Meet Barry. He likes to wank at the beach. No, that’s not a typo. I didn’t mean to say walk. Walking isn’t Barry’s thing. Barry drives his car to the beach. Walking is only what Barry does to get to his prime wank spot. Although Barry does get the odd bit of incidental cardio making that transition from the car park to the sand dune where his best wanking takes place. And on the occasions when he’s chased by dogs. Or people with sticks. That was a bad wank day for Barry. But he did get a lot of cardio.
He used to wank barefoot. But now he wears runners. Sometimes he has to run so fast he has to stop wanking. That’s always a bit disappointing for Barry. It’s one of Barry’s goals. In fact he’s written it on his bucket list, or ‘wank-it’ list, and taped it to his fridge. The bullet point reads verbatim: ‘To be able to wank and run at the same time’.
The last time he tried this he tripped and fell cock first into a pothole in the carpark. He still has a small rock lodged deep under his foreskin. He won’t go to the doctor to have it removed because he’s worried he’ll have to tell the doctor how the rock got there.
Deep down Barry knows he’s got a problem but he can’t seem to stop. Wanking is Barry’s hobby. No, it’s not a hobby. It’s his calling. If he could wank for peace he would. He does it most days. He does it a few times a day in fact. He does it so much he’s become quite good at it. In fact, he’s the biggest wanker he knows. Some of his friends have called him a total wanker. But Barry likes to think of himself as more of a complete wanker.
Barry thinks about wanking all the time. And when he thinks about it, well it’s only a matter of time before he’s taken matters into his own hands and whacko, he’s ‘choking the chicken’. Barry gets worried when he’s in the bank. Because Barry knows you are not supposed to wank in the bank. Which is ironic because having a wank in the bank is actually one of the major fantasies in Barry’s wank bank. In his fantasy he approaches the lady teller and he says: ‘I’d like to make a big deposit’. And then he ejaculates and runs out.
He knows there are cameras in the bank. He knows that wanking in the bank will make him famous. Probably not the kind of famous even Barry wants. Some days it’s the only thing that stops him. The thought of being filmed and the police turning up and then his being charged with indecency or sexual assault. He doesn’t think his public wanking falls into these categories. But, all the same, he doesn’t wank at the bank. However, he once wanked on the autobank. He drove down to the CBA at 1 o’clock in the morning and pleasured himself in the soft glow of the screen. Viewed only by 200 bugs and a passing possum with eyes wide in marsupial disgust. He called it ‘The Commonwealth Wank’.
Barry wasn’t always such a big wanker. Barry used to wank at home. He doesn’t any more. Mainly because he lives with his mum and she kept walking in on him and telling him to put his cock away. Perhaps that’s where the fetish came from. Is it Mummy’s fault that he likes to get his silly little cock out in public?
When he’s wanking Barry loves the element of surprise. He likes to sneak up on women who are quietly meditating on their towels. Or reading their book. Or having some ‘alone’ time staring at the sea. He loves the thrill of tugging his wretched cock and edging up as close as he can. He loves the look on her face when she turns around. She looks surprised. Then frightened. She always looks appalled. Her disgust and fear make Barry feel dirty. Feeling dirty is what turns Barry on. And it makes him feel powerful, even though he’s just a sad little worm with a shrivelled dick.
Wanking at home on the couch just doesn’t do it for Barry any more. He likes to get a bit of sun on his cock. His favourite wank spot is between Belongil and Tyagarah Beach in Byron Bay. Kilometres of prime wank locations. Barry’s had a crack at them all. He tells himself that it’s okay. If women didn’t want him wanking near them they’d swim at Main Beach where there are lots of people. Or at the swimming pool. And they certainly wouldn’t swim alone. Or in the nude. Their warm glistening bodies just begging to be wanked on.
Barry thinks women are asking for it. Barry tells himself this today when he sneaks up behind me. I can hear his uneven breath. His muffled groans. The desperate slapping of his swollen sausage. I can always feel when a wanker is in my orbit. I call it my Wank-dar. I let him get really close. His toe is on my towel, at least I hope that’s his toe. I can sense he’s about to come. Then I turn and look him in the eye and I take a photo.
He’s fallen victim to our wank prank. One hundred women jump out of the sand dunes. One thousand women. One million women. They’re all wanking. And they’re angry. Really really fucking angry. And they’re running at Barry. Barry is crying. Barry is begging. Barry has fallen. Barry the Beach Wanker is gone. Buried cock deep at Belongil. So next time you get your cock out to intimidate or assault a woman remember this, you weak little pricks: there more than one billion of us and WE ARE COMING. Try having a wank to that.