Wanking is Better with Friends

Don't knock it 'til you've tried it.

For the very last time, there’s nothing wrong with a troupe of youngsters enjoying a cordial tug and each other’s presence. 

Masturbation and friendship are two of life’s true pleasures, why must they be mutually exclusive? When lost in the sorry consequences of a tug, it is then that we need our chums the most.

Some would have us shuffle through our siloed tugs, as if there is some quiet dignity to be found in masturbating alone. As if yanking away without the, generally, unspoken encouragement of our peers is somehow noble.

How can they toss an opinion into the conversation, without tossing one off in conversation themselves? Do not judge a man until you have wanked in his shoes.

In truth, adolescence is the only slice of life where a collective fiddle might take place, without establishing boundaries somewhere online. An ideal climate of empty days, fraternal closeness and hair-trigger horniness could spill over into this pastime, so oft misunderstood.

As with so many lost practices, few traces remain of that very first communal jerk. Among my peers, that which transpired at the tug of genesis was disputed at many a vigorous debate. All too often, tempers flared and words gave way to worse; with each opposing debater winging their unoccupied fist into the affray.

However, even the wackiest of the wack-off subsects would agree on some interpretation of the following. Two young mischiefmakers had smoked themselves within a stray thought of vomiting. The pair were in search of a lifeline. Then, from up on high, Big Suze off Peep Show appeared in high definition, and each knew what must be done. 

Word of the evening's spoils travelled idly around our friendship circle. At first, like all at the vanguard of a cultural shift, they were ridiculed. But something had changed upon the staggered completion of that first giggled tandem. We had fondled upon a self-gratification that was about something more than ourselves.

Sure enough, before long, there was nothing finer of a groggy Sunday afternoon than wanking off in union. My pals and I forewent the privacy of household stimulation for something, frankly, a lot more fun. If there’s a pursuit sillier than a good wank amongst stoned friends, then I, for one, haven’t climaxed during it. 

One of the few life skills finessed in isolation, we are all left to discover our own peculiar approach. As far as avenues of mockery go, these intimate peccadillos break ground on an entirely new district. We were cracking up, as much as off.

Do you truly know those you call friends, until you’ve mimicked their whimpering orgasm back at them? Until a kindred fetishist reveals themselves in the vulgar compromise of selection? Until you have synced up with an adjacent jerking acquaintance, only to throw them off their stride? 

Biologically speaking, arousal and amusement make for strange bedfellows. Nonetheless, anybody who tugged themselves too seriously was mocked, single-handedly. Back then, finishing what you started was gathering enough concentration before some disingenuous wellwisher found a way to break it.  

These crass, sensationalist terms, such as ‘circle jerk’, lay bare the ignorance of the uninitiated. Firstly, while we would lounge around in a loose ring of sorts, in no way was the formation settled. Lastly, although we would wrench away to our balls’ content, a mere ‘jerk’ doesn’t come close to capturing the camaraderie of the motion; everyone manning their oar for the greater good, with Babylon all but in sight. 

All too often, our good-humoured assemblages are painted as some cautionary mural of Sodom and Gomorrah. If you are craving sordid particulars, you clearly know very little about me or the circles I masturbated in. The reality was very much a trousered affair. With each partaker framing a discrete pocket within the confines of his or his waistband.

However, to save your imagination galumphing off through the mire, allow me to go public with the ejaculatory logistics. All proceeds were accounted for within scraps of communal tissue or, in times of want, safely within the lining of the pod itself. Besides one occasion, where rumour left us sorely mistaken that a brisk jab to the perineum would stem the flow. 

Today, each perfunctory tug empties me with a familiar sense of loss. I am just another prisoner of the enforced hermitship of modern masturbatory culture - as are we all. 

Absolutely nothing fills the emptiness of a spent load like the laughter of dear friends. Yet now I rarely fulfil my biological obligations in the same nation as the proud men those boys have become; let alone upstairs bedroom. 

Just another joyous symptom of youth which swept through our lives. Then, one day, as quickly as Jerry came, it was gone.