“Last time I stayed in one of these hotels,” I said, “I had some of the best sex of my life in a bed just like this.”

I indicated the bed. I had lied a little, perhaps; the bed I’d had sex on was facing the other way in the room, and the en-suite bathroom was on its other side… but this was the same design, the same size, the same softness, and – crucially – this was a Radisson Blu. It’s a nice hotel chain. Good memories. And this was free. What was I going to do, really?

Nobody answered, because there was nobody to share with me. I was talking out loud to myself (I do that a lot, anyway). I needed to say it, though. And, as I put my bag down and laid out my clothes, I ruminated on how lucky I was not to be put in Room 666. I was in 665. 666 may have been a “superior” room, but who knows at this point?

But I digress. There was only one of me, and I’d been given carte blanche to go back to my room at any point during the weekend (I did that in the middle of the day, once, during Day 2, simply because I needed a nap). I could claim ownership of the whole space, and I did – walking around the roomy room a good few times, trying (and failing) to decide if I was pleased, proud, grateful or lonely. I didn’t quite share that feeling for the rest of the weekend.

There was, however, something I did manage to do.

Both nights there I masturbated in the big squashy armchair in the corner of the room. I wasn’t sure if I would be completely able to do so, but I didn’t feel comfortable in the little desk chair, and the bed was too squashy. I feared not being able to get up from it if I lay on my back to wank, and indeed I fell out of bed on Day 1, so that was… fun. Searching around for one, I put a towel on the cushion, sat on that, and worked my way towards orgasm with no more aid than my imagination.

Both times were satisfying, fruitful and productive. I used up a lot of the tissues they gave me. Sorry, Radisson.

Also, neither time did I think to shut the window, or close the blinds.

That was a lie. I did think to do so, but I decided not to. It was incredibly unlikely that anyone would see me on the sixth floor of a massive hotel, especially since I was in the corner. I liked to hear the sounds of Manchester continuing apace outside, and the twinkly lights coming on through the dusky sky were a perfect backdrop. Plus, I told myself, who cares if there’s someone wanking in a hotel room? People masturbate all the time. It’s a hot evening; nobody’s going to judge me even if they do see.

I mean, they might have, but I didn’t want to test the theory.

As I said, I was alone. But, on both nights, as I sat there in the stillness, Manchester’s hum low under my post-orgasmic haze, I felt comfortable, satiated, and totally at peace with the orgasms I’d chosen to share with the world.

So how was your weekend, ILB?

Calm.