FOR THOSE WHO know where to look, the marks are everywhere; on the walls in pub toilets, down dark alleyways, and behind those big red industrial bins. A spray painted stenciled tag, which at first glance looks like the crudely drawn fist of a revolutionary worker, or an athlete grasping a baton, is in fact a sign to the initiated that this is a site Street Wanking takes place.
Street Wanking is a dangerous sporting craze sweeping the nation. Like bare knuckle boxers, Street Wankers have a violent, consuming passion for something and an unquenchable thirst which must be sated. This Fight Club for the sexually expressive meets wherever the Street Wankers’ Mark can be seen. The aim? Wanking. Wanking only. With unparalleled, unshakeable ferocity, Street Wankers grab their apparatus and commence. Every swift tion from the helmet to the head culminating in a fury of sweat, spunk and satisfaction. This is not mere ‘tossing off’, or ‘jerking the gherkin.’ This is nothing less than a need. This is not utilitarian masturbation. This is existential wanking. This, in short, is Street Wanking.
Wankspots
Loitering at a Wankspot after dark is not advisable for the fainthearted. Wankers emerge from the shadows, silent, as if gliding. They loiter, till one begins. Suddenly trousers are round ankles, fists are clenched, grunts and groans emerge. Growing redder with every passing moment, faces are contorted until the final climax comes. But with every high, there is a comedown.
“The first rule of Street Wanking is that you do not talk about Street Wanking,” says JB, the self proclaimed founder of the sport. “The second rule is that you don’t shake hands afterwards.” JB is quick to point out that his participation in group masturbation is not for pleasure; he claims he cannot stop: “It’s a painful life. Perhaps fortunately, my condition is terminal. With shortens. Blood no longer reaches my tip and gangrene has set in. My bell end used to shine like a well-polished beetroot, now it pusses green venom like a burning biro on a waxy candle.”
JB is mortified that others may see his problem as a perversion: “I’m not a pervert, I’m an addict. Without a tug I just don’t feel alive. I have a condition, a psychological disorder in which I offset my misery with maniacal masturbation. I wish I could get back to the old days when I had it under control.” His wrists ruined, his cock numb, JB issues a stark warning for those experimenting with Street Wanking: “Spare a thought for me the next time you nonchalantly bash the bishop to kill time, ‘cos I’ll be out here with friction burns on my palms.”