by Tucker Max
1:58: She raises the first shot and gives a toast, “Give me chastity and give me continence—but not yet… St. Augustine!” All her little friends laugh and cheer. Amateurs.
1:59: I raise my shot, “This is for all the bitches, hos and tricks, I wouldn’t talk to any of you, if I didn’t have a dick …Tucker Max.” Everyone laughs.
2:00: One of the girls asks me, “Who is Tucker Max?”
2:10: Two shots later, my female opponent bows out of the shot contest. I taunt her mercilessly, “You may be able to vote and drive, but you’ll never be equal!” I am not a gracious winner.
2:11: One of her little friends comes up to me. She is cute with short hair and thick black-framed glasses. She is pissed:
Girl “That was really sexist.”
Tucker “No it wasn’t, it was a joke. If I had said that women are nothing but life support for a pussy, now THAT would be sexist.”
Girl “Excuse me?”
Tucker “If I had called her a hot mouth, that would be sexist too. Or, if I said that the only thing going for her is that she’s 98.6 degrees and has two wet holes, that would be very sexist. But I didn’t say those things, did I?”
Girl “WHAT?”
Tucker “Uh oh! Did I piss you off? Are you going to write angsty poetry?!?”
She is looking at me like I’m a toilet full of used condoms. Hate pulls me away from her before she recovers. “Max, I think you have caused enough damage here.” It takes me a second to register it, but I realize that Hate is now the voice of reason. This does not bode well.
2:25: Using the same “Do you know my cousin” line, we get in with another tailgate. These girls think that drunk, sarcastic assholes are funny. Hello wheelhouse. I decide to mock people for their amusement.
2:27: Some redneck doofus walks by: “Look at yourself—does the carnival have the day off? If you can guess my weight, I’ll give you a free beer.”
2:31: To a slutty-looking girl: “Is that a cross on your chest? Just because you spend most of your time in the missionary position doesn’t make you religious.”
2:33: An old woman walks by who looks remarkably like Ethel Merman. I bust out in verse, “You’ll be swell, you’ll be great, you’ll have the whole world on a plate, starting here, starting now, baby everything’s coooming up roooooses!”
2:34: One of the girls cracks up laughing, “OH MY GOD! AIRPLANE! IS MY FAVORITE MOVIE EVER!” I walk over to her, “My name is Tucker, and I am going to law school at Duke so I can be really rich and buy shiny things for my wife. What’s your name?”
3:15: I am ruthlessly flirting with her. Hate saunters up, looks at her and then looks at me. “Do I even need to know this one’s name?” I decide it is time to get this girl away from Captain Cockblock and find someplace private.
3:30: I am having difficulty finding privacy at an outdoor race course.
3:40: A stroke of genius hits me—I find the open grass area on the small hill behind GoldenBoy’s tailgate, and suggest that we sit there, “to be alone.”
3:42: I look around and realize that at least 2000 people can see us. One of those people is GoldenBoy. I wave.
3:45: I tell her that she is really pretty. She blushes. She tells me I am funny.
3:50: I tell her that she is exactly what I am looking for in a girlfriend. She blushes more. She tells me I am nice.
3:55: We are making out. In front of everyone.
4:00: Not satisfied with just kissing, I start exploring. She doesn’t have any underwear on. Gold-digging sluts are awesome.
4:05: I’ve got two fingers in her vagina and one in her butt. I am giving this girl The Shocker. No one hooks up at Foxfield? Fuck you, GoldenBoy.
4:15: I try to climb on top of her, but she stops me. Prudes suck.
4:16: She grabs my hand and gets up. “Let’s go somewhere else; we are on a hill in front of everyone.” Oh…right, I forgot about that.
4:30: We walk past a Port-a-Potty. I consider the possibility, open the door, and immediately change my mind. No pussy is worth enduring that smell.
4:55: We come across an RV tailgate that is empty. The people next to it say that everyone is off watching the alleged horse races.
5:01: They left the door to the RV open. Whoops. I throw her on the bed and we start fucking. I don’t even have to take her clothes off, as her sundress without panties doesn’t require it. Sluts are awesome.
5:04: Drunk sex is great.
5:08: I decide that drunk, transgressive sex in someone else’s RV with a girl you don’t know is even better.
5:10: I start hitting it hard. Every time I thrust in, she yelps. It sounds like a yelp of enjoyment, and she isn’t asking me to stop, so I hit it even harder.
5:14: I hit it harder. She yelps louder.
5:15: I can feel it coming. This is going to be a great cum shot.
5:17: My eyes start burning. I ignore it.
5:18: HOLY SHIT I CANNOT BREATHE—WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON??
5:18: The girl and I stumble out of the RV, in tears, both coughing and barely able to breathe. I am very confused. My throat feels like I ate a handful of habanero peppers. We start gulping down water and beer to get rid of this awful burning.
5:23: She screams. “OH MY GOD! I KNOW WHAT THAT WAS!” She covers her face and runs back into the RV. She emerges, coughing again, with her purse held as far away from her as possible. “I was laying on my purse, and I guess my pepper spray went off accidentally. Everything inside it is ruined!”
5:25: I don’t know whether to laugh or cry at this. Still processing this info, I reach down and adjust my sticky crotch. I learn the hard way that capsaicin (the active ingredient in pepper spray) works on any moist skin, not just the throat and eyes. I start screaming and hopping around the tailgate.
5:27: THIS SUCKS.
5:30: I find a hose by the porta-potties, pull my pants down, and start spraying water all over my exposed genitals.
5:32: The water is Arctic cold. My balls have retreated so far up into my torso that I could pull them out of my throat. I look like a eunuch. Everyone is laughing at me. I don’t care. Stopping the pain is all that matters.
5:35: The numbness has taken the edge off the pain. I stop spraying myself and cover up my genitals. My pants are completely soaked.
5:40: I can’t find the RV or the girl. I am totally lost.
5:45: I stop and consider what just happened. I cannot believe it. I just got accidentally pepper-sprayed during sex, then burned up my crotch, then had a crowd of people laugh at me as I hosed off my balls. What the fuck?
6:00: I am still lost. I can’t even find GoldenBoy’s tailgate. I try to call him on my cell, but it won’t work. I remember that electronics do not mix well with water.
6:30: I finally find GoldenBoy’s tailgate area. Everyone is gone. This is not good. A passerby lets me use his phone to call Hate.
6:31: He answers, but I can barely hear him. It sounds like he is in a wind tunnel. There are dogs barking in the background. This is too much for me. I just hang up.
6:37: I call GoldenBoy. He is back at GoldenWife’s apartment. He tells me to meet him at her place. Am I supposed to walk? “Hey, you hooked up at Foxfield, apparently you can do anything.” Jerk.
6:55: I walk about a mile before an old couple picks me up. They are nice and agree to take me to GoldenWife’s apartment. There is a cooler in the backseat. I ask if I can have a beer. “Uh yeah, son, go ahead. You kids sure do like to drink a lot. You’d think a whole day of it would be enough.” I disagree, “Sir, when you are an alcoholic, there is no such thing as enough.”
7:30: I get to the apartment. Hate is not there. GoldenBoy thought he was with me. I thought he was with him. Uh oh. GoldenBoy calls Hate.
Hate “I’m not going to lie to you, I am lit up.”
GoldenBoy “Where are you?”
Hate “I’m not sure. These guys gave me a ride in the back of their truck with their dogs, but they dropped me off on campus. Wer
en’t you a SigEp at UVa? I think that’s where I am.”
7:45: We get to the Sig Ep house. Hate is asleep in a chair in the living room. No one else is there. I tell Hate to wake up and find his dignity.
7:46: Hate stumbles out the front door of the fraternity, “HAS ANYBODY SEEN MY GODDAMN DIGNITY?”
8:31: We go to a bar. The Biltmore. It is crowded. Hate decides that the service sucks and that as a result he is going to stand on our table and yell at people, “SOMEONE GET ME A GODDAMN BEER!”
8:32: Hate does not have good balance when he is drunk, and proceeds to tumble off the table, in the process crashing it into another table and flinging all the drinks on a guy sitting there quietly with his girlfriend.
8:33: The couple is completely covered in beer and vodka. I prepare myself to fight, but the guy just sits there. I ask, “Are you not going to whip his ass?” He just sits there. His girlfriend gets pissed and storms off. Then he gets pissed at Hate. I point out the obvious, “No reason to fight now, your bitch already left.”
10:30: GoldenBoy decides he’d rather be at home with the woman he loves rather than drinking his 20th beer of the day with his drunk, obnoxious friends. Pussy.
10:45: The line to piss is way too long. I walk outside and pee on the wall.
10:46: A cop walks up.
Cop “Son, you need to stop that and come over here.”
Tucker “I can’t stop; it’ll burn. I have to finish.”
10:47: As the cop pulls out his handcuffs he sees a fight break out 20 yards away. He runs off. Tonight, the Drinking Gods are on my side. Well, sort of.
10:48: As I zip up my pants, I run to another bar. Just in case.
10:55: At the new bar, I get a drink. Uncoordinated from my inebriation, I spill the drink on myself. I get mad at it, “You naughty liquor, you drunken me.”
10:56: Much to my surprise, my drink starts talking back to me. It tells me not to blame it, that I am a clumsy drunk. I believe I may have discovered a new level of drunkenness beyond ‘Tucker Max Drunk.’ It is called, ‘When Inanimate Objects Talk to You Drunk.’
11:15: I see a girl standing in line for the bathroom. I’m not sure why, but I am drawn to her.
11:16: I approach her. I tell her not to be sad. She tells me that she failed the bar. I tell her that’s OK, she’ll pass next time. She tells me that I am nice. Sixteen hours of continuous drinking and my Lonely Slut Radar is still sharp.
1:30am: Many drinks and lots of flirting later, we go to her place.
1:35: She is trying to convince me that she never does this and is not that type of girl. It was difficult for me to understand. Her enunciation isn’t very good with my dick in her mouth. This thought is my last clear memory.
11:00: I wake up in GoldenWife’s apartment. Hate is passed out on the sofa. I reek of vomit and stale sweat. I am confused as to how I got there.
11:01: GoldenBoy hands me his phone, and tells me to listen to a voice message. It is my voice, recorded around 2:45am. I am out of breath, and sound like I am running:
“GoldenBoy, what is your address? Where are you? I just fucked some random chick I met outside The Biltmore. Apparently she didn’t pass the bar, so she liked me. The condom broke and I got the fuck out of there as soon as I could. I’m fucked. My illegitimate kids are going to be ugly and stupid. HELP!!”
THE AUSTIN ROAD TRIP
Occurred—October 2000
Written—September 2003
The Steak & Shake Bond
Early in my third year of law school, I was sitting in the library with my crew of friends, skipping class and trading stories about our summers. At first, I was the center of attention, having just come off the summer of “The Now Infamous Tucker Max Charity Auction Debacle,” but PWJ quickly trumped me.
He told us a story about a gentlemens’ club he frequented in Dallas, a place far different than the common strip club:
“The first time I got a lap dance there, I was kinda reticent about touching her, but the stripper grabbed my hands and put them on her tits. During the second dance, she turned around and basically dry-humped me for the entire song. I didn’t get a third dance, but if I did, I could have all but have had sex with the girl. She was SMOKING HOT and wasn’t even close to being the best one there. And the very best part: $5 cover charge and $2 bottles and wells.”
After we initially called bullshit, PWJ finally convinced us that this Lost City of Cibola did exist. We were greatly excited. JonBenet summed it up, “And I used to think there was a bright line between a gentlemen’s club and a brothel. Now you’re telling me it’s just gray…”
This place was called Baby Dolls, and it became our Holy Grail. We immediately planned a trip to Dallas. At the outset, all ten of us were in. But as the departure date loomed closer, various friends started taking dives.
GoldenBoy bailed because he had just returned from a week-long trip to Russia and didn’t want to be apart from his fiancée for so much time. I won’t say anything bad about this, because he married her, and I really like her, so I guess this turned out to be a good decision. If you’re into the “responsibility” and “love” things.
Hate decided to go on an interview. Unlike me, he was upset about not having a job.
Brownhole is basically a pussy and a sycophant and was afraid that being arrested with us would ruin his political career. None of us are sure how he even got in the group.
Credit was dating a girl who SlingBlade once referred to as “The most evil demon-slut in the long history of female chicanery and deception.” Credit is a spineless coward and wanted to keep dating her, so he begged off the trip.
JoJo made the same decision he makes whenever he sees a bunch of crazy white boys run off to get in trouble—he went the opposite way.
JonBenet had the most ridiculous excuse. Instead of going on the trip, he flew to Boston with his girlfriend, a friend of Credit’s evil demon-slut girlfriend, to look at apartments. TO LOOK AT APARTMENTS…not withstanding the fact that he wasn’t moving there FOR AN ENTIRE YEAR. There is a reason he is now out of the group.
That left only four travelers:
Because he was on law review, PWJ had lots of important and uppity legal talkin’ to do. Luckily, he follows his penis around like a divining rod, so he promptly cleared his schedule.
SlingBlade’s busy schedule included drinking alone in the dark and jacking off to his Star Trek Limited Edition Seven of Nine poster. He was solidly in.
El Bingeroso had already planned a trip to visit a friend in Austin so he combined his trip with ours, and then got his fiancée some sort of shiny trinket to distract her from his new plans.
I was able to squeeze the trip in between outings to Chapel Hill involving sex and drinking, interspersed with some drinking and sex.
On a crisp Thursday night in early October, SlingBlade, PWJ, El Bingeroso and I began our journey to Dallas. We would soon become known to the State of Texas by our biblical names: Pestilence, Plague, Hunger, and Death.
Our first stop was a Steak & Shake somewhere outside of Charlotte, where we bonded with each other by recounting tales of our fucked up youths. I recalled a childhood colored by parental instability, multiple divorces, remarriages (seven between my two biological parents), step-parents, constant relocation, loneliness and emotional pain. No one cared about my problems, because they had already read about my father’s most recent divorce (it was in Time magazine), and didn’t need any more details to know I was fucked up.
PWJ told us of an awkward youth being the son of an Army colonel, where his Styx jean jacket and obsession with all things vehicular could not make the Kansas yokels overlook his abnormally misshapen egghead and triple digit IQ. Popular he was not, but since none of us are his normal dim-witted naïve teenage girl prey, we didn’t care. While his age (three years older than us) gave him a wisdom and maturity that none of us yet possessed, under this composed and compassionate exterior, PWJ could be the biggest snake of the group. The fact that he g
rew up smart, but a social outsider, forced him to learn game the hard way and also planted a retributive mean streak. Even though he is more often than not the voice of reason in the group, he is also the one who will manipulate an innocent eighteen-year-old into sex with lies and deception (whereas the rest of us just find the slutty girls and let them do what comes natural).
SlingBlade regaled us with tales of his emotionally distant, risk-averse and overprotective parents, who split time yelling at him and cloistering him in his room. His was a youth spent with action figures as his friends and a Nintendo as his babysitter. He also told us perhaps the most defining story of his life: He and his high school girlfriend, the love of his life, went to different undergrads. He spent the first semester of college passing up on sex with every girl who approached him (and there were many), because he was naïve and in love and didn’t want to cheat on his girlfriend. She did not possess the same integrity, so she cheated on him. A lot. And didn’t tell him until he went down to visit her and noticed that guys kept coming by her room, asking what she was up to later that night. SlingBlade does not deal well with emotional pain, and as such he is now bitter and imputes her cuckoldry on all women.