Beating about the bush

It smells like condoms and sex in my room.  And I've no idea why, because there's fuck all of that going on.

H has gone away on some interminable army exercise, which means that not only is the old chap going sadly unused, but I have nobody to keep me company at the weekend.  I'll have to go and sit in the pub with another old chap I accidentally befriended.  One of these old chaps is a euphemism for my penis, but I'll leave it to you to work out which one.

Forgive me for my crudeness - crudity?  Crudite?  Is one of them a sort of hors d'oeuvre? - but there is a certain something I seem to do with more frequency when I feel anxious.  That is, to be blunt, without beating about the bush too much, well it's... it's beating about the bush.

I suppose it's fairly well-known that it's quite an efficient method of stress-relief, but what I fail to understand is why the desire should still be there when I would otherwise say I don't feel good.  It isn't during the sort of depressive anxiety though; it's during the more manic phase when I feel incredibly on edge and like the slightest thing could send me off any which way.  But I do essentially still want to do it.  And then I am calmed by cavorting with the five-fingered friend.

I am cautiously curious as to whether anybody else experiences this.  However, I am loathe to open the floodgates to all sorts of shenanigans concerning Madame Palm and her five lovely daughters.

I also apologise for the number of euphemisms, but then I am essentially admitting how much I wank and I'm sure you can see why that would be more than a little embarrassing for me.

A bush to beat about.  It is almost as well-trimmed as mine.