by Tucker Max
It was a very unique feeling, to be so actively and aggressively pursued by guys. Now I know what hot girls feel like, being hounded by multiple guys at once. On one hand, it is a flattering feeling because of the attention and the obvious desire for you, but it kind of leaves a mildly annoying and hollow tang, because you know that all the guys really want to do is fuck, and they only care about you because of what you represent to them, not who you are as a person.
OH JESUS—DID I JUST WRITE THAT?
At one point during a lull in the conversation, a random gay guy got involved in our conversation, and figured out that I was straight and they were trying to get me to have a homosexual experience. He dropped possibly the biggest, most disturbing conversation bomb EVER DROPPED ON ANYONE EVER:
[WARNING TO ALL STRAIGHT GUYS: You want to stop reading here. The conversation I am about to recount prevented me from sleeping for a full two days, and has permanently and irreversibly scarred me. Save your psyche while you still can. Women have nothing to fear.]
Him “I bet you’ve already slept with a man.”
Tucker “Alright, come on man—I invented Tucker Max Drunk, but not even Tucker Max Drunk makes you switch teams.”
Him “How many women have you been with?”
Tucker “I don’t know, somewhere in low three digits.”
Him “Oh yeah, I bet you’ve fucked a man.”
Tucker [getting obviously frustrated] “How??”
Him “I have three words for you: Post-Op Transsexual.”
It took a few seconds for the full meaning and significance of that statement to filter through my drunken brain.
Tucker “What? Get the fuck out of here. I’ve never fucked one of those.”
Him “You wouldn’t know.”
Tucker “Man, give me some credit.”
Him “Have you ever slept with a woman who told you she couldn’t naturally lubricate, that she had to use KY?”
Oh no.
Tucker “Well…yeah…two, actually.”
Him “Uh-huh.”
Tucker “No. No way. Stacey was one, I went to college with her, she was definitely a woman. Everything about her was woman. And she was like 17 when we fucked. You can’t be post-op that young.”
Him “Probably not. What about the other one?”
Please no…
Tucker “Uhhh, I met her in Miami…”
Him “What did she do?”
Tucker “She was a stripper.”
Him “Did she have fake tits?”
Tucker “Yes.”
This isn’t happening. He is fucking with me.
Tucker “No, man, she was not a fucking man. She didn’t have an Adam’s apple.”
Him “That is a two-hour outpatient surgery. Easily done. Cheap too.”
Tucker “But it was…she had a pussy. IT FELT LIKE A PUSSY.”
Him “Surgery is amazing these days. She probably even had a clit.”
WHAT THE FUCK??
Tucker “But she was soft. Her skin I mean. She felt like a girl.”
Him “You’re smart. You know what large amounts of estrogen do to the male body, don’t you?”
Tucker “But what about her voice? She didn’t sound like those absurd trannies on Springer.”
Him “Again, estrogen. And maybe even vocal cord surgery. It would make sense if she has a lucrative stripping or escorting gig to protect.”
I just stood there, too shocked to move, trying to recall every detail about her to refute his argument.
Tucker “Wait, wait, wait…”
Him “She gave great head, didn’t she?”
Tucker “She was a stripper! They give head for a living!”
THIS CANNOT BE HAPPENING.
Him “Was she tall? Taller than you?”
Tucker “Yeah, but I’ve dated lots of girls who were taller than me.”
Him “But I bet none of them had hands as big as hers.”
I AM GOING TO VOMIT.
Him “Did you have anal sex with her?”
Tucker “Yeah.”
Him “You ever had anal sex with other girls?”
Tucker “Yeah.”
Him “Felt a little different with her, didn’t it?”
Oh dear merciful Jesus. He was right. I distinctly remember that.
Tucker “FUCK THIS!! NO FUCKING WAY THAT I FUCKED A MAN!!”
Him “I think you did.”
Tucker “SHUT UP SHUT UP—I CAN’T BE HEARING THIS!!!”
Him “Don’t feel bad, this happens to lots of guys. You’d be shocked.”
Tucker “OH MOTHERFUCK!! NO WAY. THIS IS NOT HAPPENING I AM NOT HAVING THIS CONVERSATION!! WHAT IN DEAR GOD IS HAPPENING??? I DID NOT FUCK A FAKE WOMAN!”
I was in SHOCK. I could not sleep or function for the next two days, as I went over every detail I could remember about this “girl.” I am still undecided about her. Yes, he made good points, but everything about her I recall as being feminine. The way she smelled, her touch, her appearance, everything. And it was a nice strip club where I met her, Rachel’s in West Palm Beach. Don’t they check for these things?
He went on to explain that some post-op transsexuals will go to the bathroom before sex, and put the KY in without even telling the guy. Others don’t even have fake breasts, because the elevated estrogen levels can give them B-cups. He said she might not have been the only one. My brain was completely fried after that conversation. I still don’t know what to think.
Gentlemen, all I can say is don’t spend too much time cataloging your ex-hook-ups because it will drive you nuts. Just pretend you never read this and move on. You wish you had heeded that warning now, don’t you?
SHE WON’T TAKE NO FOR AN ANSWER
Occurred—December 2002
Written—March 2005
This always happens to me, and it pisses me off.
If I dawdle and wait too long to approach a group of girls, invariably the ugliest one “calls” me in the group. I have no idea why. One girl I know told me it was because I am attractive but not great-ooking, so ugly girls think they have a chance with me. And she added that to people I don’t know, I have an approachable air about me. What sweet irony.
One night my friends and I were out drinking, and we were sitting next to a table of girls. One was pretty hot, one was fuckable, and the other was awful. She was a fetal alcohol case, no question. Sunken nasal bridge, thin upper lip, a short upturned nose and smooth skin between the nose and upper lip—all the telltale signs. She looked sorta like she’d been hit in the face with a frying pan.
Before we make our move, one of the girls comes over to talk to me. Do you want to guess which one? Well, it wouldn’t be a story unless it was the bag of smashed assholes, now would it?
As my friends talked to the fuckable ones, I tried to make it clear to Pan-Face that I was not into her. I told her the most absurd shit, things that I was sure would offend her so badly she wouldn’t want to even look at me, much less fuck me:
“I will never date you. I won’t call you. I probably won’t even talk to you afterwards, unless it’s to tell you to get out.”
“I am going to cum in your hair. Do you know how hard it is to get cum out of hair?”
“For real, if I come home with you, you have to eat out my ass. And I haven’t showered in three days.”
“I will only want to fuck you from behind. And you can’t look at me when I’m fucking you either—I might lose my hard-on.”
“I want you to wear a paper bag on your head, cut a hole for your mouth, and give me head with it on.”
“No seriously, I will probably just cum on your back, then get dressed and leave. And I’ll probably break some trinket of yours on my way out, just to show my disdain for you.”
COME ON—even a washed-up stripper shilling for quarter tips at a topless truck stop would have told me to fuck off. Whether she thought I was joking or not—and I was kinda—some of that shit is just over the line. What girl would keep talking to
a guy that said those things? I mean honestly—I told the girl that I would only fuck her from behind because if she looked at me I would lose my hard-on. The girl had to have stopped at some point, right?
Nope. She got all googly-eyed and smitten and told me I was the funniest guy she’d ever met. Doesn’t it always happen this way? I would have just ended it for real, but before I could, she discovered my weakness: An open tab.
I couldn’t finish my drink before she’d have two more in front of me. Of course, this feedback loop led to disaster:
The constant stream of Red Bull and Goose made me more animated and sarcastic…
Which made her more into me…
Which allowed me to tolerate her more…
Which inspired her to lean into me and expose her cleavage…
Which caused me to comment on her nice breasts…
Which led to her massaging my crotch…
Which made me consider what she would be like in bed…
To continue with this line of thought I had to switch to doubles…
Yeah, I fucked her.
Oh, but it gets better.
The next morning I wake up in a strange bed with pink silk sheets. For about a minute I seriously wasn’t sure who I had gone home with, because there was no girl in the bed. Then Pan-Face came bounding in the room, all the awful memories rushing back with her:
Girl “What’s wrong? You look upset.”
Tucker “Oh Christ…I can’t believe myself…”
Then the rest came back to me—last night this girl had basically promised me the world: breakfast, laundry, fellatio-on-command, everything. Well, I fucked her, I’ll be damned if I don’t get my side of the bargain.
Tucker “I thought I told you I wanted breakfast in the morning.”
Girl “OK! What do you want? I have eggs and bacon and pancakes…”
Tucker “All of it. And you also promised to fellate me on command. I want that as my appetizer.”
Oh man. Here I go again. I always do this.
Whenever I hook up with some marginally attractive girl, I get pissed at myself, for obvious reasons. Then, almost as punishment, I make myself sort of keep seeing/fucking her. Not because I am trying to pretend that I want a relationship—I’m honest with the girl—but because I feel like if I get my money’s worth in other areas, then it was worth it to lose a little bit of my soul by fucking some girl I shouldn’t even be seen in public with.
After she went down on me (she was really good), I watched American Chopper reruns while she cooked me an awesome breakfast: an andouille sausage omelet with cheese, sautéed garlic and grilled onions, soggy bacon just like I like it, an English muffin buttered just right, skim milk with ice just like I like it, and a cappuccino (she had a machine) with just the right froth-to-coffee ratio. I almost applauded her when I was done—but instead I had her go down on me again.
Over the next few weeks, it got bad. I would go over to her condo at like 2am without calling, drunk out of my mind, fuck her like she owed me money, sleep all day in her bed while she was at work, and then have her make me dinner when she got home. We’d go out, and she’d buy me drinks, and then I’d make her leave before my friends or other girls would come out to meet me. When she came over to my place, she would bring Carson’s ribs or Harold’s chicken or some other delicacy, do my laundry, fuck/suck on command, and then leave without even spending the night. After a while, even I began to feel bad. Sort of.
Ladies, let me give you some advice. You can throw all your stupid fucking chick-lit, self-help, why-doesn’t-he-love-me books out, because this is all you need to know: Men will treat you the way you let them. There is no such thing as “deserving” respect; you get what you demand from people. Let a guy fuck you in the ass, cum on your back, drink all your beer and then leave, and he’ll do it. But if you demand respect, he will either respect you, or he won’t associate with you. It really is that simple.
Or you can just act like Pan-Face, and turn out the same way:
The turning point for me, the exact moment I knew I had to cut the charade off and move on, was the day she showed up at my place in a trench coat. I was in my standard position: sitting on the couch, watching Jerry Springer in gym clothes, with my hand down my pants. She kinda stood there smiling at me, until I looked up:
Tucker “What are you doing? It’s 75 degrees outside.”
At that, she dropped her trench coat to reveal a tight white t-shirt and panties. Printed on them were these words (she had the shirts made specially at some store):
Shirt “Tucker Max’s tits”
Panties “Tucker Max’s pussy”
Had I been 17, I would have thought that was the coolest thing I’d ever seen. At 27, I could only see the imminent and now unavoidable disaster that was going to result from this girl falling in love with me.
Of course, I still slept with her that night.
But after that I stopped calling her, and I am pretty sure that as a result, she went bat-shit crazy and moved back to wherever she was from. I’m not really sure; I would routinely find 50 missed calls on my cell phone from her and 30 emails in my inbox, so I blocked her email address and changed my phone number. I’ll leave that mess for the beta males to deal with.
TUCKER RUPTURES HIS APPENDIX
Occurred—January 2003
Written—March 2003
On the Friday morning that MTV was in Chicago filming me, around 4am, my appendix ruptured. The pain was so intense, it woke me from my sleep. It felt like my lower right abdomen had been stabbed with a rusty serrated kitchen knife and twisted around in my gut.
I’m not sure how many Motrin I took, but it was well above the recommended dosage. If by “well above,” I mean “half the bottle.” For the rest of the time MTV filmed me, about two more days, I was in such incredible pain I nearly finished a bottle of Motrin. There are 100 to a bottle—kids, don’t try this at home.
At the behest of my friends, many of them doctors, I decided to go to the ER. This decision was sealed by my conversation with Andrew, a surgery resident, “Dude, you could be in real trouble. You shouldn’t play around with internal injuries. You need to go to the hospital. Like drop what you’re doing and go immediately.” That was at 11pm on Sunday night, and I went to the ER right away.
I arrived at Cook County Hospital, parked my car and got in line to register at the desk. Right before the triage nurse got to me, an ambulance pulled up and unloaded a bleeding gunshot victim. I am not sure how many times he was shot, but I saw at least three holes. They even had to call a janitor to come wash blood off the floor.
At this scene, the triage nurse didn’t even look up, and handed me my number. It was—I swear to God—187. I looked at my number, watched the paramedic disappear down the hallway with the low-rent Tupac, and walked right out the door. No fucking way. I don’t believe in the supernatural, and I’m not even the least bit superstitious, but some signs should not be ignored.
I was in agony all day the next day. I was on my sofa at around 10pm when a tsunami of agony crashed over me. Nothing I’ve ever experienced prepared me for this pain. I have broken an arm, some ribs and a hand, torn a rotator cuff, hyperextended both knees, severely sprained both ankles, popped an eardrum, torn off fingernails, stepped on carpenter nails, had a plantar wart, etc., etc., so I thought I had experienced a wide and representative spectrum of pain. I was wrong.
It was so crippling, it took every bit of courage I had to reach from the sofa to the table, pick up my phone, and call TheRoommate. He was in his bedroom.
Roommate “Tucker, why are you calling me from the living room?”
Tucker [barely audible whisper] “…hospital…”
Roommate “Oh shit! OK, OK, hold on!”
By the time we got to Cook County, I was almost in shock the pain was so bad. A nurse rolled a wheelchair out to the car, brought me straight into the triage room and was about to take me back to the ER, when another nurse told her to instead take
me to the nurses’ station to take my blood pressure and temperature.
On the way there she bumped me into every single chair, wall and obstacle along the way. I groaned in pain at every nudge, each rattling my appendix at what felt like an 8.0 on the Richter scale. We got to the nurses’ station where the nurse, who was Asian and spoke a sort of broken ghetto English, put me in line behind six people.
I gaze at these people, and none seem to have critical, life-threatening internal injuries. This infuriated me. A rush of adrenaline enabled me to muster a voice loud enough to completely silence the entire front of the Cook County Emergency Room:
Tucker “WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING? WHY AM I HERE? MY FUCKING APPENDIX EXPLODED AND YOU WANT ME TO WAIT BEHIND SLAPPY AND HIS INGROWN TOENAIL?”
Nurse “Are you in pain?”
Tucker [this question inspires such utter disbelief I can only resort to my basest reaction] “ARE YOU FUCKING STUPID?”