Come as you aaaaaahh!

bout four hours into the first-ever London ‘Masturbate-a-thon’, my penis had all but disappeared. Seriously, it was as if I’d just emerged from skinny-dipping in a glacial lake on the coldest night of the year. Shrivelled, shrunken and shy, my once mighty pork-sword had been reduced to more of a pocket knife – and a closed one at that. Had the police raided the venue, I could’ve been arrested for carrying a concealed weapon.

Honestly, though, it’s not what you think. It hadn’t been worn down to a nub of nothingness in a knuckle-shuffling frenzy of sweaty self-abuse. No, it hadn’t come to that.
Before I start to tell you about my adventures at this historic and important event though, I’d like to state for the record that I did not have sexual relations with that man, Mr. Tyaransen.
Repeat: I did not have sexual relations with myself.
My fiancée’s last words to me before I departed to London on my ignoble journalistic mission were, “Olaf, please don’t have a wank while you’re over there!” (And how my fellow passengers stared, after that slightly-too-loud send off.) I assured her that I wouldn’t, and remained true to my word. No seed was spilled, no chicken was choked, no pud was pulled, and no Bishop was bashed during the researching of this article. At least, none of mine. Believe you me, I have no desire to become the next Ray Shah.
But I’m getting way ahead of myself here, prematurely ejaculating information. Let’s begin at the beginning...

The UK capital was baking on the afternoon of Saturday the fifth of August, and I was hot, sweaty, late and lost. The Masturbate-a-thon (or ‘Wank-a-thon’ as the British press had dubbed it) had been due to start at 2pm, and it was now 2.40. I’d walked up and down the street where we were due to meet, but there wasn’t a tosser in sight.
The organisers from Marie Stopes International had told me to go to Drop Studios at 50-54 Clerkenwell Road, but that address appeared to be a red-bricked apartment block. It occurred to me that I could well be the victim of a hoax. After all, a charity masturbation marathon sounded extremely unlikely – even after you’d heard that Channel 4 were involved. The mobile number I’d been given kept on ringing out.
I stood outside the building, scratching my head, wondering if I was being filmed by a hidden camera. It was definitely the right address. There was no ‘Drop Studios’ listed on the intercom, but I randomly rang one of the buzzers anyway. Nothing. I tried another. Nothing. Third time lucky. Almost immediately, a metallic female voice squawked a cheery, “Hello!”
“Oh, hi there,” I said into the intercom. “I’m terribly sorry to bother you, but I’m just wondering if there’s a place called Drop Studios somewhere in this building.”
“No, I don’t think so,” she said. “These are all apartments.”
“This is 50 Clerkenwell Road, isn’t it?” I said.
“Yes,” she replied. “What kind of studios are you looking for?”
“I think they’re television studios,” I explained. “Channel 4 are filming something today and I’m meant to be there. This is the address I’ve been given.”
“Are you sure?” she said. “Channel 4? I don’t think there’s anything. Hang on a minute. Dave!”
Ten seconds later, a male voice rasped, “Hello?”
“Hello, I’m really sorry to bother you, but I was told that Channel 4 were filming here today, but I can’t seem to find the place.”
“Channel 4?” he said. “I don’t think so, mate. There’s no studio around here. What’s it about anyway?”
“Em...it’s the Wank-a-thon,” I replied. “You might have read about it in the newspapers.”
“The Wank-a-what?” he said, sounding alarmed.
“I know it sounds a bit...em...weird,” I stammered. “But it’s the...the Wank-a-thon. You know, people publicly masturbating for charity. Channel 4 are filming it for this ‘Wank Week’ thing they’re doing in the Autumn. I’m already late!” Suddenly realising how that sounded, I quickly added, “No, no, it’s not what you think. You see, I’m a journalist.”
There was a moment’s silence and then a loud clunk as he slammed the receiver down. I decided it’d be wise to make myself scarce. I’d no idea how big Dave was, and he could well have been on the way down. Besides, this definitely wasn’t the right place.
Two minutes later, I finally got through to my Marie Stopes contact, Tony Kerridge. Apparently, I’d been looking on the wrong side of the road. He gave me directions. “There’s loads of people here,” he said. “You won’t be able to miss us.”
Once I knew where I was going, it was easy. There was indeed a lot of activity outside the building, a big crowd of people, several film crews and photographers, organisers wearing distinctive white ‘Come Ask Me’ t-shirts, and what appeared to be a lone protestor.
Neatly dressed and in his mid-30s, he was holding up a placard which said, ‘PEOPLE OF ISLINGTON – DO YOU WANT THIS? ARE YOU NOT OFFENDED?’ There was another one at his feet: ‘MASTURBATION OR PUBLIC DEGRADATION? DID ISLINGTON COUNCIL ASK IF YOU WANTED THIS EVENT?’
He reminded me of Fr. Ted waving his ‘DOWN WITH THIS SORT OF THING!’ sign. But he didn’t even have a hapless Dougal at his side. Then again, if you’re going to protest against public masturbation, it’s probably appropriate that you do it alone.
I stood back and watched as he was interviewed by a TV news crew. He told them that his name was Matthew Ball and he was a 34-year-old primary school teacher and devout Christian. He vehemently denied that he’d been planted there by Channel 4 to make good television.
“If my five-year-old son sees this in a newspaper, I don’t want to explain to him what it’s about,” he told the reporter. “I find the whole thing offensive and I don’t want it in my borough. Look at the people standing outside. Are they porn stars or are they really here for charity? Doesn’t anybody draw a line anymore? I think it’s immoral.”
There were about 30 people milling around outside the building, and at least half of them were media or organisers. The other half certainly didn’t look like porn stars. Quite a few, however, definitely had the pasty pallor of porn aficionados.
I realised that there was a queue the whole way up the stairs to the first floor that had spilled out onto the street. The only women I could see were reporters, organisers and a single, hairy-armed transvestite.
It was only at that moment, standing there, taking in the scene, that it occurred to me that I was about to witness some of these people masturbating. I wasn’t exactly thrilled at the prospect.
Tall, tanned, neatly-bearded and wearing shaded glasses, Tony Kerridge looked like a slightly older version of George Michael. He told me that I’d arrived too late for the media’s guided tour of the venue. The event had kicked off on schedule and, apparently, there were already quite a few people masturbating upstairs.
“Sorry, mate, but we’ve started and it’s off-limits to the press now,” he explained. “If you want to go into the masturbation area then I’m afraid you’re going to have to sign up and participate.”
This didn’t come as a total shock, and I decided I’d worry about it later. I had another more pressing concern. Our photographer had cancelled at the last minute, and we needed to find another one.
The obvious thing was to commission somebody at the scene, but most of the snappers hanging around looked like unpleasant tabloid types. Except for a petite, pretty, dark woman wearing a heavy camera and a Pixies t-shirt. I introduced myself, explained the situation, and asked if she’d be willing to take some shots. No problem. Of Indian descent, her name was Nitu. I tried not to blanch when she told me that she was here on assignment for the Sunday Sport.
For those of you unfamiliar with the SS, it’s a tabloid rag so full of sex-line adverts that it’s better known to many as the Sunday Spurt. That Nitu didn’t seem like their type is putting it mildly, but here we were discussing the photographic possibilities at a mass masturbation. We were joined by a tall, blonde-haired, large-chested girl wearing denims and a polka-dotted headband. “Sorry I’m late,” she said in an Essex accent, “parking was hell.”
This turned out to be Rebecca Smythe – 24-year-old glamour model, porn star and one of the Sunday Sport’s ‘stunnas’.
Nitu did the introductions. Rebecca explained that she’d been commissioned by the paper to be photographed masturbating at the event for the following day’s edition. It was another gig for her.
When I took out my notebook to take her details, she told me that her name was spelt in the Irish way – “S-m-y-t-h-e.”
We joined the queue as she gave me a brief career resume. “I’ve been doing porn about five months, but I’ve been doing glamour modeling on and off for about eight or nine years,” she explained. “I work for the Daily Sport and also do stuff for their TV channel and website. But basically they just asked me to come down here today and take a look at what’s going on. You know, watch everybody wanking and crack one or two off myself. Nitu will be taking some pictures for tomorrow’s paper.”
“Are you looking forward to it?” I asked.
“I am, yeah – it’ll be quite funny watching a load of blokes wanking off together,” she giggled. “I’ve already taken my knickers off.”
Nitu suggested a photograph before we went in. We stood together by the entrance and prepared to pose. I did this by running my hand through my sweaty hair and adjusting my shades. Rebecca got her hugely impressive tits out.
Within seconds, every TV crew and photographer in the vicinity was filming and taking photographs. Rebecca squeezed her breasts and shoved them up against me. Realising that my fiancée would probably see this, I tried to look as uncomfortable as possible.
When all the excitement had died down, a woman from an American news crew approached and asked could they film us walking in the door. I tried explaining that I was a fellow media professional, but Rebecca shushed me. “No problem,” she told her, grabbing hold of my hand.
And so it came to pass that my entrance into the Wank-a-thon was recorded for posterity by an American news channel. As Rebecca and I passed through the door, holding hands and gaily swinging arms, the reporter stood in front of us and announced, “We’re here in London where a large crowd has gathered for a most unusual event. Sponsored either by the minute or by the orgasm – yes, you heard me right, the orgasm – they’re going to masturbate – for charidee!”
And in we went. Out of the eyes of America.
The corridor looked like the entrance to a lap-dancing club or a high-class brothel. There was a red carpet underfoot, red drapes on the walls, and a series of miniature chandeliers hanging overhead. A long queue of would-be wankers snaked the length of the hallway and up two flights of stairs.
While Nitu ran ahead to see if we could skip the line, Rebecca and I chatted some more. She told me that she had recently filmed a ‘Magical Mystery’-style hardcore porn movie.
“It’s basically me and a load of different blokes all stuck together in a haunted house,” she confided, “and I’m the only one who doesn’t get killed. That kind of clinched it for me when I saw the script. Like, I get to shag six different blokes and then I’m the only one who doesn’t get killed. Brilliant!”
“What’s it called again?” I asked, taking out my notebook.
“I Haven’t A Fucking Clue,” she replied. At the time, I wrote that down thinking that it wasn’t a bad title for a murder-mystery porno flick. But of course she just didn’t know the name.
Although there were a couple of women, the queue was almost exclusively male – most colours, ages, hairstyles and dimensions were represented – and they were a surprisingly shy bunch. Most of them didn’t want to talk to me when I took out my tape recorder. “Sorry, mate, but I’d really rather not,” said one. “No comment,” said another. “Get that thing away from me,” growled a third.
Although I spotted a couple of wedding rings, I suspected that they were mostly gay. However, when Nitu returned to say that we’d been cleared to go straight in, one especially rotund, red-faced fellow called after Rebecca as we went past, “Oi! Will you still be up there in twenny minutes?”
“Dunno – I s’pose I might be,” she replied, giving a saucy wink.
“Roight...see you then!” he called back, hopefully.
“In yer dreams, matey,” Rebecca whispered.
There were a couple of registration desks at the top of the stairs. Everybody entering had to sign a consent form, confirming that they were over 18, agreeing to be filmed should they enter the ‘Marathon Room’, and accepting that: “I understand that I am taking part in an event of a sexually explicit nature where I may be exposed to nudity, sexual activity and sexually explicit images.”
There were also the seven masturbate-a-thon commandments:
(1) No touching other participants. (2) No faking orgasms. (3) No exchanging of sex toys. (4) No drugs or alcohol. (5) Nobody deemed to be under the influence of drugs or alcohol will be permitted to enter. (6) No smoking. (7) No cameras, or mobile phones with cameras, may be taken into the areas reserved for masturbation.
Participants either registered their sponsorship details or else donated ten pounds to charity on the spot. As I went past, the hairy-armed transvestite was saying to the girl behind the desk, “Oh, I didn’t know this was for charity. I just came here for the fun of it!”
Once past the registration desks, you were into a main reception area. The actual event was all happening through a set of heavy red and gold drapes (the design theme was Moroccan). I glimpsed a couple of naked men hanging around on the far side of them, and quickly averted my eyes.
There was a refreshments table at one end of the room, serving water, orange juice, chocolate biscuits, lubricants, tissues and pornography (mostly current editions of Forum, Razzle or Euroboy). There was also an abundance of media personnel – film crews from the US, Sweden and independent production company Zig Zag (the people who made ITV’s Essex Boys, they’re putting together the Wank-a-thon programme for C4), and numerous photographers and journalists.
Dr. Robert Lawrence and Dr. Carol Queen, American sexologists and co-founders of the US Centre for Sex and Culture, who first came up with the Masturbate-a-thon concept in San Francisco more than a decade ago, were seated on couches doing interviews.
However, the real action was obviously happening behind the drapes. Nitu had been given permission to go in and photograph Rebecca. They asked if I wanted to join them inside, but I wasn’t quite ready for that yet.

I took the opportunity to grab a few minutes with Tony. We’d spoken on the phone a couple of times in the lead-up to “the event” (as he’d always referred to it) and, while he’d sounded quite stressed earlier, he now looked very relieved at the size of the turn-out.
“We had about 250 people tell us they were coming – if you’ll pardon the expression – but until the doors opened today and people started queuing I didn’t know what to expect,” he said. “I’ve had nightmares where it’s been tumbleweed blowing through the room and the wind whistling, and all the media standing there with cameras. But I’m absolutely delighted with the numbers that have shown.”
“Are there many women here?” I asked.
“Not yet,” he admitted. “But the ratio of monitored attendance seems to be about 80-20. Most of the 20% tended to be women that are part of a couple. So not so many solo women. But we don’t really know. Obviously there’s a lot of guys here. But guys are always the eager ones when it comes to sex, aren’t they?”
Having been doing radio and press interviews all week, by now Tony was obviously very well-versed in explaining the Wank-a-thon’s raison d’etre.
“We’ve got three ideas in mind,” he said. “The first and simplest one is that this is a fundraising event. The money raised will support HIV/AIDS interventions – in this country through the Terrence Higgins Trust, and internationally through Marie Stopes International.
“The second idea is to promote safer sex. We’re keen to promote masturbation as a safe sexual alternative to penetrative sex, along with other varieties of non-penetrative sex. I think this is the key – this is about solo masturbation, okay, but we’re looking to engage via the media with the public, and get people thinking about non-penetrative sex acts. Because as soon as you bring penetration into the picture – especially unprotected penetrative sex – you have the risk of unwanted pregnancy, you have the risk of STIs, and you have the risk of HIV/AIDS.
“The third big objective of today’s event is we’re trying to tackle the taboo around the word ‘masturbation’ and the act of masturbation,” he continued. “I think as a youngster, you know, kids of 11 or 12 are probably much happier to talk about masturbation with their peer group than when they’re 17 or 18 and upwards. There’s some point, I think, in the psyche that says that if you’re masturbating as an adult then you’ve got something lacking. You know, if you’re a bloke then you can’t get a girlfriend. We’re here to say that it doesn’t mean that at all.
“It’s not a dirty act, it’s not a shameful act, it’s emotionally and physically beneficial. There are real positive things to say about masturbation. We just want people to start thinking about it and talking about it a little bit more.”
Predictably, the Daily Mail had been particularly outraged, but a lot of other newspaper reports were also quite negative.
“Well, no, I don’t think it’s all been negative,” Tony shrugged. “I would totally accept the accusation of publicity seeking, but if I’d come to you or any other journalist and said, ‘Hey, we wanna talk about safer sex and non-penetrative forms of safer sex – particularly masturbation,’ would you do a feature? Newspapers wouldn’t! So you have to do things like this.”
One of his fellow organisers came up and told him that he was needed downstairs. Just before he took off, I asked Tony if he was planning on participating himself at any stage.
“Well, you know, I would, but I’m probably going to be too busy,” he laughed. “But you can feel free.”

The Masturbate-a-thon was open to all-comers over the age of 18. I spotted an old woman, who looked to be easily in her 70s, saying a few words to Zig Zag’s camera, before slipping through the drapes. Jesus! What the hell was going on in there? Having absolutely no desire to watch a pensioner playing with herself, I decided to delay my entrance.
I quickly nipped over and introduced myself to Dr. Lawrence, who was just finishing a TV interview. A reddish-haired man in his late 40s or early 50s, he had the gleaming white teeth and distinguished look of a politician, academic or talk-show host. The only hint of anything alternative about him was the partially covered tattoo on his arm.
Dr. Lawrence explained how the event originally came about. In 1994, the then US surgeon general, Dr. Jocelyn Elders, was unceremoniously sacked by President Bill Clinton.
“Dr. Jocelyn Elders said perhaps masturbation should be taught in schools,” he told me. “So she was fired by the Bill Clinton – perhaps he should have been masturbating a little bit more himself, it would’ve saved him a lot of trouble! Well, people were aghast. You know, it was the usual religious and conservative groups who’d demanded that she be sacked.
“I’ve actually met her and, while I have very few heroes, she’s definitely one. She’s just so smart and she’s all about love and joy. Anyway, it was decided to organise a public masturbation event as a form of protest, because she was totally right in what she was saying.”
In response, in 1995 Dr. Lawrence, Dr. Queen and a San Francisco-based sexual health and education group called Good Vibrations organised and ran an online Masturbate-a-thon (webcast on a site called bondage.com). It was such a success that it became an annual event. After a few years, they decided to up the stakes and run a live one in the Campus Theatre at San Francisco University. It’s been happening annually ever since.
The first one to happen outside the US, the London event is the only Masturbate-a-thon that hasn’t been webcast live. Maybe next year. Dr. Lawrence told me that he’s already hoping it’ll become an annual event in Europe, not just here but in other places as well.
“Maybe you should have one in Ireland,” he suggested. “You know, we don’t own the concept. We’re hoping that like a Walkathon or a Bikeathon, the Masturbate-a-thon takes off.”
I asked the good doctor was he planning on participating – or had he done so already?
“My participation involves seven days of travel and doing all the press interviews and stuff,” he laughed. “So I don’t think I’ll be able.”
“But surely you’ll have time for just a quick one,” I urged. “Surely you should be practising what you preach?”
“Nah, honestly, I’m really too busy,” he insisted.

Having been gone for about 25 minutes, Rebecca and Nitu suddenly emerged from behind the curtains. They both looked a little flushed, but obviously for different reasons. Rebecca was swiftly surrounded by a jostling jangle of journalists, photographers and cameramen. A consummate pro, she immediately began licking her fingers. “Mmmmmm. . .”
Nitu showed me the photographs on her digital camera. It was my first glimpse of the topography of the masturbation area – more red and gold drapes, big cushions, mirrors and some rather tasteful furnishings. Rebecca was providing the topoffraphy, lying back on a big cushion with both her shirt and skirt pulled up, her legs spread wide as possible, a single long-nailed digit on her clitoris, and a professional look of ecstasy on her face.
“Wow, it’s really weird in there,” Nitu shuddered. “I didn’t know where to look at first! There were three other guys in the exhibition room. Two of them agreed to be photographed, but one guy refused.”
She flicked through the images until she came to a photograph of a well-toned guy wearing a white mask and holding his erect penis quite close to Rebecca’s legs. “He told her that he wanted to come on her, but that was against the rules,” Nitu explained. “The weird thing is that he was a really fit looking guy. I thought it’d be dirty old men in there, but these guys were actually quite cute.” She flicked through more images until she came to a shot of a very normal looking, dark-haired, man in his twenties, holding his cock in hand and gazing longingly at Rebecca’s open honeytrap. “The third guy was quite good-looking as well, but he refused to be photographed.”
“Why?” I asked. “Surely he’s gonna feature in the Channel 4 documentary if he’s wanking in that room?”
“No, it wasn’t that he was shy,” Nitu explained. “He was happily playing away in front of us. He just said that he couldn’t stand the Sunday Sport.”

Shortly after 4pm, a topless punk in boots and stonewashed denims emerged triumphantly from behind the drapes. As they had with Rebecca, the journalists immediately surrounded him. His tattooed torso was glistening and, frankly, he didn’t smell so good. Dark-skinned and speaking in what sounded like a Scottish accent, he explained that his name was Haldun.
Faced with the all the cameras, he reminded me ever so slightly of Hugh Grant’s flatmate in Notting Hill in the same situation. “I was wanking for a good cause,” he announced proudly, striking his chest. “This is all about masturbation for a good cause. One of the causes is the Terrence Higgins Trust. I know their work and I wanted to support them.”
He paused for a moment’s reflection, and then added, “It’s also a political thing – at least what I’m doing. I come from a Muslim background myself. I’m off to Trafalgar Square now to demonstrate against the Lebanese invasion. So I’m wanking against those really evil wankers Blair and Bush. So after this, once I’ve got my clothes on, I’m off to demonstrate.”
Someone asked how long he’d been in there. “Eh...they’re very organised here.” He showed us his wristband. “They wrote 15.23 and it’s now 16.05. So I wasn’t in there very long. But it’s about quality, not quantity.”
When asked how much money he’d raised, Haldun gave an apologetic shrug. “I’m afraid I didn’t have any sponsors. I just made a private donation of ten pounds. But I only heard about this a few days ago.”
Half an hour later, there were still people queuing down the stairs and the reception area was getting really crowded. One of the organisers, Caroline Elliot from Marie Stopes, threw a minor, but timely, strop. “Could we leave a little room, please!” she called out. “There’s too many people crowding the entrance to the masturbation area.”
I decided to take myself off for a while. I knew what had to be done, but I wasn’t quite ready for what lay behind those drapes. I decided that a drink would be in order. And then another one. Or three.
There was only one female on the stairs – a pretty blonde in her early 20’s, wearing a Queens of the Stone Age t-shirt. She seemed to be with her boyfriend. Otherwise, the rest of the queue was comprised of unsmiling men. When I got out onto the street, I noticed that the protestor had disappeared.
I bought a copy of The Independent, and went to a nearby pub. Opening it randomly, I immediately came across the following headline on page 21, ‘Specialists Alarmed By Shortage Of Sperm’. The article opened, “The national crisis in sperm donation is to be investigated by Britain’s fertility regulator amid growing concerns that IVF clinics are becoming increasingly reliant on imports from abroad.”
Insert your own joke here.
Shortly after 6pm, I returned to the studios. Things had quietened down, and there was no longer a queue. Most of the media had departed and the only TV cameras left were belonging to Zig Zag. This suited me fine. The fewer witnesses, the better.
I went over and asked Tony if there was any way I could gain admittance to the masturbation area without having to remove my clothes. “Sorry, mate,” he grinned, “but you know the rules.” I wouldn’t have minded so much, but he still hadn’t gone in himself.
I made my £10 charity donation, and signed the consent form. “Enjoy yourself,” smiled the girl behind the desk. “Have one on me!” giggled her friend. “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I sighed. “Have either of you gone in?” I asked. “We’re too busy!” they said in unison.
The first thing to hit me was the intense heat. It was roasting in there, the temperature no doubt raised by all the relentless skin-on-skin friction. The place positively reeked of fresh sperm and stale sweat. It smelled like the sex offenders wing of an overcrowded prison half an hour after the Sunday Sport had arrived.
To the left of the entrance there was a changing room. I waited behind an extremely fat, naked girl with an orange peel bottom as she fetched her clothes. A number of men were also standing around, all of them, well, wanking. An elderly gentleman with an enormous penis said a too-friendly, “Hello!” I nodded dumbly back, not really knowing where to look.
There was a young black guy manning the changing room. He gave me a white plastic bag to put my clothes into, and affixed a white band marked ‘106’ to my wrist. They’d obviously had over 100 people within the first four hours.
I got undressed. It was only as I peeled my boxers off that I realised that my penis had disappeared. It just wasn’t there.
Regular readers of this magazine will be familiar with the sight of my penis, and should hopefully know that I have nothing to be ashamed of in that department. I’m not saying that I’m huge, just that I’m perfectly happy. At that particular moment, though, I looked like John Wayne Bobbett on the worst morning of his life. It was quite simply refusing to participate. The useless prick!
Obviously enough, given the heat and the easy availability of both lubricants and any amount of erotic stimuli, I could have easily taken this problem in hand. But I’d promised my fiancée that I wouldn’t touch myself. My crotch was off-limits, a hands-free zone. I had to just grin, bare it, and bear it. There was no way I was going to start wanking, even if only for appearance’s sake.
Aside from the monitors (who were there to register orgasms for those who were sponsored by the number they managed to achieve), everybody was naked or near-naked. There was a mixed room – the ‘Exhibition Room’ – to the left of the changing room. When I walked in, there were around 15 people wanking, but only one woman there. Looking to be in her mid-fifties, she was dressed in a loose t-shirt and seated beside her husband. He was a grey-bearded old gent, who had to be in his late-60s. Enormously well-hung, he was totally naked, sitting with his legs well spread, and obviously enjoying playing with his horned instrument. I couldn’t help but notice that he was wearing a cock ring (as were quite a few others).
There were a couple of black and Asian guys standing or lying around on cushions, but it was predominantly white. The floor was covered with pornographic magazines and big rolls of tissue paper and discarded lube tubes. However, most people seemed to be using their imaginations. It was a truly surreal sight, twenty people wanking. I just stood there with my arms folded, embarrassed and uncomfortable.
Then there was the women-only room. In the interests of research, I walked straight in and feigned ignorance. It was quite a small space. Two extremely large and naked women were lying side by side, both slowly rubbing themselves, but not looking especially excited. From what I could hear, they seemed to be having a conversation about Big Brother. They looked up briefly when I came in, but otherwise ignored me.
The men-only room was far busier, and just scarily hardcore. It was an onanistic orgy in there. The second I walked in, about ten penises turned and pointed in my direction. Coming in various shapes and sizes, their owners ranged in age from mid-20s to mid-60s. I was immediately uncomfortable. They were definitely wanking at me.
I don’t know if it was connected, but within 20 seconds of my arrival, a bespectacled gentleman sitting on the floor directly opposite the door groaned loudly and ejaculated into a paper towel. A few of the others laughed and started to clap. I swiftly walked out again. Ugh!
The ‘Marathon Room’ was where the cameras were filming for the documentary. Not wanting to be caught on camera naked, I just stood at the entrance and took a look in. There were five people in there – four guys and a girl – all masturbating away, oblivious to the cameras and crew. As in the women-only room, they appeared to be having a perfectly ordinary conversation, rather than trying to turn each other on.
There were a few private booths for couples or solo masturbators, but otherwise that was it. I wandered around from room to room, but there wasn’t really much more to report. It was a Masturbate-a-thon and people were masturbating. Everywhere. There was nothing remotely erotic about it– at least from my perspective.
After a while, I attempted some small-talk with a couple of the female monitors. Sure, they were fully dressed and I was in the nude, but that was no reason why we couldn’t have a civilised conversation.
“So – do you come here often?” I asked one of them, by way of witty intro. She rolled her eyes and sighed. Undeterred, I said something along the lines of, “So is this the weirdest job you’ve ever had to do or what?”
When I caught her pulling a face at one of her colleagues, I decided that discretion was the better part of valour and shuffled off.

By 7pm, I was fully clothed and back at the pub. The sun was shining and so I sat outside, watching the world go by. I’d been there for less than ten minutes when one of the guys I’d seen in the Marathon Room strolled past. We exchanged slightly embarrassed hellos. I motioned for him to join me, explained who I was, and offered to buy him a pint.
A punk with a bright red Mohican and a massive tiger tattooed on his arm, Simon was 42-years old, gay, and a Surrey-based sexual health worker (counselling people recently diagnosed with HIV). He’d been at the Wank-a-thon since the beginning and had only just thrown in the tissue. No wonder his eyes were bloodshot.
“I just thought it was a good idea,” he told me. “There’s a real taboo about sex in Britain and yet we’ve got one of the highest rates of teenage pregnancy. If you take, say, a 15-year-old couple who’ve been going out for three months – which is actually quite a long time for a 15-year-old. And they’ve got the opportunity, mum and dad are away or whatever. And they’re in the bedroom, they’re gonna get to the stage where the penetration thing is gonna happen.
“And if they haven’t got a condom, then – with a bit of bad luck – there’ another teenage pregnancy!
“But if they were able to talk about it and if masturbation was more acceptable, that couple could confidently say to each other, ‘We haven’t got a condom, we can’t do this. Why don’t we masturbate each other instead?’ Today’s event isn’t gonna solve the problem of teenage pregnancy or STDs. But it is, in quite a controversial way, gonna help change British attitudes to sex. Solo sex is obviously a safer sex option.”
Simon turned out to be the guy who’d refused to allow the Sunday Sport to take his picture. He also claimed credit for having driven the protestor away (“I asked him did he ever wank himself, and he started to blush!”).
He’d been sponsored by the orgasm and, by coming three times, had succeeded in raising some money for the charities involved. “It was quite difficult holding off the first one,” he laughed. “But I managed to last forty-five minutes. The last one was the hardest, though.”
I asked was he nervous about being filmed by Channel 4. “Yeah. There’s a bit of me that’s really nervous about that, but over the last few weeks, I was thinking, ‘Well, if I believe these things then some of us have to just stand up and say these things’.
“But who’s gonna see it on Channel 4? No-one can turn around and have a go at me about it, because they were watching the programme. Why? My family don’t know about it. I really don’t know what their reaction will be. I’d expect some shock, but I can probably explain it to them.”
It wasn’t until Simon had left that I realised that all the people who’d been sitting around us had discreetly moved away.
A couple of hours later, I was back at Drop Studios and in clear breach of their no alcohol rule. Nobody seemed to mind too much. The day had already been a success and, while there were still about 20 people going for it, the Wank-a-thon was gradually coming to its sticky end.
Because I’d already participated, the monitors allowed me to re-enter the masturbation area fully clothed. I bumped into (a fully dressed) Dr. Carol Queen in the Exhibition Room. A pleasant, bespectacled and conservatively dressed woman in her mid-50s, she looked as out of place as Jackie Healy Ray would at a Mensa meeting. But appearances can be deceptive. In fact, she was in her element. There was an extremely pretty raven-haired girl in her mid-20s moaning and masturbating right in front of us, and she didn’t even bat an eyelid.
“This is just fabulous!” she enthused. “If my understanding is correct, more people have entered the room and registered and participated than we’ve had in San Francisco before. So London has beat us! And that’s splendid. We’re happy to present the competition, but we’re not competitive.”
Dr. Queen was also inordinately pleased with the white paper towels that the Marie Stopes people had provided. “These are much better than the ones we use in the US,” she told me. “I think it’s actually exam-table paper, but it’s far wider than the usual paper towels. But that’s what happens. Any time a new group of people get involved in this, they’ll find a way to add to it and to put their own stamp on it.”
In common with all of her fellow organisers, Dr. Queen hadn’t actually had cause to use one of the towels herself during the day.
“All I’ve done today has been to talk to the press,” she explained. “But because I love talking about masturbation so much, it’s been a form of masturbation, only verbal rather than actually! But I have taken part in Masturbate-a-thons – all but one.”
A moment later, she demonstrated her verbal masturbation skills. “We did this for a variety of reasons that include raising money for a really good cause, to support sexual health and to tie the notion of masturbation back into sexual health and to contraception. It’s so often left out. But also raising the funds for Marie Stopes was an honour. People in the UK – I think it was almost like a gauntlet thrown down, you know, ‘we’re too uptight to do this, let’s try it, it won’t work, I’m sure it won’t work’. Of course it works. People are the same everywhere and people everywhere enjoy masturbation. And today is the proof of it.”
At that moment, as if on cue, the dark-haired girl came with a long, drawn-out and decidedly non-fake, “OOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!”
Dr. Queen immediately handed her a paper towel.
A couple of minutes later, I paid another visit to the Marathon Room. There were only two people left – one of the guys who’d been photographed with Rebecca hours before and the same girl from earlier, lying on some cushions on the floor. The C4 monitors were being far more friendly now that I’d put my clothes back on, and they allowed me to enter the room to see if anybody was willing to talk.
The girl declined (she said she was too exhausted), but the guy – 24-year-old Daniel Craig from Bournemouth – was happy to chat. Heavily sponsored, he was hoping to beat the world record for continuous masturbation – a skin chafing eight-and-a-half hours.
Channel 4 filmed the following interview. If it doesn’t wind up on the cutting-room floor when their documentary is broadcast in a couple of months, please note that I kept my shades on for a reason. Daniel was holding a pornographic book in one hand and his near-flaccid penis in the other. He kept stroking it, but there didn’t appear to be any signs of life.
Hot Press: How long have you been in here?
DANIEL: “I’ve been wanking now since 3 o’clock, basically, which is just over six hours now. I’ve come five times now.”
That’s pretty good going.
“It’s not too bad. I’m disappointed, I expected to do more, but every time I managed to maintain an erection and was just about to come, I’d lose it all of a sudden. And then it would take me ages to get it back again. You know, I was doing okay and then I’d suddenly get six cameras in my face and sort of go ‘Aaaahhh!’”
What do you do when you’re not wanking?
“I haven’t stopped.”
No, I mean in real life.
“Oh! Ha, ha! I cut hair and I work behind a bar as well.”
What possessed you to do this?
“When I heard about it, I thought ‘Okay – brilliant, good challenge there’ – I couldn’t run a marathon, but this I could kind of do. I thought ‘Ok, you can do the whole duration. I didn’t want to come here, have one wank and leave. I wanna actually try and do the whole thing, because I’ve never done this before. So I’ll see if I can pitch myself further than I’ve been.”
Do you have a girlfriend?
“No.”
Are you hoping to get one through this?
“Ha ha! Well, the strange thing is that I actually got a phone number talking to a girl about it last night. I told her about the whole thing and she was really sort of interested, and she gave me her number afterwards.”
I see you’re reading a pornographic book.
“Yeah. I’ve just been trying to get into the zone by reading stories and just keep my mind going and sort of try and block everything else out.”
Are you feeling erotically charged right now, or are you just going through the motions?
“Going through the motions. I think all the kinkiness went out of me after the first couple of hours and now it’s just wanking for the sake of wanking and trying to find new things which will enable me to come next.”
I took a look in this room earlier and everybody seemed to be having a very normal kind of chat. Have you been on your own at any point?
“No, there’s always been me and someone else – at least one other person throughout the whole thing. So I haven’t had a moment by myself yet.”
What are you going to do afterwards?
“I’m hoping I’m gonna go and get lucky.”
Will you have the energy?
“I fucking hope so!”
Well, thanks for taking the time to talk to me. I would shake your hand normally, but I hope you’ll forgive me...
“No worries. I fully understand, mate.”
By now, it was getting close to 10pm, and I figured my work was done. I said my goodbyes to Tony and the American sexologists. As I headed down the stairs, I bumped into Caroline Elliot from Marie Stopes, who told me that 154 people had participated. She looked tired, but happy.
“It’s gone very, very well,” she said. “It was extremely nerve-wracking to begin with because a hell of a lot of people showed up all at once, and a hell of a lot of press, so obviously we were under a lot of pressure. But gradually it calmed down. To be honest with you, it’s been a real education for me. I’ve been extremely amazed at the attitudes of people. They’ve been totally cool and totally calm.”
I asked what had been the high point of her day.
“When we beat the San Francisco record!” she laughed. “We had 154 people and we beat the Americans!”
So now you know who, between the Brits and the Yanks, are the biggest tossers. Of course, this ‘we’ was rather suspect. There was something rather inevitable about Caroline’s reply when I asked if she’d masturbated herself at any point throughout the day.
“Actually, I didn’t,” she confessed. “I would have, but, you know, I was just too busy.”
Photos: Nitu Mistry