Oversexed

You don't quite know how this has happened to you.  You're almost twenty years old, for Pete's sake, not some high school freshman with a hormonal acne rash.  You can vote and drink and soon enough it'll be established that you can fight and maybe kill.  You're not supposed to be acting like this. 

You're not supposed to be like this. 

You remember seeing all your friends go through it, way back then.  At the time, you just shook your head and smiled, because you were a Kent and, well, not exactly from Kansas anyway, and somehow ... you were above it all. 

Now you feel like writing every fellow you ever teased and apologizing, because this is some sort of torture. 

A hard-on is something you wake up with, one in a while.  It's something that happens occasionally, randomly, throughout the day, and you ignore it and think about your duties or about football and it goes away.  It's part of the strange parcel of privileges and drawbacks that is being a man. 

But suddenly, it's not just that.  Suddenly, it's not just an easily-discouraged inconvenience.  It's not a quirky physiological fact.  It's insistent and stubborn and distracting as hell and it makes you crazy, like an itch that needs scratching, but worse.  Like a need that must be met, so that you're constantly catching yourself looking at things you shouldn't, imagining things you shouldn't.

It hits you with a vengeance in your sleep, when you're defenseless, and for the first time in your life, you wake up in the middle of the night with a wet spot on your shorts and hope to Jesus that you didn't make any noise.  For the first time in your life, you look for chances to be alone, if only for a minute -- in the latrine, in the shower, even ducking into a dusty ammunition storage space once -- and you take yourself in hand and try to finish it, stop the thoughts and the needs and the heat. 

It never lasts for long. 

You should hate him, because he's the reason this is happening.  If it hadn't been for those darned pictures, those obscene images that are now burned into your brain, you'd never have become like this.  Because of him, you've turned into some kind of pervert, a man who can't stop thinking about other men, about his buddies, like that.  Because of him, you feel like you're a loaded weapon with a hair trigger, like any moment you might just jump out of your skin, or -- worse -- jump onto one of your pals.  You feel like a dirty spot in the midst of a clean white sheet, which is wrong because before you were always the clean one.  And it's all because of him. 

Every time you see him, it's like there's a live fire in your belly.  You can't look at him, for fear of sparks shooting right out your eyes.  But your body isn't ashamed, though it should be, and your mind isn't angry, though it should be.  You avert your eyes, but you still get hard, you still get warm, you still want. 

You still want.

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