“Will you show me the proper technique?”
“Of course.” She squeezes my thigh just as our court begins to clear.
“Are you CockDaddy69?” a man dressed in a Hawaiian shirt and speaking in an Australian accent asks.
“Unfortunately, yes,” I nod.
“Hey, nice to meet you, mate.” He holds his hand out. “We’re the Thunder Down Under.” He gestures to a guy in a matching Hawaiian shirt and pink boat shorts. “We’re your competition for the next half hour. Is this your girl?”
“Yes,” I say, feeling weird referring to June as that. “I’m Wes and this is June.”
“Ah, June, lovely to meet you.” He takes her hand in his and kisses the back of it.
Now, listen. Modern gentlemen aren’t Neanderthals when it comes to another man trying to move in on their territory.
No, we’re polite, but we also subtly claim our territory.
Not pleased with Mr. Vegemite, I lift my hand to the back of June’s neck where I subtly rub along her hairline with my thumb.
The guy notices and then quickly steps away. I lift my glass to him and say, “May the best team win.”
“I’m sure we will,” he says like a competitive moron.
When he walks to the other side of the court, June faces me and says, “Marking your territory, Wesley? Really?”
Shit.
“I’m, uh . . .”
She laughs and says, “Why do you think my hand has been on your thigh this entire time? There are three chicks in the booth at your ten o’clock who won’t take their hungry eyes off you.” She leans in close, whispering in my ear. “I get it, and I like it.” Standing from her stool, her lips turn up as she says, “But don’t think you’re getting my number just yet.”
She takes off toward the shuffleboard court and I let out a long exhale. I glance over at the booth of ladies and two of them wave at me. Standing from my stool, I give them a curt nod but then head over to June, who is already pawing through the tangs.
Maybe a week ago, I would have been interested in talking to those women, but not now, not when June is keeping me quite busy. And yes, I’m happy she felt she needed to make a physical claim on me. That’s one for the books, gents. Even if I don’t know why she wanted to stake her claim. God, this girl’s unique.
* * *
“I don’t understand what’s happening,” June says, frustrated after her turn. All her pushes have fallen short, something she’s not pleased with. “On the other courts, I’ve had to barely push the biscuit for it to sail.”
“Well, for what it’s worth, the Australians are having a hard time as well.”
“Their toilets flush backward. Of course they’re going to have a hard time.”
Not sure how that correlates, but not going to push her.
In moments like this, where I can see my date’s frustration, I decide to take the easygoing route, make the most of the situation. I grab a biscuit with my tang and I pretend to cock my arm all the way back.
“Cannon blast,” I call out and push hard while making a blasting sound. The biscuit sails past the discarded biscuits, which didn’t quite make it to a scoring point, and lands right on the top of the ten. “Hey, look at that.”
June grabs my arm and cheers. “Oh my God, you did it. Look at you and your cannon.” Yelling down to the boys, she says, “See that? CockDaddy is bringing it. Boof! Cannon blast, you koalas.” She pats my back and then slaps my ass. “Good one, Waldorf, good one.”
Ohh-kay.
While the Australians set up their next shot, I turn to June and say, “So what are the rules on reciprocating an ass slap when you do a good job?”
Drink lifted to her mouth, she says, “Not favorable.”
I nod. “Good to know.”
The Australians shoot, taking my tactic, and score seven. June is up.
She hops up and down, cracks her neck from side to side, and then gets in position. “Now what did you do?”
Ah, an opportunity to get close.
To get my hands on her.
Classic first-date move.
Take note, gents, this is how you get in those first touches while being coy.
Ever see the movie Ghost? Where Patrick Swayze comes up behind Demi Moore while she’s using the pottery wheel? It’s the perfect moment, the epitome of taking hold of a blessed opportunity to subtly move your hands over the object of your affection.
As I step up behind her, I can practically hear “Unchained Melody” playing in my head.
A master at work.
Watch how it’s—
“D-oye,” I yelp, just as June says, “Like this?” and cocks her arm back, shooting the tang pole directly into my unsuspecting and unprotected nutsac.
Man . . . down.
Hands to the crotch, I collapse to the ground, and curl into a ball, praying to Jesus, long-haired and Holy Jesus, that she didn’t just pierce my nutsac open with the end of the pole.
“Oh my God,” June says, falling to the ground with me. “Please tell me I didn’t just peg you in the crotch.”
“You . . . did,” I grunt out, my vision going dark.
This is it, this is how I die.
On a shuffleboard court.
“Oh no, oh God. Are you going to throw up?”
“Chances are high,” I say as pain curls up into the pit of my stomach.
Breathe. Breathe.
“Looks like CockDaddy’s down,” one of the Australians says, stepping up to us. “Want a lift to the bathroom, mate?”
Under normal circumstances, I’d tell these Bermuda-short-wearing nitwits to kindly fuck off, but when I’m trying to decide if it’s sweat or blood I’m feeling in my nether regions, I give them a gentle nod.
“Sure.”
Humiliation courses through me as each Australian grab me on either side, lifting me by my shoulders and legs, and carry me to the men’s room, while onlookers point and stare and June trails behind asking if I need ice or a trash can or anything to help my penis feel better.
Balls. Not penis. Balls.
They set me down on a bench in the bathroom near the trash can.
“Sorry about your nuts, mate.” They slap me on the back, toss up a “Cheers”, and then head out.
I curl against the wall, the pain so excruciating I have no other choice but to lean over the trash can just as June pops her head through the door.
“Everything okay—”
A wave of nausea hits me, sweat breaks out on my temple, and just as I’m about to ask her to leave, my stomach revolts, and before I can stop myself, I tilt my head into the trash can and throw up.
I throw up hard.
CockDaddy just threw up on a first date.
Not sure this could get any worse . . .
* * *
“Hey, at least there was no blood,” June says, hand on my back as I hobble out of the emergency room, wearing ice-pack underwear and sporting an old-man cane.
It got worse . . .
“Yeah.” I grip the cane to help me walk.
Wish I’d opted for the wheelchair right about now.
After a wonderful display of throwing up in the bathroom, I asked June to wait outside as I went to a stall, pulled my pants down and examined my balls. When I saw my right testicle enlarged and colored in black and blue hues, I nearly passed out.
No man should ever have to witness their testicles as the size of grape and the size of a grapefruit.
Wobbly leg-inducing horror down below.
It took me a few minutes to gather myself and not pass out, but once I did, I wobbled out to June, told her I’d have to take a rain check on our date, and started to escort myself from the premises.
Guess who didn’t want to leave me to lick my wounds by myself?
Yup, the ball-buster herself—literally.
Stripping my pants off and spreading my legs for a sixty-year-old ER doctor with a yellowed mustache wasn’t exactly how I envisioned this night going, but h
ey, here’s to unpredictability.
“I really am sorry,” June says, for the fiftieth time. “I had no idea you were going to come up behind me.”
If she’d watched Ghost, she might have had a clue, but I learned she hasn’t seen that movie, while we waited in the exam room.
“It’s really okay,” I say, walking up to the curb. “I’m sorry we had to eat food from the vending machine as dinner.”
“You know, I can’t remember the last time I had peanut butter and crackers as a main course. But what a fine delicacy.”
“Accompanied by your rendition of ‘Seventy-Six Trombones’ while we shared a bag of Skittles for dessert, it was quite the night.” I laugh and shake my head while exhaling. “I’m sorry, June. This was not how I wanted to take you out.”
“Don’t apologize.” She grips my shoulder. “Despite seeing you throw up and picturing what an enlarged ball sack would look like, it was a great night.”
Leaning on my cane, I say, “So would you say I possibly earned that number of yours?”
She quirks her lip to the side while looking over my shoulder. “I don’t know. Do you think you earned it?”
“Well, if taking a tang to the coin purse doesn’t grant me your number, I think the pity handout of seeing me in an ER gown does.”
She taps her chin, looking cute as shit. “That powder blue was very becoming on you.”
“Not many people can pull off such a color.”
“And I didn’t have to use my pepper spray, karate skills, or keys as a shiv tonight.”
“Thank God for that,” I say, adjusting my stance, trying to alleviate the pain from the contusion on my balls. “If I’d had to run through the June Lacy Protective Gauntlet, I don’t think I’d have survived the night.”
“Not with the kind of hi-ya I can bellow,” she says, pretending to do a karate move.
Chuckling, I say, “Terrifying.”
She blows on both her hands and then shrugs. “Lethal weapons . . . not registered. But let’s keep that between us.”
“If I say your secret is safe with me, does that mean I get your number?”
“Resorting to bribery now, huh, Wesley?”
“Anything, so I can take you out again and wash away our memories of this night.”
She presses her hand on top of mine and gives it a squeeze. “I don’t know, it was a pretty memorable night. Could be the greatest start of a great friendship.”
“Ooof . . . coming in hot with the friendship card?” I ask, hand to heart.
“I have to like you before I can love you.” She winks and then digs into her purse. She pulls out a long scarf and wraps it around her head, making her look like an old farm lady about to let out the chickens. She strokes it and says, “Hate when my hair gets frizzy from the wind.” Then she digs some more and pulls out a pen and a piece of paper. Hope springs in my chest. “What’s your number?”
I rattle it off and then pull my phone out of my pocket. “What’s yours?”
She stuffs the pen and paper back in her purse and shakes her head. “No, that’s okay. I have your number, so I’ll call you.”
I’m in the middle of entering a new contact in my phone when I stop. “Are you serious?”
She smiles and waves her hand in the sky, flagging down a cab in no time. Opening the door, she steps off the curb and says, “It’s more fun this way.”
For who? Not for me. This is not fun at all.
“But . . . my balls.”
“Yes, and I hope they’re okay. I’ll check up on you, don’t worry.”
“At least let me ride with you to your apartment, pay for your cab.”
She rolls her eyes. “I won’t give you my phone number, so do you really think I’ll let you see where I live, Wes?”
She sits in the car and shuts the door, only to roll down the window.
“I’m not a murderer,” I say, making myself sound more like a murderer than anything else.
“Oh, I know.” She winks and then says, “Thanks for an eventful night.” The window rolls up and the taxi takes off.
After all of that.
The tang to my thang.
The puke.
The hospital gown.
CockDaddy69, for fuck’s sake.
All of that and no number?
I drag my hand down my face. There is no way in hell I can show up to work on Monday.
No.
Way.
Chapter Nine
Dear Modern Gentleman,
I’m going to gush, so bear with me. I had the best date of my life last night. Girl is sexy, funny, can tell one hell of a story, and she even shared her fries with me. Fries, man. I took your advice about grooming, given I’m a bit of a hairy beast, and she kept complimenting me on my hair and beard, not to mention how great I smelled. There was no kiss after the first date, because as you’ve taught us, holding out is better, but now that it’s the next day, what’s the follow-up procedure?
Fry Freaking Tastic
Dear Fry Freaking Tastic,
I commend you on holding out on the kiss. Even though I’m sure it was painful after such a phenom of a date, it’s going to pay off. You showed your girl that you respect her and can wait. Huge brownie points. Now you’re entering the critical phase, the follow-up. This is where you lay it all out. Tell her how amazing she is, what a great time you had, and be honest about your intentions. Hey, I like you, would you be able to carve some time out for me this weekend? I’d really like to see you again. Let it be known where you stand; she’ll be like putty in your hands.
Good luck, Gent,
The Modern Gentleman
WES
THE FOLLOW-UP
Mandatory staff meeting.
Three words put me in one hell of a mood this morning.
Still using a cane, I walk through the elevator doors of HYPE and onto a bustling floor. I spent the entire weekend in sweatpants, icing my nuts, and holding my phone close to my chest, waiting . . . just waiting for a phone call from June.
Can you guess? I got nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
You’d think that a deathly poke to the scrotum would warrant a phone call to make sure I’m okay, but nothing.
And because I’m a lucky bastard who can’t seem to score a girl’s phone number, I have no way of contacting her. So it feels like I’m back at square one.
Alone, numberless, with a serious case of black and blue balls.
“Good morning . . . oh dear, what happened, Wes?” Margaret asks, as she walks up to me, files in hand, a concerned look on her face.
As a gentleman, it’s not polite to talk about my groin in front of lady folk, and knowing this, I decided to come up with a story to tell my co-workers that would help explain my use of a cane.
At least, I’m blaming it on the gentleman angle.
Let’s be real. Who wants the notion of almost getting your balls punctured by your date to be the talk of the office on a fresh hell of a Monday?
I don’t.
“Water on the stairs of my apartment, fell down, twisted my knee a bit. Thought a cane goes with my look better than crutches. What do you think?” I give her a charming smile even though deep down, I want to whack her across the knees and keep moving.
Can you tell my mood has shifted from delightfully happy to irritated ignoramus?
“Oh dear, that’s terrible. But you’re right, the cane adds a touch more sophistication to your look. I think you should keep it.”
Over my dead body. The only reason I’m using the damn thing right now is because when I woke up this morning and stood, I felt too sore to trust my legs without it.
“We’ll see.” I give her a small smile and make my way through the office, nodding my head at people, but keeping silent given my current predicament. I make it to my office, collapse into my chair, and blow out a long breath just in time to see Caden and Roman stroll in.
“What’s with the cane?” Roman asks, not botherin
g with a hello.
Thankfully, Caden sets a cup of coffee on my desk, and sports a concerned expression. “Did you play basketball without us?”
“Will you shut my door?” I ask, leaning forward to grab the coffee and wincing the entire time. Roman closes it and they both take a seat across from me. Gripping the coffee with both hands, I make my tone gravely serious. “I need you both to swear on your dicks that what I’m about to tell you will not leave this room.”
“Oh shit.” Roman shifts in his chair. “I think we’re about to get a juicy tidbit. Can we guess what it is first?”
“No,” I snap, wishing I’d taken my pain medication before I came. I was feeling better yesterday, but apparently all the movement today has made things extremely uncomfortable. To be honest, it feels like my right nut is about to pop from pressure.
“Dude, are you okay?” Caden asks.
I shake my head and steady my breathing. “Swear on your dicks, right now.”
They glance at each other, then both put one hand on their crotch and the other in the air while simultaneously saying, “I swear.”
“Good.” I take a sip of the coffee, grateful one of my friends is thoughtful. “As you know, this past Friday I had my date with June.”
“Oh damn, this is from your date?” Roman asks. “I hope you at least got her number.”
Head still tilted down at my coffee, I lift my eyes up to Roman and the minute he sees it, he busts out in laughter.
“You didn’t get her number?” he asks incredulously.
“She took mine,” I say, turning back to my coffee. “She wrote my number down, patted me on the shoulder, and then took off.”
“Oh man, that’s amazing. A shoulder pat.” Roman wipes away the laughter-inspired tears under his eyes. Can’t wait to see what his reaction to my next news is.
“So what does the date have to do with the cane? Margaret said you twisted your knee.”
The Modern Gentleman Page 8
