Jerking Off as a Grown-up

Look into the mirror. Who is it that you see.

There’s a time and a place for everything - or so they claim when I bring it up in polite company - but, I would argue, that adult wanking is the rare exception. In the average couple's homelife, there is neither.

It is for this reason that adults must practise the teenage art of cloak-and-dagger masturbation. Obviously, the stakes are way lower than smuggling out nuts in earshot of your dear old ma. The jokey acknowledgement of a spouse, nothing like the mortal shame of a dad striding in - and, just as resoundingly, out. 

More than enough shame to warrant a reasonable degree of stealth. Whatever stealth, that is, a fully-grown adult can exercise, while huffing themselves through an orgasm in the most out-the-way room of a two-room flat. 

Masturbating in bed is a rare delicacy, not for the likes of us. That blasted, special someone is always home. Unless the guilty party is hanging on for a free house - which would mean aligning your hormonal urges with the blue phase of the lunar cycle.

The stark reality of adult wanking is catching a look at yourself, hunched and panting, in a dim ensuite - and asking “What are you doing with your life?” Or scrubbing one out in the shower, under the pretence of personal hygiene. Leaving the cubicle smellier than you entered, so as not to arouse any suspicions of any arousal.  

Serenity is lying with the tidal rise and fall of a dreaming lover’s breath - and, in a moment of quiet reflection, thinking, “I reckon I could bash one off here.” Painstakingly working up to a composed climax. Cursing the mattress of this creaky bastard divan. Get carried away and your star-kissed bride is in for the rudest of awakenings. 

Jesus Fucking Christ, I’ve got work at 6.

Um, yes. Right. Sorry. 

The masturbatory equivalent of thieving a wristwatch from a passed-out British tourist. Any time you get anywhere, they keep fucking shifting and stirring and you’re forced to start all over again. If that analogy isn’t relatable for you, live a little, for Christs’ sakes.

For the average thirty-something-plus, auto-stimulation is just another thing that must be done. There’s a dreary obligation about the whole process. Not quite a chore, but not quite a treat either. 

There is no truer sign of maturity than losing interest two-thirds of the way through. That’s enough for one day. Today, for whatever reason - fatigue, libido, everyday defeatism - the juice is not worth the squeeze. Or persevering to a muted orgasm and the effort really taking the wind out of your sales. 

Whoever thought those serious-old grown-ups were still cranking themselves silly? Every sad, tired soul at it like individually-caged rabbits. In truth, even the randiest of homeowners can’t sync up their mojos every weeknight. Sometimes a wank is just what the doctor ordered. 

In my desperate case, a wank is actually just what the doctor ordered. I wank, with the full backing of the global medical community. I wank, for the continued betterment of my relationship. I wank, in the name of our future children. I wank. 

And, if I rock my girlfriend awake, I’m sure to tell her as much. 

For all the scampering about, just like y’mum, partners are wise to our grubby little doings. They clock the guilt in our eyes, a flustered reply here, a ruffled pack of pocket tissues there.

But they let it slide, because, let’s face it, no one wants to shag you on a Tuesday evening.