The Masturbatorium

Everyone has their own peculiar Kit Kat break, so to speak.

Let's just say that work doesn't come without its own set of stressors - my ISO has his dirty dartboard but me, I have my own ways of dealing. When I'm feeling a lil moody, a lil pissed off, a lil grumpy, I usually go for a walk to work off all that stress - and inevitably I end up going down a particular out-of-the-way corridor that leads to a special isolation room. Not that I've ever been fortunate enough to enter but all I have to do is look at the name proudly emblazoned in bold letters on the door - The Masturbatorium - and I can't help but crack a smile.

An imprudent few would even call it a smirk.

Although the purpose of the room is obvious enough from the shockingly suggestive appelation, I know there'll always be the innocent few who'll wonder. Well, the masturbatorium is a private sanctuary for struggling wannabe fathers who find themselves reproductively challenged - which is why we have the masturbatorium ( and the subsequent semen analysis by your friendly neighbourhood technicians ) to separate the wheat from the chaff, so to speak.

The name's certainly a mouthful. Appropriate enough, I should say :p


Whoa. Who opened the door!
Behind closed doors, the moans, the groans and the shattering finale ( though I've honestly never heard a peep! ) should be obvious enough to describe the activities therein. Doesn't need a genius to ascertain the main purpose of a masturbatorium but I've always wondered what else goes on behind those resolutely locked doors.

Though I've almost convinced myself that it's only a cold, sterile nondescript room far from conducive for its purpose - as inevitably all hospital spaces turn out to be - I've always hoped and imagined it as a decadent, sensual pleasure palace built to cater to the sordid needs of the red-blooded heterosexual man, possibly with towers of raunchy straight porn DVDs in alphabetical order - with a bit of naughty fetish and girl-on-girl action tossed in the mix - and dozens of vintage, well-loved Playboys with disturbingly sticky pages showcasing nubile, half-dressed beauties cavorting without a care in the clothing-optional countryside.

Boys will be boys - but hell, they all still need a little something to perk up their libido, right? And there's nothing quite like a winsome Miss January flashing her wondrous mammaries to the delight of the viewer. Wonder if they even cater especially for the closeted homosexuals by slyly inserting a DVD or two from Bel Ami / Falcon!

Along with the generously splattered plasma screen, there will no doubt be suggestive lighting, questionable fluffy pillows and comfortable ( though curiously squishy ) leather seats of course. And thankfully close at hand, there'll be the generous bottles of lubricants / lotions ( guaranteed to leave your hands silky smooth! ) and endless rolls of tissue paper, no doubt prerequisites in every budding hormonally-challenged teenage boy's room. Bet the guys reading are smirking right about now as well.

Always makes me wonder though what the unfortunate guys think as they're going in - especially with the stern-faced 300-pound nurse waiting just feet away for the required deposit. Enough to make them wilt surely :)