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This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England, this knob that needs a little extra 'ow's yer father. Let's take a trip to a "personal development" camp in these cherished isles. Let's put a little more jack in the Union Jack. Am I being too coy? Fine, let's go on a weekend retreat to learn how to masturbate better.

Because the United Kingdom has thought of everything, it apparently has such blessed placesto be fair, in Scotland, not England proper. So explains Jack Flanagan of Kernel magazine, who took a quickie jaunt north to Edinburgh find himself, and then to fondle himself: "I was headed for a three-day exploration into self-pleasure I had dubbed 'wank school' but which the organisers described in more florid language as 'tending the fire in your belly'":

I reviewed my notes. I'd made a list of three things I wanted to get out of the weekend: to understand a hobby better; to see if masturbation can be better than it is now, and to connect with other men about male sexuality

My, my! This sounds tasty! We Gawkerers are known to defend self-love against its crude detractors from time to time. What new tricks can we learn? And how does one find such seminars? Are any offered at the 92nd Street Y? Sadly, Flanagan leaves these questions largely unanswered: We aren't getting self-service service journalism here; we're getting taken for a wild ride:

I had with me a list of things I'd been told to bring: an object "for the altar", a drawing of my genitals, ear plugs and wet weather clothes.

Rdfavfsvasf. "Altar"? "Genital drawings"?! Who's coming to this thing, anyway? [Spoiler: Six men, the youngest of whom is 44, excepting Flanagan.] Will there be much nudity? [Spoiler: Oh, yes, so so much. With blindfolds and oils.] Flanagan, to his credit, isn't scared yet, though he does allow himself a minute's dread after dropping his bags in the home of Peter, the middle-aged organizer, upon realizing what this retreat is, and what it isn't:

A few minutes later, he wandered back into his living room, a little sheepish but stern. "Just so you know, at no point will we be having sex. I want you to feel safe with me." He left to pick up another man... I was shocked, and realised I'd have to accept the implication: we would be in a situation that could possibly lead to sex. This was not a man's retreat, and it certainly looked less and less like a heterosexual man's retreat.

But hey, make the best of an awkward situation:

Two things happened next: I felt a wave of anxiety and, then, 10 minutes later: an orgasm. I'd started early.

Original post:
Let's All Go to a British "Wank Camp" Now, Shall We?