Penis doesn’t stand. Everything is psychological, including sex. It starts from your brain first and ends with your manhood dispensing all the load of lust acquired in your body. War brings out the worst form of lust in you. I remember when we were relieved from the front lines after two months of rigorous battle in the jungles, and we were ordered to rest on an island off the coast. An army of beautiful women greeted us. Many of the men in my unit had an instant hard-on just looking at this woman. It was on this island I lost my virginity. She was a sweet girl, naive as I was, but there was a spark between us from the first day I saw her sitting a few yards off our barracks. We got talking, and one thing led to the other, and we saw ourselves intertwined between the sheets. She was my first, but for the one month we spent on that island, she wasn’t my last. It was as though we were taken to a land of only beautiful women—Amazon. Many fathers tried warning their daughters about getting close to us, but while they hid their daughters, their wives and mothers were lost to us. It’s with little wonder that many of those indigenous men hated our penises in the same vein they respected our courage. It’s war, and Lust is a necessary evil.
Today at Promise’s bar, I’m seated alone, eating pork ribs and drinking beer. My sorrows have been wetted, and life is good. A man was sitting adjacent to me with a couple of friends. He obviously looked distressed. He had been lamenting how his wife loved sex too much. He said the doctor called her a nymphomaniac. But to him, he sees it as an evil spirit. Maybe she had been afflicted because he always tried to stay away from home. One time his penis broke after 5 hours of marathon sex. And now, for the past two days, his penis has been limp and sore. I couldn’t help but laugh at his predicament. The man looked pale and red. His friends weren’t also assisting matters to; instead, they were laughing at him. He wished he didn’t have to share this distasteful news, but he couldn’t help it. He needed help. It was obvious. I just sat back and continued enjoying my drink, reminiscing about life before I went to war.
The day I left and joined the army, my dad looked at me and didn’t utter a word. I was excited and could feel the wings of hundreds of butterflies flutter in my stomach. To the utter dismay of my mother, she was weeping and there I was smiling. What was funny? Why was I smiling? I understood the answers to those questions a few years later.
On the contrary, my father didn’t show any expressions. He had served as a medical officer in the previous wars. He never smiled or laughed, nor frowned, or show any anger or expressions. His face was always bland. Mother said the war did that to him, so all he did was extend his palm to me and give me a firm handshake. I picked my bags up and left without looking back. Thinking about it now, I wish I did. I wished I had turned around and walked back home. But it’s all in the past now, I’ve seen my fair share of war, and I’ve been scarred, now I understood why my father was bland, I wish I could’ve been too, but on my good days I was sour, and on my bad days, I was bitter. It’s a feeling I may and could never explain.
You definitely know how to make one ask for more. This is getting more interesting.