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Here, all the lessons of the preceding week come together: Fast internet access – check. The only option is to fit wanking into my lunch break, primarily using the fancy, less-used toilets downstairs at my office. I’m not great at wanking, I find it tricky to orgasm with a time limit, and I’m sure I’m going to finish my lunch break frustrated and with a sore wrist. The toilet cubicles, fancy as they may be (there are multiple rolls of plush toilet paper, so I feel pretty snazzy), are not leaving me feeling particularly aroused.The time limit leaves me tense, as does the knowledge that I can’t make any noise (which rules out any vibrators or other helpful accessories).Today I start work at a stately Art Deco newspaper office in Kensington, pondering where might be best to slope off and bash one out.
Maybe a quick self-love sesh in the toilets could make me more creative, more efficient, and less full of despair and lethargy.Returning to my desk, pipes cleaned and cheeks aglow, I knock out a solid afternoon’s work, then skip to the pub for a post-coital pint. I’m at the West End headquarters of a popular arts and culture publication. In the dying throes of his rancid gut-quake, one colossal brogue convulsively twitches under the stall partition and punts my Converse. Still, I’ve invested ten minutes already, and have no intention of walking back across the office with a semi-on.