Madrid's Solitary Self-Pleasure

In the dimly lit, cramped apartment of a Madrid divorcee, the air is thick with the scent of aged leather and the faint hum of a vintage radio. The man, his face etched with the lines of a life well-lived, sits in his favorite armchair, a worn-out copy of "Don Quixote" open on his lap. His hand, calloused from years of manual labor, strokes his rigid, uncut cock, the foreskin sliding back to reveal the glistening, purple head. His eyes, hidden behind heavy lids, are fixed on the distant past, as he loses himself in the rhythm of his own touch.

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