A hand bobbing up and down on an erection is one of the funniest things in the world — at least when said penis is being woggled on a leafy Johannesburg street at noon on Valentine’s Day.
Instantly it reminded me of my dog having a good scratch, especially as what I could see of the man’s face around his sunglasses had the same fixed look as my Alsatian when he’s trying to reach the itchy bit behind his ears.
The man in question was young, respectable looking and tall, with blondish hair. He seemed quite well built, although it wasn’t obvious whether this extended all the way down, as it were. I couldn’t actually see too much of the centre of his attention — in fact, it took a few moments to realise that his frenetic hand movements at crotch level were actually a sexual frenzy. But then, in my guise as a respectable Parkview matron strolling past Zoo Lake to collect my daughter from playgroup, it wasn’t really what I was expecting in the middle of a summer’s day.
For an exhibitionist, he seemed to have rather a shy streak, because when I whipped out my tool in response, he leapt in his bakkie and drove away. The power of the cellphone camera strikes again.
As I watched his speedy retreat, wobbling building equipment strapped to the top of his bakkie, I wondered if he was doing up his fly with the feeling of a job well done.
Spoilsport that I am, I hope not. I’m told that exhibitionists are not usually dangerous, but I still don’t like men who lurk — strategically parked behind a skip of building rubble — at the back of a school just where the children walk. Especially ones with a closed bakkie in which a child could be hidden.
I also thought of his chinos and white shirt and wondered whether he’d put them on that morning with the intention of parking behind a school and masturbating in front of any females he saw. Does he have a rota of schools? Does he have a racial preference? Is he known to the main pedestrians in the area — the domestic workers — as a visual hazard to be added to the other unpleasantnesses in their path, like the teetering piles of building material on the pavements and lunatic drivers on the roads?
Or did he just intend to do his day’s work and then became overcome by compulsion at the sight of a woman humming to Dusty Springfield on her iPod as she walked past in the sunshine?
I suspect not. I’ve heard of another sighting of what I think of as the ”wanking builder”, and there was premeditation in the shiny black plate at the back of the bakkie which suggested the number plate had recently been removed.
It’s this preparation I find so intriguing. Do they acknowledge to themselves what sad bastards they are, as they make their sordid little preparations?
In London once, I encountered a particularly pathetic specimen, who I at first thought was joking when he opened up the raincoat as he walked towards me. Revealed was his full magnificence: a carefully constructed garter system that held his trousers in place just above his knees so that his naked genitals could be seen in all their uninspiring glory, all the while looking fully dressed when the raincoat was closed. For 10 years I’ve wondered about that sad man sewing together this peculiar construction to go and risk arrest on a soggy London street just to hear ”yuck” from a disinterested stranger.
Of course, men can be on the receiving end as well. A statistician at a Johannesburg research institute has the tale of sheltering from the rain in a shop doorway late at night, ”only to realise that I was sharing with a tramp who was wanking off at me while looking at my face. I quickly decided I would rather get wet from the rain than from …”