It’s almost certainly going to give you warts. Men swear blind that
they rarely even do it. And then, when all is said and done, you will
go blind. So, decided to scratch the penile surface and
de-mystify the enigma that is stroking the wookie.
Canvassing thirty-two healthy males sourced from the twenty to
mid-thirties demographic, the onanistic results were impressive. And
frightening. Yet strangely reassuring. When it comes to tickling the
trout, wanted to glean the following information from our guest

  1. When, roughly speaking, was the first time they cracked one off?
  2. What first prompted them to teach Yul Brinner some respect, and why?
  3. What, if any, have proved to be the most bizarre instances of boxing the Jesuit?
  4. How many times a day do they actually wrestle the bald-headed champ? And
  5. Have they ever thought of mummy whilst busting a nut?

(Well, maybe not that last one.) The results made for some interesting reading.

First and foremost, it is clear that, in spite of the varying age
groups, most men first decided to help the python shed its skin between
the ages of 11 and 13, and predominantly on the back of peer group
pressure. “I remember”, confessed one participant, “being asked by this
guy at school whether I had ‘had a beat’ yet and I was left wondering
what he meant, especially when I said I hadn’t and everybody laughed.”
Whilst another male admitted that, when about twelve years old: “I
didn’t know why I kept getting a stifferson, though I did know it felt
good whenever I did, so I just did some ‘exploring’.” One man’s
exploring is, of course, another person’s crime. Especially when baby
foals are involved, but that is for another article. After further
probing, of the men questioned 89% had started whacking off between
these 11 and 13 ages, and 67% had started out of sheer embarrassment at
not being able to admit to school mates that not only had they not
fucked their wrist before now, but also that they really didn’t know
what it was all about. (Though one interviewee did admit to beginning
his wanking odyssey simply out of curiosity at his Jack Russell
Shalamar’s persistent pounding of his leg with its hairy canine hard-on
and wanted, as a result, to find out more about his own gash mallet.)

The crème de la crème – if one should couch it in such a way – of male
wanking tendencies, however, was only ever going to involve one thing:
individualism. When it comes to ‘freestyling’, there is no limit to the
depravity.  In fact, of all the men accosted for the purpose of
this article, only one couldn’t think of an occasion where meat-sabre
practice with Captain Solo had been a less than routine affair. And he
was lying through his fucking teeth, one assumes. Unfortunately, to
illuminate all the perversions and moral turpitude which had to
confront in compiling this report would necessitate a thesis-sized
article, but the following does provide a, ahem, firm cross-section of
some of London’s masturbatory decadence.

Firstly, there is the man who, rather than simply just priming the womb
cannon in the usual way, preferred to visit his local Tesco Metro in
order to buy a can of Pedigree Chum, dash home, empty out the
ingredients, microwave the canine stodge to a lukewarm temperature as
he stripped down to his birthday suit whilst putting the heated,
scat-a-like nutrients back in the tin . . . only for him to then take
the tinned receptacle of warmed-up, doglicious booty into the bedroom
of one-handed love and plunge his monkey into the impromptu
beef-curtain simulator. Well, necessity is the mother of invention,
after all.

Next, there is the person who, from time to time, likes to take his
portable metal vice out of the house with him – unusual in itself, you
may well think – only for him to seek out car park toilets in his lunch
hour, clamp the vice at ‘an agreeable height’, let’s say, manipulate
the teeth of the vice so that it will clasp the inside of a toilet roll
(one delicately packed out with Kleenex for maximum comfort) whilst he
then plunges his spam javelin into this portable, makeshift cardboard
chuff as a blu-taked, dog-eared, slightly crusty page from Hustler is
meticulously adhered to the toilet wall for good measure. Blue Peter
would be very proud.

And let’s not forget the gentleman who has been able, partly due to a
previous interest in re-enacting Arthurian scenes of the Round Table,
to customize his chain-mailed gauntlet into a fully-operational
wanking–mitt, one hinged to a wall just to the side of his bed. And,
through sleight-of-hand and, more especially, a system of wall and
ceiling pulleys said wanking-mitt can accordingly be manoeuvred to
bring him off with supreme efficacy, particularly if, he informed me,
“you have a suitable wank montage to work with”.

Such an example of extraordinary innovation in piglet-rolfing actually
alludes to the dichotomy which was to reveal itself when the
aforementioned, wank-specific questions were posed: it appears that men
either rough the suspect up quite spontaneously – mainly by simply
palming one off to the accompaniment of ‘top-shelf literature’ or a
mental back catalogue of jism-rousing images – or else put a
considerable degree of preparation into slinging some spooge. Judging
by’s commissioned census, it appears that 65% of males
interviewed are impulsive wankers. But the inference is that 35% of
males actually spend time preparing for the operation, some venturing
as far as even washing the sheets the night before in readiness or even
spraying a trail of ladies’ perfume on the pillow beforehand, just for
that extraspecial touch.

In spite of these differing approaches, one thing remains constant: men
tame the shrew a lot. A hell of a lot. Of the men approached, 85%
confessed to snapping the carrot once a day, with 20% admitting to
twice a day, and 5% to three times a day from time to time (“give or
take the odd dry-run”). Clearly, men love to pound.

Of course, statistics can prove anything and are only ever really an
indication. But, in concluding’s mission to learn more about
wankers in our midst, one thing is difficult to counter: men, despite
their many protestations, unleash the fury quite remorselessly, and
some in the most profligate of ways.