This week I walked in on a boy wanking. Late at night, I woke up to go to the loo, spotted the light on in the living room, and thought I’d pop in to casually grope him before sleepily wandering off to bed. You know how I love watching boys crack one out – there’s a beautiful desperation about the urge to come, and I relish seeing that on his face. But of course, the most beautiful wanks of them all are Schroedinger’s Wanks – the ones I would change just by observing them. The wanks I am destined never to see…

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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…

Ever wondered what an orgasm feels like for someone other than you? Well, wonder no more! After posting my enthusiastic yet relatively incompetent description of my orgasm on Wednesday, lots of people have had a go at putting one of the most complicated physical sensations into actual real-life words.

If you fancy trying it yourself (and why wouldn’t you? It’s a good excuse for both wanking and wordplay) then either describe your orgasm in the comments below, email it to hellogirlonthenet at gmail, or post it on your own blog and link here. There’ll be a prize for the best one (prize TBC but I’m open to suggestions) and in the meantime you get the glory and joy of creating yet another piece of content for vast swathes of the internet to pleasure themselves to.

What does an orgasm feel like? Entries so far…

I’ll let the lovely Cammies on the Floor begin:

“It starts with pressure inside of me, a pressure of fiction, an awareness of movement in and out of me.

“Then I begin to tighten into the pressure. I can do this at whim, but more often than not, it just happens. When I am short on time, know this is a quickie, or am tired, I can tighten, making me come closer to the sensation faster…” If you’re already dribbling a bit – that’s the idea – please do read the rest over on her blog.

Rebecca’s entry is hot – in both the metaphorical and the literal sense:

“It begins with a warm buzzing around my heart. This spreads to my upper arms and my head and grows, just as the nerves pulse downward towards my groin. Then the burning starts. The burning starts low and wide, around my crotch, then it intensfies and localises in my clitoris, burning more intensely as I hold my breath and stretch out my legs…” Hotness continues in the story over  here.

Not to be outdone by the first Rebecca, another Rebecca joins in:

“First, the anticipation. The delicious knowledge of what is waiting. This is what makes me start to breathe a little heavier and start to writhe, ever-so-slightly. Just the mere expectation of the orgasm raises my heart rate, widens my eyes and causes me graze my teeth across my lips…” After an excellent start, her orgasm builds spectacularly.

Ritchie has taken a more methodical approach, breaking orgasms down by type:

“Generally, there is an extremely pleasant warmth that starts around my balls and (and I’m not too sure how to describe this) the ‘root’ of my cock. By root I mean that a cock isn’t blu-tacked onto that bit of your stomach 6 inches or so below the belly button. It goes further in to your body to the pit of the stomach. The warmth spreads, but not too far, and at the point where I am about to come it kind of becomes all encompassing…” If you’re anything like me, you might want to print his comment and keep it under your pillow.

Commenter George has written a charmingly lyrical description:

“I lose control and forget the world; Arms and hands stiffen; My buttocks clench as a mellow pleasure engulfs me; With each contraction, my eyes screw up as ecstasy travels from groin to brain in heartbeat…” And here’s the comment with its poetic conclusion.

Steve dropped me an email with his entry, and it brightened up my evening no end:

“I can vividly remember my first manually induced orgasm. As with many men, this first furtive spanking of the monkey took place in the bath – once that most innocent of pastimes, but from age 12 onwards the location of much fumbling, stroking and general yanking of teenage pork sword. I knew from whispered playground conversations what the mechanics of “having a wank” were. But I’d never actually tried to put these instructions into practice until this occasion.” I’ve posted the full thing in  a comment and it’s as funny and evocative as it is hot.

Ian’s description of a building pressure almost makes me feel the pressure in my stomach:

“It’s like a slowly building, but perfectly pleasant, pressure. Something inside that makes me more sensitive, that makes every movement filled with a little more joy, and in amongst that an urge for something more: to increase the pressure, to keep increasing it, with each increase feeling better and better, until you reach the point where the only thing that would feel better than holding this delicious pleasure is releasing it. In that moment of release it’s like a whole body and mind exhalation.” Read the rest of his entry.

Bubbleburst hits on the trembling, shaking feeling:

“When he makes me cum my hands shake. That’s what he likes to focus on after the withering and growling. After my world has become very big and suddenly very small. My hands shake, like proper tremors you can feel right through me….” And it is completely amazing.

Last (but by no means least) Anon put her finger directly on what I couldn’t – her description of an orgasm which ‘radiates’ struck a chord with me:

“Bringing myself to an orgasm is something that I can do in seconds. A few quick rubs, and a tiny orgasm builds up and suddenly there’s a release of pressure and tension that I didn’t know existed. It’s almost like when you get a really good massage therapist, one who rids you of knots you didn’t realise were there. Except these balls of tension built up in my lower back, in my thighs. I get tense and suddenly – poof! – a release…” In case you can’t tell from that, it’s well worth reading her description in full.

Describe your orgasm

As I wrote in my original post, I love the idea of trying to describe an orgasm – it’s something so personal and intimate and – frankly – bloody difficult, that by writing it down for someone you’re giving them a window into something incredibly unique. I can taste the cake you’re eating, I can hear your favourite music, but I can never fully put myself in your shoes (or your pants) and feel exactly how you come.

If you fancy having a go, the competition’s still open. I’ll find something nice (yet not massively expensive because I’m skint) to give as a prize, and keep your entries coming in via comments, email or on your own blog.