Masturbation as Spirituality

This one is sort of oriented towards the gentlemen among my immense readership, but ladies, feel free to mentally edit the genitals on the fly, to suit your equipment.
We occasionally hear people deride something as masturbatory, the implication being clearly pejorative. Masturbatory, as in some self-indulgent, half-assed substitute for the real thing.
Not so fast, say I. Don’t be so quick to denigrate beating off, at least in the form that I am thinking of:
You stand there in that shower, hot water pouring down, soaped-up cock in hand, eyes closed, in a state of deepest concentration. You are transported from the here and now into an exquisite fantasy state, yet very much in the here and now, given the undeniable physicality of the moment. You are in a state of extreme arousal on one level, while nonetheless achieving a paradoxical relaxation as you release your mind from everything else and focus on this. (Besides, we don’t have all day to bust a nut.)
Such moments are more than mere jerking off, my friends. This is more like a combination of masturbation, meditation, and prayer — especially when you are in love, or at least infatuated, and that love is as yet unconsummated. Now the object of your desire is brought into the very shower itself, there with you, by the sheer power of your thought. Even the committed atheist would seem to be praying to the gods: please, please let this happen at least once before they put a toe-tag on me.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I think I could use a shower.