WANK

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By Scott Manley Hadley

-First published Open Pen Issue Eight (April, 2013)

You wake up on Saturday and your girlfriend’s already gone out. Where? You don’t know. Could be anywhere. Maybe she said something about an exhibition. You weren’t paying attention. You rarely do any more.

Last night the two of you stayed up very late taking coke and drinking homemade cocktails. You’d had an argument (yes, another one) at about five am that lasted for over an hour until you shared a couple of spliffs, fucked, then fell asleep. Although the dispute had been verbally unresolved, the proof of your continued attraction to your girlfriend had been evidenced (to some level), so you’d presumed everything would be fine when you woke up. You’ve slept late. You inhaled a lot last night and it (post-­‐coitally) knocked you out. It’s about two pm (Saturday morning, right?) and you’re alone.

Not completely alone: you’ve woken up with a massive erection. An appropriate, private, erection which, in the five minutes or so you’d lain there awake, eyes closed, unmoving, you’d planned to satiate with a frothy 69. Now, still horny from the narcotics and too newly awake to feel hungover, you want to come. You throw your legs out of the bed and wander into the kitchen. With this angry throbber leading the way, you think, your girlfriend would almost   certainly fall to her knees and start gobbling at it before pushing you to the floor and getting her pubes up your nostrils. You gently massage your penis as you (pointlessly, all is silent) check the kitchen, the spare room and the toilet. In the kitchen you open the fridge and take a swig of Tropicana, eat a mouthful of prawn stir-­fry (it’s the best thing you cook).

You return to the bedroom and, satisfied that you’re alone, head into the en-­suite. You’ve always had a thing about steam. Largely sexual, but not entirely so – you like to be surrounded by it, whatever you’re doing. As a preference you shit naked in a room filled with steam. Obviously (at work, parties, restaurants) that isn’t always practical (both the nudity and the boiling water), but when you’re alone in the flat you like to lock yourself in, open the door of the shower cubicle, turn up the heat as high as it can go and let the room become a hammam. Your hard-­‐on is swinging about in front of you as you do this (two hand job, turning on the shower), and as the room fills you slowly begin masturbating in a more concentrated, dedicated, way.

Your left hand’s wrapped around the cock proper, easily pulling the foreskin back and forth thanks to a squeeze of shower gel. Your right hand is wrapped around your balls, stroking them, cupping them, squeezing them, pulling them – just having a blast, doing what feels right. You’re grinding your arse on the side of the basin trying to work out if you’d rather have a finger inside you or your balls in your hand.

You climb into the shower, seal the cubicle behind you. You like the feeling of water running through your hair, down your chest, across your buttocks. You turn down the heat and, as it cools, lube your left hand up and move from your balls to your anus, still stroking your cock, rimming and gently penetrating as you let the waves of pleasure (and the water) run all over you. You sink to your knees, shaking, panting, hard as a rock. You’re thinking about the girl from Luke’s party. (Again, the subject of last night’s argument.) You’re wishing you had her number so that you could call her up, get her here and have her stood on the other side of the Perspex, naked, squeezing her tits together with her forearms as she wanks, shoving a big, orange dildo up inside her. You can imagine her naked, you can imagine how much she’d love to know how hard even now, almost two weeks later, she’s getting you hard. You push your head against the plastic wall, your cheek flat against it, your cock sliding in and out of your fist, your finger sliding in and out of your arse. You want this woman more than you’ve ever wanted your girlfriend. You want to see her, you want to remember her name, you want to find her and fuck her and even if you have to end your relationship to do so you just want to once, one time, have her lying, spread-­‐legged on an oak wood table, your tongue buried in her clit, then your cock buried in her pussy, her ass, her cleavage, her mouth, her what-­‐fucking ever as long as you get to taste her juice and she gets to feel you rigid and ready and desperate inside her.    You want to stare into her eyes, you want to stare into her pussy, and you want to-­

And it’s all over. Two surprisingly thick jets spurt out, immediately mixing with the water. You’ve come hard. You twitch and grin and sigh and gently stroke your head as you swing round and sit in the collecting water at the bottom of the shower. That, you think to yourself, was a fucking good wank. You’re exhausted. You’re light headed. You slump against the tiles at the back of the cubicle, grinning, still.

You maintain this for two, three minutes. Maybe longer. Until water starts to submerge your perineum.

You make a half-­hearted, loose splashing, pushing liquid towards the plughole. Useless.

The drain in here’s one of those three part ones. A disc – the bit you see – sits atop a filter, below which is a beaker that has to fill before any water can flow out and down the pipes. This is to stop any hairs or other matter ending up in the sewers.

Drained, the first wave of a repressed hangover starting to kick in, you stick your fingers under the disc of the plug cover and snap it out of its casing, removing the filter. Which flings out onto your inner thigh one of the most disgusting clumps of material you’ve ever seen: a huge wad of your girlfriend’s and your hair, wrapped together around the massive globule of today’s fresh come, stuck together with a colossal amount of dried, sticky, smelly semen from all the other times you’ve ejaculated in the shower since this was last cleaned.

Your initial response is to throw it onto the floor of the shower, but when your hand pushes it off the hairs all stick to you, wrap themselves around your fingers, the coagulating strips of jizz joining to form a flubber-­‐like material that can’t be detached from the body. You jump up, throwing the thing against the wall as if it’s alive, ram your shoulder against the taps of the shower, shout out in pain, slip onto the floor, bang your head against the glass and land with a crash, kicking open the door of the shower cubicle. As water starts to splash onto the bathroom floor, you realise with a shudder, a quake and an inward moan of horror that your shoulder is bleeding and the back of your head is pressed against something soft and moist, not Perspex. You pull away and see the strings of semen linking the wall and your hair before you can think of what to do. You sigh, scrape it off with one hand and throw it across the bathroom towards the open toilet.

Unexpectedly, your aim is true.

You crawl back under the water, kneel, penitent, let it run through your hair. Using your feet you close the plug. At least the filter’s clean, you think, and grab your genitals. Again again againagain? What’s a Saturday for?

o          o          o

Scott Manley Hadley doesn’t write filth like this any more, he’s like so woke now it’s lit innit #hashtag He blogs at

It’s turned the final word into a link and deleted it

He blogs at Triumphofthenow[dot]com

Actually use all that

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