Masturbation for beginners

Women’s magazines fascinate and horrify me.

About 10 years ago my business partner, who I shall call Steve, came to me with a conundrum: he’d just started a relationship that he felt was promising, but at the same time a magazine article was about to be published which would embarrass him. Through a friend in PR, he’d been selected to appear in Marie Claire as one of Britain’s three top bachelors.

Believe me, I know the man, and if he’s a top bachelor then I’m the Duchess of Argyle. He’s a balding 50-something gnome with skin like a papier-mâché scrotum, permanently broke, and bears a queasy resemblance to a cartoon Keith Chegwin. Honestly, he’s one of my best mates, but if women are flocking to him the only explanations are witchcraft, or that he’s secretly the world’s greatest scientist, and has created a thermonuclear fanny magnet.

I even have a photo of Steve wearing exactly this outfit. And it’s not a good look, Steve, it really isn’t.

Steve’s conundrum was that his ego was being stroked sensationally by being described as a top bachelor, but he was no longer single, and couldn’t take advantage of the sudden publicity. What to do, what to do?

I told him exactly what to do: totally ignore women’s magazines! You could leave one open for a month at the bottom of a parrot cage and it would end up containing less shite than when you bought it.

I realise that’s half the fun. I’m not saying women are all hemi-demi-semi-wits with a brain 1/3 the size of a man’s and mostly full of a large, pointless, free-floating bone. I’m confident there are plenty of males who are quite spectacular dullards – in fact I know there are, because one of them lives in my house and keeps staring at me out of mirrors.

So women’s magazines aren’t stupid because women are stupid: they’re stupid because, like all of us, women like to feel better about themselves, and reading something that sucks the IQ out of your skull like a brain-hoover is jolly satisfying. Everybody needs something to rant about, otherwise blogs like this wouldn’t exist.

(I should say that this particular blog only exists because a lady of my acquaintance pointed me to this article, and inspired me. It’s not, I should point out, the first time she’s inspired me to consider masturbation…)

It’s an article in Cosmo called “Masturbation for Beginners”, and I feel bad for even linking to it – you might assume it’s a recommendation, but it’s more like a grim warning. It manages to make the humble wank sound like you’re a timid but desperate sex-offender, tentatively grooming your own body ahead of a tearful violation.

Apparently you have to do the following things:

  • take a leisurely bath and light candles
  • caress your own face and massage your scalp
  • gradually work your hands down your body using featherlight touches
  • tease your abdomen
  • just as you’re about to get to the good bit, pull away until you’re ready to take things further

Let me put this in context. Before your great, great, great grandfather was born, before even his eldest relatives had been born, just as the Reformation was happening and the Enlightenment was bringing about the modern world, deep in a forest in eastern Europe a single nut fell to the floor and lay, waiting for the spring to come. It sought deep minerals from the rich soil, and crept out of the ground through the seasons that followed. For 250 years it swelled with the sun and rode out the winters. It thrust down into the soil and strained up to the sky, and it performed a miracle of quantum mechanics, transforming sunlight into energy, and energy into branches. It formed a verdant canopy, protecting men and beasts from nature’s fecund blessing. It fed birds and bees, and bloomed into a symphony of colour when the summer lay blissfully upon the land. As the icy fingers of winter crept into our sinews, it dropped leaves and nuts to the ground, furnishing woodland creatures with food and shelter. For a quarter of a millennium its abstract arboreal art had breached the drab horizon and thrown up one of nature’s greatest achievements – the glorious, random tangle of branch and leaf that is the mighty elm.

And then some cunt cut it down to print a Cosmo about having a wank.

I wouldn’t mind if it was quality writing, but it’s so bad it makes me want to destroy language. It makes me want to invent a time-machine, flip back to 1440, and shoot Johannes Gutenberg in his beardy little face.

Forget all that bullshit in Cosmo: here’s my advice:

  • Look in the mirror. Are you Barbra Cartland? No? Then forget all that folderol and trumpery about bathing and candles and caressing.
  • Don’t make an attempt to “tease yourself” unless you have a multiple personality syndrome, because guess what: you probably know what you’re going to do next. You can’t tease somebody who knows exactly what is about to happen.
  • Your body isn’t going to rear up and gallop away like a startled horse. So don’t “seduce” it, just put your fingers on the bit that feels good, and keep rubbing until it feels even better.
  • Clean up before it dries and goes crusty.

And next time you’re tempted to look at Cosmo, go outside and look at a tree instead. And if you get bored with the tree, look at somebody you think is fit, and go home for another wank.

Advertisements

Morning horn

Some things never change. My erection is one of them.

From about the age of 11, I’ve woken almost every morning with a mighty 3.5 inches* of engorged manhood pulsing between my legs.

* I reserve the right to disguise the truth: it’s not 3.5 inches. I wish!

Simple maths: that’s 30 years of morning wood, or 10,965 opportunities for a hand-shandy. And believe me folks, I’ve taken most of those opportunities! I should have bought shares in Kleenex at an early age, I’d be a wealthy man.

Even ignoring the regular turgid moments through the day, and the 9 year perm-e-rection from the age of 12 to 21, that’s well over half a mile of rock hard penis that I’ve produced in my life. Half a mile. Laugh that off, Jonah Falcon (I’ve lost at least half of you to that link).

By now my regular readers may have worked out that I’m an inveterate pervert, and will immediately assume the reason for my morning chub is that I’ve spent the night roaming the highways and byways of my fetid imagination, and rutting disgustingly with every man, woman and inanimate object that flits through my mind.

And that’s a shrewd guess.

But in many cases, the morning lob-on… hold on a moment while we admire that term, which I don’t think I’ve used since school… the morning lob-on is just caused by basic anatomy. When you need to stop yourself from piddling you employ your pelvic floor muscles, which are also used to maintain erections. If my bladder is full in the night, my body turns on the boner machine, and that’s how I wake up.

But often your first guess is correct; my turgid chode a result of vivid, Technicolor, occasionally disturbing sex dreams, and I wake up with an urge to roll over onto whoever is next to me, hold them down, and make the beast with two backs. Or, if they’re in “the other” position when I jump on, the beast with one back and two fronts.

For several years I’ve woken alone, and have had to decide whether to ignore the lower-lump, or take matters into my own hands. I won’t lie: it’s often the latter. If I find myself waking too early, that’s often enough to make me relaxed and sleepy enough to get another couple of hours sleep before I crawl to my desk, turn on my PC, and face the real wankers.

But these days I find it almost impossible to stroke out a white one, because of my cat. It’s not even my cat. It’s the neighbour’s cat, who turned up about a year ago and hasn’t fucked off since. You think I haven’t asked him to fuck off? I’ve yelled it at him almost every day, but he hates me.

I can tell he hates me, because I work from home and don’t start until 10am. My morning commute is about 12 feet, and I’m often still in my dressing gown at lunchtime. I work hard, but I treasure lazy mornings, and it’s one of the few genuine pleasures that being your own boss can bring.

But in spite of the opportunity to start slowly, at 5am every day I get several needle-sharp claws shoved into my lip, and I wake with a start to see the cat’s huge, pleading, glassy eyes about a millimetre from mine, and his feral little claw ready to strike again. And he thinks this is fun, because he’s making a purring noise like a vibrator on a tin tray. See: he hates me.

There’s then a battle of wills (which I always lose) in which I try to go back to sleep and he explains how much he likes tuna by doing a Foxtrot on my head and shoving his arse into my face. I could cope with that, but he also sheds invisibly thin cat hairs onto me, and they stick to me and irritate like I’ve somehow walked through a spider’s web in my sleep. I can feel them on me, I know where they are, but they’re glued to me and won’t go away until I wake and shower. So that’s it. Start work at 10, but get up before 6.

The cat deserves privacy, so I won’t tell you his real name. But to me, he’s always Cooking Fat.

His latest trick is to spot my morning wood, and attack it with both claws. He attacks even faster if there’s the slightest hint of regular up-and-down movements under the covers. I don’t know if he’s just jealous, having nothing but a saggy little bag where his manhood once lived, or if he has no idea that it’s part of me and thinks he’s murdering a mouse every morning. He’s quite the little murderer, and I’ve had to scrape up the tattered remains of many a pigeon from what I laughingly call my lawn.

But this habit of attempting to rip the skin off my morning tentpole has put quite a dent in my onanistic habits, and the build-up of sexual tension is such that the next (un)lucky lady to find herself in my bed is going to get plundered within an inch of her life. You’ve been warned!