I’m a busy woman. If I have some spare time and want to relax, I usually spend it watching Netflix or doing a face mask.

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For me, sex is about interacting with another person, so masturbating doesn’t massively turn me on. I like it on occasion, but I can happily do without. And I definitely don’t feel like I could fit it into my days on a regular basis.

But when some science-y types recommended masturbation breaks at work – as in wanking in the office during work hours – as a way to improve focus and be a happier, better employee, I was intrigued.

Maybe I was missing out on all the benefits masturbation could bring. Maybe a quick self-love sesh in the toilets could make me more creative, more efficient, and less full of despair and lethargy.

So I decided to do an experiment: one week of masturbating at work, to see if it would make me a significantly improved person.

And in the interests of equality and science, I also recruited Andy, one of our writers, our new agony uncle, and a person with a penis, to test out the technique too.

Here’s what happened.

Andy’s magical masturbation experience

Trying to make sense of the present debate around masturbation in the workplace, I’ve realised the only scientific way to sort fact from fiction is to take matters into your own hands… So to speak.

My plan is to choke my chicken once a day, on business premises, for a full working week, then write about my findings.

And to think mum told me journalism wasn’t a proper career.

If you’re curious about the etiquette, technique or privacy then read on. Though first I should come clean.

As a freelance writer, I divide my time between various poncy London offices and my Brighton living room.

So, as often as possible, when I can dupe clients into thinking I’m good at working from home, I sit on my couch merrily cranking out ‘content’, all day long, with my laptop speakers turned up full.

This is an office-based week though, so, for our purposes, I’ll be beating my meat in the shadows like a sneaky self-pleasuring ninja.

Day one:

Today I start work at a stately Art Deco newspaper office in Kensington, pondering where might be best to slope off and bash one out.

Pulling your plonker in an open-plan setting presents several technical challenges, not least disposal of the evidence. Therefore I conclude the best way to successfully discharge my mission is in a bathroom.

The building’s old-fashioned layout means there’s several such hideaways on each floor.

During my morning reconnaissance I’m delighted to find a seemingly little-used convenience near the fire exit stairs. Bingo.

Returning later to do the deed I’m anxious, yet relieved to find my chosen stall unoccupied. I snick the door shut and gingerly crack on.

Two issues immediately present themselves.

I can’t be the only man who finds it hard in this era of ubiquitous smut to ‘find the biting point’ wank-wise without some form of pornographic prompt. Smartphones usually serve handsomely in this regard, but the building’s thick walls render 4G useless. And I’m not about to risk searching for porn on my client’s wifi.

The second problem is even more intractable. I tend to favour lying down during the act of self-love (on my right-hand side, biting a pillow since you ask).

Constraints of space, and the careless sprinkle of another man’s coffee-smelling piss on the cubicle floor, make this unfeasible. Thus I pass a cramped, frustrating eternity rebooting my cobwebbed spankbank, much as one might wrangle an ancient Nokia back to life for a final nostalgic game of Snake.

Still, got there in the end.

Day two:

The next day, still in Kensington, I resolve to get a firmer grip on the situation.

Over the course of several discreet morning bathroom breaks, I scope out assorted bogs on various floors, looking for the optimal mix of good internet and square footage to stretch out in. And I hit the jackpot.

To be clear, I’m not exactly advocating disabled facilities as a five-star arena for bleeding the weasel. But by god: it has natural light, decent 4G, acres of floorspace, a full soap dispenser and two (count ‘em!) kinds of tissue. There’s even one of those red danger cords, in case I do myself a mischief.

Returning to my desk, pipes cleaned and cheeks aglow, I knock out a solid afternoon’s work, then skip to the pub for a post-coital pint.

Day three:

New day, new office. I’m at the West End headquarters of a popular arts and culture publication.

I’m a little more familiar with the territory here, and recall how the gimlet-eyed office manager has a clear view of the disabled loos. So that option’s out.

But there’s no harm using the main gents toilet, right? Wrong – I reflect, as a colleague in the neighbouring stall noisily expels a sulphurous bowel movement.

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Do I carry on? My throat retches at his ungodly stench. My nose stings, my eyes water.

In the dying throes of his rancid gut-quake, one colossal brogue convulsively twitches under the stall partition and punts my Converse. Ew.

Still, I’ve invested ten minutes already, and have no intention of walking back across the office with a semi-on.

The real low point is when I open the cubicle door and, both sated, our eyes briefly meet in the bathroom mirror.

Day four:

Today I’m in Soho, working for a fancy-dan lifestyle publication. I have a new plan.

Despite being roughly 90% Pret a Manger these days, I still find Soho a weirdly sexy sort of place. So today I spend lunchtime lurking around the lingerie, jazz magazine and sex shops to get myself worked up, then slip into the gloriously under-utilised disabled office bogs ‘warmed up’ and ready to go.

I resist the urge to treat myself to a cheeky bottle of poppers (sly masturbation pro-tip there, from me to you). Still, the plan works like a charm.

Day five:

I conclude my hectic week of office-based onanism at the east London home of a small but much-admired music magazine. Table football, beer fridges, leggy interns – you get the idea.

Here, all the lessons of the preceding week come together: Fast internet access – check. Disabled-grade floorspace – check. Zero ogreish flatulence – check.

‘Pre-warming’ before final solo sprint – check.

Later, over a cold can of IPA, the features editor tells me he’s considering installing one of those trendy nap-pods Google and Facebook provide for over-worked developers who need to grab a quick forty winks.

‘We’ll probably just use it for burping the worm though,’ he says.

Well who’d have thought it. All journalists are wankers.

Ellen’s really not that magical at all masturbation experience

Unlike my extremely fortunate colleague Andy, I work in just the one office, not from home. My coworkers notice when I’m away from my desk, the toilets almost always have a queue, and writing about masturbating at work tends to make people think that you’re probably, well, masturbating at work.

The only option is to fit wanking into my lunch break, primarily using the fancy, less-used toilets downstairs at my office. No one will know a thing.

Until I write about it all over the internet.

Day one:

I start my first wanking day with a mixture of trepidation and despair.

I’m not great at wanking, I find it tricky to orgasm with a time limit, and I’m sure I’m going to finish my lunch break frustrated and with a sore wrist.

I’m correct on both counts.

The toilet cubicles, fancy as they may be (there are multiple rolls of plush toilet paper, so I feel pretty snazzy), are not leaving me feeling particularly aroused.

The time limit leaves me tense, as does the knowledge that I can’t make any noise (which rules out any vibrators or other helpful accessories).

I make myself try half-heartedly for fifteen minutes, give up, and return to my desk.

I’d much rather have spent that time deleting emails.

Day two:

Today, I decide to try a little harder. Attitude is important, and I figure there’s no way I’m going to get off if I’m expecting defeat.

I pull up my socks, pull down my pants, and set to work. But I’m still finding it hard to switch off.

I’m sure that someone will come in, get annoyed that I’ve been in the cubicle for 10 minutes, and assume I’m taking a massive dump.

I’d rather they knew I was rubbing one out, to be honest.

But sadly, announcing a masturbation break feels like it’s likely to get me reported to HR. So instead I try to do a stealthy, speedy stroke. There’s no chance of orgasm, so I just decide that I’m ‘done’ after five minutes.

I definitely don’t feel any more focused or full of joy. I just feel like a weird sex pest lurking in the toilets and taking weirdly long lunch breaks. Which is exactly what I am.

Day three:

On day three, I forget about the challenge entirely until around 4.15pm. Which is an issue, because I finish at 4.

I decide to fit in a speed-wank in the toilets directly by my desk before heading home, so it’ll still technically count as a work-based masturbation break.

Doing it during official work-time instead of on my lunch break should add an air of thrill to proceedings, but instead it makes me flustered and nervy.

I forgot to bring my phone with me to check the time, so I get it over with at breakneck speed, paranoid that I may have been in the loos for twenty minutes. As anyone with a clitoris can imagine, it doesn’t feel great.

I return to my computer bright red and stressed. F*** this. I’m going home.

Day four:

On day four, success.

I head back down to the fancy toilets as before, but this time I give myself a full, luxurious half an hour. I set an alarm, put in headphones to block out the sounds of people opening doors and tutting at how long I’m taking (there are two other cubicles, I’m not being completely horrible), and get down to it.

And it actually works. I successfully get off in the middle of the day. It’s great.

But afterwards, things begin to fall apart.

My post-orgasm state isn’t energised, focused, and ready to work. It’s sleepy and tactile. I want to lounge in blankets and have my hair stroked. I want to walk around in an oversized shirt while eating strawberries.

I definitely do not want to return to my desk and bash out internet content.

I wish this office had dual nap/wank rooms filled with pillows, snacks, and vibrators.

Day five:

I’m fed up, tired, and I just want to use my lunch break as intended: for eating, texting, and reading a bit of my book if I fancy treating myself.

I’m a wreck. Masturbation feels like an obligation. Every touch feels like a chore.

This is not what any clitoris deserves.

I manage to get through a good twenty minutes, and, surprisingly enough, halfway through it does feel pretty great. Once I get rid of the pressure to get off or get it over with quickly, it’s actually quite enjoyably to just do something that feels nice. 

This time I return to work feeling a little cheerier. I’m definitely not more focused though, as I keep feeling tempted to go back to the loos and finish things off.

I’m happy this week is over. I’m not cut out for the high-pressure world of the work wank.