by Tucker Max
Brownhole and I succeed in pulling everyone down the street, towards the first safe place we can find, a bar called the Oak Room. We walk up a flight of stairs, and there are three girls standing at the top of the landing. Hate is the first one to make it to them.
Girl “Hey guys, welcome to the Pi Phi Fall Philanthropy Event. It’s two dollars to get in. Which fraternity are you guys from?” Hate “Two dollars? I just paid two dollars and got into a fight, what the hell is this? Tucker? Take care of this, I’m not paying shit. Where’s the damn beer?”
He pushes his way past the girls towards the bar area.
Girl “Hey! You can’t do that! It’s two dollars to get in. Um, excuse me!”
I really don’t need this right now. I try to walk past the Pi Phi police, but she grabs me, “Excuse me, you have to pay two dollars, and two more for your rude friend.”
That was my limit.
Tucker “What are you, fucking kidding me? Do you even work here?” Girl “Uh, no. But it’s a sorority philanthropy event; it’s for charity.”
Tucker “If you don’t work here, then get the fuck out of my way. I’ll drink to charity.”
Brownhole ends up paying for the group to get in, and throws in an extra twenty to make the girls feel better. He’ll do anything to get girls to like him.
We all get a beer, myself included. El Bingeroso buys the round, and then huddles everyone together. His speech is not entirely lucid.
El Bing “Alright guys, seriously…guns. OK? We cannot go anywhere without each other. We could die. For real. From the guns. We cannot leave this bar, except as a group. We have to stay together. We could get shot. Understood? Everyone together.”
We agree. At the time, the group, mired in a fog of drunkenness, misses the irony of this statement. I smirk and head to the bathroom. Alone.
On my way back, I smile at a beautiful girl, and she gives me a cute little acknowledgment smile back. I wrote the book on pickup lines, so I head over to her and drop one of my favorites: “Did you invite all these people? I thought it was just going to be the two of us?”
She laughed, and I spent the next twenty minutes staring into her deep green eyes, pretending I was interested in the stupid things she was saying. A beautiful house, it’s a shame no one was home.
Eventually remembering my shepherding duties, I looked around the bar to make sure everyone was OK. Much to my dismay, NONE OF MY FRIENDS WERE THERE.
I sprint off from the girl, she still in mid-sentence, and find Brownhole standing near the door, talking to the girl who wanted us to pay to get in.
Tucker “Dude, where is everyone?”
Brownhole “Oh, the rednecks came up and got them, but I think it’s best for us to stay up here.”
Tucker “WHAT!!! ARE YOU A FUCKING RETARD?!! WE’RE THE ONLY SOBER ONES HERE!!!”
I fly down the stairs, and stumble out to what can only be described as something straight out of a bad 90s remake of West Side Story.
On the near side of the courtyard are my friends, El Bingeroso, Thomas, GoldenBoy, Hate and Credit, standing up on benches, pointing, gesticulating and yelling, in a fashion similar to agitated African savanna baboons.
On the far side of the courtyard are about twenty rednecks, engaged in the same type of ritual male dominance displays. In-between this are five large bouncers, trying to maintain calm and keep the warring factions apart.
Hate chooses this point to try and charge across the courtyard towards the rednecks. Thankfully for him, one of the bouncers intercepts him and places him in a headlock. Hate does not like this at all, and begins swinging at the bouncer’s ribs. Presumably, he would have swung at his face, but Hate is 5'6", and the bouncer’s face was about a foot above Hate’s reach. I help the bouncer move Hate back over to our side and out of the demilitarized zone in the middle of the courtyard. The bouncer takes this as a sign that I’m the sober one in the group, and says something to me I heard many times in my law school career:
Bouncer “You need to take your friends and get out of here.”
Tucker “Look man, our cars are out in that parking lot. You are going to have to walk us out there. Those fucking guys have guns, and they are very angry with us.”
The bouncer sees the logic in this, and explains the situation to the other bouncers. They encircle us, and begin walking us toward our cars. The rednecks are none too happy about this, but the lead bouncer has somehow managed to convince them to not launch a full-scale assault on us. I can only assume he threatened violence and inevitable police involvement.
We finally make it to Credit’s car, when I notice that Brownhole is nowhere to be found. Fucking great. I should leave that disloyal coward cocksucker back in the Oak Room. Scanning the parking lot, I see him. He is walking next to the very truck that El Bingeroso had been kicking earlier, talking to the older redneck driving it.
Thomas sees this, and yells out, “Oh shit, guys, Brownhole is gonna get fucked up!”
El Bing “What? Where? Brownhole! WE HAVE TO BACK HIM UP!” and he tears off running towards Brownhole and the truck.
The subsequent conversation I did not hear, but was reported pretty much the same from both Brownhole and El Bingeroso. Brownhole had apparently made headway into calming the old redneck driving the truck. This guy not only owned the truck in question, but also the very bar that everything had started in. He was on the way to convincing the old redneck to call off his henchmen, when all of the sudden El Bingeroso runs up.
Old Redneck “Son, your friends are lucky you’re here to get them out of this. I kill people like them.”
Brownhole “Yes Sir, I’m glad we can resolve this peacefully.”
El Bing [as he runs up] “Brownhole, what the fuck? Let’s get the fuck out of here. He’s got a gun!”
Old Redneck “A gun? Boy, I got two guns.” At which point the old redneck pulled a 9mm pistol out from a hidden compartment in the truck, and held it up along with his sawed-off shotgun from before.
El Bing “OH SHIT!”
El Bingeroso tried to back up so fast he fell over.
Brownhole “El Bingeroso, go away, go back to the car, I’m taking care of this.”
Old Redneck “Hey, hey boy, you’re the one who kicked my truck. You got to pay for a new grill.”
Brownhole “El Bingeroso, come on, let’s go. Sorry Sir, my friend needs to get home, he’s very drunk. Your grill looks fine.”
Old Redneck “Who’s gonna pay for a new grill for my truck? Goddammit!”
The bouncers thankfully re-intervened at this point, and everyone piled into Credit’s car. Being the sober one, I drove over to GoldenBoy’s car, and GoldenBoy and Brownhole got out. We sat there and watched them get in, and then pull off.
This is important, because the conversation in the car for the next twenty minutes as we drove to Chapel Hill revolved around this event. El Bingeroso was convinced that we had left GoldenBoy and Brownhole to die by the hands of the rednecks. Hate refused to believe that there were any guns involved. Thomas was convinced we were being followed. Credit fell asleep. It went something like this:
Hate “Dude, we fucking left GoldenBoy and Brownhole. They’re fucking dead, man. We left them to die, man. What the fuck?”
Thomas “Tucker, man, speed up, those lights have been behind us since we left Durham.”
Tucker “Guys, everyone relax. GoldenBoy and Brownhole are fine, the redneck with the gun parked his truck, we are fine, so everyone just shut up.”
Hate “What gun are you guys talking about? There was no gun.”
El Bing “Fuck you Hate, I saw the fucking gun. I saw the gun that the rednecks are using right now to kill Brownhole and GoldenBoy. How the fuck could we leave them? They’ve been shot. We left them for DEAD. THEY’RE DEAD! FUCK!!”
Hate “There was no gun.”
El Bing “FUCK OFF HATE, I SAW THE FUCKING GUN. THERE WERE TWO GUNS, ASSHOLE!!”
Thomas “Seriously, just pull into a police station. The
rednecks are following us.”
Hate “Who cares? They don’t have any guns.”
El Bing “FUCK YOU MAN, I SAW THE GUN. I SAW THE FUCKING GUN! GOLDENBOY AND BROWNHOLE ARE DEAD! WHAT THE FUCK?!? WE ABANDONED THEM!”
Thomas “Those are totally the same truck lights. They’ve been behind us since Durham. Tucker, seriously, start evasive maneuvers or something.”
El Bing “We left our friends… WE’RE COWARDS.”
Hate “Speak for yourself.”
El Bing “FUCK YOU HATE! I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU!”
We eventually made it to Chapel Hill. GoldenBoy and Brownhole were fine, no one was following us, Credit woke up, and everyone told Hate that there were indeed guns. We drank some beers, calmed down, and headed home.
I was exhausted. Being the only sober one in a group of nine retarded drunks is not fun. Fuck this; from now on, I’m drinking and driving. El Bingeroso and Thomas were the last two I dropped off, and I headed into El Bingeroso’s place with them to get a beer; I figured I had earned it.
El Bingeroso decided he was hungry, so he took out a roll of unopened, pre-made cookie dough from the refrigerator, tore off the package, plopped the whole thing down on a cookie sheet, and threw it in the oven, setting the temperature at somewhere around Lowest Level of Hell. He tossed us a few beers, and we relived the night for a while, filling each other in on the parts that the other two had missed. After two beers, Kristy came out of her room, groggy and sleepy-eyed, and said to El Bingeroso,
Kristy “What is that smell?”
El Bing “Oh, sorry baby, that’s cookies burning.”
Kristy “Umm, OK. Can you guys keep it down, I’ve got to be at work early tomorrow.”
At this, Thomas stood up and said, “Keep it down? WOMAN, WE’RE LUCKY TO BE ALIVE!!!”
THE BLOWJOB FOLLIES
Occurred—various 1994–2004
Written—July 2004
Blowjobs…the sweet sounds of silence. The problem with oral sex is that it’s like writing. When done right, it’s amazing, but there are just so many ways it can go wrong, and when it does, it’s just not worth it. These are some of my funnier blowjob stories:
Say It, Don’t Spray It
High school was the first time I realized that blowjobs would be a painful pleasure. I was dating a girl from another school in my area. Besides being one of the hottest girls I’ve ever known, she was also one of the very first girls to give me head. We were both new at it, and she liked me to courtesy tap. This was because I had convinced her that—I’m not making this up—it wasn’t “real” oral sex as long as I didn’t cum in her mouth. Aren’t 17 year-olds funny?
The first few dozen times she went down on me I courtesy tapped just like she’d asked. One time we were in my car, parked right out front of her house because I was dropping her off after a date. Instead of a kiss goodnight, I suggested she blow me goodnight. She thought this was a brilliant idea.
I quickly got carried away with the risk and thrill of having her suck my dick twenty yards away from her house where her father, who I hated, was waiting for her to come home. I was lost in the sexual ecstasy of the dangerous youthful blowjob when I heard her let out a little yelp. She immediately sat up, her mouth half-open, full of splooge, the excess dripping off her chin, and uttered a muffled,
“You asshole!”
Then she spit the cum all over my face. Sprayed it all over me.
I was still recovering from getting my own jism spat into my own face as she jumped out of my car and sprinted into her house. I quickly drove off. I had no desire to face her rifle-wielding father with my face covered in my sperm.
Once I was out of imminent danger, I couldn’t help but laugh. I had no idea that this would only be the first in a long line of strange blowjob incidents.
Miss Chokesondick
One girl I was dating the summer after I graduated high school, “Jayne,” had never given head before she started seeing me. Now, my experience has taught me that whenever a girl tells me she “doesn’t normally give head,” she inevitably ends up giving me an incredible blowjob. It’s the ones who say they never do it that do it the best. Jayne was the exception.
She was the absolute worst I’ve ever experienced. I’ve never even heard of girls worse at fellatio than Jayne. Her teeth were all over my dick, she had no rhythm, no enthusiasm, and had a mouth that mysteriously never got moist. It was awful.
It took a month of painstaking instruction before she finally got good enough that I didn’t just stop her after five minutes and tell her to jerk me off—she was that bad. After another month or so, she got good enough that she could at least come close to finishing me off by herself. Here’s the weirdest part: no matter how much she improved, she never moved her head. She kept her head still and I would have to move my hips. This was annoying, but I was patient with her because she was stunningly beautiful, and I was still young enough to think I was actually capable of love.
One night she was doing a pretty good job, and I got very enthused with my hip thrusts when I felt a warm, wet sensation on my crotch. I was laying on my back, and I looked down and saw what looked like A LOT of splooge.
This confused me because even though I was close to coming, I didn’t think I had actually achieved orgasm. The cum was chunky to the touch, very dark, and much more viscous than any semen that I’ve ever seen shoot out of my dick. My first thought was that she had given me some crazy hybrid VD that made my discharge all thick and chunky. I dismissed that, but my mind was still racing. I couldn’t figure out what could be wrong, so I said, “What did you do to my dick?”
She looked up at me. The expression on her face immediately gave it away:
“Oh my God—did you just throw up on my dick? Did you just VOMIT ON MY FUCKING DICK?”
Yes, Tucker. Yes she did.
I ended up dating her for another two years (beauty does strange things to the male mind), but she stopped going down on me, and we just focused on vaginal sex from that point forward.
Bull’s-Eye
The next incident was a few years later, in college, right after I had discovered the art of coming on a girl’s face. Even before I made the term “dotting her eyes” famous, I was a fan of giving the facial.
As my climax approached, I moved her onto her back and pulled out just in time, covering her face with a solid 5-roper. Being the neophyte, I had no idea how to aim, and accidentally shot the first—and strongest—rope right in her eye. As I finished and collapsed, very happy with myself and proud of my prodigious paint job, I noticed the look of agony and pain on her face.
Tucker “Baby, are you OK? What’s wrong?”
Girl “I… I can’t see… Jesus, it hurts…it’s burning.”
I helped her scoop most of it out of her eye and, both of us still naked and sweaty, I led her into the bathroom where she washed her eye out for a good five minutes.
Apparently, semen does not agree with the eye. I called her “Red Eye” for the next few hours, until she got mad and refused to ever give me head again. Then I apologized profusely. She forgave me until she realized that she had ejaculate in her hair and had to wash it twice to get it all out. Needless to say, there were no more facials for her. After that, she swallowed every bit of my seed like a nun taking communion.
The Phantom Menace
One time when I was visiting some friends and family in D.C., I went out drinking and ended up going home with a girl. I’ll be honest: this girl was not attractive. But she was into me, and she was there, and perhaps most importantly—she just gave off a blowjob vibe. You know the type; they aren’t good-ooking or exceptional in any way, but they just give off a look that says, “I suck dick like I invented it.”
I was pretty drunk when we got back to her place, but that didn’t seem to faze her. We didn’t even make it to the bedroom. She grabbed me right as we came in the door, undid my pants as she pushed me onto her white sofa and knelt on the ground in front of me, working me r
ight there in her living room.
My God was I right: She blew me away, literally and figuratively. She must have spent at least 20 minutes fellating me, never once taking her mouth off my penis, slurping at the exact right moments in the exact right places. She was so good even my ankles started sweating. God bless whoever taught her.
As soon as she finished, she went to the bathroom to wash out her mouth (she’s one of those), and I stood up to rifle through my pants pocket and get a condom when I saw the sofa: there was a HUGE skid mark prominently displayed on her WHITE sofa.
I laughed at first. Then I remembered that she drove me to her place…and she lived a good 30 minutes away from where I was staying. As the thought of having to hitchhike 45 miles walked through my mind, she appeared out of the bathroom. Fuck.
Thinking fast, I put my pants on the sofa and romantically whisked her into her bedroom, where I had to fuck her at least three or four times to get her to go to sleep. Once she was safely out, I snuck out of her room and flipped the cushion.
I still don’t know if she ever found that stain.