However much one may wish to do so, as a human it is hard not to become a creature of habit. We buy our clothes at the same stores, eat at the same local restaurants, pick up the same bottle of wine from the same off-license on the same night each week. Routine is an easy and comforting cloak to wear, and that is true in a sexual context as well.
Nine times out of ten I masturbate in bed, lying on my (right-hand) side. I squeeze lube into my hand, wrap it round my cock, mentally select a fantasy, and a few minutes later I’m sprawled across the mattress with cum splashed across my stomach. It’s a routine: it’s not meant to be sexy!
The one time in ten? Always sexy. Maybe it’s in the toilets at work, after the hot secretary has brushed her arse against my crotch in the cramped, claustrophobic kitchenette. Maybe it’s on a train, facing my girlfriend in a half-empty carriage, each watching the other’s hand move frantically under the formica table between us, as we race to find out who can come first. Maybe it’s in an aeroplane toilet, or in a library, or on the beach when I’m 15 and have never felt so wonderfully alive.
Or maybe it’s just on my sofa one night, when I wasn’t planning to masturbate, but suddenly find myself unable to keep my hands off my cock, and unwilling to delay things for long enough to move into the bedroom. Yeah, that’s pretty hot too.