The Vagenda

Procrasturbation, or, Why the Fuck Did I Wank to the News?

Happy woman laying on floor with bowl of popcorn, remote control

The other day I masturbated while watching the news.

I suppose you want me to elaborate. What’s that? “No way!” you say? “There’s something deeply wrong with you!” you say? “Get the fuck away from me you demented weirdo, you belong in some sort of correctional facility miles and miles away from society!” you say? Well, tough, I can’t hear you. Elaborate I shall.

I hasten to add, and this is important not only for clarity but for my own vague sense of morality and self-respect: I did not masturbate to the news. Bank bonuses and the NHS don’t, and didn’t, and I’m pretty certain never shall, turn me on. However, I must also establish that the news wasn’t simply on as background noise. I wasn’t privately concentrating on some imaginary raunchy sex-fest, not even one with George Alagiah (I know, I know, I must be made of stone). It wasn’t merely playing in the peripherals – no, I was watching the news.

My thought process, as well as I can recollect, was along these lines: “That flooding looks terrible. Relieved I don’t know anyone who lives there. I hope it’s not raining in the morning. Where did I leave my umbrella? Is it in the bathtub? It’s probably in the bathtub. Oh, hello Boris. Dickhead. Aw, things are so hard for NHS workers. I must remember to text my friend who works for the NHS. Hmm, [politician] sounds like a right knob here. He’s not being very consistent with his party view. He was pretty good on Question Time the other week though.” And on, and on, and on, and on. My mind was processing every news item and reacting in the semi-hazy manner one would expect after 10pm on a weekday.

Meanwhile, my hand was working deftly at my clitoris and I came six or seven times.

It was pretty bizarre. Never before have I been able to orgasm alone without some kind of sexual stimulus, whether it be watching porn or fantasising or reminiscing or dreaming or whatever. Usually I am turned on by something, erotically focused on something. But I didn’t get sexually excited by the news. Sorry Boris, but your floppy floppy locks just didn’t do it for me. My physical pleasure was completely and utterly removed from my mental preoccupations. It was unusual, and actually kind of worrying.

“What’s wrong with me?!” I lamented after a confession to my best friend, drunken and giggly (not to mention inadvertently loud – we may never be allowed in the Leicester Square Wetherspoon’s again). She laughed and said she thought it was actually pretty awesome to reach orgasm without needing a specific spur. Nothing wrong with enjoying yourself. Who cares how it happens? Plus you’re saving time, two birds with one stone, right? But she’s generally a very supportive lass, like the time we passed an ornament shop she deemed “ostentatious” while I dismissed it as “fucking ugly”. As for me, I don’t think my masturbating during the news was awesome at all.

Masturbation is an intensely personal experience, one for which you don’t necessarily think about your star-crossed lover. You don’t necessarily think about anyone or anything in particular. There are obviously no rigid prerequisites for getting yourself off, neither regarding method nor thought process. By all means elect to use an electric toothbrush and think about a hog-tied Jack Black, if that’s what gets your juices flowing. Although do make sure it’s your own toothbrush. That’s just manners.

But, evidently, if I can reach orgasm whilst focusing on the week’s political report, it’s beginning to get to the stage where I need no sexual attachment at all – not even the slightest hint of charm, spark or seduction (Boris was onscreen, for crying out loud. You show me the slightest hint of charm, spark or seduction and I’ll show you someone who is definitely not Boris). Masturbation is apparently becoming mechanical for me, a task to get over and done with: routine, automatic, detached, purely physical. In short, procrasturbation.

There’s nothing wrong that per se. It’s not exactly immoral or harmful. It’s still nobody’s business but mine (well okay, and perhaps the population of the Leicester Square Wetherspoon’s – soz, guys). But it’s a real, real shame, because thinking about sex is so gratifying, not only when fantasising or imagining, but also when using porn, reading erotic literature, etc, etc. When someone indulges in their fantasies, they’re truly free to explore every recess of their mind, experiment with every desire. There are no boundaries or restrictions to that kind of pleasure. No judgements or inquiry, however sordid the debauchery going on between you and Jack Black may be.

Perhaps my little headlines-at-ten adventure is a sign of the times: we’re getting too busy to indulge. There’s too much else to think about. But I intend to fight against that. If I can’t afford to sometimes spend a mere half-hour (give or take) focused exclusively on my own body, on my intimate sexual fancies, I truly believe my priorities are askew. My vagina needs a work-out every so often, and it deserves to have my complete focus.

So next time I masturbate, I will make sure to turn the TV off. I will turn my laptop off. I will get into bed, put my fingers on my vagina, and think about something or someone that really gets me going. I want that feeling of my clitoris pulsating at a mere idea. Not saying I won’t use other means in the future, but I want to make sure that I don’t lose the ability to really connect with my own personal erotic side. Because masturbation is not only a healthy expression of self-exploration, not only an opportunity to satiate hidden desires, not only a natural biologically-charged urge that you can find in humans or in gibbons or in dogs licking their balls: it’s also just fucking awesome. And as such, it deserves appropriate time, attention and respect. Hear me, people, for I make a stark declaration today – never, ever again shall I find myself gasping with orgasmic pleasure while Boris Johnson is on my TV screen.

-MM

10 thoughts on “Procrasturbation, or, Why the Fuck Did I Wank to the News?

  1. Eh, I do this all the time. Like seriously, most days. It doesn’t detract from my personal, fantasy, exploring the recesses of my mind sessions. Sometimes there’s an itch you’ve just got to scratch, you know? That’s how I’ve always seen in anyway.

    Speaking to my male friends, this seems to be pretty common for guys.

  2. Oh I do this ALL the time, news, listening to people chatting on Radio4 about farming issues or a phone in about medical stuff (as you can tell I am a radio4 listener!) but its just background noise really isn’t it?

    Oh and as T says I am so glad i read this at home too!

  3. i have the opposite problem!!!
    it takes me ages to ‘get in the mood’ eyes tightly shut, i have to imagine elaborate, and increasingly debauched scenarios. it may not seem like a problem but my seeming thirst for more and more extreme stimuli has leaked in to my sex life. it’s getting to the stage where i’m pretty much incapable of getting in the mood let alone achieving orgasm without getting my bf to act out my hardcore fantasies. i feel like i’m making him do and say certain things (that he doesn’t necessarily always want to), and sometimes it would be nice to just have ‘normal sex’. i want him to feel that he is enough. as my tastes seem to be getting more and more extreme i’m worried there will be nowhere left to go, and i wont be able to get and fulfilment from my sex life:/
    any thoughts?

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