by Tucker Max
3:12: The Skank has a friend. She is staggeringly drunk. She makes fun of The Skank and tells me I am hot. Maybe clubs aren’t so bad.
3:14: The Friend tells me I am way too sober. I agree. We go shot for shot with vodka.
3:40: After about three shots, she tells me, “I think I am getting really drunk. I always do stupid things when I’m drunk.” Strike up the band, we have a winner.
3:50: Rich takes The Skank to the bathroom to fuck. The friend says to me, “About time. I’m surprised she didn’t just go down on him at the table. That’s what she did last weekend.”
4:12: The Friend does not mince words, “Let’s get out of here. I don’t want to fuck in a club bathroom. I have standards…well…some standards.” I can’t make this shit up.
4:15: The Friend hands me her keys. I ask her, “You want me to drive your car?” She says, “Well, you’re more sober than I am.” This statement makes me laugh. I am so drunk I am not sure I could read.
4:40: She lives far away. I don’t know where I am.
4:45: We cannot find parking. She has me drop her off at her building and tells me to come up when I find a parking place. I decide that she is a bitch. I think that she will “accidentally” get my dick in her ass when we are fucking doggy style.
4:50: I still cannot find ANYWHERE to park. This is infuriating me.
4:55: I parallel park the car into a space that is too small. I try to force it in. The car gets stuck on the curb. I slam on the gas, the wheels spin until they catch and jump the car onto the sidewalk, crashing it into a storefront.
4:56: I get out of the car. I am INSIDE of a donut shop. With the car. Shattered glass crunches under my feet as I investigate the damage. There are broken and fractured tables scattered all across the store. The car has only a few scratches. I am in shock and completely unsure about what to do. I have never driven a car into a store before.
4:57: Thankfully the donut shop is closed and empty of people. I still don’t know what to do. I start laughing to myself. I look behind the counter, but the donuts are all put away.
4:58: I decide that while I find this funny, the car owner, the donut shop owner, and the police would not find it funny. The letters “DUI” leap to mind. The phrase “destruction of property” also appears. I decide that felony hit-and-run is not funny anymore.
4:59: I pull the car out of the donut shop, park it in a tow zone, wipe all my fingerprints from the entire car, throw the keys into some bushes, and take off running.
5:01: I get my cell phone and desperately call Rich. I tell his voice mail that under NO CIRCUMSTANCES should he tell The Skank what my name is, who I am, or anything about me. It is Tucker Luck that on the one night when I need to stay anonymous I have someone in special forces to run my operational security.
5:15: I am still running. I lost count of the number of blocks I had traveled somewhere around 30.
6:30: I finally get home. I am completely fucking exhausted and feel like dying. I have probably only run like five or six miles, but I know what Pheidippides must have felt like. My feet are bleeding, but I am safe. I pass out.
Epilogue
Rich was smart enough to not only give The Skank a fake name, but a fake phone number. It’s standard operating procedure for him anyway. It’s been awhile, and I haven’t seen anything in papers or police reports, so I guess I am OK.
It turned out that Eddie and Married Girl hooked up about four times, and then they both passed out. The hostess found them the next morning, screamed, both Eddie and Married Girl jumped up, threw on their clothes and tore out of the house. Both were guests of people who were invited, so neither knew anyone who lived in the house.
When asked about how he succeeded with Married Girl where Tucker failed, Eddie simply smiled and said, “That was easy. I walked in and she was already naked. The hardest part was done. After that it was just a little patience and some sweet-talking. Come on man; I run black-ops for a living—this was cake.”
I have no idea what ultimately happened to that girl or her car. Oh well…next time she’ll stay in the car with the guy until it’s parked.
THE MOST DISTURBING CONVERSATION EVER
Occurred—November 2002
Written—December 2002
Part 1: Tucker Meets Adoring Fans, Gets Cock-Blocked
This particular Friday began innocuously enough at The Union, where we drank as much beer as we could pour into our faces, as it was $5 all-you-can-drink from 5-8pm. The highlight of the early part of the night was when I drunk-dialed one of the MTV producers, Serena [this was about a week before MTV was set to do a documentary about me, which aired in May 2003]. She had made the mistake of giving me her personal cell phone number and telling me to call her, “Anytime you have any questions or anything.” That’s like Chamberlain telling Hitler he can have the Sudetenland. You give me an inch, I’m going to take the whole thing.
Tucker “So when you film me, are you going to follow me everywhere?”
Serena “Yeah, that’s the plan.”
Tucker “Well, what if I hook up and the condom breaks. Are you going to follow me to Walgreens to get some RU-486?”
Serena “We’ll have to see about that.”
Tucker “You have a sexy voice. What are you wearing?”
Serena “A muumuu.”
Tucker “What?”
Serena “Tucker, I’m like 250 pounds.”
Tucker [long, drunken pause] “MTV better send a hotter producer.”
Thankfully, she is smart and has read enough of my site to pick up on my drunk sarcasm. And more importantly, she is not even close to 250.
I was drinking at an alarming rate and was well on my way to breaking things and fornicating with hot girls, when some guy came up to me and said, “Aren’t you Tucker Max?”
He was a huge fan, and was all excited about meeting the actual Tucker Max in person. I am not a big enough celebrity yet to be used to this, so of course I ignored everything else and basked in the glow of adulation as he introduced me to all his friends. Of course, that adulation might have been from the five tequila shots I had done in the past hour.
I can’t remember what he and I talked about, but I’m sure it was about how awesome I am. The funniest part was when he was ready for the next round, asked if I wanted another one, then looked at my unfinished beer, and said, rather condescendingly, “Oh. You’re not finished.” You gotta love it when your own fans are calling you out. I deserved it, and I would expect nothing less. Hey, if I can’t take a joke, then fuck me.
As we were talking, this girl came up and basically wrapped herself around me and started almost making out with me. I chatted with her for about 20 minutes, when she said, “Let’s go back to your place.” A confirming nod later she took my hand, and we headed to the door. I like my fans, but I am not passing up pussy for them, even though I am pretty sure that guy said to me as I was leaving, “Tucker, what are you doing? She’s a high 2-star at best.” I legitimately thought, at the time, that she was a 4-star, and we all know that in these matters, perception truly is reality.
Then came perhaps the greatest cock-block I have ever seen. As we were leaving, her friends, seemingly on cue, descended on her from all different directions of the bar. I never even saw them coming. They herded her away from me and into a cab, then piled in after her. The last one turned to me and said, “Sorry, no more room in the cab.” The last thing I heard from inside the cab was the girl saying, “But I want to have sex with him….”
The bait and no-switch was such a shocking and unexpected turn of events that I stood out there in the cold for a while, staring at the taxi as it drove off down the street. Eventually I just went back inside and wandered around the bar like a lost vagrant. My mind was having trouble shifting back into “Pursue” mode after being in “Gonna get laid” mode. It was then that my cell phone rang, and part two of the story began…
Part 2: Tucker Has the Most Disturbing Conversation Ever
I answered my phone, still in a daze from having eager vagina snatched away from me. It was my friend Jez.
“Hey, what are you doing? Come up and meet us, we’re at Felt. It’s on Halsted, right north of Belmont.” Everyone who lives in Chicago knows what’s coming next.
I take a taxi and arrive to find a bar completely packed with dozens of the best-dressed guys I have ever seen, and hardly any girls. Oh, that’s fucking great Jez, thanks for bringing me up here, how am I supposed to pick up a girl at this fucking sausage-fest… TWO GUYS ARE KISSING IN THE CORNER!!
Jez comes running over and gives me a big hug and a kiss. She is wasted. “Come meet my gay friends. One of them looks just like Christian Slater!”
I am dragged over to the faux Christian Slater and the rest of the gay friends, and introduced, “This is my straight friend Tucker. Isn’t he so cute!!” They all readily agree, and I desperately feel the need for an alcoholic drink. I tell the bartender to just bring me anything strong. That short-sighted comment is immediately rewarded with a raspberry Long Island iced tea. I suppress the urge to throw the drink in his face, and then pay him $10 for it. I guess I’m gonna get fucked one way or another tonight.
Having cut my clubbing teeth in South Beach at places like Twist and Swirl, I am used to hanging out around gay guys, and thus am completely comfortable around them, but this was a totally different experience. In South Beach, the coolest clubs are the “gay clubs,” but it’s usually pretty obvious who is gay and who is not. The gay guys are flamboyant and entertaining, real thin, drink brightly colored drinks, and wear dazzling, shiny clothes. The straight guys wear tight shirts and hang out in packs, waiting for opportunities to hit on the numerous hot girls that go to those clubs “just to dance.”
Not in Chicago. In Chicago, the gay guys look and act just like straight guys, except they accessorize better…and, you know…fuck other dudes in the ass.
I was at the table with a girl and three guys, each of which looked and acted just like any of my other friends, except they were better-dressed. After I got used to it, I was actually thankful to be hanging out with these great-looking gay guys, because it just means less competition for me. Ask any of the 40 or so straight guys who have attended Vassar over the past decade: having lots of gay guys around means the girls will be desperate. Unfortunately, there were no girls around except for the obligatory fag hags, who did not tickle my loins.
So being bored and Tucker Max, I couldn’t resist the temptation to start quizzing these guys. There are just so many questions. I started off by throwing one out to the table:
“Alright guys, seriously, what is it about sucking dick that you like so much?”
They went on to explain that sucking dick is all about imagining it to be your own dick. “You just treat it like a little version of you.” They also told me that getting your dick sucked by a guy is much better than by a woman, because, “We know what we want. Women don’t have dicks, they don’t really know how to deal with them like we do.”
It turned out that two of the three guys had been with multiple girls; Christian Slater had been with like 10 or so, and Adam had been with about eight, so they had a reasonable basis for comparison. I guess I’m just going to have to take their word for it.
We leave Felt and decide to go to Manhole. Just by the name, you should be able to discern some things about Manhole. But let me be clear for the stupid readers, like my cousin: Manhole is a famous gay club, and it is famous for a reason, namely, lots of gay “things” go on there.
On the way there, Adam expresses concern for me, “Tucker are you sure you want to go here? This place is very…free.”
Bitch, please. I’m not about to avoid such great story potential just because of some swinging dicks. “Dude, I grew up in South Beach. I’ve been to Thailand. There is nothing in there that could shock or disturb me.” Truthfully, I’ve never been to Thailand, but I wasn’t going to miss out on this.
The club opened into a huge room, and ended in a tunnel that led to another huge back room. The front room had a large, star-shaped bar in the center of it. The ceiling was ringed with dozens of TV’s, much like your average sports bar. Unlike your average sports bar however, the TVs were not featuring athletic competition. That is unless you consider vigorous and explicit gay sex between men hung like Tijuana mules to be a sport. The walls were a dark, dingy brown. I stayed at least two feet from them at all times. And my favorite part: Every guy had his shirt off. Except me. And it was going to stay that way.
Jez and I get in line for the bathroom, and every guy in line immediately pushes her to the front. She asks why, and they say, “Because you actually have to go.” The door opens and three guys come out of the one-toilet bathroom together. The last one stops, says, “Oh wait, I have to pee,” and heads back into the bathroom.
Jez and I decide to go in the bathroom together. We walk in, and I make her close the door, because I don’t want to touch it. The walls, which were originally some shade of orange, were now an oily brown, having been repainted with splooge. Some of the stains were like 10 feet high on the wall. Who was fucking in here, Peter North? I pee in the sink and quickly exit, not touching any surface.
Some random events over the next few minutes: One guy asked me if I liked football, and he said his favorite teams were the Packers and the Titans, though he liked them better as the Oilers.
I asked the only girl in the place other than Jez if I could feel her tits. She said sure, and I gave them a good slapping. It was awesome. She loved it because she thought I was gay and thus safe, and I loved it because I am straight and she had great tits. Everybody wins!
Jez and I took a spot next to the front bar, and her gay friends immediately surrounded us. Jez was mostly talking to Adam and Christian Slater, while the other guys, Lloyd, Dave and Mike talked to me.
The three of them were right up on me, each with their shirts off. They began asking me about the gay porn showing in the TV screens, and whether that offended me or made me uncomfortable.
“No, not really. Porn is porn; I’ve seen so much in my life I’ve become inured to it. Most of the shots are up close, too. You can’t even tell if it’s a male ass or a female ass getting fucked until they pan out.”
After they realized I was not averse to discussing gay topics and was relatively comfortable in a gay environment, the fucking floodgates opened.
The first subject was something I knew nothing about, and was actually kind of interested in, in a sort of clinical, sociological kind of way: How do gay guys decide who fucks who? I mean, when two guys go home, do they flip a coin? Play rock, paper, scissors? How does that work?
They explained that there are two types of gay guys: Tops and Bottoms. Tops are the ones that like to do the fucking, the pitchers, if you will, and the bottoms are the ones that like to get fucked, the catchers. Most gay guys have a preference, but can go either way, though there are a certain percentage that are only one way or the other. So if two Strict Bottoms go home together, then no one gets fucked, though there is still the oral sex option. This really was remarkable information to me. I just assumed that when you went home with a guy, you fucked him and then he fucked you, but that is rarely, if ever, the case.
One of the TV screens was showcasing a gay guy tossing another guy’s salad, and we began discussing the finer aspects of such activity.
I admitted that I had never eaten out a girl’s ass, but that I had had girls do it to me, and that yes, I liked it, especially when the girl jacked me off as she was doing it. They started telling me all these trade secrets about tossing salad and the various ways that one could improve it. They even asked me whether I washed my ass before I had my girlfriend go down there. I told them that I was courteous and did indeed clean myself beforehand. Dave told me I was “well-trained,” because there is nothing worse than going down there and finding it “all grainy.”
Then it got a little weird. Dave started testing my limits. It is apparently a big thing for
a gay guy to fuck a straight guy, and he really wanted to break me in:
Dave “So, would you ever let a guy eat out your ass?”
Tucker “No, I’m not gay. And that would be weird.”
Dave “Right, but if you aren’t looking you’d never know if it’s a girl or guy.”
Tucker “I don’t know about you, but I usually look at the people who put their tongue in my ass.”
Dave “What if your girlfriend started it out, but then a guy moved in and finished? You would never know.”
Tucker “I mean, I don’t know, I guess…but…what kind of girl would…look, I’m not gay.”
Dave “You know, gay guys give the best head. We teach female porn stars how to do it.”
Tucker “I don’t doubt that, but it doesn’t change the fact that I’m not gay. I don’t like dick. Except for mine, of course.”
Dave “I like yours too.”
Tucker “That’s pleasant.”
From that point on, it became a game of advance and retreat with these guys. They would test my sexuality with questions like that, and I would have fun talking to them about it, but would always draw the line before they suggested we head into the bathroom. The weird thing was, because I was straight, I had probably three of the hottest guys in there hitting on me, especially Dave. That guy could get so much pussy if he was straight.