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I spent a year wanking every day, and this is what I learned

MASTURBATING on a daily basis for 12 months was one of the most profound spiritual experiences of my life – and could be of yours. Here’s what it taught me: 

Quality beats quantity

At first it seemed easy. During the first month I’d sometimes go back to the semen well more than once a day. This overconfidence was an error, and made climaxing the following day a challenge. I learned to focus my energies on the cock in hand and make each day’s session the best it could be.

Spunk is a finite resource

Playing tug-of-war with Cyclops every single day was a real drain on my resources. Despite staying hydrated and following a vitamin regime, I came close to ejaculating dust. What we have is precious.

A wank shared is a wank halved

I don’t mean a handjob as technically that is sex, as an ex-girlfriend explained repeatedly. But in the same way Olympians work out with a trainer, I found it incredibly motivating to toss one off in the company of my mate Damon. He’d finish first and then cheer me on with little comments that meant so much.

A spanker a day keeps the doctor away

Frequent ejaculation keeps your plumbing in good working order and wards off prostate cancer. And after a year I can confirm that I have absolutely no issues in that department. I do have some issues knowing where and when it’s appropriate to touch oneself, but I have court-mandated awareness sessions about that.

The early bird chokes the worm

Your 7am involuntary tumescence can be your best tumescence. While others are doing their pre-work 5K or at the gym, you’re doing it two-handed in front of a mirror. Best not to tell the whole office, though. They may have views when you are already on a second written warning.

Where there’s a will, there’s a wank

Being fired really impacted my mojo. There’s something depressing about spaffing into M&S day-of-the-week socks you no longer need to wear. But I powered through and now I’ve done a full onanistic year. What I’ve learned through this is I am a strong, resilient wanker and I should be proud of that.

Cool, sexy office of air-conditioned urban professionals watched enviously from sticky pavement

A RELAXED, fashionable office of high-earning professionals kept at a breezy 21 degrees is being watched jealously from the pavement outside. 

The young, attractive people in stylish business attire, thought to be lawyers or in media, are unhurriedly going about their work of earning six figures without a single bead of sweat.

Passer-by Will McKay said: “Look at those bastards. Meanwhile you could put your arm down my trousers and it would come back wet up to the elbow.

“They’re putting together paperwork for the Bilston merger or whatever the f**k while zephyrs of chill air waft around them, barely stirring their perfect hair, while I’m out here sweating like a bastard on my way to slave away in a converted attic without even a through draught.

“After which I’ll swelter home, on a train so packed my flesh will stick to four other people, for an evening in my flat where all the heat from the whole building collects to torture me and laugh at my pathetic fan. I hate them and their air con. I want to be them.”

Helen Archer said: “Can they even see me? If they glanced through their tinted windows, would they even recognise the fat, perspiring splodge on the pavement as human? Or, with no more than a gesture, would they call for me to be hosed away?”

Air-conditioned human Francesca Johnson said: “Mm, I could really use a piping hot espresso. Also can we close the blinds?”

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