by Tucker Max
Tucker “You know CPR, right? I think my heart might explode.”
Soylent “You are so fucking weird.”
Then I saw her: my MidgetPrincess. Her blond hair and sparkling blue eyes made me think of Gwyneth Paltrow. Her missing neck and bowlegs gave me an idea what Gwyneth would look like if she were placed in a vise and squished to one-quarter size.
As she glided past my table on pigeon-toed feet, I slid low in my chair, hoping to catch her eye. She looked at me and smiled, her mashed-up teeth sparkling in the oily light of the popcorn machine. I gave her an unmistakable “I want to fuck you” look, she shot me back a quick “my spine hurts” face, and I was smitten.
I started planning out how I was going to hit on her, but much to my dismay, I found myself feeling something I had not felt in so long I didn’t recognize it at first: nervousness. What the fuck? I literally couldn’t remember the last time I was nervous around a girl. Is this what it’s like to be an average guy? This sucks.
Every time I tried to talk to one of the midgets I would start giggling and sweating; it was fucking ridiculous and comical. I felt like a middle schooler who’d snuck into his sister’s college party. Eventually, Soylent—who thinks he’s better than me because he isn’t obsessed with fucking a midget—had to take over and get us in with them.
I think the midgets took a liking to Soylent because he is barely taller than they are and he looks exactly like Gimli the dwarf from the Lord of the Rings movies. Within minutes we were sitting with the little people. Midget-Princess was at the table, and even though I’d only had like five beers, the room was spinning around her. I would talk, but I couldn’t hear the words coming out of my mouth. She would answer back, and it sounded like a chorus of tiny little angels. Is this what love is like? If so, I might have to try it.
Then it happened:
Soylent “So, what’s up tonight at the Chocolate Factory? Any cool parties?”
MaleMidget “Oh, dude, you should come with us upstairs. It’s the last night of the LP [Little Person] convention, there is a big dance on the fifth floor.”
Tucker “Don’t play with me. If you are lying about this, I don’t think I could handle it.”
MaleMidget [looking at me like I’m a weirdo] “No dude. It should be fun. Everyone is up there. Let’s go.”
I ask you to put yourself in the following situation and see what your reaction would be:
Go to a hotel. Hit the button for the elevator. Take note of the step stool sitting underneath the button panel. There is a back scratcher tethered to the stool. On the wall above the stool is a note: PLEASE DO NOT REMOVE STOOL. Ride the elevator up to the fifth floor. Walk out into the hallway, and do a double take at the FLEET of Rascal scooters in the ballroom lobby. (Rascals are those red motorized scooters that you always see old people on in the grocery store.) You might first think you stumbled into a geriatric convention, but you study the people on the Rascals and realize something:
Their feet are dangling. They are all midgets! MIDGETS ON RASCALS!!!
Reeling from this discovery, you head into the ballroom and see approximately FOUR HUNDRED MIDGETS!!! ALL OF THEM ARE DANCING TO BABY HUEY!!! AND THEY ARE POPPING AND LOCKING!
I repeat: HUNDREDS OF MIDGETS ARE POPPING AND LOCKING!!!
What would you do? WHAT WOULD YOU DO???
I got a massive erection.
As much as I would love to tell you a really cool story about how I spent the next hour hitting on all the hot midgets, dancing with them, doing tiny little body shots off tiny little bodies, and tossing midgets all around the hotel… I can’t, because nothing like that happened.
Basically, I just sat there, vacant as a lobotomy patient, staring at the midgets, in utter disbelief at the scene unfolding before me—it was complete midget overload. Six midgets at a table had me nearly catatonic; you can only imagine what 400 dancing midgets did. And when I saw the two midgets slow dancing, but the midget guy was so short that the midget girl had to kneel to dance with him, I was done.
I am honestly not sure how the next part progressed, but I do know for damn sure I had nothing to do with it. One moment I was sitting at a table in the ballroom, staring in utter disbelief at the midget dance party in front of me. The next moment I was part of a group walking toward the elevator. That group was me, Nils, Soylent, our female friend Jessie… and three midgets, one female and two male.
Tucker [whispering] “Jessie, there are three midgets with us.”
Jessie [normal voice] “I know, I invited them. I think the girl will fuck you.”
Tucker [still whispering] “If she does, I will name all my illegitimate daughters after you.”
The elevator ride was awesome.
Soylent [to one of the male midgets with us] “So, you like midget girls or normal girls?”
Midget “Fuck that midget shit, man. I want me a BIG girl!” [Pointing at Jess] “Soylent, you think you could set me up with some pussy?!”
Soylent “Goddamn man, what do you think, I’m running a midget convention whorehouse special? I’m not fucking her, you are welcome to knock yourself out trying, fucker!”
Tucker “Hey man, can you talk to dolphins and pilot whales with that huge forehead of yours?”
DolphinMidget “Fuck you, asshole! Did you come here with Jessie, because I’m gonna fuck her in front of you!”
Tucker “EEK EEK EEK! That’s dolphin for ‘I’m sorry.’ But you already knew that.”
DolphinMidget “Hey, you guys wanna smoke some rock? I got a connection in Milwaukee, this taxi driver. I’m gonna call him in a minute.”
Did a midget just ask me if I wanna smoke some crack with him? I had to pinch myself to see if I was in a dream. Not only are there midgets, there are midget crackheads too? How many times in one night can I think to myself, “This is too good to be true?”
At the hotel bar, Jessie started to go to work on my MidgetPrincess. Jessie was pimping me so hard, she was doing everything but smacking me up for having short money. Being pimped by a girl to another girl is pretty much the optimal situation for a guy, so I did the best thing I could do: shut the fuck up, smiled at MidgetPrincess when she looked at me, bought everyone beer, and let it all play out. When you have a girl running game for you, the more you speak, the greater the chance you’ll fuck it up. Be quiet and let the girl do the work. Women trust women, not men, so the less you interfere—the less game you run—the better. Sounds counterintuitive, illogical, and borderline retarded? Welcome to women, enjoy your stay.
At one point, DolphinMidget accosts Jessie when she is in the women’s bathroom.
DolphinMidget “Hey, baby… wanna get down?”
Jessie “Uhhh, no.”
DolphinMidget “IT’S ’CAUSE YOU HATE MIDGETS, ISN’T IT?!”
Though she did not fuck him, Jessie found out the answer to a question we all had. She came back from the bathroom giggling.
Jessie “I just saw him pee! He pulled his junk out of his pants, and laid across the toilet sideways. It was awesome!”
When I got beers for all of us, I discovered something mildly amusing about Milwaukee. If you are ever there, order a Budweiser. Seriously, people FLIP OUT at you. I was confused at first, until it was explained to me: The city of Milwaukee is basically owned by Miller Brewing Company, and of course their big rival is Bud, presumably because they are located in St. Louis. Hey, Milwaukeeans, I’m going to let you in on a little secret: Bud, MGD, Bud Light, Miller Lite—it’s all shitty beer. No one cares except fat-assed cow town hicks like you. Get over it and focus on something important, like why you’re out of breath when you go from the La-Z-Boy to the kitchen.
At closing time, the whole crew—three midgets included—came back with us to Soylent’s place to party. As we crossed the street, several cars zoomed past, so I reached down to hold the hand of MidgetPrincess—you know, because I’m a gentleman and shit.
She reached up to grab my hand, but hers was too small to grasp mine… so inst
ead she wrapped her entire palm and Jimmy Dean sausage fingers around just my pinky.
I’m going to pause here so the visual can sink in. Me crossing the street with a hot midget. Holding my pinky. With her whole hand.
A few minutes later in the elevator, MidgetPrincess grabbed my butt.
MidgetPrincess “Damn, you got a fine ass.”
Tucker “I do Pilates.”
MidgetPrincess “Do you really? I bet you are good in bed.”
There isn’t a better opening than that. Did I come back with a smooth line? Did I woo and charm her, sealing the deal with a suave and debonair retort?
Tucker “I wanna make a mess in your mouth.”
That’s what I said. Don’t ask me why. I don’t know. Thank God she thought it was funny, because if she had been offended and left, I am pretty sure I would have slit my wrists with the closest sharp edge I could find (and for the record, I have never done Pilates, I’m not really even sure what they are).
We got into Soylent’s apartment, she pulled me into his bedroom, and we started fucking. See, this is why you need good friends. In fact, this should be one of the measures of how good a friendship is: Will your buddy let you fuck a midget in his bed? If the answer is yes, then you know that dude is solid.
Clothes off, I slid right in. Her pussy was not very tight, in fact, it basically felt normal. First question answered.
One of my favorite positions is me on top with the girl’s legs over my shoulders. I like that position because it gives my dick a more direct line of entry and, if I position my hips right, I hit the girl’s G-spot in the process. For the most part, I am all about myself in bed, but if everyone can win, why not go with that? Plus, when her legs are over your shoulders, you control everything going on, and I’m a big fan of dominance.
After a few minutes of missionary, I moved to throw her legs over my shoulders. Normally when I do this, the girl’s knees are over my shoulders and her lower legs are either in the air or resting on my back, depending on how I hit it. It went different with MidgetPrincess. I grabbed her legs, pushed them up on my shoulders, but instead of having her knees next to my ears, her feet were next to my cheeks and a few of her toes went into my mouth. Yes her legs were completely straight.
This was a bit disturbing, to say the least. About ten seconds later, she made me stop because I was hurting her. Even though her pussy was a normal width, it was much shallower than the average pussy, and with her legs on my chest (and her toes in my mouth), the head of my dick was smashing into her cervix like a pneumatic hammer. I won’t lie, I was kinda disappointed, although I should’ve been prepared for it. I was trying to go scuba diving in a puddle, when all I really needed was a snorkel. Second question answered.
Only one final question. I got on bottom and had her ride me. Despite my best drunken attempts, I was unable to spin her like a top on my penis. It might have worked if my dick was longer, but alas, I am an average white guy.
She passed out when we were done, and I joined the party that was still going. Flush with excitement and pride, I triumphantly threw my hand in the air and yelled across the apartment:
Tucker “RAISE YOUR HAND IF YOU’VE EVER FUCKED A MIDGET!”
The other two midgets raised their hands.
Tucker “FUCK YOU BOTH!”
POSTSCRIPT: The Odds and Ends
—Later that night, after the excitement from my tiny little conquest finally died down, DolphinMidget came up to me and Soylent.
DolphinMidget “Hey man, can I borrow twenty bucks? That taxi driver I called is out front.”
Tucker [to Soylent] “Is a crackhead midget hitting us up for a $20? So he can smoke some rock?”
DolphinMidget “I really need a hit, and I lost my wallet, man. Please.”
Tucker “Oh my God. He is. He really is.”
Soylent “You live a blessed life.”
I don’t think I gave DolphinMidget any money, but the next morning I was missing like $60 from my wallet. I am not going to accuse him of theft, because my wallet never left my pants and I can’t imagine midgets are very good pickpockets, you know, with their stubby sausage fingers and all. But then again, you never know. Maybe he used his massive forehead to magic the money out of my wallet and into his tiny little crack pipe.
I figured out later why DolphinMidget was so intent on smoking crack: Apparently, it is quite painful to be a midget. Lots of them have various degenerative joint, bone, and organ problems, and sometimes the only way they can deal with the pain is to resort to illegal drugs. Who knew?
—When we were at the hotel bar after the dance, there was another hot midget in a backless red top. She was sitting by herself on one of those really tall bar stools that are basically full chairs with extra-long legs, and out of nowhere, she fell off. That was funny enough by itself, but not nearly as funny as what happened next: She decided to get back up on the stool by herself. Do you have any idea what it looks like when a drunk midget tries to climb into a chair that is literally twice her size? I’ll tell you what it looks like: It looks EXACTLY like an orangutan in a slutty club top. It was awesome. Thank god she wasn’t Persian, otherwise I would have had to go in for a closer look to make sure it wasn’t an actual orangutan.
—Random quote from the night:
Jessie “Some of these midget dudes are ripped!”
Tucker “No, you don’t understand. They have regular-sized muscles and tiny little arm bones, so they just look ripped.”
Nils “They’re actually crumpled.”
EVERYBODY FAILS
I get a lot of email from guys, especially younger guys, telling me how amazing and perfect I am, and how they worship me because they see me as a god of drinking and sex. And not just a few emails—tens of thousands of them, all day, every day.
This has never made sense to me. My stories started as emails to my friends, and the point of them was never to impress or brag, but to entertain. No one is a hero to his friends, least of all me. The stories should not make people worship me; they should make people laugh—with me and, sometimes, at me. Though there are other things going on here—deeper meanings behind the laughs—humor and entertainment are the basic points of my writing. Not bragging or hero worship.
Don’t get me wrong. I fully believe I’m fucking awesome, but not for the reasons that so many of these young guys seem to think. I’ve done many impressive things in my life, but going out with friends, getting drunk, acting like an idiot, and having tons of sex aren’t impressive by themselves. And it definitely doesn’t make me a god—it just makes me a pretty normal guy.
And just like every other normal guy, I fuck up. A lot. I feel like I wrote about many of my numerous mistakes in the last book (the post-op story, shitting myself in the hotel lobby, the girl playing me over the STD test, being so drunk I danced with myself in a mirror, etc.), but this time I am going to make it even more explicit. These stories are some of my favorite examples of me not just failing, but failing in lame and pitiful ways.
EVERYTHING GOES WRONG
Occurred—June 2006
My friend and I were out one night, and as per my usual routine, I was piss drunk. We were crassly objectifying various girls from the sidelines, when one in particular struck my fancy. My friend was unenthusiastic about her appearance, and let me know:
Friend “No. That girl is hideous.”
Tucker “Whatever. She’s good enough for the dick.”
Friend “Your dick needs glasses.”
Undeterred, I approached her:
Tucker “You are so hot that if you were dead, I’d still fuck your corpse for a month.”
Her eyes widen in shock, and she leaves without a word. I thought it was funny.
Tucker “You’re not better’n me!”
It was apparent I was too shit-faced to succeed with anything that was alive, so I went home alone. I started scrolling through my phone looking for booty calls and came across a girl I used to hook up with, but hadn’t talke
d to in about a month. I called and woke her up:
Tucker “Come over. I want to see you.”
Girl “Tucker, I’m not going to come over to sleep with you.”
Tucker “Well, just come over… so we can talk. I want to talk to you… you know, hear about your day.”
Girl “You want to hear about my day? At 3am? Right.”
Tucker [long pause] “You aren’t hot enough to have this much self-respect.”
Sometimes shit like that works. Not this time.
Tucker “Hello? Hello!?”
I still ended my night like a true winner:
By drunkenly passing out in the middle of a halfhearted attempt at masturbation.
Nothing really crystallizes how pitiful your night went like waking up at your computer chair, mouse in one hand, dick in the other, with www.fuckmyhugetits.com staring back at you.
THE OVERSELL
Occurred—November 2005
Back in my Chicago days, I convinced my buddy D-Rock to go to some fucking atrocious Lincoln Park bar full of Trixies, because I heard hot girls went there. D-Rock rewarded my choice by hatefully running up my tab. After he was sufficiently shit-housed, combative D-Rock came out:
D-Rock “MAX! Those four girls at that table are eyeing us.”
Tucker “No dude, I don’t think they are.”
D-Rock “THEY ARE! Let’s go fuck them.”
Tucker “I think we need to talk to them first.”
D-Rock “Correct. That’s where you come in. Do the talking. Make them like you. Then introduce me. Then sex.”
When D-Rock gets into this sort of state—when he’s at the cognitive level of an angry toddler—there are only two courses of action:
1. Just stop arguing and do what he says, because once he’s engaged with an idea, he focuses like a pit bull on a pot roast, or