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I resist the urge to treat myself to a cheeky bottle of poppers (sly masturbation pro-tip there, from me to you). I conclude my hectic week of office-based onanism at the east London home of a small but much-admired music magazine. Later, over a cold can of IPA, the features editor tells me he’s considering installing one of those trendy nap-pods Google and Facebook provide for over-worked developers who need to grab a quick forty winks. Unlike my extremely fortunate colleague Andy, I work in just the one office, not from home.Table football, beer fridges, leggy interns – you get the idea. ‘We’ll probably just use it for burping the worm though,’ he says. My coworkers notice when I’m away from my desk, the toilets almost always have a queue, and writing about masturbating at work tends to make people think that you’re probably, well, masturbating at work. I start my first wanking day with a mixture of trepidation and despair.
The building’s old-fashioned layout means there’s several such hideaways on each floor. I can’t be the only man who finds it hard in this era of ubiquitous smut to ‘find the biting point’ wank-wise without some form of pornographic prompt.So I decided to do an experiment: one week of masturbating at work, to see if it would make me a significantly improved person.