The bike ride back from the beach was unsettling. I no longer noticed the fragrant trees or noticed the flowering shrubs. The thought of the embarrassing encounter with that hot girl at the beach and the knowledge that I might suffer from a mental illness of hyper-sexuality bothered me a lot.
Once I returned to my house I immediately looked for my dad's computer so I could search terms for hyper-sexuality. I was happy to see that neither my mom or dad seemed to be around. I finally opened the search engine after an agonizing wait and typed in hyper-sexuality, and sure enough, it came up. It was something real.
The symptoms are extreme hornyness, and in the case of men, frequent erections and early ejaculations. It also afflicted women in the form of nymphomania, where a woman has a dangerous insatiable appetite for sex. I wondered what would happen if a man with this illness met up with a woman with this illness. They probably would just do sex 24/7 and die of starvation. I almost chuckled at the thought but then reality hit home again.
One thing that particularly caught my eye was that there seemed to be an increased incidence of this problem with persons that had experienced a brain injury. There wasn't any treatment for it, however a recommended temporary solution for men was frequent masterbation, just as Mark recommended. I wondered how Mark knew about all this stuff. In any case, it looked like this was indeed my problem, and I had it bad.
Reading about it did not comfort me. It looked like I had figured out what was wrong, however I did not know how it would eventually go with me, and I wondered if I would be stuck with this problem all my life. Would I still be horney when I'm 70 years old, or would I have burned out long before? It seemed weird that a person as shy as me would get this way.
I decided to take out my frustrations on my exercise equipment and in particular the weight bench. This was usually the best solution for me when I was really upset. I could feel my heart pounding, I was pacing the floor, and I was filled with adreneline. I needed to do something. This would drain my frustrations, I hoped.
I went to my bedroom and I set the pin on the bench press exercise machine to the maximum weight and pushed the weights hard. My breathing increased and I pushed harder still, and I did repetition after repetition.
I imagined that the weights were my disease and I was going to destroy it! I pushed it to the limit over and over again, and more and more violently. The weight machine started to partially lift from the floor, but I did not care. Kill, Kill, Kill! I was going to kill this thing or die trying.
Suddenly my dad rushed into my bedroom and yelled, "COLE!! WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON IN HERE!!". He was bright red and really pissed.
"COLE!. You are going to break something! The weight machine is thumping hard on the floor and it has caused part of the false ceiling in the basement below you to fall to the floor!
YOU ARE DESTROYING THE HOUSE!!, he screamed.
I stopped and just laid there on under the weight bar with my chest heaving, gulping for air. My dad stood over me and looked down at me.
"What's wrong with you, Cole?", he asked. He looked genuinely concerned. I really did not want to tell him of my problems just yet. Maybe too there was some possibility that I misdiagnosed myself. It was very embarrassing. I was covered in sweat.
"Uhhhh, I don't know, Dad", I probably lied.
He just looked at me for a while and did not say anything, but then he finally said, "Why don't you clean yourself up, change your clothes and relax a bit. Are you nervous about school?", he asked.
I got up from the bench and stood in front of him, unable to look at him easily in the eye. I wanted him to go away. This was not a topic I wanted to discuss.
"Yeah, I am a little nervous about school", I allowed.
"Well, your mom and I will work on trying to help you get you better set up for that. I will talk to her about it. In the meantime, take a shower and cool off", he said.
"Okay", I said.
My dad left the room and I went over to the dresser and pulled out some boxers and a T-shirt and headed to the shower. Once in the bathroom I turned on the water in the shower and stripped down nude and looked again at my pathetic self in the mirror. I certainly had a sad face, but the rest of me looked more like a monster than ever. The exercising on my machine had warmed up the muscles and created heavy rippled forms down my arms, and a great chest, while the bicycling created warmed up legs with defined muscles. My manly organ seemed large and always ready.
"If I was not feeling so miserable I'd be bursting out laughing right now", I whispered to myself out loud. "I am such a pathetic joke."
I stepped into the shower and soaped myself up. I did Mark's suggestion and took a hold of my manly organ and pumped it out. I yelped in pleasure as it spent to the drain. After about 10 minutes I did it again. My heart was pounding. I could feel the blood gushing through my veins. I wondered if my head would explode. Ten minutes later I did it a third time. I could probably do it a fourth time, but I had had enough. I was breathing hard and totally spent from both the beach, weight training and now this. I rinsed myself off and toweled myself off. Once my heart slowed down I actually did feel better. The pressure and tension were gone and i felt more relaxed. Maybe this would work as a solution for now and give me a couple of hours of peace.
After I dried off, I got dressed and left the shower. I exited the bathroom and met my dad unexpectedly in the hall.
"Are you okay, son?, he asked looking at my face curiously. I looked away and said I was fine. "Well, you were in there a long time, Cole. I wanted to be sure you were okay. You are acting really strange today."
I made a mental note to be more careful about this in the future to not raise questions. Perhaps I could do an early shower before others wake.
I got into my regular clothes and sat down to dinner with mom and dad and ate quietly. They asked me about the beach, and I told them it was really beautiful, and it really was. Even though the girls were pretty scary, they were really beautiful too. Overall, it was a nice place to go, and I'd be sure to return, perhaps parking further from the girls. I also really liked meeting Mark and Kelly. I was glad that I was able to help them. I thought it would be nice to hang out with them again.
After dinner I decided to go to bed early. I was really exhausted and spent. I even had a slight headache. I changed back into just boxers and T-shirt and climbed into bed.
I lay there thinking of all that had happened to me this day and also since awaking from the coma. My parents were really good, and my recovery seems to be going alright in terms of physical healing. I just hoped my mental healing would follow again soon. Perhaps as the brain injury heals my stupid problem will also heal. I soon found myself dozing off.
———————
Suddenly I found myself on the battlefield. The dreams of Jihad this time came back with a vengeance. I found myself using a bayonetted AK-47 assault rifle and moving towards and thrusting its bayonet into paper and straw targets. At other times I was riding around in pick up trucks and sneaking up on villages to take control. The infidels were usually rounded up and killed. We really did not keep prisoners. One particular aspect of this was what they did to families and it shook me deeply. I would constantly be waking up with my heart pounding, and then falling back to sleep. Most of the time the prisoners were taken care of by putting them in pits and filling those in with sand, a mixture of dead bodies, body parts, and people still alive, including women and children. I had heard of the beheadings but fortunately did not seem to witness those, however I was responsible for picking up the heads and bodies and bringing them to the pits. I guess I was still too young to do those types of killings, but they were still giving me opportunities to shoot people in the head. Always before I pulled the trigger, though, I would wake up. I never saw myself kill someone.
But there was extensive training on how to kill. Hand to hand combat training showed me what to hit to stop the heart or to paralyze or bring instant death. Some of the soldiers got to test the moves on captured peoples of all ages, who were then discarded to the pit.
For the longest time I thought I was a weak soldier. Most of the group had no problem acting on all these things and were happy to kill, but for me I felt unsure.
Then something very strange happened that totally freaked me out and made me scream out loud. I saw the face of an old man looking back at me as from a mirror, looking me directly in the eyes. His hair was almost totally white. There were wrinkles around his eyes. It was not a cruel face, but one of understanding. Was this the face of God? Was God looking down at all the destruction that Jihad had brought, and looking at me like this was all my fault? The face was not laughing. I could not figure out what its mood was, neither happy or mad. The eyes were so penetrating but were soft. It was the eyes of someone that seemed all knowing and could look right through you and it was looking and waiting for me to say something. It was a familiar face but yet was unrecognizable. I could not think! I wanted to escape!
I shrieked and jumped right out of bed. I was totally engulfed in fear to a level I had never experienced before to my knowledge. I peed myself and was shaking violently all over. I stumbled into the bathroom eager to leave my room.
Mom and Dad came running to me in the bathroom. They tried to calm me.
Was it a sign of God or the devil himself?
I felt I was looking death in the eyes. Death was coming for me.