Assholes Finish First

by Tucker Max

  We met up and she was even better looking in person. Then she told me the story of how she lost her leg in a car accident and made a joke about it:

  Tucker “So you’re cool with jokes about your leg?”

  Peggy “Yeah, of course. It’s no big deal.”

  Tucker “Sweet. I’m gonna run with this.”

  Had she not been missing a leg, it would have just been a normal night out with a fun girl and nothing to write about. But the amputation combined with her sense of humor made for some good exchanges:

  Tucker “What do you want for dinner? A foot-long maybe?”

  Peggy “I’m gonna ask the waiter, he’ll give me a leg up.”

  Tucker “NICE! You’re better at this than I am.”

  Peggy “More practice.”

  Tucker “I hope he recommends a beer with lots of hops.”

  Tucker “The normal adult body has 206 bones. How many do you have?”

  Peggy “Well, I’m missing a tibia and fibula. Plus, how many bones are in the foot?”

  Tucker “Not sure. You’ve stumped me.”

  Tucker “Seriously, though, if you were a hooker, would you have to charge less because you are missing parts, or more, because some guys will be into that?”

  Peggy “Good question. I’m definitely out of the foot fetish game, I know that.”

  Tucker “Well, you could do it, but you could only charge half.”

  Tucker “So what’s it like to play Twister with you?”

  Peggy “I prefer Monopoly. I’m always the shoe.”

  Tucker “Your favorite movie has to be My Left Foot. What about your favorite song? ‘Jump Around’ by House of Pain?”

  Peggy “‘Runnin’, by Tupac.”

  Tucker “This is weird for me. I’ve fucked hundreds of women with amputated self-esteem, but none with amputated limbs.”

  Peggy “How about one with both?”

  Tucker “I think I love you.”

  After dinner we went back to the hotel and I watched her take off her prosthetic. It was less exciting than I’d hoped. In my dreams, I envisioned something like the scene in the original Star Wars when Darth Vader is woken from his sleep and puts on his mask. Unfortunately, there was no cool whooshing noise or release of carbon gas. She just slid it off and dropped it to the floor with a dull thud. The only thing that could have been more disappointing would have been if she had both her legs.

  What was cool was her stump. It was ticklish, and she giggled and squirmed when I rubbed it. That was awesome, but the kicker was how she could also wiggle her stump. It was spooky. She essentially did the same thing as when she wiggled her toes, but since there were no toes anymore, it just moved the muscles that are still there—and those do wiggle. It creeped me out to the point where I had to make her stop so that I could keep the erection I’d gotten from playing with her prosthetic.

  Then we had sex. I kinda hate to say this, but it was pretty normal sex. Don’t get me wrong—it was great, and we hooked up two or three times, but there was nothing all that unusual about it.

  Here’s the thing: As you can see from the pics, her amputation is below the knee. How often do you really deal with a girl’s shins or feet during sex? Not much. Even when I had her legs over my shoulders, the little stub was like a hook and that secured her to me, no prob.

  As we were leaving, I told her about the Sexual To-Do List and how she now had a place on it. She actually thought it was pretty funny.

  Peggy “So, now that you’ve checked amputee off your list, am I going to see you again?”

  Tucker “Yeah, maybe. You’d be pretty cool even if you had all your appendages.”

  Peggy “Then you better call me again, or I’ll be hopping mad with you.”

  Tucker “Don’t get jumpy. You barely have a leg to stand on with me.”

  My only lasting regret is that, when I fucked her from behind, I didn’t spank her with the prosthetic leg or at least find some way to use it as some sort of hilarious prop. Oh well, I’ll probably get a chance to fuck another hot amputee. There are forgotten landmines all over the world, and my first book was translated into dozens of languages. Wish me luck!

  THE ABORTED TWINS

  Occurred—February 2005

  I’ve definitely hooked up with two pairs of identical twins, and possibly three. The third pair, I’m not so sure they were twins. They might have just been two girls who looked a lot alike and were lying to me. I was kinda drunk that night. If we’re counting fraternal twins, I think it might be more. I don’t know, I’ve lost track of details like that. Awesome people fuck lots of twins. Creepers take a census.

  Even though I’ve fucked multiple pairs, I don’t really have any great hooking-up-with-twins stories. What can I tell you? Real life doesn’t always cooperate with my need for material.

  But I do have a pretty funny story about a pair of twins I was supposed to fuck. It all started with this email:

  “Hi Tucker!

  We’re 19 year old TWIN girls from [redacted]. We just started reading your website and we can’t stop cuz you’re so freaking hilarious (even though you have asshole tendencies). We think if you hung out with us, you’d have a good time cuz we’re funny and gross… just like you! (not gross like unhygenic or physically disgusting), but we have a weird sense of humor we think would mesh well with yours! By the way… you have beautiful blue eyes :-) For your viewing pleasure, we have enclosed three pictures, we know we’re flat… no need to bring that up… OK well please write us back just to let us know you read and considered this email. Thank you so much!

  Love, [redacted] and [redacted] (your new favorite twins)”

  A lot of things suck about being infamous, but getting emails from hot 19 year old twins wanting to fuck you is pretty awesome.

  In the abstract, at least. But then they showed up. These girls were giggly, nervous, immature teenagers. With Sleeping Beauty sleeping bags and Finding Nemo pillows. And too much makeup on. And braces. And blue tongues and teeth because they mixed the rotgut vodka they drank on the drive here with some fountain drink from 7-Eleven so they could get it down. And they didn’t have fake IDs so I couldn’t even take them out to a bar. You should have seen the judgmental faces on D-Rock and Bunny (my roommates at the time).

  Whatever, fuck those two, they’re just jealous because I’m going to fuck twins, right?

  Tucker “All right, so do I get you one at a time, or both at once?”

  Twin 1 “Uh… well…”

  Twin 2 “We thought you would just pick one of us.”

  Twin 1 “You said I got to sleep with him!”

  Twin 2 “It’s up to him, let him pick!”

  Twin 1 “You’re going to do something to make him pick you, I know it, you always do this!”

  This is the dark side of twins they don’t show you in those Doublemint commercials.

  I decide we’ll head out for drinks, to see if this can be worked out. Because of the ID situation, we are forced to go to an apartment party being thrown by a friend of D-Rock. This guy went to the University of Chicago with us. I only vaguely remembered him as an annoying dork in college, but he was smart enough to get a job in finance that made him more money than he could spend on original anime cels and Philippine sex vacations, so with the extra money, he bought a really nice apartment in Wrigleyville and had people over all the time, hoping he could develop coolness by proxy.

  Well, of course, he and his friends nearly choked when I walked into his party with twins on my arms. They remembered me as an asshole from undergrad, well before I was famous for it, and of course they hated me for it then. Seeing the twins enraged them.

  For the rest of the night, the host and his coterie of nerd friends gawked at me and acted appalled to each other. Leave it up to hipster nerds to pretend to hate something they actually want.

  Unbeknownst to them, I was having problems of my own. I was trying to convince the twins that the best situation was not me picking one to sleep with, b
ut me fucking both of them. They were vehemently against anything that even resembled a threesome, which was fine. Yes I’m from Kentucky, but only some of us rednecks are incestuous.

  This meant I had to figure out a way to fuck them both, but separately. They weren’t opposed in principle to me fucking both of them; the problem was that neither wanted to be second. Essentially, if I fucked one, the other wouldn’t fuck me for the rest of the weekend. It became this infuriating, circular dance whose steps were defined by whore logic and sibling rivalry. But like Solomon, I find a way to split the baby:

  Tucker “But why does it matter who’s first and who’s second?”

  Twin 1 “It’s just weird.”

  Twin 2 “It’s more special if it’s only one of us.”

  Tucker “How about this compromise? I’ll fuck one of you in the vagina and then the other one in the ass. That way, you’ll both be the first of what you get… and thus it’ll be special for both of you.”

  Twin 1 “I don’t know.”

  Twin 2 “Maybe.”

  Tucker “I’ll even shower between you two. To make it really special.”

  Because I was drunk and being loud, everyone around me heard this exchange. You should have seen the nerds’ faces as they listened in. I thought they were going to shit Haterade all over the polished wood floors.

  But just as I was making real headway with the “vaginal and anal can make you both special” argument, Twin 1 started to feel woozy. Apparently two pints of Popov vodka mixed with blue sugar water will do that. She ran to the bathroom to vomit, with the host chasing after her, whining, “Get it in the toilet! In the toilet!” Nice, dude—without your helpful screeching, she wouldn’t know where to put her vomit.

  When she came out of the bathroom, the dude followed her with a bucket, like a nervous maid. All that money, all that stuff, and no freedom to just have fun.

  Now I was presented with a conundrum. With this anal on one, vaginal on another plan, I could possibly pull off the greatest twins threesome ever, but I had to figure out a way to sober up Twin 1 first.

  I took her outside. It was February in Chicago, so it was fucking COLD.

  Tucker “OK, if you want to be the first one to fuck me, you have to prove it by sobering up.”

  Twin 1 “OK. How do I sober up?”

  Tucker “Do some sprints up and down the street. As fast as you can, down to the white house, then back. Do it four times, then we’ll see how sober you are.”

  I’m not saying that this makes me cool or anything, but I will say it does strange things to a man to watch a 19 year old girl sprint up and down Waveland Avenue in the bitter winter cold, just so you’ll fuck her in the pussy, before you fuck her twin in the ass.

  As she was doing her Carl Lewis impersonation, some random dudes walked down the street, saw her, and stopped, completely baffled.

  Random “Why is she sprinting up and down the street?”

  Tucker “She drank too much.”

  Random “It’s only too much if you can’t handle it.”

  The sprinting actually worked. She sobered up enough that I thought she was ready to have sex, so I collected everyone and we headed home. The twins drove to the party in their car, but they were both way too drunk to drive now and so was I, so Bunny and I took their car, and D-Rock drove the twins in my car. As Bunny and I got in their car, I could not help but brag:

  Tucker “Seriously, Bunny, how amazing is this? I might be the coolest dude on earth.”

  She rolled her eyes, turned on the car, and we were assaulted by the tape deck blaring out calypso music:

  “Up on the shore they work all day, out in the sun they slave away

  While we devotin’ full time to floatin’, UNDER THE SEA!”

  If you don’t recognize those lyrics, it’s either because you don’t have children or you’re Amish. Either way, consider yourself lucky. That is “Under the Sea.” The title song from The Little Mermaid. Playing, at full blast, on the twins’ car stereo.

  Bunny “Tucker…”

  Tucker “Shut up.”

  Bunny “Hehheheheheheheheehehheh!”

  Tucker “Whatever. Sebastian is underrated anyway.”

  Bunny “HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHH!”

  Tucker “Fuck you! That song won an Oscar!” [Fuck you too, it really did.]

  We got back to my place, and they started arguing like Persian rug merchants. It appeared they rejected the whole “vaginal for one and anal for the other” idea on the ride home and reverted to arguing about who would be the one to fuck me.

  Twin 1 “If you fuck him, I’m leaving!”

  Twin 2 “Shut up, you’re too drunk to even walk to his bedroom!”

  Twin 1 “You said I got to fuck him!”

  Twin 2 “You’re too drunk! You can’t even get off the sofa!”

  Twin 1 “I worked two shifts for you! You always do this, you slut!”

  You know how when you get super-excited about something and then don’t get it, it makes you ten times more disappointed than if you’d never had any expectations in the first place? If I’d expected to be with just one twin, I’d have been happy with that night. But the apparent loss of the legendary twin threesome, on top of everything else, was too much for me.

  Tucker “You two figure this out. I’ll be in my room waiting for whoever shows up.”

  About ten minutes later, Twin 2 came to my room, told me Twin 1 was passed out, and fucked the shit out of me. And the next day, Twin 1 got up early and made Twin 2 leave with her, without letting me fuck her in the butt.

  At least, I think it was Twin 2. It wasn’t both of them, so who really cares which one it was?

  THE MIDGET STORY

  Occurred—July 2006

  We all have dreams. Martin Luther King dreamt of racial harmony. Larry Hagman dreamt of Jeannie. I dreamt of fucking a hot female midget.

  A hot female midget. Those four words had been sitting on the top of the Tucker Max Sexual To-Do List for going on eight years. As I checked more and more types of women off the list, that one remained, always there, staring at me, mocking my feeble efforts and castigating my failures. It was the one arena I’d always yearned to conquer and the one that had consistently eluded me. The last meaningful box to check off my list. It had become my white whale, and in my monomaniacal pursuit, I had become Ahab. Yet, as relentless as I was, each time it skirted my harpoon.

  Then, in July 2006, I finally did it. This story is about how, by risking everything and by never giving up, I accomplished my dream:

  I was living in NYC at the time. I was at the gym when I got this text message from my buddy Nils. He likes to play with my emotions, so I never take his text messages seriously:

  Nils: “There is a midget convention at the hilton in milwaukee here with my girlfriend and soylent is here too”

  Tucker: “Fuck you”

  Nils: “Im dead serious”

  Tucker: “I hate you”

  Nils: “Soylent has a free roundtrip ticket”

  Tucker: “STOP TEASING ME”

  He called me a few minutes later, when I was at home, wiping off the sweat and preparing to cook dinner.

  Nils “Did you get my message? I am in Milwaukee with my girlfriend… and there is a midget convention in town this weekend.”

  Tucker “I got your fucking message. Come on man, stop playing.”

  Nils “Tucker, I am DEAD serious. They are everywhere. It’s like the circus and The Wizard of Oz are in town at the same time. I swear on our friendship there are hundreds of midgets here.”

  [10 second pause]

  Tucker “I’m on the next flight.”

  It took me about 40 seconds to throw clothes into a duffel bag and another 20 seconds to sprint out the door and onto Park Avenue. I was in a cab to LaGuardia within one minute of getting the call. The TV and lights in my apartment were still on, I’d left a steak thawing in the sink, and I was still covered in gym sweat.

  In the cab, I was so excited I
nearly hyperventilated. I called all my best friends and screamed incoherent gibberish about sex with little people. The call to Junior was the best:

  Junior “What is wrong with you? Why not just get a midget hooker and be done with it?”

  Tucker “Junior, if you buy Dwight Gooden’s World Series ring off eBay, that doesn’t mean that you were on the ’86 Mets. Some things you can only claim if you earn them. MIDGET PUSSY, HERE I COME!”

  Junior “I will never understand you.”

  I was more excited about this than I was when my book hit the New York Times best-seller list. I felt like a six year old at Disneyland on the night before Christmas.

  At the airport, in line for my ticket, I was forced to fly Midwest Airlines because they are the only airline that cares enough about Milwaukee to fly there. A very nice, very Midwestern couple was in front of me. The man’s shirt had a picture of cheese on it.

  Tucker “You guys going to Milwaukee?”

  Guy “Yes sir, heading home after a vacation.”

  Tucker “Did you know there are midgets in Milwaukee right now?”

  The man and his wife were silent and confused.

  Tucker “HUNDREDS OF THEM!”

  They turned around and mumbled something about crazy New Yorkers. Whatever, they’ve never fucked a midget, they don’t matter.

  The flight was nearly intolerable, because my mind was spinning with questions: What are their daily lives like? Do they get to live in those cool handicapped apartments with the really low door handles and counters? Since their arms are too short to reach their crotches, how do they wipe? Or masturbate?

  What is the etiquette for dealing with them? Are you allowed to hold them like a football? Or drape them over your shoulder like a fire hose? When you hug them, can you hold them tight like a teddy bear and promise to pet them and love them? When she’s riding me, can I spin her like a top?

  I was in Milwaukee by 10pm. My buddy Soylent picked me up, and we were at the Hilton hotel bar by 11pm. Upon seeing my first gaggle of midgets, I almost shit myself.

  There were six of them, sitting at a table, drinking just like normal people, their tiny little legs barely hanging over the seats, tiny little feet dangling like a toddler’s. Their Miller Lite bottles looked massive as they gripped them with both their tiny little hands. Their humongous brow ridges were raised in excitement on their enormous foreheads, as they laughed at tiny little jokes.