I'm a habitual masturbator. It's not a hobby; it's a routine as ingrained as brushing my teeth. It happens in the same places, at the same times, with the same grim efficiency. It's my body's version of a daily stand-up meeting.
My morning starts with it. Before the coffee, before the shower, before I'm even fully conscious. The alarm goes off, I hit snooze, and my hand drifts under the covers. It's a way to jumpstart my system, a shot of adrenaline and dopamine that's more reliable than caffeine. I don't linger. It's a quick, functional act, like checking my email. Once it's done, I can get on with my day.
Then there's the lunchtime session. I work from home, which is a blessing and a curse. Every day around 1 p.m., I feel the midday slump. Not of energy, but of focus. My brain gets foggy, my productivity tanks. So I retreat to the bathroom, lock the door, and take care of business. It's a palate cleanser for the mind. Five minutes, a quick, quiet release, and I'm back at my desk, feeling refreshed and ready to tackle the afternoon spreadsheets. My colleagues think I'm just a "dedicated employee" who never takes a real lunch break. If they only knew.
The evening is the grand finale. This is the one that's not just about function. After dinner, after the TV is on and my mind is starting to unwind, I'll settle into my favorite spot on the couch. This is the one with a little more ceremony. I might scroll through some visual aids, find the right scenario to get me there. This isn't about waking up or focusing; this is about release. It's the period at the end of a long, boring sentence. It's the one moment of the day that is purely, selfishly mine, where the only goal is my own pleasure, however fleeting.
I've tried to stop. I've gone a day or two, thinking maybe I should channel this energy into something more productive. But by the third day, I'm twitchy. I'm irritable. My body feels like an engine that's been denied oil. It's just a part of my biology now, a necessary function like sleeping or eating. I'm not proud of it, I'm not ashamed of it. It just is. I'm a creature of habit, and this is my dirtiest, most consistent one.
My morning starts with it. Before the coffee, before the shower, before I'm even fully conscious. The alarm goes off, I hit snooze, and my hand drifts under the covers. It's a way to jumpstart my system, a shot of adrenaline and dopamine that's more reliable than caffeine. I don't linger. It's a quick, functional act, like checking my email. Once it's done, I can get on with my day.
Then there's the lunchtime session. I work from home, which is a blessing and a curse. Every day around 1 p.m., I feel the midday slump. Not of energy, but of focus. My brain gets foggy, my productivity tanks. So I retreat to the bathroom, lock the door, and take care of business. It's a palate cleanser for the mind. Five minutes, a quick, quiet release, and I'm back at my desk, feeling refreshed and ready to tackle the afternoon spreadsheets. My colleagues think I'm just a "dedicated employee" who never takes a real lunch break. If they only knew.
The evening is the grand finale. This is the one that's not just about function. After dinner, after the TV is on and my mind is starting to unwind, I'll settle into my favorite spot on the couch. This is the one with a little more ceremony. I might scroll through some visual aids, find the right scenario to get me there. This isn't about waking up or focusing; this is about release. It's the period at the end of a long, boring sentence. It's the one moment of the day that is purely, selfishly mine, where the only goal is my own pleasure, however fleeting.
I've tried to stop. I've gone a day or two, thinking maybe I should channel this energy into something more productive. But by the third day, I'm twitchy. I'm irritable. My body feels like an engine that's been denied oil. It's just a part of my biology now, a necessary function like sleeping or eating. I'm not proud of it, I'm not ashamed of it. It just is. I'm a creature of habit, and this is my dirtiest, most consistent one.
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Swipey
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