I’m sitting on the sofa and I’m horny. Not just horny in an abstract ‘quite fancy a shag’ sense, but in the throbbing, aching way I get horny when I’m hungover. My knee’s jiggling – a painfully obvious sign that what I need is release rather than affection – and I’m idly browsing through the lovely Sinful Sunday images that are guaranteed to provide a satisfying wank.
I could, of course, simply go through to the bedroom and wake someone up. He’s not only incredibly horny 99% of the time, he is also generally happy to have his sleep interrupted as long as there’s either coffee or a fuck waiting when his eyes open.
But I’m not going to do that. Because, lovely though sex is, it doesn’t always scratch the right itch.
Admin wanking
I’ve waffled on about wanking before, frequently, and I’d hope there’s nothing surprising about the idea of a woman treating herself to a hand job on a lazy Sunday morning. But I think there’s often an assumption that wanking is a substitute for sex – something you do because you can’t get laid at that particular point in time.
On the contrary. It’s not even something you do because you’re feeling deeply aroused and have a particular image or fantasy in your head that requires special attention. Often I masturbate simply because it’s something I have to get out of my system before I can get on with my day.
The admin wank, if you like. This is one born of a vague sense of hungover-horniness combined with the knowledge that sex will take too long and there’ll be no porn that satisfies my particular mood. In these instances, shoving my hand down my knickers and frigging myself for a maximum of 60 seconds will usually do the trick.
This doesn’t mean I like sex any less, this doesn’t mean I fancy him any less – it just means that, right now, that’s the most suitable way to get what I need.
A long time ago…
It’s stiflingly hot, and I’m lying awake in a single bed in a villa in Spain, listening to my boy frantically rubbing himself under the duvet of the other bed, on the other side of the room. I am trying very hard not to cry.
This is unusual: normally the idea of boys wanking nearby me is enough to make my knees go funny and give me that lustful borderline-crosseyed look that I reserve for exceptionally arousing situations. I love both extremes of boywanking: the times when I’m not just present but involved – when he’s touching my tits or gripping my arse as he pumps his fist up and down his own cock, preparing to cover me with jizz when he reaches the climax. And the other kind: when he has solitary, private wanks that he tells me about afterwards – sending me links to the videos he was watching so I can imagine at just which point he was pushed over the edge.
Both of these things are hot, and amazing. Part of me is getting tingly – the sound of this guy wanking purely for his own physical pleasure, letting out small sighs or suppressed grunts as he gets close makes my head spin. But part of me wants to weep at the sheer waste of it. In the villa I’m absent: not included or involved, just in the same room by chance, not as asleep as he thinks I am, torn between feeling voyeuristic and vulnerable, telling myself that his furtive release is a necessary tactical manoeuvre rather than an implicit rejection of me.
I try to control myself and fall asleep, but I fail, eventually storming out of the room in a huff just as he twitches to mark the conclusion.
It’s not about sex versus masturbation
That incident happened a long time ago – when I was younger and far less used to the kind of admin wanks that are one of the easiest and simplest sexual things adults can do. The masturbation that isn’t a performance, just a quick solution to an immediate problem: like going to the toilet, or quenching your thirst.
I used to see sex as something I should always be striving for: with a partner one of the boxes I ticked when calculating whether I was happy was looking at how many times we’d fucked. The quality was always good, but what really mattered to me was the quantity. Naïvely, I saw every wank my partner had as a fuck I’d missed out on, failing to realise that masturbation isn’t always a substitute for sex: sometimes it’s a snack that keeps you going until the next meal.
The day I got back from that Spanish holiday I had a chat with the gentleman in question. I explained how his furtive hand-shandy had made me feel left out, miserable and unwanted. Reading the story back now, I’m having a serious chat with myself – explaining that the way I reacted makes me look like an inconsiderate arse.
It should never be about sex versus masturbation – there’s no either/or. You can love sex and love your partner and think they’re hotter than the sun, but still find yourself occasionally needing a bit of alone time.
Now, if you’ll excuse me for a couple of minutes…
11 Comments
I agree. Entirely.
I see your point. Masturbation is not always because sex is not available. As I was discussing with another fella the other week, sometimes you just feel like a wank. Even if you just had sex.
Even if you have sex two times a day every day of the week (and three times on Sunday), sometimes you’ll still want a wank. And frankly, there’s nothing wrong with that.
And it particularly is the case where one person in a couple doesn’t want to have sex again, a quick wank by the person who /does/, will be better than nothing (often…).
So yeah, wankers of the world, err, unite.
Yes! This, entirely!
I’m just making this discovery with my partner of forever and a day. Where I used to feel some wrench of guilt were I to squirrel myself upstairs for an admirably named ‘admin wank’, I now realise it’s nothing against him and his skills, but it’s just one of those ‘get it out of your system’ needs.
*doffs cap at your epiphany*
LadyP xo
Totally agree with your post. But just clicked through to ‘Sinful Sunday’ and can’t imagine ever getting off on any of those! Chacun a son gout ;-)
In Ireland (Dublin), describing yourself as being “Seedy” is slang for being hungover. Always struck me as being a perfect description of that nagging, dirty, sleazy horniness that follows you around after a night of pouring porter down your throat.
All hail the admin wank in all its functional, efficient glory!
A bit off-topic but… I believe that historically ‘seedy’ had the same meaning in England as well. Certainly in the 1940s that’s how it was used but I’m not sure about before then.
No matter how much sex Lo has, she’s always up for more solo-time.
I always support my lovers’ jerking off habits. Sometimes that means I feel slightly excluded, sometimes it means I get to watch, and sometimes I get to participate. The bottom line is, masturbating is for what that individual needs and any partner needs to be sensitive to those needs at that moment.
The other day while driving to see a house with my partner, I felt incredibly horny in the car. While he drove on the motorway I wanked myself off furiously next to him on the passenger seat. It was an amazing wank. I love sex and I love wanking. He loves it too.
Existing on snacks is not fun. :-(
Agreed. Having been with my guy for 5 years (married for almost 2) I still love the fact that sometimes we can lie side by side together and bring ourselves off, sometimes individually, sometimes both of us wanking. It can actually be an intensely shared experience.
Sometimes if I’m tired, and just not in the mood, I’ll whisper details of my naughty misdeeds to him as he rubs one out. It’s quite gratifying when the sordid details of an encounter with one of my girlfriends helps tip him over the edge.
In reverse, if I’m doing myself, having him tell me all the things he’d do to me can be a great stimulus to help me release.
Wanking needent be a selfish, solitary experience. Even when using your own fingers to bring yourself off, it can still be a highly erotic shared one.
Katie xx