Taking the edge off

This morning, Mina was still ill, but I had to leave her to go to work. As she lay, wiped out in bed fighting off the next cough, I reflected on something I couldn’t do this morning, mainly because she was feeling ill: wank. (side note: I am a pretty strong Anglophile, and there are certain English turns of phrase I am fond of. I think I will always prefer the word “wank” to “masturbate,” “jerk off,” “jack off,” “whack off,” “beat off,” “choke the chicken,” “shine the salami,” “spank the monkey,” “milk the trouser snake,” “go number three,” “pull the root,” “play pocket pool,” “play five-on-one,” “meet Rosie Palm,” or “oil the skin flute.” For instance, “wank” is also a good noun.)

For most people, wanking is a simple survival technique. You do a dry run and clean the pipes, and it takes the fervent edge off your hormones. Since Mina and I have been together, I have found little need to launch the landing party in daylight, to the point that when I recently took care of my own buisness, I found my arm quite sore afterwards. It’s amazing how quick the skills go. Normally, when I do treat myself to a quality wank, it is for Mina’s viewing pleasure as well. I try not to let her miss out on any of my orgasms, though I do sneak a few in here or there, even if I have lost my fastball, so to speak. And while I have had a lot of bullets in the clip lately, I don’t think anyone likes to break up the monotony of “flu-like symptoms” with ballistic semen, and I am not the sort to fight the shower stream, as managing an orgasm while standing tends to be a struggle for me, though I can do it, if I want it enough, which I didn’t really this morning.

What really stood out, though, was the weird feeling that I couldn’t grease the pole. I mean, tossing is one of the simplest acts of individuality out there. Meant to be secret and furtive, and, with practice, ninja-fast, the dirty-and-jerk is a great assertion of self, of the fact that the world cannot simply dam your desires away, but that you can make your own pleasure. Simply knowing that staring at a woman’s back does not have to make you grow horns of lust, but that you can choose to peel the zucchini and relieve your own tension can serve almost as good a purpose as actually doing it. In fact, it can even be better, because the act of waxing the surfboard also has a way of highlighting its inadequacies.

After some self-abuse, you are left with the lonely task of cleanup, or of waiting for the dampness to grow cold. There is no body for your little soliders to fan out and invade, and no person to share the glow with. No one to talk about how wonderful that orgasm felt, no variable in discovering how hands less expert than your own bring out surprises you would never reach for. But, there is that simple greed of knowing what you had was yours, and yours to keep. It is that little bit of wrongness that makes it so right.

Now, if you excuse me, I think I’ll treat myself to a big wank.