Masturbation and Messy Handwriting: A Wank Journal Update

A plastic washing-up bowl filled with various masturbation implements and water, from when I was sanitising all my sex toys a couple of weeks ago

If you’ve been reading my blog a little while, you’ll know that I have some difficulties with masturbation. You’ll also remember the birth of my Wank Journal, and that one of my goals for 2019 was to wank – or at least try to wank – a little more.

Friends, I did that.

I don’t want to jinx my progress, but I’m getting better at masturbation. Like, a lot better; I do it more often, I dissociate less, and I often manage to actually have orgasms (yeah, orgasms! Plural!). My secret weapon? Stoned Morgan. I’ve found that Stoned Morgan doesn’t have the same trauma responses to wanking that Sober Morgan does, so I’ve been having a reasonable number of stoned wanks – but the truly magical thing is that, as a result of those, I’m also having sober wanks. Stoned wanks are great for all the obvious reasons, but they’re also great because the more I wank without having a trauma response, the less frightened I am of the whole process, and so the less likely I am to have a trauma response during sober wanks, too.

My other, not-so-secret weapon has been my Wank Journal. I don’t write in it every time I have a wank these days, but I think that’s a good sign, because it suggests that masturbation is becoming more ordinary for me, and less of a Big Deal™. However, it is helpful in grounding me when I need it, and it’s also helpful in revealing some interesting patterns in my masturbation habits.

I know you want to know what those patterns are, so without further ado, here’s what a year (and a bit) with a Wank Journal has taught me about myself.

1. I am an extremely lazy wanker.

Since I record the toys I used and the physical acts I engaged in when I document a wank, I’ve come to notice that a majority of the time, I fall back on the same extremely easy strategy: hump a wand vibrator until I come. Sometimes I’ll lie on my back, use one hand to pull my (extremely protective) clitoral hood out of the way and use the other to hold and adjust my wand – but, more often, I’ll lie on my side, legs sort of crossed over, and grind/writhe against the head of my wand, doing a weird pelvic-floor-squeezy thing that I first started doing when I was too young to understand why it felt so nice. On occasion, I’ll put a dildo in my vagina, to complement the pelvic floor squeezing.

It’s a fun way to get off, but the real reason I do it isn’t actually because it’s my favourite, or because I’m lazy (although, let’s be real, that is a major factor). The real reason is:

2. Fucking myself is always what triggers my fight-or-flight response.

Now that I’ve got the hang of actually staying inside my body when I’m wanking, I can ride a wand vibe ’til the proverbial cows come home. The thing that makes me panic and/or dissociate nowadays is the act of putting something inside my cunt and then fucking myself with it. That’s not a surprise, because that’s how I was masturbating when my trauma happened… but it’s very inconvenient, because I’m one of those rare people who has internal-stimulation-only orgasms, like, all the time. And I love them. I didn’t learn to have clitoral orgasms until I got hold of a wand vibrator, and I still can’t have clit-only orgasms with anything less powerful than a cheap handheld drill.

One entry in my Wank Journal describes a wank in which I stopped abruptly after my brain decided to insert thoughts about my abuser into my fantasies. It was a sober wank, and the intrusive thoughts occurred pretty much as soon as I started to fuck myself. I don’t regard that one as a “failed” wank, though – instead, I’m (trying to be) proud of myself for recognising that I needed to stop, avoiding anything that could reinforce the connection between masturbation and my trauma.

3. My fantasies are repetitive as hell.

This one isn’t about the mechanics of wanking. Keeping a Wank Journal lets me track the things that get me off the most, in the privacy of my own mind, and it has revealed that I have the same handful of fantasies over and over again. They usually involve me being irresistible (which sometimes leads to storylines in which I get overpowered), me making other people come (often with overtones of premature ejaculation, because fantasy-me is just that good) and me being stalked (which isn’t a surprise, but it comes up a lot). One particularly memorable and somewhat cringe-inducing quote I documented from a fantasy in which I was getting fucked in a nightclub toilet reads, “God, it’s so hard not to come. Fucking you is like getting milked.”

4. Holding a pen is hard when you’ve just had an orgasm (or three).

I’m 99% sure I have undiagnosed dyspraxia, and it affects my fine motor coordination something rotten. My handwriting is usually tiny, but reasonably neat and legible – except when I’ve just come so hard my feet are burning, and I’m trying to write about how it happened. I still like handwriting my Wank Journal entries, because the sensory aspect of writing with a pen is grounding for me, and my inability to backspace my gibberish makes for a more accurate reflection of my post-wank thoughts and feelings, but I might need to invest in a chunkier, more dyspraxia-friendly pen.


I’m really proud of myself for the progress I’ve made with masturbation. Do any of y’all keep a Wank Journal, or something similar? Do you find that it helps you to connect with your body more readily, or to identify patterns in your masturbation habits? Let me know!


Thank y’all so much for reading, and for your patience while I’m getting back into the groove of blogging. If you loved this post, please consider supporting me via Patreon or Ko-Fi – or, if you want to support something bigger than little ol’ me, consider donating to the CIC I’m part of

Why I Don’t Review Sex Toys (Yet)

Image is of a white hand (Morgan's) holding a box with a picture of the blue Fun Factory Stronic self-thrusting dildo on it.

Content note: this post refers briefly to my experience of being sexually groomed and the subsequent dissociation and trauma I experience. If that’s a bit heavy for you, join me next week for some thoughts on eye contact during sex, and take care of yourself in the meantime ♥


You might have noticed that I tackle a fairly broad range of sex- and kink-related topics on this li’l blog of mine, including detailed discussions of the things I’m into and the reasons I’m into them. You might also have noticed that I am a big user of sex toys, since they feature in a lot of my Smut Saturdays pieces and in some of my other essays too. Surely, then, the next logical step would be to write in-depth pieces on my enjoyment (or dislike) of specific sex toys, right?

Well, much like any other question that starts with, “Why do you…” or, “Why don’t you…”, the answer to this one is twofold: it’s the trauma, and the good ol’ autism.

Let’s get the trauma bit out of the way first. I don’t wank much. My first experiences of enjoyable masturbation were in a grooming context, wherein I was being instructed by someone a lot older than me on technique and fantasies. Six years on, I still find my own arousal unsettling when it isn’t “justified” by a partner’s presence and arousal of matching intensity, and trying to get off without anybody’s permission feels dangerous and unfamiliar. Even with awesome porn, if I’m touching myself while I’m alone, I feel unbearably self-conscious and will often dissociate. As you can imagine, this does not make for very good dildo data.

I could, of course, circumvent this by only testing toys in the presence of a partner – which would also yield more data in terms of how a toy can be used by two or more people. However, I’m depressed and anxious, and both of my partners are busy people, so I don’t want to put pressure on the sexual encounters we do manage to have by making them into research projects; nor do I want to put pressure on my partners themselves by bestowing upon them a responsibility to get sexy with me for the sake of my blog when we’d rather be watching Masterchef or snuggling in silence after a busy, hard day.

The only viable solution to this problem, in my eyes, is continued therapy, gentle experimentation, and lots and lots of time to keep recovering. If I ever do manage to produce a review of a toy, y’all should know it’ll be the product of a huge amount of psychological labour, support on my partners’ parts and way more time testing than the average reviewer probably spends.

With that out of the way, here’s my next point: the autism. Being autistic doesn’t automatically preclude a person from reviewing sex toys by any means, and it might even be an advantage to some, since autism can involve, among other things, heightened sensory experiences and a meticulousness that your neurotypical friends will envy during Deadline Week at uni. Unfortunately, my autism also involves a lack of cognitive empathy.

“But Morgan!” you cry, probably gripping your laptop or tablet screen in dismay. “You’re super empathetic! What are you talking about?!”

You’d be right, my dear fictional and overreacting reader. I have buckets of affective empathy, which is the one that makes you cry at videos of raccoons dissolving their own candy floss or bitterly despise your friends’ trash exes – in slightly more technical terms, affective empathy is the type of empathy that causes you to experience the same emotions that people around you are experiencing, and it’s the type I have way too much of.

Cognitive empathy, though, is the kind of empathy that helps you to understand how other people are feeling in the first instance – and I fucking suck at it. Once someone has very clearly signalled their emotions to me, I’m balls-deep in those emotions with them, but they have to be very, very clear signals. As a default, I assume that everybody is fundamentally like me, so I’m surprised to learn that people are straight, or that they like pasta, because I’m a pasta-hating double queer. In terms of sex toy stuff, I’m surprised to learn that some people like very direct clitoral stimulation or that they might dislike intense A-spot stim – and I tend to forget that information even once I’ve learned it. I worry that my lack of cognitive empathy would make my reviews effectively useless to anyone whose preferences didn’t align exactly with my own.

I also worry that my heightened sensory experiences would skew my reviews in a distinctly unhelpful way. Not only do I enjoy things more intensely than some neurotypical folk might, I also find some things unbearable that barely register for allistic folk. I am intensely bothered by certain textures, so I might slate a toy or a lube for a texture that 99% of the population would enjoy (or be neutral on). I’m also sensitive to noise, so my perception of the noise levels produced by a particular vibe might be wildly inaccurate and totally useless to somebody living in a block of flats with very thin walls.

I know that a lot of these problems could be mitigated by understanding and making clear to my readership that my reactions to stimuli aren’t representative and that I’m just describing my own experiences, but I’d hate to lead someone astray with my autistic fussiness and turn them away from a toy that they otherwise might have loved. I suppose, in a sense, this isn’t so much a problem with my autism as it is a problem with my own confidence in my writing; hopefully, over time, I’ll develop enough nuance to accurately and honestly review toys in a way that’s helpful for autistic and allistic folks alike.

Oh, and one final point: I’m broke as shit. Sex toys can be expensive, especially if you limit yourself to only reviewing body-safe ones, and I’m living off my student loan and the Amazon gift cards my uni sometimes gives me for participating in surveys. If any manufacturers or brands want to help mitigate that factor, since it’s the easiest one to contend with, you can reach me at kinkyautistic@gmail.com – which is also one of the many places you can reach me if you’re a reader and you want to share your thoughts on the art of reviewing toys.