I don't know if you've ever not really thought something through, and charged forward with an analogy. . .and then wished you could un-analogize. In some kind of subtle way.
Without looking like an ass. Or in this case, a perv.
If not, then let me just tell you. Comparing blogging to masturbating? Not always the best choice.
Because say, for example, that the fifteen-zillionth person asked you why you write about yourself on the internet. If you are a blogger, you know how often this happens. And how people approach it from different viewpoints.
These people, clearly, they are critical about making the personal public. Ultimately, they want to know several things.
"Every day? Isn't it a big effort to blog every day?"
"No, it's great. I love writing. Mostly I do it because I love to write."
They look sceptical. "Why not just keep a diary if it's about the writing? Don't you feel weird having personal details on the internet?"
And so you could sincerely explain that it's cathartic, and that you've met great people, and gotten amazing support - all of which are true.
Or they could catch you on the wrong day, and you could be irritated. Internally you're rolling your eyes and thinking "Oh, ferfuckssake, I am not getting into this."
You might be feeling wicked, and decide to aim for shock value. It's not always judicious, but it's something you enjoy from time to time.
So maybe you pull out an analogy you've used once before.
"I suppose you could say it's a lot like masturbating."
This definitely catches them off guard. "What?"
"You know. It's fun and it feels good."
"Um. . ."
They look a little stricken. This delights you.
"It's not like other people don't have similar issues to mine. People are just more and less private, and I use a public forum to help deal with my stuff."
"Well, I don't think everyone. . ."
"Everyone does. It's more like whether you choose to do it by yourself in the dark. Or. . ."
At that point, you might stop abruptly.
Because maybe you suddenly realize that this makes you sound like your preferred location might be, oh, I don't know, Tysons Corner mall? On a busy Saturday?
You feebly offer, "I mean. Not that I. Really. I. . .It's more. I, well. . .I just like to write."
And then you flee. Because there is no graceful way to get back from there. That you can think of.