Frustration, Procrastination and Furious Masturbation

“Alice, I mean this is the politest fashion possible; GET FUCKED.”

An inordinate, ungodly, and unspeakably cruel series of deadlines landed in my lap recently, each somehow more urgent and all consuming than the last. As such, for the last few weeks I’ve found myself working near non-stop, often with twelve-to-fifteen hour days of pure ‘nose to grindstone’ to prevent myself from drowning beneath the rising tide of work that needed finishing yesterday.

All in all, it’s not been the variety of ‘busy’ that I’d usually enjoy. But don’t be tempted to throw too much sympathy my way, it’s largely self inflicted.

I’ve long been cursed with the near superhuman ability to procrastinate. When faced with the prospect of doing something I’m supposed to be doing, versus the option of doing literally anything else, I’ll almost always choose the latter. Even in situations where the anything else option is objectively less fun than the supposed ‘work’.

To give an example of this ‘The Procrastinators Paradox’; let’s imagine I’ve been set the task of tidying the kitchen. It doesn’t matter if this is an act of self governance or if my poor long suffering housemate Danielle has asked me to do it, the only certainty is that it *definitely won’t get done*. Instead, I’ll sit and work through my email inbox. I’ll write a Substack post. Maybe I’ll even tidy a different room. Perhaps make lists of all the many things I could and indeed should be doing, anticipating the tremendous satisfaction of scoring them out later (the first of which is always ‘write list’. An easy win).

Essentially, I’ll busy myself with anything but actually clearing the mountain of teabags amassing and potentially breeding new life on the kitchen worktop.

BUT.

Let’s say on that very same day I’d set myself the task of working through my inbox instead. It would be the same setup on the same day with no other factors having changed at all, and yet rather than look at my inbox I’ll do literally anything else - Including cleaning the fucking kitchen!

And I know what you’re thinking. ‘Trick yourself. Pretend you should be doing something else so that the thing you actually need to get done can be achieved as ‘procrastination’ instead!’ Well, trust me, dear reader, I’ve tried. My stupid brain is always one step ahead and, as punishment, it decides that neither thing will get done…

That’ll teach me to attempt to out-think myself.

It’s a constant source of enormous frustration both for myself and any unfortunate soul who has the misfortune to find themselves in my company. Like an incredibly itchy nun costume, it’s a habit I very much wish I could be rid of.

But it does come with one (debatable) upside. Since I’m so used to putting everything off until the last possible moment when procrastination is simply NO LONGER an option, I’ve become incredibly skilled at working under pressure.

I may procrastinate ‘till the cows come home, but when it’s milk or bust I’ll be udderly dedicated to the task in had. And, in my professional life at least, I’ve never actually missed an important deadline.

But constantly working under such intense pressure produces an altogether different dance across an alternative psychological minefield. And I use the term minefield quite deliberately, because if not negotiated carefully it can result in an unwanted BANG.

Because when I have to work extra hard to make up for my own failures, I get frustrated. And for inexplicable reasons understood only by my ridiculous excuse for a subconscious; when I get frustrated, I get HORNY.

Brain meltingly horny.

Deaf, dumb and blind to anything but the longing of my rampant loins, horny.

The type of all consuming, all encompassing horny that I can only liken to the teenage years when hormones are flooding everything, the opposite (and often same) sex are suddenly significantly more attractive than they’ve ever appeared before, and you’ve only recently learned quite how magnificent masturbation can be.

The ‘half a dozen orgasms seems like an achievable goal for the day’ kinda horny.

Exactly why my brain does this is as entirely inexplicable as its wanton desire to procrastinate in the first place. I can’t see any fathomable biological drive or incentive for it. Why render me at my horniest during the very time I’m least able to do something about it? Why doesn’t my libido realise that very thing trigging the rampant amorousness is the self same thing that will prevent it being acted upon?!

In short, dear reader, what results during these dangerous times is an Alice who is near constantly frustrated and perpetually horny. With no time or opportunity to adequately offer release, each exponentially exacerbates the other in an endless cycle of ever-accelerating horny frustration.

It can only ever end one way…

We all masturbate.

Some may do it significantly more than others but, save for a tiny minority, if you’re passing someone on the street the chances are they’ll have touched themselves for the purposes of sexual fulfilment. Potentially within the last week. Possibly within the last 24 hours. Maybe even more recently that than…

(It’s distracting thoughts like this that make people watching such fun. I’ll not digress too much already, but now I’m curious so here’s a poll:)

Masturbation is wonderful. It’s not quite as wonderful as sex, but I can only assume that’s a deliberate evolutionary development to ensure everyone still has reason to leave their house every now and again. But what masturbation lacks in vicarious sexual thrill it easily made up for in sheer efficiency.

Which is to say, nobody will ever be quite so effective at inducing an orgasm as yourself. Others may produce better, longer, more satisfying orgasms, they may even, on occasion, produce faster ones but, on the whole, nobody else will ever be quite as consistently efficient as your own trusty fingers/hand/dildo/wand/rabbit/etc.

While ensconced inside my cycle of Procrastination-Frustration, I masturbate a LOT. Lacking the time - and indeed, often the energy - to go out and leap upon an unfortunate soul to truly scratch the itch as I’d otherwise desire, the best I can do is offer myself a soothing balm. Though I’d not recommend rubbing balms quite so furiously as I do.

This stifles the urge for a few days. Perhaps even a week if I’m lucky. But sooner or later, with increased frequency comes the point of diminishing returns.

Which is when things get dangerous.

There’s only so many ways you can actively ‘spice up’ the act of self loving. And, sadly, since I’ve never been one to particularly enjoy adding toys into the mix for variety, there’s only really one direction in which I can move.

When the Procrastination/Frustration/Masturbation cycle gets into full swing, I become a massive pervert.

And it’s my poor long suffering housemate Danielle that bears the brunt of it.

Well, her and her boyfriend.

I’ve lived with Danielle for many years and she’s the most phenomenally wonderful human being you could ever hope to meet. Kind, thoughtful, endlessly patient, I can’t even begin to imagine what incredibly heinous act she must’ve committed in a former life to have to now suffer the indignity of living with me.

Danielle has seen me at both my best and my very worst. Over the years she’s found me in many an uncompromising position and has always dealt with it with remarkable calmness and humour. With one notable exception, but that’s an anecdote all of its own.

She is the very best of us. An angel on earth. There is nothing I wouldn’t do for her.

And I’ve spent the last month fantasising about her boyfriend fucking my brains out in every room of our house.

It’s purely the work of my horny brain. I’ve not the slightest interest in actually stealing her boyfriend (so relax if you’re reading this, Danielle!). He just happens to be the most regular male in proximity and therefore has become, by default, the focus of my overactive libido.

The situation is also not helped by the fact I regularly hear the pair having sex.

Magnificent sounding sex.

How’s a ‘gal NOT supposed to furiously masturbate listening to that?!

“Oh, you’re still up?”

It was around 1.30am when Danielle and Chris returned from their night out. She’d told me where they were going but I’d been too distracted by her gorgeous red dress to have paid any attention to a word she’d actually said.

Despite the late hour I was indeed still up, sat working on my laptop at the kitchen table. As the hour grows later I’m always more likely to be found in the kitchen than working at my actual desk. I’d like to say it’s due to the proximity of the kettle and the promise of swifter tea but, seeing as I was several weeks into the Frustration/Procrastination/Masturbation cycle, it’s more likely I’d subconsciously relocated in the hope of catching a glimpse of their return.

“Still up,” I replied with a sigh. “Good night?”

“Awesome night!” said Danielle with a smile, clearly not wanting to break the two word pattern we’d inadvertently established.

I smiled and nodded in Chris’ direction. Similarly he smiled and nodded back. Chris is many things, but a conversationalist he is not. His idea of effective small talk is silently offering you a crisp by holding out the bag. As such, to avoid inadvertently awkward silences, we’d often taken to simply gesturing in each other’s direction instead.

Which, I’ll grant you, when written down sounds certifiably insane. But if you ever find yourself playing third wheel to a slightly awkward man I’d heartily suggest you try it; it really does work wonders!

“I’m just going to finish this and head to bed, so don’t let me interrupt.”

Chris took this as all the permission he needed, immediately heading towards Danielle’s bedroom. Danielle meanwhile raised a quizzical eyebrow and asked me if I’d eaten anything, because I swear sometimes she thinks she’s my mother.

And, given she’d specifically made me some food earlier in the day, sometimes I don’t think she’s necessarily wrong.

I told her I had eaten and thanked her. I was lying but, mercifully, she didn’t check the fridge to confirm. I took this as a sign she was at least somewhat inebriated. Instead, she wished me goodnight and headed to her room, meanwhile I made a mental note to hide the pasta bake and make sure I ate it for lunch the following day.

Now I was faced with a choice. I could actually finish what I was doing but, given that I’d been staring somewhat blankly at the same screen for the last hour, it didn’t feel like I’d be making much progress, OR I could go to my own room and be a massive pervert.

Reader, believe me when is say I genuinely tried to keep working. I really, really did. But then my eyes wandered to one of the many Polaroid pictures Danielle had up on fridge. A picture of her and Chris from their recent holiday. A selfie of the pair kissing in a swimming pool. Perfectly innocent. Not at all provocative, just endearingly sweet.

But suddenly all that filled my poor exhausted, frustrated mind were images of the two of them passionately kissing. Chris throwing off Danielle’s tiny bikini top and hungrily sucking on her tits. Next thing they’d got themselves to the side of the pool, Danielle holding herself on the edge while Chris slipped aside the bikini bottoms and thrust his cock into her…

I tried to dislodge the thoughts. I literally shook my head as though they might spill out. It didn’t work. Now Danielle was still naked in the pool but it was me Chris was railing by the poolside. And was she masturbating watching us? What a pervert!

I snapped shut my laptop and hurried to my bedroom.

Did I detour ever so slightly to put my ear to Danielle’s bedroom door to listen if things had already got started? I couldn’t possibly say…

My bedroom shares a wall with Danielle’s. Coincidentally (or cruelly, depending on how you look at it) her headboard is up against that very same wall. As such, even though my own bed sits against the opposite wall, it’s incredibly easy to tell when action is taking place next door.

Everything sounded suspiciously quiet as I stepped inside. There appeared to be no noise coming from the next room at all. No talking, no gently speaking mattress or loudly banging headboard. Not even the gentle straining sounds of the inebriated undressing. I laid back on my bed cursing myself for letting my imagination run wild and feeling guilty I’d not simply soldiered on with getting work done so I could have a marginally more restful weekend.

Then, because I’m nothing if not a dedicated pervert, I may have stood up and put my ear against the connecting wall just to make sure. Greeted still with nothing but silence, I resigned myself to a very disappointing and lonely wank indeed.

With the urgency gone, I headed back to the kitchen to pack up my laptop before venturing into bathroom for teeth cleaning and all necessary ablutions. I didn’t rush, there simply wasn’t any need.

Did I toy with taking the polaroid from the fridge for some visual stimuli for my lonely bout of self love? We shan’t dwell on it. The important thing to say is; I didn’t actually take it.

Squeak.. Squeak…Squeak…

I’d barely set foot back through my door when I heard it. The unmistakable sound of a squeaking mattress. Slow. Rhythmic. This wasn’t just the sound of someone getting into bed. This was the sound of someone getting it in bed!

In the three paces it took to reach my own bed I’d already somehow managed to removed my shorts and my underwear, kicking off the latter from around my feet the very moment my arse made contact with the mattress.

I could feel myself grinning. Smiling as broadly as if I were about to have a squeaking mattress myself. Ridiculous in hindsight, but it made total sense at the time.

I lay back and got myself comfortable. The rhythm of the squeaking hadn’t changed, so there was no rush. This was clearly the ‘warm up missionary’ that so often started Danielle and Chris’s sexual encounters.

Not that I’d been keeping track of that sort of thing, of course.

Everyone has their own go-to masturbation technique. Like I said at the start, we’re all masters of our own self pleasuring efficiency. I won’t bore you with all the details of my own routines, but suffice to say that, initially, my left hand is working my top half, while the right hand does the important circles and strokes down below.

Or, as I once explained it to an ex: ‘The left flicks the on switch, while the right works the dimmer’.

Similarly, it’s not really my place to share the intimate details of the sex lives of others, so i’ll not dive into the minutiae of precisely what Danielle and Chris were up to. I will, however, say this:

There’s an almost endless array of possible sex sounds that a couple can make. For some its dirty talk, some are moaners, some wailers, some swearers, some screamers, some blasphemers. Often a delightful mix and match of many.

Danielle, despite being such an angel in every day life is a GRUNTER. And, as it happens, so is Chris.

As such, once things get going between the pair, things can start to sound like two bulls charging at each other.

Out of context it’d sound ridiculous. Possible even so far as actively unpleasant.

IN context it sounds fucking incredible.

And that night it wasn’t just two bulls clashing, it was the entire Bull-run of Pamplona.

As any dedicated pervert will tell you, the trick to masturbating while listening in is to try to time your orgasm for the same time as the couple.

Reader; I missed. I missed by so much I’d have had time for a second by the time they finished.

This wouldn’t have been a problem but for one thing: I did not finish quietly.

Whilst I’m a huge proponent of having loud sex, I’ve always tended to masturbate quietly. No one needs to suffer the awkwardness of listening in on someone else’s self loving. But on this particular night I don’t know what happened.

“OH FUCK…!”

The words escaped my mouth as assuredly as if I’d been replaying my own personal ‘best-of’ orgasms playlist for all the world to hear. It was certainly far louder than the bull run that was mid charge next door.

Their pace didn’t hesitate, but there was no way they wouldn’t have heard it.

I tried to curse myself, but was too busily bathing in the post orgasm glow to care, and soon I found myself drifting off to a satisfied exhausted sleep.

I slept for a very long time. I clearly needed it. By the time I awoke Chris had, perhaps mercifully, already long departed.

Danielle caught up with me in the kitchen. Despite her having clearly been in the fridge, she didn’t comment on the fact I’d not eaten her pasta bake.

Like I said; she’s an angel.

“Good night?” I asked casually. This was both as an indication she could tell me a little more about her actual night out but had also become something of a subtle code between us for ‘Yes, we both know there were sounds of sex last night, there’s no need to be awkward about it. This is our way of both acknowledging it happened without needing to dwell….’ It’s a very necessary system I’ve installed with all housemates since uni.

“Great night.” said Danielle.

I was about to comment that seemed like a notable downgrade from her initial judgement, but I wasn’t given the opportunity.

“Sounds like you had fun too…” she said, an unreadable half-smile on her face, pitched so there was no way of knowing if I was in trouble or if she was teasing me.

Ah. So she had heard it. Fuck. How was I going to pass this off?

She looked me squarely in the eye without a hint of embarrassment or awkwardness, now fully smiling as though she’d been preparing these precise words for hours.

“Alice, I mean this is the politest fashion possible; you need to GET FUCKED.”

She wasn’t wrong. And it was advice I intended to follow!

TO BE CONTINUED…