Cole

Dreams of Death

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.