Question time with the Buck

Lately a few of my fans and satisfied conquests have rolled over, lit up and asked me 'Bee Why, what is it you like to do when you're not slipping lucky lasses that hard bar of yours? I mean, who IS the Barred Young Buck?'. It's understandable really - most of them have only ever worn me like an all-over body lotion. Some only feel me in the dark (when I'm working my alley beat late at night). Some catch a glimpse of the Ralph Lauren logo on my shirt as its buttons yield to my hard chest. The lucky ones might get an aerial view of me just before I swing my hips home. But they know nothing about me. And all they really need to know is that I can bore holes in their bodies with my flesh drill.

But now that I've got this here site, I'm starting to get fans. Voyeurs who want to read all about the fun I'm having for a buck, and who want to get to know who Barred Young Buck really is. Yeah, they're cheap - they don't pay for the thrill I provide, but they want to know the ins and outs of the King of In and Out.... what I like to eat, who I vote for, what I read, listen to, watch on The Box. I guess fame had to catch up with me some time.

Anyway, the easy answer is that I ain't never soft, and I ain't never out of The Box. But seeing as you ladies really do need that shit to get off, I'll tell you what I do when I'm not fucking for a living.

Here's my take on the big questions of the day:

On politics: The Liberal party has always had my vote. It's the ultimate choice for the free marketeer. I'm a small business man and I need all the tax avoidance breaks I can get. And John-Boy Howard might look like he's got a wiener in his pants, but he knows how to get those women shored up and ripe for the pluckin. It's simple - close the factories down and there's more seamstresses, secretaries, Public Relations executives and 'aspiring actresses' (waitresses, models and more than a few of my female counterparts) filing their nails on desolation row. It all adds up to more daytime booty calls on some under-used couch in front of Oprah, the midday movie and the daily soaps.

On other men: Men who aren't me are just dull. Their women are leaving them in droves. They're all baying for it these days - just turn on your TV and you'll see how much those birds want it. They'll even inflate their titties and line up to marry some random stranger on Joe Millionaire, they're that bored. There's tits on Video Hits, Big Brother, the OC... the news... hell, there's even tits on Rove (though I'd probably need to be offered a bit more to saddle him up). My theory is they need to get it out in public because their Daddies don't have the goods to keep em home.

On feminism: Look, these ladies love it the most. Feminism has given me more action than any other movement of the 20th century. Who is the ultimate feminist icon in the post-hairy pit age? That Samantha off Sex and the City, of course. She fucks like a truck too! These days, to fuck is to be femmo.

Got any questions for the Barred Young Buck? Hit me.

Old money

I've been working a new beat for the last week and let me tell you, my ship has come in. I've stumbled upon an untapped resource for any savvy man whore. Toorak, Armadale, Prahran are all rife with rich old birds whose Gucci slacks still house vivacious boxy.

The market is wide open for a young bloke with a cheeky smile and a big dick to just sidle on in and give 'em a big wad of Barred Young love. Every day I see bored old ducks stepping in and out of their Beamers, that unfulfilled look of frustration playing across their made up faces. It's a damn shame that women who were once afforded pride of place in the trophy cabinet have been relegated to a dusty corner of the double garage, sharing a cardboard box with years worth of $500 Christmas presents the kids have discarded by New Years anyway.

The poor dears spend their days at home while there hubbies work long hours at the office (fucking the arse off their fit young secretary) and paying them no attention. The least I can do is offer them a bit of rough for their silver spoon muff. I just started by hanging around the shopping strips and letting my presence be felt. It wasn’t long before the pussy payola started rolling in.

She was a broad shouldered, high heeled MILF who strutted like she had a pair of duo balls up her puss. I watched as she strolled through the boutiques, flashing her plastic for all to see. Cha Ching! This is gonna be worth the time. I held back for a while, observing her like a hard cocked lion on the scent of a nice, juicy antelope. Her next port of call was that Mecca of muff, Brazilian Butterfly. Shaven Haven baby! Oh yeah.

I sat in a café over the road and had a water. Fuck paying for a coffee when I’ve got a big stash of Original Roast in the cupboard at home. She finally emerged, her freshly waxed landing strip eagerly awaiting the arrival of a Boeing 747.

You know how it goes, she packs her freshly bought market fare into the boot, I slip into the passenger seat unawares and when she hops in just acts cool and drives me to hers. No mess, no fuss.

I’m not one to kiss and tell so I’ll keep it brief. We got back to her mansion, I ripped off her knickers, lengthed her on the Persian rug, blew in her mouth, zipped up my strides, grabbed a bottle from the wine rack for my troubles and got the fuck out of there. That’s the way those rich birds like it.

Let me just say to all my fellow gigolos, a word of warning. My girth is pretty fuckin’ impressive so I get friction from the widest whale mouth. I know some other fellas only wield minnows in comparison to my marlin, so just be aware of that before you go swimmin’ in the deep blue sea of the trophy wife.

Rent boy

I'm copping a bit of heat from my fuckin' son of a bitch landlord. The prick's been through my dojo on an inspection and now he's complaining about the stains on the carpet. "Fuckin’ snail infestation!" I screamed as I read his bullshit notice telling me I hadn't been taking care of the place. I've now got a couple of weeks to take my big dick to fresh digs. I run my office from home so this limp dicked so-called tycoon is inadvertently inconveniencing the operations of Barred Young Buck Pty Ltd. He's gettin' a fuckin' invoice for his troubles.

But what can you do? I've started sniffing around new pads with the correct specs for my high standards. Plenty of bench space, shagpile carpets, a Jacuzzi and adequate room to mount a love swing are all required for the successful operation of a BYB manor. So far nothing's come up.

I've seen dog boxes that wouldn't even house one of my hot Nobbies, let alone the hairy pair. Places that have advertised city views don't have any good perve angles. And you can offer all the polished floor boards you want, but unless it's me doin' the buffing, not interested! So many fools are suckered in by fancy shit like architraves, high ceilings and all that other ornate crap. Fuck ornate! I judge a property on if it makes me wanna masturbate! (Though I admit that doesn't really narrow the field - even the Maccas drive through makes me wanna masturbate... mmm, those tasty little teens in brown uniforms.)

Hey, I'm a no frills kinda guy. As long as I can get my joy juices flowing I don't have any need for that fang shway, or whatever the fuck fuckin' bowl of rice shit it is. Fang shway= Fuckin’ gay! Simple arithmetic.

There has been one up side to this so far futile house hunt. Some realtors are fuckin' G.P (good pussy) and hell; just like in my line of work you can make an appointment for a private consultation. So I arranged to meet a juicy boxed lass at a prospective pad and set to work. As she showed me the house I was giving her a knowing grin; the irony that she was gonna be paying my first months rent was too funny.

I kept my cool for a while but when she sashayed into the walk in wardrobe, I struck. I slipped my throbbing meat key into her tight little dead lock and pounded her like an auctioneer's gavel hammering home a big sale. When I was about to jizz I even gave her the "Going once, going twice, going three times... SOLD!!" and blew my load on cue.

Yeah sure, the place was okay. But it had a musty smell that I just wasn't down with. I s'pose I'll just have to keep my eye on the market. So I can get back on the meat market. Word.