Mesuring self-love in millilitres
Stories of teenage impulses, ruined carpets and sleeping brothers. OR: Measuring self-love in millilitres.
Stories of queer life and even queer-er sex.
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I’m always wanking. It’s one of my favourite things to do, but it’s not something we ever really talk about, despite the temptation to spend a couple of hours a day at it being really strong. Hell, when I’m between jobs, I often spend whole afternoons having a fiddle, calming down, going at it again, getting my breath back, and so on and so on.
To be honest, it’s probably a good idea for me to always have housemates, as sometimes the only reason I stop is because I hear them coming home, and have a desperate scramble to change what’s on the TV and zip my pants up before they get from the front door and into the living room. I’m quite proud of the speed I can do this at, to be honest. But then considering the amount of practising, it’s not particularly shocking that I’ve got it down to an art.
Everyone loves a good wank, though, I think. Angela Lansbury even did a video about enjoying her own body in the 80s. This is a real video that actually exists, out there in the world - Angela Lansbury, her from Murder, She Wrote. Mrs Potts from the animated Beauty and the Beast, runs herself a bubble-bath and tickles her fancy in a video on how to stay vital and healthy in later life.
In fact, Ernest Borgnine was asked how he looks and acts like a 60-year-old in his 90s, and his answer live on American television was “I masturbate a lot.” So, y’know, if it’s good enough for those two, it’s good enough for me. In fact, considering how much I do it, and how it doesn’t seem to be slowing down at all, it’s possible I’ll live forever.
When I was at uni, there was a girl who was one of my best mates who refused to double-click her own mouse. She was a bit strange, though. She was a staunch vegetarian, who made porridge with water instead of milk, and would go out clubbing sober.
She said it made her feel sad when she tried to get herself off because it reminded her that there was no-one there to do it for her. Which must have been frustrating, because when she did bring someone back, they never managed to ring her doorbell anyway. We’d sit and watch X-Men cartoons together, and she’d tell me in quite a bit of detail about the latest baggy-jeans-wearing rocker-indie type who’d had a go, and how it was fun, but she never got hers.
Until one day, when some guy she’d been dating finally did something right. I think she rattled the windows with the noise she made. There were three of us watching TV in the living room underneath her bedroom and we gave them a little round of applause.
They’re still together, actually, so it’s possible the key to a long-lasting relationship is working out how to make your other half shout the house down in the middle of Home and Away.
I probably do wank a bit too much, to be honest. There are times when I’d much rather just have a quick one by myself and know it’s going to be enjoyable rather than meeting up with a sharp-toothed random who’s going to bend it in the wrong direction, or pull too hard, or be a really bad kisser, or something else that’s really going to put me off my stride…
I don’t think I could even work out how much of life has been spent with my nob in my hand. Far too much, I’d expect. Although I suppose we could work out how much jizz I’ve produced. If we say each throw of the liquid love-dart is about a teaspoon-full, and I’ve gone at it on average once or twice a day since I first learned how…(That’s a very conservative estimate, to be honest, most of my teenage years were spent just waiting for it to recharge so I could have another bash at it…
My all-time record for one day was 7, but the last two just plain hurt, and I’m almost certain there was a little blood in the very last one, which scared me a bit so I didn’t have another one for ages. It must have been well after lunch the following day, in fact.
Anyway. For simplicity’s sake, let’s say one and a half times a day since I was thirteen. I’m not sure how old I was exactly, but thirteen sounds about right. I know it was when I was sharing the bunk bed my dad built with my younger brother, because I used to wait until he was asleep and snoring his little heart out before going crazy on myself. Except at least once I must have got a bit carried away, as halfway through my frenzied self-abuse, I heard this little voice say “Alright, mister Shekkit, I’m trying to sleep.” He was younger than me, so I’m fairly sure he didn’t know what I was doing…
Anyway, So from 13 to now is, jesus, 21 years. Christ. 21 years is seven thousand, six hundred and sixty-five days, not counting leap years. And if we say that each wank produces a teaspoon of spunk - which again seems quite a small amount: The Fountain of Youth was definitely a thing when I was younger. There were times when it would just get everywhere. I never actually got it on the ceiling, but I think that was more due to poor aim than a lack of velocity.
So, anyway. A teaspoon is what, 6ml? Ok, fine. So. Producing 6ml of manjuice, 1.5 times a day for 7,665 days is… 45,990ml. Let’s say 46 litres. Or 81 pints if you want to be old school about it. Or 23 pop bottles full, if you prefer to measure spaff like you would diet coke. Next time you’re in the supermarket, pause a moment in the soft drinks aisle, and see if you can count 23 pop bottles. And that’s not counting actual sexytimes, or that one wet dream I think I had.
It never took much to get me in the mood as a teenager. Just one of the girls at school wearing a black bra under her white school shirt, or seeing Troy Holvey’s hairy legs during PE would have me pretty much running for a quiet corner to grit my teeth and knock out a sly one.
And I wouldn’t wait until I got home. I’d visit Mrs Palm and her 5 lovely daughters pretty much anywhere I could: In the woods, in the toilets at swimming club, even VERY QUIETLY in my mate’s houses if we had a sleepover or whatever. There was one time I even managed it on the school field watching rugby. I had a big puffer jacket, so I zipped it right up, and then pulled my arms out of the sleeves into the body as if I were cold, unzipped and said hi to my monster.
Also, being a pretty typical disgusting teenager, I would hardly ever clean that goo up properly afterwards. In fact, I was so lazy and gross when I was about 15, I used to be happily strumming away on my flesh banjo, then just as things were getting toward the big finale, I’d roll onto my side on the edge of my bed and fire that yoghurt onto the carpet, before rolling back into bed, farting and falling asleep.
I did that so often that eventually the carpet next to my bed was just a matted greyish splodge. I told my mum I’d spilt a candle and the wax had got stuck in the fibres. When she sold that house, she spent ages with a warm iron and some brown paper trying to get it out, before eventually giving up and just buying a rug to cover it up.
When I went off to uni, I got a bit better about things like that because a) I tried to keep things presentable in case anyone decided that coming back to my halls room with me might be a good idea and 2) because I didn’t want to lose my security deposit. So, loathe to spend money on tissues or loo roll, I’d use a sock that I’d worn that day, or something like that, which was fine until I managed to get athlete’s foot on my nob.
So after that had cleared up, I used spare hand towel that I’d brought with me from home for that very reason. This worked fine - I’d use it to mop up my outbursts, then chuck it in a drawer until I needed it again a couple of hours later. And then, every week or two, when it was getting a bit crispy and I had to crack it to fold it up, I’d chuck it in the laundry and boil all of the sins out of it.
This arrangement worked fine, until one day when my dad came to visit me in halls. We’d run out of milk, so I went out to the shop and left him sitting in our kitchen, surfaces all gross and covered in piles of unwashed pots. So off I pop to the shops, and when I get back, fifteen minutes or so later, all of the pots, cups, knives, forks, tupperwear, everything, not just mine but all of my housemates’ too, because my dad is a kind and helpful soul, were all washed and dried, neatly piled and ready to be put away.
Just as the kettle boiled, he said, off-handedly, “I couldn’t find a teatowel, so I dried them all wi’ that blue towel you ‘ad in yer room.” I very quickly re-washed the cups I was about to make our tea in, and realise that, once my dad’s gone, I’m going to have to wash everything all over again.
So the rest of our visit happens, and after I’ve seen dad off from the car park, I run back to the kitchen, luckily no-one else has used anything, and I’m like “Oh, thank fuck!” So I start piling things up by the sink to wash them again.
And then, just as I’m running the water, I start to think about what dickheads they are, and all the stupid, childish shit they got up to, thinking they were funny. Like, the time they started a ‘campfire’ in the only pan I owned, and then panicking and pouring paint over it when it got out of control… And very slowly, I turned the water off again.
They did a lot more thoughtless, selfish shit while we all lived together, but after that day, none of it bothered me quite as much.