I have a confession to make; something that I just have to get off my chest. I have a dreadful, awful secret that I can no longer keep to myself. I know what I am about to reveal will shock some of you on the grounds that:
- I am a sex-blogger; and
- I am a man
But I hope you will be able to see past my confession and support me.
So, here it is… *deep breath*
I can’t remember the last time I had a wank.
There, I’ve said it. I feel so much better now.
So what prompted this?
Well, partially it’s because it is, of course, a Monday, which means it’s time for Kayla’s fabulous #MasturbationMonday meme (in which, last week, Kayla did me the great honour of , using one of my photos for the prompt image). Then, today as I was scrolling back through some of my older material, I stumbled across this poll that the wonderful Girl on The Net ran:
Quick poll: how often do you wank? Assuming you’re not having partnered sex at the time.
Well, that finally tipped me over the edge (no, not like that, or I wouldn’t be writing this post, would I? Pay attention at the back there…)
I’ve written before about my “wanking style” but, the sad thing is, in terms of practising the technique, the frequency has dwindled to so rarely I could almost claim to be masturbatorly celibate.
So why is this?
I am sexually active. My penis does what it’s supposed to do when I have the “appropriate” company (although my orgasm can sometimes be a bit reticent). I have urges, I have desires, so why do I so rarely indulge in them?
The answer lies, in part, with the “orgasmic reticence” I just mentioned.
As many of you are aware, I regularly from suffer very serious bouts of depression. I have been on anti-depressant medication continuously since 2004. My medication has no real effect on my sexual appetite, but it does sometimes mean that I find it difficult to climax. Now, this prolonged “staying-power” might be seen as some to be a blessing, but in some instances it can be downright frustrating. It doesn’t happen often, but there are times when I am having sex that, eventually, I’m forced to effectively give up. I get close, but it just doesn’t happen (yes, this does actually happen to guys too). It’s a rarity when I’m having sex with someone else, but it’s much more frequent when I’m taking myself “in hand”.
And that is the beginning of the slippery slope, as it were.
Like most people, I wank because (a) it feels good, and (b) I have a certain need for release. Sadly for me, while (a) still holds true, (b) is very seldomly achieved. This, in turn, increases frustration until the point where the pleasure obtained is pretty much neutralised by the frustration experienced. A vicious circle ensures where, instead of relieving frustration, wanking actually causes more frustration. It loses it pleasurable qualities and, to all intents and purposes, becomes more trouble and effort than it is worth.
That’s kind of where I am now and, as a result of that particular stroke of ill fortune, why the longest and most productive “sexual relationship” that I have ever had is now more a source of bitter-sweet memories rather than an active source of pleasure.
Kind of sucks to be me really.