17. Nate #2
I take a couple of steps closer to her to help, to show her how far to bring the ball back.
“Like this,” I say, reaching for her elbow, and then three things happen in slow motion.
I take another step, closing the distance.
Rory brings her arm back in what, from this angle, looks like a perfect swing.
And all six or eight or ten pounds of the bowling ball slam into my junk with no hesitation whatsoever.
“Fuck,” I manage to squeak out as I fall to the ground, my hands automatically going to my crotch to protect it from any further assault.
Waves of nausea roll through me as the pain intensifies.
Rory releases the ball down the lane and turns to me, her jaw slackened and eyes wide with horror.
“Oh my God,” she says, putting her hands over her mouth. “I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
I grit my teeth, the pain dizzying as I writhe on the too-slick hardwood floor. “It’s okay. I’m fine.”
I’m not fine.
My manhood is cooked.
My balls are crawling back inside me, or at least attempting to.
Good-bye, testicles. It was nice to know you.
My dick is throbbing, and not in the more pleasant way it usually throbs when Rory is around. Instead, it’s just sheer agony beating through my groin region.
It’s entirely possible that this is what dying feels like.
“Nate?” Rory leans down, and at that same moment, bells go off, along with some kind of celebratory music.
I close my eyes, still curled into a fetal position and clutching the area between my legs. I need a minute to gather myself.
This date is not going well, to say the least.
In fact, I’m not how sure it can get any worse than the current scenario.
“Nate,” Rory says, but it’s hard to hear her above the peppy music and the ringing in my ears.
“Congratulations!” someone says.
“Nate.” Rory kicks me with her rented shoe.
The sympathy is gone from her voice, and there’s a new sense of urgency.
It takes enormous force to pry my eyes open, and when I do, a wave of nausea hits.
I blink once, twice, then three times.
As my vision clears, I register two teenagers standing over me. To be more accurate, they’re standing near me, but their gazes are focused on Rory.
One of them is wearing a baseball cap over an excess of curly dark hair, almost like a mop, while the other has short reddish hair and glasses.
Redhead smiles, revealing a mouthful of braces.
Both are clad in oversized golf shirts bearing the name of the bowling alley, which they’ve paired with stained khakis (Redhead) and ripped jeans (Moptop).
I remove my hands from my manhood, trying to maintain some sense of dignity in the presence of this level of professionalism.
“Nice strike!” Moptop says.
He holds something out to Rory.
“I got a strike?” She blinks, looking back at the pins. “I got a strike!”
“Guess you just needed to get your mind out of the game a little,” I grunt out, forcing myself to a seated position.
“One token for each strike. If you get ten tokens, you can get free french fries,” Redhead announces with a slight lisp.
“Thanks,” Rory says.
She pockets the one-tenth-of-a-free-french-fry token.
The two boys finally seem to notice me. It says a lot about their powers of observation that they took full minutes to realize that a grown man is lying on the ground in front of them, injured to within an inch of his life.
“Hey, you okay, bruh?” Moptop asks.
He pulls off his cap, runs a hand through the curls, and puts the cap back on.
No, I’m obviously not fine, bruh.
My dick feels like it’s been beaten with a mallet. It’s entirely possible that my scrotum has turned completely inside out as my balls have retreated inside me as far as possible.
I need to get to a restroom to evaluate the damage.
“I’m fine,” I lie.
I climb to my feet, each movement taking more effort than I’m proud of.
Redhead and Moptop seem to take my ability to stand as good enough proof that I am, indeed, okay, and wander off to do whatever the rest of their job entails.
Not first aid, I hope.
I make it to the hard plastic chair next to the ball return and flop down, legs spread, breathing heavily.
“I’m so sorry, Nate,” Rory says again, crouching next to me. “I didn’t know you were there. Did I— Where did I hit you?”
I raise an eyebrow and point directly at my family jewels.
Her eyes widen. “Oh. Shoot.”
“Yeah. Oh shoot.” I shift then wince as pain lances through me again. “I’m going to go, uh, check everything out in the men’s room. You keep working on those strikes.”
“Are you sure?” Rory asks again as she adjusts the driver’s seat.
No, I’m not sure.
If anything, I’m confident that this is not the way I wanted the evening to go.
But she’s not asking about skipping out on our dinner reservation so I can go ice my dick, or at least not entirely.
I shift in the passenger seat, trying to find a position to minimize the pain. At least it’s finally eased to a dull throbbing. “I trust you.”
I didn’t even realize the driver’s seat of my SUV can go that far forward. She’s positioned herself with her breasts practically touching the steering wheel.
No. Don’t think about Rory’s breasts. The penis is in time-out. And I’m certain that a hard-on would be nothing less than excruciating.
The entire evening feels like one of those memes you see on the internet, the an attempt was made.
Goal: Have fun evening with Rory. Show her a good time. Maybe, just maybe, kiss her good night.
Reality: Make fool of self. Injure manhood, possibly permanently. Make Rory drive me home while I hold back tears.
We didn’t even make it through half of our beers, let alone get to dinner.
I shift again and stifle a groan. “I’m sorry this all kind of went to hell. Let me make it up to you.”
She pulls out of the parking lot and onto the road. “It’s my fault. I feel terrible. I should make it up to you.”
Am I one to take advantage of someone’s pity? Typically, I’d say no. But in this case…
“You really want to make it up to me?”
The Explorer hits something in the road, and even the small bump sends shockwaves of pain through my groin.
“Of course I do. Anything.”
It’s too bad that the thing I want to do with her—haul her into my bedroom, bury myself between her legs, and show her just how much I still want her—is off the table, not just for tonight, but for the foreseeable future.
She’s not ready, and my dick is out of the game for a while.
On the plus side, it still works, as evidenced by my reaction to thinking about her breasts.
“Go out with me again.”
She looks over at me, one eyebrow quirked. “I was already going to. I agreed to three dates.”
Her expression suggests that after tonight’s disaster, she’s rethinking the decision to go out with me at all, but at least she hasn’t backed out just yet.
“A do-over date. To make up for this one.”
She taps her nails on the steering wheel as she considers.
“Please,” I beg. “This one doesn’t really count. Give me a chance to actually take you out for real. Show you a good time. Come back home without any serious injuries.”
Her lips turn up. “Tonight really didn’t go in your favor, did it?”
“That might be putting it mildly.” I wince as she hits another pothole.
She’s silent, watching the road, and I cross my fingers as she considers.
Finally, she glances over at me. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
Rory nods. “Three dates. This one didn’t count.”
I lean my head back against the headrest, closing my eyes. Three more dates.
I have to make them count.