Bill of Wrongs

On my weekly trip to peruse the latest bat rags at the newsagent, I picked up on a promising lead. A couple of old biddies were standing at the counter, stinking of piss and ciggies, gawking at an open a copy of the Herald Sun. As I passed, I caught a glimpse of what they were looking at in such disbelief. It was a bit o' the old youuuunnng boxy! Oh yeah, bad boy.

BYB always hoped that the Hun would follow the lead of its pommy cousin and start printing page 3 girls. Looks like droopy Rupert has cum to his senses and finally given the people what they want. I tucked my hard-on into my belt, so as not to poke their cataracts in, and limped up to the old bags. "Whats all the fuss about, ladies?", to which the slightly hotter one replied "it's bloody disgusting! Bill Henson should be sent to Pentridge!" I looked into the paper and saw that he was the photographer, and a man after my own heart. To think, he was the same guy who created the Muppets!

I quickly grabbed my copies of People, Picture, Playboy, Zoo, Ralph, FHM, Loaded, Nuts, Sluts, Cunts, Incontinents, Women in Uniform, Women in Prison and Women on the Shitter and made my way to the counter. I cagily put the Hun and that cumbersome rag that no one reads (on'ya Sammy) The Age under my stack of mags, I mean I didn't want to make it look too obvious.

When I got home I was ready to install a new skylight. I spread my new reference section across the kitchen table and positioned myself below where I wanted the light to shine through. Fuck, thinking of all those mugs that pay a tradey to install their skylights. What a bunch of mugs! Just call a barred up Barred Young Buck to come around with his all-in-one nail gun and plaster cannon and do the job in a jiffy. I’ll have to distribute a flyer.

But I digress. Horny as fuck, I downed my strides and limbered up. But something wasn't right. The Bill Henson pics in the papers were actually a bit tame. In a strange way they made me contemplative. I felt the overwhelming vulnerability of youth juxtaposed with the all-encompassing melancholy of adulthood. Within those ink-black hues, only the most purplish of bruised illumination lapping against the submissive figure, I saw myself. The darkness. The horror. The fear. For the first time in my life, I went soft. Perhaps, I thought, it's time to give up my barred young ways.

Inspired, I fired up my lappy. I googled Bill Henson, looking for some contact details so I could express my support during this trying time and thank him for showing me the light, or darkness as it were, that I so desperately needed to see.

Then something totally fucked-up happened. This came up:


















Then this:


















I nearly chucked! Bill Henson, my new found idol, is a gay porn star! He should be put in jail! No, he'd like that! He should have his retinas burnt out by a blowtorch and be forced to eat his own balls, filthy animal. I haven't felt this ripped off since I heard that Josef Fritzl liked to dress in womens clothes. Why can't perverts just be normal?

Shopping With BYB

I'm a stylish guy, but I don't appreciate retailers ripping me a new asshole every time I have to update my threads. The price of jeans just doesn't cover the wear and tear that my thick can of Mortein does to the fly area of my duds. My job stipulates that I must maintain a certain standard of presentation and portray an image of success at all times, so I can't just dress for comfort in track pants, I've gotta display my meat like a proud butcher with a slab of A-grade beef.

So after my trunk split through another pair of my CKs I begrudgingly saddled up the BYB mobile and battled the freelove freeway out to my nearest DFO. All the way there the traffic was banked up like fuck. With the sun streaming in through the windscreen, the gentle hum of the engine and the Pussycat Dolls pumping out on Fox fm I quickly became harder than Chinese algerbra. It was like my VR Commodore had sprouted an additional gear stick. With the traffic going nowhere fast I had to have three grease and oils just to pass the time.

When I finally got to DFO and found a park I was over the whole goddam expedition already. I locked the wheels and walked in through the big blast of air conditioning that they pump from above the sliding doors. My grumpy face soon filled with cheer- the place was full of GAP, and I don't mean the brand. A sea of high heels, hot pants, short skirts, crop tops and boob tubes bustled in front of me. Hot damn!

I locked on to a group of barely legals as they made their way out of Sportsgirl. The best one was a blonde Paris Hilton lookalike, her crispy orange skin reminded of the Peking duck I "practice shagged" in my formative years. I was just about to go spread a bit of my baste on her when my wandering eye caught sight of a much nicer piece. She was trying on a pair of white pumps in Pay-Less Shoes, her juicy thighs looked as good to me as the thighs of a KFC chook look to a fatster. As she struggled to get them on her arse just jiggled in front of me, teasing and tempting me. I thought to myself "Don't worry baby, Barred Young Buck has a shoe horn you can use". After she'd paid for the shoes I knew she'd be wanting to test 'em out properly.

I followed as she led me through the crowds, the problem with these places is there's no privacy. I eventually spotted a makeshift love den, a boarded up shop front with "Amanda's Hair Salon: Opening Soon" plastered all over it. Perfect. I grabbed little miss flirty rump around the waist like we were one of those boring couples who shop for home wares and led her into the dark. She was obviously a feisty one because she kicked her hot legs around a bit. That's ok, I can play rough too. I fumbled around the debris of the shop and found a pair of scissors. She was real quiet after that.

Another satisfied customer.

Terms and conditions

Barred Young Buck. Hot young Aussie male specialising in man on woman sex.

Licking, sucking, tops and tails, outdoors, threesomes and some anal (women only!!!) for bargain rates... accept no substitute.

Please note the Barred Young Buck is not responsible for any Sexually Transmitted Disease, pregnancy, internal bleeding, tearing, rupturing or other injury resulting from sexual activity. Barred Young Buck is not responsible for any erectile failure, premature ejaculation, size complaints or other customer dissatisfaction. Barred Young Buck is exempt from any court action arising from allegations of sexual misconduct or assault. Barred Young Buck does not do men. Barred Young Buck prefers you to be shaved and blonde. Barred Young Buck costs between $200 and $5000 per hour depending on whether you're a hottie or a moose. Cut rates for celebrities. Barred Young Buck will escort you to The Logies, The Brownlows, The Alan Border Medal or the Big Brother finale for a cut rate in exchange for introductions to Shane Warne, Wayne Carey, talent scouts, agents and potential hot-assed clients. Barred Young Buck cannot guarantee to get it up for you unless you give him a good gobby first. Toys and appliances not supplied.

The Dux of Fucks

In my Q and A post some snooping dogg enquired about my educational background. At the time I dodged that question like I'd dodge a chick with a dick but after some long hard soul searching I've decided I'm gonna let you in on my traumatic time at school.

I was an awkward teenager. Nothing like the big swinging dick I am today. I mean my dick was still big but for some reason it was the cause of much ridicule. I think I copped a lot of heckles coz I always had wood. No one would sit next to me in class coz the desk would suddenly lift up like someone was jacking up a car to change the tyre. In the corridors I always had to walk around with my pencil case in front of my crotch, hiding the giant felt tip that leaked white ink within my scruds. At lunch time I had to spend my time batting off in the toilets. I was never allowed to kick the footy because my wood freaked the other kids out. They didn't want to be bustling for a screamer in the forward pocket and have to worry about the throbbing pig skin poking out of my shorts.

I was pretty much a lone wolf. I ran a small porno mag co-op behind the bus shelter on Thursday arvos but only fat losers with Manga porn came along. I tried to befriend my big-titted art teacher, Ms Hodge, but she made a complaint after I drew her in bondage getting lengthed by me. I was always in trouble for blueing mouthy little fuckers who called me "Stiffy". I never escaped that fuckin' name. I nearly killed this one guy when he said "Stiffy roots pies and cream buns from the canteen." That really got to me.

I had no friends, my marks were shit house. It was a pretty lousy time.

The only fond memory I really have is the night of the year twelve formal. I had to wear one of my dad's old suits (one that mum hadn't burned after he fucked off). It was brown and had those leather pads on the elbows so I copped a bit of shit for that too, but tonight I didn't care. I got my neighbour to drop me off in his hotted up Torana so all the fuckin' shit canners would shut their fuckin' mouths. When he was pulling out he dropped a mad cook and beeped his horn that played the theme from Beverly Hills Cop. I was beaming with pride.

When I got inside I honed straight in on the girl I'd admired during many a hard dicked class, Alicia James. She was a blonde bomb shell with the best set of pins this side of the bowling alley. Heaps of guys wanted to bang her but she only ever gave handies. That's gonna change tonight. I stood in the corner and watched her move on the floor, my time to dance comes at the after party.

"Who invited this creep?" said the silly little cow whose house it was as I sidled in the door. No talk could harm me tonight though. For tonight, I become a man. I added my neighbour's special "funky cold medina" to Alicia's drink and observed from the shadows as the love potion took hold. When she stumbled outside for some air, that's what they call "the signal", I followed. I had only ever kissed one girl before (that's another story) so I was pretty nervous. My wood was splitting the seam of my bastard old man's slacks. I was breathing like a locomotive struggling up a hill. I was sweating. My cock was gonna explode!

I put my arm around her shoulder and led her behind the garden shed. She was looking at me with doe eyes and mumbling sweet nothings into my chest. I held her closer. She lay on the ground and began to dry wretch, she was nervous too. As I unzipped I thought "This one's for you old man." and closed my eyes.

It happened pretty quickly. Even the biggest stud has to start some where. When we finished she was lying still, she looked like an angel. A tear ran down her cheek. The music of the party sounded like it was coming from underwater. I touched my pimply face. There was a tear running down my cheek too.

I walked all the way home and knew my life had changed. School had taught me nothing, but that night I learned the most important lesson of my life. I was born to fuck.

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.