Assholes Finish First

by Tucker Max;Maddox

  Tucker “You know this is permanent, right?”

  Jess “Yeah, of course.”

  Tucker “You do realize that every dude you fuck from now on is going to see this, right?”

  Jess “Yeah.”

  Tucker “Look Jess, I think you are making a great decision and this is clearly the coolest thing I have ever seen. But not many other people on earth would agree with me.”

  Jess “I know.”

  Tucker “Because of this tattoo, you are going to have problems with every guy you fuck from now on not named ‘Tucker Max.’ I love this tattoo idea, but we aren’t ever going to date or get married. That job is going to fall to someone else, and he might not like that tattoo. Do you understand that?”

  Jess “Yes, of course.”

  Tucker “And you are still cool with it?”

  Jess “Tucker, I idolize you. I mean, I relate to you, you are my fucking hero, and your writing is part of me, it is part of who I am and helps me define my existence. I want everyone to know this. I want my parents to know this, I want my kids to know this, and my future husband has to be OK with this.”

  I pause and actually picture that scenario: her pulling down her pants to show her children this tattoo and then trying to explain it to them in a way that would make sense to a child… then I have to push the thought out of my mind. Sometimes, the unresolved pain that seeks me out and surrounds me is too much to contemplate.

  Tucker “OK, as long as you know. If I were anyone else on earth I would call you stupid, but personally, I think this is awesome.”

  At that point her phone rings. It is one of the bouncers she works with, who she tells me has a crush on her. I can hear only her side of the conversation, but the rest is easily figured out.

  Jess “I am at a tattoo parlor… I’m getting a new tattoo… on my hip… ‘I Fucked Tucker Max’… yes, I am totally serious… oh Jesus… yes, I am sure I want it… no I am not drunk… what?… did you just say that I am one of the greatest girls you’ve ever met?… make me fucking sick… whatever, unless you’re drinking in the city with us, then I don’t want to hear from you for the rest of the night… bye.”

  We pick out the correct font for my logo—Bank Gothic—and Jess goes with the tattoo artist to work on the outline. I am in the front room waiting for them to call me back so I can watch this, and there are like six teenage trailer park idiots also waiting for tattoos. These kids are straight out of the upper deck at an Eminem concert: flat-brimmed NBA logo hats, cigarettes behind their ears, frail whispy mustaches, grimy fingernails, and cheap fake gold chains. They haven’t heard my conversation with Jess, but they heard what the tattoo was going to be. One of them says to me:

  GhettoBastard1 “She really gun get dat shit?”

  Tucker “Looks like it.”

  GhettoBastard1 “Hey dawg, yur name Tucker Max?”

  Tucker “Yeah.”

  GhettoBastard1 “Damn! Dat your girl? You datin’er?”

  Tucker “No man.”

  GhettoBastard1 “How long you known her?”

  Tucker “I don’t know, like three hours or so.”

  GhettoBastard1 “DAMN!!!! HAHHHAHAHAHA. YO DAWG, DIS GUY’S A PIMP, YO!!!!”

  GhettoBastard2 “HE MUST HAVE A HUGE DICK, YO!! HAHHAHAHA!!”

  These kids are cracking up laughing and in complete disbelief. I only have an average-sized dick, so I don’t think I can explain to these kids why Jess is getting this tattoo. Higher-order thinking is probably not something they excel at.

  I would never have written this story had I not gotten pics of not only the final tattoo, but also of the whole process. I was there and I wouldn’t even believe it without seeing the pictures. Here are two from the set (There are only two pictures because my publisher is too cheap to publish the rest. You can find them on my site, tuckermax.com.):

  I immediately sent the pics to my buddy (and editor), Jeremie Ruby-Strauss. His only response:

  “That is some next-level shit.”

  I WANT TO CUM GET A LOAD!

  I opened my MySpace account about the same time as everyone else, right when it became popular in early 2005. I put this under the “Who I’d Like to Meet” section on the front page:

  “Just about any hot girl who wants to hook up with me, I want to meet. Email me and we’ll set it up.

  But I’d be even more down to meet a girl who wants to do my laundry. I can find sex easily, but finding a girl who will do my wash is hard. Seriously, ladies, I am not joking about this. Bunny used to do my laundry but now that I have moved this arrangement is no longer possible. If you are down, email me and we’ll figure it out. I will repay you with witty banter, hot animal sex, a swift kick to the spine, or whatever turns you on.”

  I kinda wrote that as a joke; the tongue-in-cheek tone should be pretty obvious. But at the same time, I was not completely kidding. I really do hate doing laundry, and if putting this up meant I could get girls to come over and do mine for me, awesome. You never know what you can get until you ask for it.

  But I mean, c’mon, of course I can always pay someone to do my laundry. How else are the children of immigrants going to pay for college? The real reason I wrote this was because I knew it would get me laid. How the fuck does asking girls to do your laundry get you laid? Very simple:

  Most of the girls who email me to hook up are pretty straightforward about it, but a large percentage of women lie to themselves about who they are and what they want. Ask them directly if they want to fuck me, and many will say no. But give them some bullshit white lie they can use to bridge the cognitive dissonance between what they say they want and what they actually want, and they will snatch it out of the sky like a falcon. After all, emailing me for sex is whorish and unseemly. But offering to wash my dirty clothes as a thank-you for writing such a great book, and then using it as a pretext for allowing a moment of premeditated spontaneity to just “happen,” that’s completely healthy and aboveboard. Riiiiiiiiiiiiight. What it’s also called is “whore logic.”

  I understood these dynamics when I put up those simple little paragraphs. But there were three things I had not accounted for:

  1. It would not only work, it would work flawlessly. I did not have to do my own laundry—not even one time—from early 2005 until I took the message down in late 2008 (only because I started dating HotNurse, and she did it for me).

  2. Hundreds (if not thousands) of girls would use it as an excuse to email me, and a shocking number of them would actually come over. I slept with all of them (except one). I wish I could say that it was my amazing game that won them over, but even I know that’s bullshit. They wanted to fuck me from the start, they just wouldn’t admit it to themselves and needed an excuse. The best evidence of this is that more than a few never even bothered to do my laundry after we had sex. Which is fucking bullshit, by the way—I fully expected them to clean my clothes. The sex was the optional part, not the laundry.

  3. And, of course, lots of women lie to themselves about a lot more things than even I realized. These are my three favorite stories that involved the laundry/self-deception link.

  POOPLIPS

  Occurred—July 2007

  When I was living in NYC, I got this email:

  “Tucker Max,

  I have to be honest. #1, I am blackout wasted right now and it is taking me all I have to write this email. #2, I have met you before, at a book signing, and I think you are great. #3, I live in NYC and I would love to hang out. OK, I will probably not fuck you (although I think you are hot… I am weird and think sex means something) BUT despite this, if you want I will do your laundry. Whatever, if you want to see what I look like I am on facebook. Point being, cool, sarcastic, me.”

  If you know anything about women, then you are smiling right now as much as I did when I got that email. If a woman mentions something—even to tell you she’s not into it—it means she’s at least thinking about it, which is more than half the battle.

  We emailed back an
d forth for a few days and finally she decided the best way to do two loads of whites and two loads of colors was to meet me at a bar, dressed for a night out. It took only two hours of drinking for her to gather up enough courage to admit why she was actually out with me, and of course it had nothing to do with dirty clothes.

  We go back to my place, make out at the front door for a minute or two, then drunkenly stumble in and throw our clothes everywhere. She gives me one more peck on the lips, pushes me onto the bed, shoots me this devious, almost nefarious look, and then dives toward my crotch…

  …skipping past my penis…

  …totally ignoring my balls…

  …and starts feasting on my asshole.

  I am not exaggerating when I say “feasting.” She buried herself in it like a hungry dog in a jar of peanut butter. I look down and her face is so far into my ass crack that all I see is her hair. It looks like a blond mop growing out of my taint.

  Don’t misunderstand—I am not complaining. I like it when girls eat out my ass, and she was a fucking expert: She jacked me off while her tongue worked my ass like a lesbian porn star. That is not an easy thing to do, but she did it, and did it well. By the time she was done, you could have eaten off my asshole.

  Of course, after I came, the reality of the scene rose up and smacked me in the face. I could think about only three things:

  1. If she was so eager to do this to me, how many other guys had she done this to? More disturbing,

  2. I had forgotten until that moment that I hadn’t showered since my last shit. And MOST disturbing,

  3. She hadn’t even asked about #2.

  The next morning, I roll her over onto her stomach and hit it from behind, because I’m afraid she’ll try to kiss me. Sorry Typhoid Mary, I’m not tasting any feces, not even my own.

  When we are done, I jokingly call her PoopLips. She doesn’t understand why.

  Tucker “Uhhhhhh… are you the same girl as last night?”

  PoopLips “Please die. Of course I’m the same girl, DUH!”

  Tucker “Do you not remember licking my ass like it was a Push Pop?”

  PoopLips “OH MY GOD I DID NOT!”

  Tucker “Of course you didn’t. After all, if you don’t remember it, then it didn’t happen, right?”

  I tease her about it a few more times, she denies it more, and I assume she is just playing around. Then I make her leave because, you know, I have to play Madden or something.

  Later that week she came back over. This time she wore normal laundry-washing clothes… and a pearl necklace. Like a legit, real pearl necklace, not costume jewelry. She might as well have painted a bull’s-eye on her face with the words AIM HERE. Not thinking her ridiculous prop was enough of a hint, it took her only about three minutes to spit out this gem:

  PoopLips “No one has ever cum on me. I was a good girl in college.”

  Tucker “Right. Just like you’ve never eaten out an asshole?”

  PoopLips “I didn’t do that!”

  Tucker “Of course you didn’t. But that thing you didn’t do, you’d better repeat it, if you want to see me again.”

  She put up about as much resistance as the French gave the Germans in 1940. She went right to work, gave me unreal head, and of course there was fantastic rim action too. This girl knew her way around a dick; she was much better at sucking dick than any French girl I’ve ever hooked up with. And they supposedly invented fellatio.

  Tucker “So are you still going to maintain you haven’t eaten out my ass?”

  PoopLips “Obviously not, as I just did it. But you are the first guy I’ve ever done this with.”

  Tucker “Does that lie work on other guys?”

  PoopLips “I’m telling the truth!”

  Tucker “Of course you are.”

  It always makes me laugh when girls play the “I never do this” game. I mean, of course every girl has to have a first time, and many girls have purposely come to me to be their first (that story is coming up), but seriously, ladies: When you claim never to have done something, and then are enough of an expert to teach a Learning Annex course on it… I mean, come on. Just like it takes years of practice to consistently knock down an NBA three-pointer, it takes a lot of practice to be good at oral sex. Yeah, he may have all the natural talent in the world, but Kobe Bryant still shoots 500 threes a day. Whether you are lying to yourself or just to us, stop. Being a head doctor is nothing to be ashamed of.

  Tucker “Well, whatever the case may be, you keep sucking dick like that, and you’re going to have a husband in no time.”

  She feigned anger, but I could tell she was proud of her skills.

  PoopLips “Whatever, you know I am very smart.”

  Tucker “Who said you weren’t? Intelligence and fellatio skills are not mutually exclusive.”

  PoopLips “I know if I wanted to, I could be all successful and whatever, but all I really want is to have a family and be a stay-at-home mom.”

  Tucker “You going to kiss your kids with those lips?”

  I promised PoopLips I would not disclose her real name, and of course I will abide by that oath. But gentlemen, for one of you, she’s going to be using your toothbrush, drinking from your water bottles, and kissing your kids. She’ll dress conservatively and wear pearls, and she’ll swear she’s never done anything like “that” with any other guy.

  I’M NOT THAT TYPE OF GIRL

  Occurred—May 2007

  One day I got an email from a girl who went on and on about how fascinated she was by me and by my life, and how, even though she didn’t want to sleep with me at all—no, NOT HER, she didn’t do things like that—she really wanted to get to know me. Since she loved doing laundry, she would be happy to do mine while she was at my place “picking my brain.” Yawn. Of course she attached a picture to this email, the same email where she strenuously took pains to explain that she had no desire to have sex with me.

  She gets to my place in NYC at 3pm on a Tuesday. She is dressed up like she’s going to see Phantom of the Opera on Broadway: very fashionable blouse and skirt, full makeup, and smells great. She actually does start a load of laundry, but I watch her do it, and though she is going through the steps properly—separates colors and whites, turns the water on, pours the detergent in, waits for it to fill a little, then puts the clothes in—it’s pretty clear by her deliberate motions that she’s not used to this at all:

  Tucker “Have you ever done laundry before?”

  Girl “Well… no, not really.”

  Tucker “Then how did you know what to do? I mean, it’s not brain surgery, but I doubt anyone would just get it right by luck.”

  Girl “I had our maid teach me the steps before I came over.”

  I laugh for a good five minutes and then tease her relentlessly about it. From there, it takes her only about twenty minutes to decide she wants to find out if my reputation is true, and we fuck. Afterward, we have this conversation. I wrote this thing out almost right away because it was so shocking to me at the time (though considering that she is big in the Tinsley Mortimer socialite crowd in NYC, it shouldn’t have been):

  Girl “So… would you have a threesome with me and another girl?”

  Tucker “Are you kidding? Why not ask me if I want a ribeye and a beer? Of course I would.”

  Girl “This is exciting! I’m sure it’s not your first threesome, so you more than likely know what you’re doing. How does it work? I have never even kissed a girl!”

  Tucker “Don’t worry about that. I have that angle covered very, very well. I basically lived with a bisexual girl for a year. I’ve had so many threesomes I got bored with them for a while. All you have to do is show up and follow instructions, I’ll handle the rest.”

  Girl “That is too sexy. Do you provide the girl or me?”

  Tucker “I can. Depends what you want to do and what kind of girl you want. The more info you give me, the better you will like the actual event.”

  Girl “I want some
one extremely attractive. I don’t have fake tits, so it would be nice to experience a girl with some. Most important, the girl must be clean. So this means no fat girls or strippers. Or Asians. I assume you don’t sleep with other types of ethnic girls anyway.”

  She seriously said that. I thought she was kidding at first, but then I remembered this was an Upper East Side WASPy girl, and all those types are undercover racists.

  Tucker “Would you like me to dance for you too, Massa?”

  Girl “I’m not saying I’m anywhere near the hottest girl around, but this is my fantasy and I want it to be an amazing night to remember the rest of my life.”

  Tucker “You’ve thought about this a lot, haven’t you?”

  Girl “I have always wanted to have a threesome with another girl. However, my very conservative boyfriend does not approve of my choice.”

  Tucker “Wait, wait—you have a boyfriend? And your boyfriend doesn’t want to have sex with you AND another girl?”

  Girl “Thank you! He is an abnormally conservative person. He is a pediatrician on Long Island and seems to think it’s beneath him.”

  Tucker “Then why are you dating him? And why are you here fucking me?”

  Girl “Don’t get me wrong, he is a great man. Plus, I’m not the type of girl that does this, so I don’t need to date someone who enjoys nightly multipartner sex sessions. That is why I chose you. From reading your stories, I knew you had an immense appreciation for great sex. We don’t have to worry about feelings getting in the way or embarrassing encounters afterward. Just amazing sex, then we can go on our way. Sound good?”

  Tucker “You chose me? Haha. OK, whatever, fine with me. But you say you aren’t the type of girl that does this… but you are doing it. So that means you are that type of girl.”

  Girl “No, it doesn’t.”

  Tucker “What? If A = B, and B = C, then A = C. The transitive property is one of the foundations of logic.”