothshire Vineyard. Applicants must be available for the weekend of June 1, 2, 3. Tux and proper hygiene required. No gift for the wedding in Erie required. Male applicants only apply who are over 18 years old. Bears preferred, but not mandatory. Non-smokers a must. Drinkers okay. No drugs. Interested gentlemen apply at the following e-mail address.

I replied, “A few wacka-doodles. Creepers. A stripper named Polo who wants me to ride his disco stick. A Marine who wants to fist me until I bleed. A baker who wants to put icing all over my torso and lick it off. The usual crap. Men suck, and not in the good way.” Maybe a man at twenty-seven like me was too old to pick-up a guy on line. Or maybe they didn’t like my blond looks, clean-shaven face, or broad shoulders. Who knew? Was I tall enough? I thought so. Six-two was pretty tall, and I was beefy with some toned muscle. Maybe I was finding a date the wrong way? Again, who knew? I didn’t.

He read one of my responses to the ad out loud, over my right shoulder: “Gingerhead seeks bro for a good time. I make a great date. Twenty-five years old. Big c**k. Blue eyes. Smooth chest (sorry, not a bear). Top all the way. Picture attached.” He stopped reading, sighed. “These guys are pigs. Let me click on his pic and see what the schmuck looks like.” Armin did as he said and I melted.

Gingerhead was hot from head to toe. His name was Peter Nebit and he had piercing blue eyes, a hulking hairless chest and steel-solid n*****s. The sexy dude stood at six-three and was 220 pounds of all-muscle. He was bottle-tanned with a five-inch c**k hanging limp between his legs, under cotton briefs.

“He’s a fine looking guy,” Armin said.

“Mr. Irishman is totally not my type. I really like bears.” I was bored and disgusted with my search for a date. My two-week adventure resulted in a lot of wasted time and a list of disgusting men who wanted to get laid. Finding a wedding date was a hopeless cause that brought about a lot of unwieldy discouragement and a pain in my ass (and not the good kind).

The question—Why can’t Armin be your date for the weekend?—came up numerous times among my queer and straight peers. Truth was Armin was leaving for Greece on May 30. He wanted to fly across the big pond and spend the summer with his relatives, whom he hadn’t seen in three years.

“There’s a second pic. Mr. Nesbit is in the buff. You want to see it?”

“Why not? What do I have to lose?”

“Listen, don’t be so blue, Benry. The right guy is out there for you. You just haven’t found him yet.”

“I have one more week to pull this off. Otherwise, I have to attend the wedding alone, which I really don’t want to do. My whole family thinks I'm in a relationship and I don't want to look like a liar in front of them. I realize this is a wicked game I've caused, but it is what it is.”

He ignored me and clicked the mouse on the second picture. There, in all his glory, Peter Nebit stood with an eight-inch erection between his legs, which was a throbbing length, purple-veined, cut, and was accessorized with shaggy balls. “Holy f**k, that guy rocks in the c**k department,” Armin chanted.

I wasn’t as impressed because I felt that men were the most horrible creatures. They were all bogus, d**k-hard, and just wanted to break my heart. I told him, “All the dudes on this website, and planet, are horny beasts. All they want is s*x. Against the wall. Against the floor. In their cars. In the shower. At the movies. In their offices. Every last one of them wants a bang, bang, bang, and I’m about tired of it.”

He kissed the top of my head, patted my left shoulder, and replied, “Don’t give up. Someone will surely want to go to Brice and Andrew’s smashing wedding with you in Erie.” He found a seat beside me at the iPad, clicked the cursor to the next interested party who answered my advertisement. He started to read it out loud, stopped, and chanted with sudden shock in his voice, “Oh my god. Well f**k me sideways. My boyfriend just f*****g answered your ad.”