To Wank or Not to Wank?

That is the question….

Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous horniness,

Or to take up sex-toys or fingers against a sea of vaginal wetness,

And by quickly rubbing one out, relieve it. To die in the little death- then wank

Some more, and by a wank to say we end

The pussy-ache and the thousand-natural shocks

That vag is heir to: ’tis a consummation

Devoutly to be wish’d. To wank, then sleep; To sleep, perchance to dream — ay, have a rub:

For in that post-wank sleep wet dreams may come,….

(Hamlet (1603), Act III Scene I, William Shakespeare. Sort of…. )

Look, don’t get me wrong. Masturbation is wonderful. I love a good wank. When it comes to a bit of self-love, I’m a total fan-girl. From the moment I first discovered that magical place between my legs and how good it felt to touch it, I was enjoying a fiddle at every opportunity (and I ain’t talking stringed instruments). My ability to get myself off with relative ease saw me through the hormone-frenzy of my teens and the sub-par lovers I encountered through my twenties. Yes, I owe a lot to masturbation.

In my thirties, I discovered the many joys of sex toys and a whole new world of wank was opened up to me. And I enjoyed opening up to it on a pretty regular basis, nudge nudge, wink wink. Increasingly, I found that my once hurried self-pleasuring sessions -a little friction in the shower of a morning, a quick hand down the knickers in bed at night- started to take on an almost ritualistic status. Now there was prep involved; picking the music that would accompany proceedings, laying a towel on the bed in case of ejaculatory emergencies, setting out some lube and a packet of wet-wipes, and so on. Then, a bit like Empress Nympho in Mel Brooks’ “History of the World Part 1” selecting her escorts for the Midnight Orgy, I would choose a battery-operated lover from my ever-growing harem. Sometimes I would even enjoy several lovers in the same session. Hey, don’t you slut-shame me…

Nowadays, as a writer of erotica, and an avid reader of the erotic writings of others, I often get a bit steamed up during the course of my day. Add to that the covid lockdowns that have been making sex with another human nigh on impossible, and lo and behold, I have frequently been finding myself as randy as a proverbial alley cat.

The problem is that by ritualising my masturbation, I have backed myself into an awkward corner. You see, lately, though I am undoubtedly horny, I’m also really lethargic where self-love is concerned, and to be honest, I can’t really be bothered to go through all the faff of setting up all the paraphernalia, getting naked, masturbating for five or 10 minutes, then cleaning myself and my toy/s up, yada yada yada. It’s all very fiddly.

And not in the right way.

Denying ourselves some sexy self-care is not great for our health and well-being, I know. Orgasms help to clear the head, ease tension (both physical and mental), help us sleep better, and give us a healthy dose of dopamine, serotonin, oxytocin and endorphins to improve the mood and help keep the blues at bay. I just that (and I never thought I would find myself saying this) sometimes I really can’t be arsed.

I’m starting to fear that masturbation has become a bit like cooking for me. A whole lot of prep for something that I’m just going to wolf down in minutes flat so I can get on with the million other things on my to do list. Followed by a stack of dirty dishes that I have to wash up afterward. Most days, I’m just not sure it’s worth the hassle.

Meh. Never mind. Look, if I get really desperate later on, I’ll just make do with a bit of dry toast before bed.

And you can make of that metaphor what you will ;)

Jupiter Grant is a self-published author, blogger, narrator and audiobook producer.

Enquiries and comments are always welcome. You can also find me on Twitter @GrantJupiter