Spurt (pun always intended)

I know men who wank off first thing in the morning and last thing at night. Every day, like clockwork. The way others eat breakfast and have supper. That sort of thing. Does routine ever stifle their enjoyment I wonder.

Apart from the actual two second orgasm that might culminate from the tug, what can one possibly get out of something that has become so routine, so necessary? Does the novelty of masturbation ever wear off (together with the dick shine)?

I refer, of course, in the above passage, to the dick that looks weathered. Been through a bush backwards, putting it more colloquially, easier for you all to understand (as long as you leave the physics of what I’ve said well alone).

I used to be a ferocious masturbator. Wanking was the best thing about returning from school. The way some boys look forward to fish fingers, I’ve always had my eye on other things. I’d say culinary delights, though perhaps this stretches the imagination to the brink of snap.

Not so much now, though six times a week isn’t bad. I do believe however, and Arthur will support this assumption, that men, whilst being in a relationship, still can’t seem to get enough of their own hand action. Doing it yourself and having someone do it for you are two completely different things. Controlling the rhythm for a start. Followed by the wondrous exercise of sordid imagination. Topped with that sigh of relief when you can switch off the light and turn over knowing that there’s no obligation to cuddle the pillow. Indeed, if you so wished, you might chuck the bugger on the floor entirely.

On a separate matter, the pubic lice have gone. Safety measures included rubbing down body with special lotion yet again, showering as much as possible, washing clothes frantically, underwear to the point of ripped cloth. Though, I feel better. There’s a lesson to be learnt here, though one wonders what exactly that might be.

Exams loom this week and you’ll forgive me for not writing with such frequency until they’re well and truly over. Of course, by that time I’ll be completely free for a week or two to run around Soho, (wo)man humping on every street corner.

And another thing, entirely separate yet again…

A friend of mine said the funniest thing the other day.

‘My sister and I were talking yesterday and were saying how much we’d love to go out with a Scottish man. The accent! It’s all in the accent.’ She concluded, before she said something that put a smile firmly on the lips.

‘Of course, the only thing that puts me off is the idea of him talking dirty. I guess it would be something along the lines of..

Cun a leek ur poosey?’

Sigh.