Over the last few years I've noticed that it typically takes me longer to find something I fancy having a wank to than it does to actually complete the task itself. Not that I rely on visual stimuli, of course, but the profusion and availability of internet porn does offer a tempting jubilee of genitalia, a festival of flange, a carnival of cock, if you will, to the eager onanist; ready for those moments when the time is right, the hands are warm, and the mood is highly charged.
Such times have been more readily available to me over the last 6 years of singledom, and would be even more so during the current lockdown were I not quarantining with my eldest child. As anyone who shares accommodation and fancies a little self-pleasure knows, the most sensitive organ of the body when masturbating is your ears. And headphones really aren't recommended.
So while circumstance or broadband outage might require a withdrawal from the dusty vaults of the wank bank, in order to make a deposit upon the Andrex Jizzway, that extra landing strip that even Boris Johnson hasn't declared public support for, private personal time can see me bewildered at the vast selection of tiled video windows in front of me. And it's very much a question of exclusion.
Once I've filtered out:
- Ridiculously huge cocks (I mean, come ON. I'd like to identify A BIT with the male protagonist)
- Comedy plastic breasts/Lip fillers/Barbie faces
- Two or more guys with one girl (DON'T CROSS THE STREAMS!)
- Bukakke orgies (I note my spellcheck fails to recognise this hobby)
- Incest storylines (ALL THE RAGE right now, it seems)
- Disturbingly young (or disturbingly old) participants
- Abusive, controlling, or violent stuff
- Massively gaping Goatse style bumholes
- Casting couch, Fake taxi, cuckold material
- Anything with the word "exploited" in the title
- Japanese porn with pixellated genitals. And Manga, because who spaffs to a cartoon?
- Anything involving exchange of money
- Fetish porn. Feet are nasty, and if I wanted to see a pair of tights being pulled from a sweaty hole I'd make my daughter tidy her bedroom
- Doctor/nurse/dentist scenarios. Medical isn't sexy, especially right now
- Toilet-related shenanigans. And animals & kids, obvs
- Strap-ons, pegging and bizarre machinery
- 25 minute blow jobs. BORING.
- And a whole host of other stuff based on instinctive reaction to the thumbnail or precis
there's still, surprisingly, a huge amount of choice left. Perhaps not enough to satisfy a good mate of mine, who's confessed he loves nothing better than watching a minimum of two, ahem, hung gentlemen of colour working together to defile a petite blonde, but each to his (or her) own. Me, I like something that feels vaguely realistic to my life, and ideally involving a smidgen of plot.
Now I know this isn't an issue exclusive to straight porn. A gay mate of mine (Hi, Steven!) laments that so much content aimed at gay males opens directly with the slapping of flesh on flesh, not so much as a "How d'ya do" before sausages are buried in ever more inventive locations. He'd like some back story, some scene-setting for what we all know will cum later. And it's the same for me. I don't necessarily need to visualise myself in a set of overalls, holding a large tool in my hand, while a lingerie-clad housewife invites me in to investigate the blockage in her plumbing, but a little build up of tension, dare I suggest even some foreplay, are important factors for me in setting the mood.
That said, I'm clearly quite a vanilla wanker. In the last six months I've had two different girls tell me about a man they know whose chosen corporeal celebration is to insert as many as four steel rods (gently, one supposes) down (up?) his urethra. I'm not sure how niche this is as a pastime; perhaps they both know the same guy; but if any of my gentleman readers see a chap at the next urinal pissing like he's got the rose from a watering can fitted over his bell end, it's probably that bloke. Now, call me old fashioned, but I'd rather gobble the entire Tory cabinet to guffawing public school completion than entertain the prospect of sticking even a single, sterilised knitting needle into my Jap's eye. Jacob Rees-Mogg, if that's you that's been calling, this wasn't a binding offer, so fuck off back to the 18th Century on your penny farthing. And take your steel rods with you.
Clearly, vanilla comes in many varieties. There's the quick and dirty, Mr Whippy, soft scoop, crack one out, to give it its full name, when time is of the essence or, y'know, you have to get up in a minute, or you've woken in the middle of the night and need to get back to sleep, or perhaps you've sent an offspring out to the shops for you. Necessary, functional and serves a purpose. An admin wank. A 21st century zipless fuck. I'm sure Erica Jong would approve. But there's also the Madagascan hand-harvested vanilla pod variant; long and slow and languorous, where perhaps imagination takes the place of visual or written stimuli, and time can be taken in a deliciously slow build up.
These, of course, are the finest moments of self-care. When the mood and the circumstance and the window available all conspire together to offer some delicious personal time. A few years ago a former FWB popped my lube cherry, so to speak, and its slippery delights certainly transform the experience of one's own, familiar, hands. I'd always assumed lube was mainly for anal sex and vaginal dryness, neither of which make much of an appearance in my mental masturbation memorabilia, but the remnants of the bottle she left behind can elevate a regular pickle tickle into a bashing worthy of a bald bishop. Thanks, Lizzie, for both the memories and the gift.
Memories of the hand of another, in my case invariably a female other, though your mileage may vary, are also a helpful catalyst to the process. Mainly. Lizzie's slick digital dexterity could play my custard launcher like a meth-crazed hillbilly plucking an expert banjo at a lynching, but not every finger that has fondled my fuckstick has functioned with such finesse. I remember particularly, in my first undergraduate year, an evening spent naked with the lovely Tracey, during which she repeatedly tugged at me as though trying to uproot a medium-sized sapling from deep in the earth with one hand. A hand, moreover, which sported long, sharp, pointed nails, apparently at every angle. If my mind wanders to the moments that she inadvertently lifted my buttocks clean off the bed in her brutal enthusiasm, it tends to deflate things, so I try to focus on the times I've loved being touched, recently and long ago.
Jesus. Being touched. Spare a thought for single people in self-isolation. I know there are many categories of human perhaps more worthy of sympathy, but if I live through this it could be at least half a year since I'll have felt the intimate touch of anything other than my left or my right. And I know from Twitter I'm not alone in feeling an upswing in horn at exactly the moment that it can only be fulfilled in-house. Never in the field of human pandemic have so many people been forced to take themselves in hand. There's been talk about a rise in birth rate nine months from now, but the smart money is investing in manufacturers of condoms and penicillin for the inevitable upsurge in need once the lockdowns are eased. You heard it here first. I also suspect the water companies might want to forget about fatbergs, briefly, and prepare for the vast volumes of what I used to think was called public hair, that will inevitably block the sewers. Doesn't seem to be much point tending to the foliage while the garden parties are cancelled, does there? But when we're free to meet up again in person the sheer scale of deforestation will make the Amazon want to send charitable help in sympathy, as shaven singles prepare to be released like schoolkids on the last day of summer term.
I guess I've got something I need to release, too. Time to ease my own restrictions, and help support the NHS. Not by clapping from my balcony, but by tooting my horn, in my bedroom.
Now wash your hands.
Clearly, vanilla comes in many varieties. There's the quick and dirty, Mr Whippy, soft scoop, crack one out, to give it its full name, when time is of the essence or, y'know, you have to get up in a minute, or you've woken in the middle of the night and need to get back to sleep, or perhaps you've sent an offspring out to the shops for you. Necessary, functional and serves a purpose. An admin wank. A 21st century zipless fuck. I'm sure Erica Jong would approve. But there's also the Madagascan hand-harvested vanilla pod variant; long and slow and languorous, where perhaps imagination takes the place of visual or written stimuli, and time can be taken in a deliciously slow build up.
These, of course, are the finest moments of self-care. When the mood and the circumstance and the window available all conspire together to offer some delicious personal time. A few years ago a former FWB popped my lube cherry, so to speak, and its slippery delights certainly transform the experience of one's own, familiar, hands. I'd always assumed lube was mainly for anal sex and vaginal dryness, neither of which make much of an appearance in my mental masturbation memorabilia, but the remnants of the bottle she left behind can elevate a regular pickle tickle into a bashing worthy of a bald bishop. Thanks, Lizzie, for both the memories and the gift.
Memories of the hand of another, in my case invariably a female other, though your mileage may vary, are also a helpful catalyst to the process. Mainly. Lizzie's slick digital dexterity could play my custard launcher like a meth-crazed hillbilly plucking an expert banjo at a lynching, but not every finger that has fondled my fuckstick has functioned with such finesse. I remember particularly, in my first undergraduate year, an evening spent naked with the lovely Tracey, during which she repeatedly tugged at me as though trying to uproot a medium-sized sapling from deep in the earth with one hand. A hand, moreover, which sported long, sharp, pointed nails, apparently at every angle. If my mind wanders to the moments that she inadvertently lifted my buttocks clean off the bed in her brutal enthusiasm, it tends to deflate things, so I try to focus on the times I've loved being touched, recently and long ago.
Jesus. Being touched. Spare a thought for single people in self-isolation. I know there are many categories of human perhaps more worthy of sympathy, but if I live through this it could be at least half a year since I'll have felt the intimate touch of anything other than my left or my right. And I know from Twitter I'm not alone in feeling an upswing in horn at exactly the moment that it can only be fulfilled in-house. Never in the field of human pandemic have so many people been forced to take themselves in hand. There's been talk about a rise in birth rate nine months from now, but the smart money is investing in manufacturers of condoms and penicillin for the inevitable upsurge in need once the lockdowns are eased. You heard it here first. I also suspect the water companies might want to forget about fatbergs, briefly, and prepare for the vast volumes of what I used to think was called public hair, that will inevitably block the sewers. Doesn't seem to be much point tending to the foliage while the garden parties are cancelled, does there? But when we're free to meet up again in person the sheer scale of deforestation will make the Amazon want to send charitable help in sympathy, as shaven singles prepare to be released like schoolkids on the last day of summer term.
I guess I've got something I need to release, too. Time to ease my own restrictions, and help support the NHS. Not by clapping from my balcony, but by tooting my horn, in my bedroom.
Now wash your hands.
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