Girl “But I’m not that type of girl.”
Tucker “Do words have meaning to you? How can you do something and then claim you aren’t the type of person who does that? If you suck a dick, that makes you a dick sucker. If you fuck me, that makes you a cheater.”
Girl “No, I’m not one of ‘those’ types. I don’t do those things.”
After she left that day, I never talked to her again. That is how repulsed I was by our conversation. I will never lay claim to being some sort of moral crusader as I may not have the most conventional moral code, but I do live by a very distinct and clear set of principles—they are just different from most people’s.
I literally stopped fucking her because I found her morally repugnant. I know, makes me laugh too.
NILS AND THE PEPPERDINE D-GIRL
Occurred—January 2008
When writing this story, I sent Nils an email asking him which of my laundry whores he thought was the funniest or the most delusional, because there were so many and I wanted to whittle them down to the best three. Nils is a longtime friend and wrote and produced the movie adaptation of my first book with me, so he was on my couch in LA during some of this time and met many of them. He sent me a one-sentence email:
“That fucking Pepperdine D-Girl. I still get angry when I think about her.”
Oh yes. I had almost totally forgotten about her. It started when she sent me a basic email about wanting to clean my clothes but did something no one else had done: She included a pic of herself… with a washer and dryer. Seriously.
I started writing up the story about her, but a few days later Nils sent me this follow-up about her. I laughed so hard at the length and depth he went to express his lingering disdain for her, that I scrapped what I wrote in favor of his version.
“For the extensive catalog of your negative qualities identified and exploited by journalists and haterz for their personal gain and amusement, there has been little discussion of your two greatest qualities: loyalty and generosity. There is no greater example than the 18 months during which we finished the script and got it funded. I’d quit law school, moved in with my then-girlfriend, and you floated me cash, picked up food and bar bills, and let me crash on your couch no questions asked for as long as I needed to. When it came time to make the financing deal, you represented my interests faithfully, making sure they were in lockstep with yours and fully accounted for. It was the kind of loyalty and generosity you rarely see in this world anymore, and the kind you NEVER see in Hollywood.
It was not unconditional, however. It came with a price. That price?
Putting up with your stupid whores.
And of all the species of whore in the Tucker Maxonomy of Whoredom, the ones who fucked you under the pretense of doing your laundry were the worst. In normal relationships, laundry is a relatively intimate thing. You can learn a lot about someone by his laundry. What size he is. What colors he likes. What kind of underwear he has. How well he wipes. You can become familiar with a person rather quickly by doing his laundry… unless of course you are on the business end of a purely exploitative exchange of services, and you don’t realize it. Like these stupid whores.
They do your laundry, fuck you, and then hang out, sometimes overnight, and it feels almost like a real relationship. Relaxing. Cozy. They don’t realize that the only reasons you haven’t kicked them out yet are that they haven’t done anything to annoy you and it’s easier to just ignore them while you watch TV or work on the computer. Plus, there’s morning sex to consider.
This comfortable familiarity gets compounded exponentially when, God forbid, they become part of a weekly rotation. Then it’s like they’re actually a part of your life, with a special seat at the table. Like the topmost of all the bottom bitches.
That is where the Pepperdine D-Girl comes in.
The Pepperdine D-Girl has a name, but I have purposely forgotten it so when I meet people out in the world with the same name as her they are not immediately ruined for me. She came over every other Sunday for some months, but I was fortunate enough to meet her only once during one of my multiweek stretches on your couch while we finished the script.
She breezed in, not bothering to ring the doorbell, nodded to me, pretended that Murphy and Maxie [ed. note: the dogs] loved her by being overly enthusiastic to see them, and went right back into your bedroom. With a novice laundress, I imagine it would be laundry first, fucking second. Lest you get taken for a ride. Not with Pepperdine. She’d been around long enough that you knew she’d get to washing once the fucking was done. I think they call that trust. Gross.
I could hear you rooting around on top of her for a while, and that all went the way it normally does. Problems began when she’d put the first load in the washing machine and was tired of you ignoring her in the bedroom while you were on your computer. That’s when she came out into the living room where I was, ostensibly to visit with the pups. She played with Murphy for a second and then stared at the TV waiting, I guess, for me to engage her in conversation.
That was not going to happen. I learned long ago not to attempt conversation with any of the girls you fuck. To do so would be to risk opening the floodgates to a tsunami of annoying. Instead, if I absolutely had to speak with them, it was best to treat it like a lie detector test. Yes and no questions. One word answers when at all possible. Eyes straight ahead.
Pepperdine blinked first.
PDG “I really like the script.”
Nils “Thanks.”
PDG “Tucker let me read the most recent draft.”
Nils “Cool.”
PDG “I’m a development executive and read tons of scripts.”
Nils “Really?”
What she really means is that she is the assistant to some junior executive she’s probably fucking who makes her read all the shitty scripts he gets but does not want to suffer through himself. Many studio executives started their careers in a similar position, and by that I mean, on their backs.
PDG “Yeah, most of them suck.”
Nils “Yeah.”
PDG “Yours is really funny.”
Nils “Cool, thanks.”
She tried to penetrate my whore-hardened exterior, with no luck. She sat for a while longer until the washing machine buzzed and she had to toss the wet clothes in the dryer. The dryer whirred to life as she started a second load in the washing machine. She tried your room again and I thought for sure I was rid of her, but lo and behold she reappeared in the living room a few minutes later, this time with a drink.
It was a horrifying feeling. This girl was already more comfortable than she had any right to be. Now she was going to lubricate her broken soul with alcohol and, unless you came out from your cave in the back of the house, I was going to be stuck with her for a FULL drying cycle, which can be as much as ninety minutes depending on the clothes being washed. I was praying for thin cotton blends.
About fifteen minutes into our awkward silence, Jeff came home. Jeff has about as much patience for these girls as I do, and he takes great pleasure in making sure they know that’s exactly what they are: one of your whores. After putting away his stuff in his room, he came out into the living room and started to poke and prod her.
At some point, he offered as a point of fact that only daddy issues could lead a girl to agree to do a stranger’s laundry as a condition of HIM being willing to have sex with HER. She took great offense to this. She did NOT have daddy issues.
Damn you, Jeff. Damn you straight to hell. He hooked me right into the conversation.
Nils “So you have a good relationship with your dad?”
PDG “I wouldn’t say that.”
Jeff “What would you say?”
PDG “I mean, we have our fair share of issues.”
Jeff and I looked at each other to make sure we heard that right. Pepperdine doesn’t have daddy issues, but she and her dad have their… fair share… of issues?
Jeff “What’s the difference?”
PDG “There’s a huge difference.”
Nils “OK, so tell us what that difference is.”
PDG “Like, he didn’t rape me or molest me or anything.”
Nils “You don’t need to have a history of sexual assault to have a fucked-up relationship with your dad.”
Jeff “What’d he do?”
PDG “He’s just an asshole. He like neglected and abandoned us. He’s just like totally selfish.”
Nils “So you have daddy issues.”
PDG “No, my dad and I just have problems is all.”
Nils “And you don’t think those problems have anything to do with the fact that you’re doing a stranger’s laundry so he’ll fuck you.”
Jeff “And never date you.”
Nils “Ever.”
PDG “No, that doesn’t mean I have daddy issues.”
Jeff and I nearly fell off the couch. The conversation went around in circles like this for another half hour as Jeff and I walked her through the logic of her position over and over again. We repeatedly brought her to the inexorable conclusion one must take from her actions, but she repeatedly refused to acknowledge the obvious implications. I got more and more agitated until I couldn’t handle it.
Nils “Your father is selfish. He abandoned and neglected you. You are rightly mad at him for those things. You don’t have a good relationship with him. Since you refuse to address them, those feelings have to go somewhere. Where do you think they go? Right to Tucker Max. Who is currently selfishly neglecting you while you do his laundry in exchange for him having sex with you. You don’t think this relationship is just modeling your trauma? You don’t think those are daddy issues?!?!?!”
Each time she simply refused to take that final step to the obvious conclusion. She even started to cop an attitude.
PDG “NO! YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT YOU ARE TALKING ABOUT! WHAT ABOUT YOUR ISSUES?”
It was somewhere around this point that I completely lost it. Her shattering stupidity, her idiotic retorts, her overly familiar attitude, and her Pepperdine D-Girl sense of entitlement mixed like the liquors of a Long Island Iced Tea, and I was quickly drunk on rage.
I started screaming at her—red in the face, voice going hoarse, spittle flying out—to get the fuck out of the living room and out of my sight. I think I even said that I couldn’t wait to find out when she killed herself so I could send a note to her dad congratulating him on a job well done.
I don’t remember much else. I must have blacked out from the seething anger. All I can remember after that point was Jeff laughing and you—holding back laughter yourself—coming out and bringing her back to your bedroom to save her. Tucker, it might be the most loyal, generous thing you’ve ever done. For me and for her.”
The point of these stories is not to criticize girls who pretend to do my laundry in order to fuck me. I got my clothes and my dick cleaned, how could I not like it? Plus, let’s be honest: We’ve ALL deluded ourselves about aspects of our lives at times, that is just part of the human condition. God knows I have all kinds of blind spots in my self-perception. But, in the end, there was a pattern that stood out clearly to me, one that I want to point out:
Ladies, be honest with yourself about who you are and have the courage to be that person. If you want to fuck, then go fuck. If you want to get drunk, get drunk. And there is nothing wrong with sucking a dick. If people try to judge you or shame you for doing safe, consensual things that make you happy, I can guarantee you they’re bad people. Tell them to lick the dark part of your ass and cut them out of your life. No one has it all figured out, especially not the people who are acting like they do and judging you because of it. Pretending to be something you aren’t because you’re trying to please a bunch of judgmental hypocrites and shitheads is not the way to be happy. Living the life you want to live is. It really is that simple.
[Also—I’m single again. Any girl who wants to do my laundry, feel free to email me: [email protected].]
THE THINGS I PUT UP
WITH FOR PUSSY
There are only three things men do exclusively for ourselves:
1. Play video games
2. Get drunk
3. Masturbate
Ladies, you may not realize this, understand this, or even believe this, but everything else we do is ultimately for you. Men create art, build businesses, donate to charity, invent things—really do anything noteworthy—because we want to impress women, and thus get them to have sex with us. If women didn’t exist, we’d still be naked grunting apes living in caves. In a very real way, pussy is the key to human civilization. Most scientists believe sexual selection (men doing things to impress women so the women will have sex with them) is probably the reason culture exists at all, and even Darwin himself said that sexual selection is more important than natural selection. You don’t have to like it, but it’s a fact. If you understand it, you understand men.
Of course, pussy doesn’t motivate men to do only great things. It also inspires men to do truly stupid shit. How else can you explain body spray, hair gel, tanning beds, and chest waxing? Pussy. Men will do ANYTHING—amazing or stupid—if they think it’ll get women to like them.
I’m no different. All through my teens and twenties, I did all the normal stupid shit guys will do for pussy. I even wrote a book about it. Speaking of—why do you think I wrote my book in the first place? I intentionally left behind a lucrative career in law to get up every day, face impossible odds, endure all the pain, fight all the battles, and do all the grueling work a beginning writer has to do to reach eventual success. Why the fuck would I go through all that shit? PUSSY. Don’t get me wrong, I love writing and I love entertaining people and I am passionate about it, but there is ZERO point to any of it without women. Nothing else could motivate me like that.
And you’d think once women started coming to me for sex, once there was such a plethora of pussy in my life that I had my pick, that I had more pussy thrown at me than I could ever fuck, I’d at least stop doing stupid things to get it.
Yeah, right. I’m still a man. But, instead of doing stupid shit to get pussy, I am now putting up with stupid shit because of the type of pussy that is coming to me. It is a subtle difference, that has a large effect on resuts. The next three stories are perfect examples.
TOO OLD FOR THIS SHIT
Occurred—October 2006
When I lived in NYC, I spent a few weeks hanging out with this cute girl, Colleen. After we’d been fucking long enough to feel comfortable making demands, she begged me to come out drinking with her and all her friends. She said her friends were huge fans, wanted to drink with me, and they were convinced they could hang with me.
Initially I said no. There is nothing more tedious or annoying than some group of idiots who feel the need to compete with me in something. I don’t give two flying shits if someone can drink more than me, has fucked more than me, is funnier than me, or has better stories than me. The vast majority of the time they are really fucking lame and suck at what they think they’re good at, but even if it’s true and they are better at something than me, I don’t care, because it doesn’t matter. What does matter is that I did it when and where it counted, and until they beat me there, no one else will care either. For example, Earl “The Goat” Manigault was probably the greatest basketball player of all time, but Michael Jordan is universally regarded as the best ever. This is because The Goat only did it at Rucker Park, while Michael did it where it mattered: in front of the world.
I told her all this, and that I had no desire to be paraded around as some trophy for her to show her friends. But she worked on me, and I eventually agreed to go. Why? Same reason as always:
Pussy.
Colleen is not stupid. She got me to agree by inviting only hot females, all Midwestern girls, and strongly hinted that she and one of her friends might be up for a threesome. OK, Geppetto, I’m in. And of course, she promised they weren’t annoying and didn’t care at all about anything other than han
ging out and having a good time. Stupid me, I believed her.
As soon as we got there, it became clear this would be another “we can outdrink Tucker Max” theme night, which I hate. They were all recent college grads from schools like Kansas, Mizzou, Oklahoma, and Texas A&M, and seemed to think that four years of swallowing all the beer and cum they could fit in their stomachs prepared them to drink with me. They were pretty hot, and actually kind of fun, so after a few minutes of flirting with me, I said fuck it and took the challenge.
Stupid, silly girls. I started with a round of Brutal Hammers (vodka and red wine) and then went shot for shot with them, picking awful things like Cement Mixers, while doubling up on their beers. They bravely tried to keep up with me for a while, but my victory was wrapped with a decisive moment:
After a particularly vicious shot (Rumple Minze I think), the Oklahoma alum got up from her chair, claiming she had to go to the bathroom. She stumbled along toward the ladies’ room, bouncing from wall to wall, until she tripped and began to fall. As she fell, she put her arms out to break her fall, but literally missed the floor. How do you miss the floor? I could not have answered this question before that night. As she fell, she reached her arms out like she was trying to grab something, but she was so uncoordinated from all the drink that she ended up flinging her arms around her body, putting herself in a bear hug. Luckily for her, she was able to break her fall with her face.
The sight of her forehead smashing into the hardwood floor of the bar—in addition to the loud CRACK sound it made—brought everyone rushing to her aid. Everyone except me. I went into uncontrollable spasms of laughter. I completely lost it. Even if it does make me the bad guy… that shit was FUNNY. I could see a honey badger wearing a top hat and monocle attacking a bus full of Chinese exchange students, and I wouldn’t laugh as hard as I laughed then.
This incident was all the proof needed that I’d buried these girls like the kindergarten drinkers they were. So much for the Big 12. At least kids from the South would’ve tried to fight me after they lost. These pussies just got mad at me because I laughed at the traumatic head injury of a drunk slut. Whatever. When you can throw’em back like a real drinker, come back and see me. No wonder SEC schools win the BCS national title every year.
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