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Playing with an injury was a common ailment for a guy in my situation, but after eighteen months of suffering with a chronic groin injury, I’d thrown the towel in and agreed to the surgery in December.
Spending four days on the flat of my back in the hospital writhing in agony, having caught an infection was bad enough, but the last three weeks of postsurgery rehabilitation had been pure fucking torture.
According to my GP, my body was healing nicely and he had signed off to let me play—mostly because I had lied through my teeth—but the bruising and discoloration on my thighs and around my area was a sight to be had.
I was also sore as shit down there. Cock, balls, groin, thighs. Every part of me ached. All the damn time.
I wasn’t sure whether my balls hurt more from the injury or the need for release.
Aside from my parents and coaches, Gibsie was the only one who knew the details of my surgery—hence the ice pack. He’d been my best friend since moving down to Cork. Even though he was an overgrown blond eejit with a penchant for fucking school admins and the ability to drive me batshit crazy with his blasé attitude, I knew I could trust him to have my back.
Knowing he could keep stuff to himself was the only reason I told him.
Normally, I kept that kind of shit to myself. Sharing details of an injury was a dangerous move and a surefire way of having that injury targeted by oppositional teams.
Besides, it was embarrassing.
I was a confident person by nature but walking around with an out-of-commission dick—with no endgame in sight—meant that my self-esteem had taken a battering. I’d had more people poke and prod at my bollocks in the last month than I cared to remember—and not in a fun way, either. Getting it up after the operation wasn’t a problem for me; it was the horrible searing pain that came with having an erection that I had an issue with. That particular piece of information I had learned the hard way after a shitty porno marathon one Saturday had resulted in an embarrassing trip to the A&E.
It was St. Stephen’s night, ten days postsurgery, and I had been wallowing in self-pity all day, having received countless texts from the lads asking me if I was coming out to the pub, so when I went to bed that night, I’d thrown on a bluey to cheer myself up.
The minute the actress’s tits were out, my cock had shot to attention. Feeling a slight amount of discomfort that was overshadowed by the realization that I still possessed a working dick, I had stroked myself off, careful to avoid the stitches on my groin.
Two minutes into my wankfest, I realized what a terrible mistake I had made.
The problem arose when I was close to coming. My balls tightened, like they always did when blood rushed to the head of my penis, but the muscles in my thighs and groin began to contract and spasm—and not in a good way. The scorching pain that had rocketed through my body was so severe that I’d screamed out in agony before unceremoniously vomiting all over my bedsheets. The pain was like nothing I had ever experienced before.
The only way I could describe it was to say it was like being kicked in the nuts repeatedly while someone stamped a red-hot cattle prod on my dick.
Unfortunately, the visual of the plastic-breasted woman getting dicked on the screen and the loud audio of her “fuck me harder” sexy-as-hell screams made it virtually impossible for me to get it down.
Dropping to floor, I had crawled on my hands and knees over to television set with the intention of putting my fist through the screen.
That was the exact moment my mother had burst into my bedroom.
She ended up having to help me get dressed, raging hard-on and all, and then rush me to the hospital, where I was scolded by the doctor on call for interfering with myself.
I shit you not, she used those exact words before delving into a deeply disturbing rant about the dangers of masturbating so soon after the surgery I had, and the long-term ramifications it could have for my penis—with my mother sitting next to me.
Seven hours, a round of blood tests, a shot of morphine, and one testicular exam later, I was sent home with a prescription for a new round of antibiotics and strict instructions to leave my penis alone.
That was two weeks ago and I still hadn’t touched my dick.
I was traumatized.
I knew I should be grateful I didn’t have any long-term nerve damage in the area, and I would be once everything healed and worked again, but for now, I was a pissed-off almost-eighteen-year-old with a broken dick and a deflated ego.
Fucking Ronan McGarry thought I had everything handed to me. If he realized the sacrifices I made, and the limits I pushed my body to, I doubt he’d feel the same way.
Then again, maybe he would.
He had such an issue with me that I reckoned nothing could sway him from his I-hate-Johnny campaign.
Not that I gave a single fuck.
I had less than two years left in this school, and possibly a further one year with the Academy. After that, I would be leaving Ballylaggin and all the begrudging Ronan McGarrys behind me.
Stretching my legs out, I gently rubbed down the area with my prescribed antiinflammatory gel, biting down on my lip to stop myself from screaming in pain.
