This article originally appeared on VICE Alps.
These days, guys are generally open about the fact they masturbate. I mean, you might as well be, given that everyone already definitely knows you're at it as soon as the thought, What should I do to kill the next five minutes? enters your mind.
But even if everyone is well aware that most men— 94 percent, according to one survey—like to regularly rub one out, very few of these onanists disclose exactly how they go about it. Post-puberty, masturbation suddenly becomes a very private activity, where precise details and tactics are rarely discussed So, in the spirit of transparency, we asked some of the guys in the office (as well as some of our friends) to shed a bit of light on the ins and outs of getting to know oneself.
The Early Bloomer
My wanking story begins at a very early age. So early that pubic hair was still years away, at a stage in my life where my penis looked more like an earthworm than a body part. Luckily for you, this story is about technique, so I'll spare you any more descriptions of my junk.
My grandmother had these two metal poles that she hung her washing lines from, which I loved to use for exercise. And when I say exercise, I mean I'd wrap my legs tightly around one of the poles and pull myself up and down until I was done. It didn't take particularly long.
My next masturbation phase was jerking off to that [German] lad's mag, Bravo. I guess that was between the ages of ten and 15. Back then, there was only one technique, really: lay down on my stomach and furiously rub my penis against the mattress. I'd put my face up so close that I'd be mere centimeters away from the picture of a girl's body. When you got that close to the picture, it'd make the girl's breasts that much bigger and me that much hornier. I'd also always had my dick tucked into a sock, and this was pre-American Pie, which leads me to assume this is a technique you just inherently grasp as soon as you're born.
What followed was years of sexual development during which I learned a lot about myself and my body. I don't know why, but I gradually switched over to a more classic form of onanism. You know, the banal up-and-down stroking technique. I also usually use a bit of spit to lube things up, and I always cum into a tissue that I wrap around my dick like some sort of dirty superhero cape.
I rarely watch porn, but when I do it's either this lesbian movie called "Belladonna's Heavy Petting," or another one called "Sexy Co-Ed Wants Cock by the Pool." Usually, I just dip into my mental wank bank and imagine girls who I've already had sex with, or would like to have sex with.
I wouldn't go as far as to say that masturbation has completely disappeared from my life, but the ritual of thoroughly going for it on a Friday night is far more rare these days. Sometimes, if I'm relaxed and have the time, I'll wank all weekend. There's nothing better than falling asleep after you cum, only to wake up a couple of hours later to repeat the procedure.
The Post-Fap Depressive
Unfortunately, using my imagination to masturbate just doesn't cut it any more. So basically, if I'm going to have a wank I need porn. This is something that raises a couple of issues for me.
Firstly, there's that moment right after you cum, when post-masturbatory depression sets in. You know that feeling where you scramble to close all ten tabs on your laptop while panicking about some vile video you strangely believed to be the sexiest thing in the world a couple of seconds ago?
Secondly, when you start to notice that all the guys in the thumbnails for those "old man fucks hot babe" videos are 100 percent your age, it's just another crushing reminder that you're hurtling ever faster toward death.
The Tub Tugger
When I was younger, my family would reuse bath water in an attempt to save money. This was a great financial move, but because of my budding pre-teen hormones it resulted in some very unpleasant washes for my parents and siblings.
Quite early on, I developed a fascination with jerking off in the bathtub. I suppose it was a matter of practicality: I was already both naked and in a locked room—it made sense. It was also easier because I didn't have to worry about where my load landed, or fret about my mom finding a huge pile of crumpled-up tissues.
After successfully climaxing in the tub, I'd try to fish out as many of the nasty globs I could find as possible and wash them all down the sink—a tactic that worked pretty well. At the time, it didn't bother me that my mom would end up getting into the contaminated water, because—being the nice guy I am—I'd already cleaned up the worst for her. Now I realize that nobody ever wants to sit in a tub full of tepid cum, no matter how diluted it might be. Sorry, mom.
The Masturbatory Nomad
By saying nomad, I'm not trying to suggest that I continuously change my wanking locations—I'm referring to the array of preferences that have come and gone over the years. I've been through a large selection of phases—I've jerked into socks while watching anime, I've done it in groups, in a train cabin, on speed, with a fever, in chatrooms, next to unknowing bedmates, and to naked pictures of a 1990s Demi Moore. None of these self-gratifying, one-man sexual adventures took hold as a lasting predilection, however, and I was forever striving for the next frontier.
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My current techniques are pretty unspectacular. Shockingly, online photos of hot girls really get me in the mood, and for a while I had this thing for lo-res videos of girls dancing in front of their computers.
These days, I sometimes surprise myself with what I type into the porn site search bar. I'm also getting a little worried about my attention span—I've begun stopping videos in the middle because I start getting bored. However, I'm sure some new trend will appear soon that keeps me interested. Probably something with straw hats, or animal costumes, or ceramics or something. I've no idea.
The HD Porn Connoisseur
My masturbation methods are very much linked to my internet browser. I can't actually remember the last time I tried to terrorize myself without internet porn, but I'm quite sure that whenever it was, I was not having much fun. The fact that millions of people have spent thousands of years pleasuring themselves without the smut buffet that is the internet is just such a sad thought to me—we really are so lucky.
The omnipresence of a computer has hugely changed the way I use my body. Since I'm right-handed, I've had to learn to go at it with my left hand so I can furiously scroll with the mouse with my right.
I'm actually extremely picky when it comes to porn. I would never consider paying for it, but it's imperative that whatever flogging material I do watch is high definition. PornHub used to be completely useless to me because the videos were so absurdly pixelated, but they've definitely caught up. If the porn isn't HD it's as if my penis refuses to cooperate. I guess image resolution is my personal fetish.
The Hands-Free Fapper
I've always been pretty basic with my wanking, but I remember this one time I read about hands-free fapping online and decided I needed to try it immediately. What ensued was the most prickly orgasm of my life. It was fun, but it became far too laborious and time-intensive for me. On top of that, the mess was so severe that I'd be finding stains for weeks.