Assholes Finish First
Page 25
She walked up the steps and tried to push the door open. It took her a legit five seconds to figure out that she had to PULL the screen door open. It was like that famous Far Side cartoon where the kid is pushing on the door that has PULL on it, trying to get into Midvale School for the Gifted. Except less funny and more sad, because she’s not gifted, just a slutty bedwetter.
Once she finally got inside, she saw all the guys there smiling at her and turned bright red. She crossed the 15 feet or so from the door to where I was sitting on the couch in complete silence, with all eyes on her like the worst possible walk of shame. She handed me a small manila envelope—not something a college girl would have had handy, but more like she had to go to her dad and ask for the money, but not say why.
IncontinentSlut “Sorry.”
She turned and almost ran to the door. I think she would have broken into a jog, except she had to figure out that now she needed to push, not pull the screen door, and that confused her.
Ben “She came into the house the same way she left it: stupid and confused.”
Nils “You only did half your job, Tucker. She’s broken, yes, but is she housebroken?”
Jeff “I don’t think she is. You have to rub their nose in it before you put them outside, or they don’t learn where it’s OK to go.”
WHORING FOR CHARITY
Occurred—January 2010
As I was working on this book, I got this email:
From: [redacted], [redacted]
To: tuckermax@gmail.com
Date: Nov 15, 2009
Subject: Sex Traffic Us
Dear Tucker Max,
This is Angela and Heidi, and we are the co-chairs of the junior board of [charity redacted]—a diverse group of young professionals who share a common goal of promoting universal girls education and human rights.
We are having a fundraising cocktail event on January 7th in Manhattan and would be delighted for you to attend. We read your manifesto and we found it appalling, so of course we want to fuck you… Thoughts?
We’ve got the time if you’ve got the inclination. Let’s meet for drinks sometime before then to coordinate the specifics.
We look forward to hearing from you soon!
Love,
[redacted]
From: tuckermax@gmail.com
To: [redacted], [redacted]
Date: Nov 15, 2009
Subject: re: Sex Traffic Us
First off, I need pics of both of you.
Second, am I correct in interpreting this as you two wanting to fuck me… for charity? How does that work exactly?
From: [redacted], [redacted]
To: tuckermax@gmail.com
Date: Nov 15, 2009
Subject: re: Sex Traffic Us
Well Tucker, pics attached.
And since you ask… For every minute you last with the two of us, every member of the Junior Board will donate 10$ to [the charity]. Bonus donations to be made for bondage and/or sex traffic role playing.
Does this sound like something you might be interested in?
Before we go further, I need to stop and point something out: Though I am not going to name the specific charity, it is a charity that is… how do I put this without giving it away?… very concerned about the welfare of poor and powerless women around the world. Considering that, go back and read the emails again. Pay special attention to the third email, notably the specific request that we role-play SEX TRAFFICKING.
You almost expect pious religious leaders to be supreme hypocrites and eventually be discovered as closeted homosexuals or pedophiles, but do you really expect people who volunteer for a charity dedicated to empowering women to ASK to be sexually exploited? For fun? Not only that, they want to use this sex game as a way to get their friends to donate to the charity. It’s so hypocritical it’s cartoonish, like a factory that pumps pollution into the air but doesn’t actually make anything.
Perhaps the saddest part is that my life has become so fucking weird that this didn’t even strike me as unusual at the time. Only when I mentioned it in passing to my friend Geoff, and he freaked out, did it really dawn on me how abnormal this was. He asked to come out with me in NYC when I met those two, because he wanted to meet them and see what the hell was going on.
Back to the important parts: The pics were good enough. Neither were what I would consider hot, but both had good bodies and were definitely fuckable, so I set it up for a time when I would be in NYC, and with my buddy Geoff tagging along, met them.
At dinner, it became obvious that these two could have been the poster children for what happens when rich people ignore their children. It was like we were in a real-life Bret Easton Ellis novel; what little soul these girls retained was taken up with drug use, disaffected sex, and a complete lack of meaning, all hidden under the façade of having the “right” job and belonging to the “right” social circles.
I have wiped the memory of that dinner conversation out of my mind because it was so banal, so I had to get Geoff to remind me with his Cliff Notes version:
“My basic remembrances:
—They showed up fairly bombed already. They had split a bottle of wine before dinner. Classy.
—The brunette was pretty cute—a solid 7, 7.5. The blond less so, like a 5. You wouldn’t have slept with her alone (at least I wouldn’t have).
—They were fairly annoying and not that bright.
—They’d never done a 3 way before but had made out with each other in Europe or some shit. They were obviously nervous about actually hooking up with each other, but not really. As if they knew they were supposed to be nervous but were too jaded to actually care.
—The charity thing had come up as a joke originally when they suggested you as a speaker for their charity event. It’s for young women, so you’re obviously not right, but then one of them said she thought you were cute and someone else did too and then a third suggested the 3 way for charity, daring them, and everyone chimed in.
—Very long discussion about the actual scoring methods for the threesome, and how they would determine who had to donate what based on what happened. None of it made any sense.
—The brunette’s sexual history was ridiculous. She kept dating 21 year old guys who couldn’t get it up. As much coke as she and her trust fund friends do, this is a shock?
—The brunette wanted you to be mean to her and you didn’t care enough.
—Brunette was testing you and asked (regarding me), “Why don’t you share?” You were annoyed with them and said it was time to go. She refused, trying to be coy. You said fuck it, told me I was welcome to have them both, and left.
—They were shocked that you actually left the bar without them. They couldn’t believe you didn’t know they were “just joking.”
—They texted you, you responded, and off they went to your hotel…”
Geoff pretty much summed it up. The worst part is that I STILL fucked the brunette that night. Actually, I should say that the worst part is that the brunette was such a jealous cunt, she made the other one leave before she got to my hotel, so I didn’t get a threesome. Whatever. At that point, it was like a home invasion; I just wanted it to be over.
About a month later, I got this email:
From: [redacted], [redacted]
To: tuckermax@gmail.com
Date: Feb 11, 2009
Subject: Charitable Sex
Okay new proposition… how would you feel about being put up for a DTF auction at the [charity’s] cocktail party?
From: tuckermax@gmail.com
To: [redacted], [redacted]
Date: Feb 11, 2009
Subject: Charitable Sex
A DTF auction? You mean Down To Fuck? Where women bid money to have sex with me?
Are you seriously asking me to prostitute myself… for charity?
From: [redacted], [redacted]
To: tuckermax@gmail.com
Date: Feb 11, 2009
Subject: re: Charitable Sex
>
Think of it as an act of selfless humanitarianism.
It’s a win-win-win situation: the [charity recipients] get $, you get karma points, and the highest bidder can have tax deductible sex with a best-selling author and cultural icon!
We’ll fly you in for the event… and it would definitely make good material for any future literary endeavors you might pursue…
Like I said earlier, it’s not an easy thing to creep me out. It takes a lot to make me feel queasy and uncomfortable and morally repulsed. Well this did it. In a BIG way.
Even if a hot girl wins the auction, I’m still, on a core level, having sex for money. Once I step up on that podium and let the bidding begin, I essentially give up all choice, and I become nothing more than a slave to the person who buys my sex.
I may endure all sorts of nonsense because of my dick—I may even properly be referred to as a slave to my dick—but at least it’s MY dick. I can accept being a slave to myself and my own desires, I can accept that because of this I have to do things to get pussy, I can even accept having to endure some bullshit for pussy… but I cannot accept being a slave to pussy. Not even for an anti-slavery charity.
You may be laughing, saying something about how I should not be surprised, that this is the logical consequence of the path I have chosen in life. And you may be right… but fuck you.
BABY MAMA DRAMA
Occurred—March 2008
No one likes condoms. They’re awkward to put on, they require you to interrupt a passionate act in order to unroll a latex tube onto your dick, they diminish the tactile intensity of skin-on-skin contact at the most pleasurable location, and they fucking stink like a chemical factory. I hate condoms as much as the next guy, but here is the list of things I hate more than condoms:
—herpes
—chlamydia
—syphilis
—gonorrhea
—AIDS
—having bastard children with dysfunctional girls
If you’re like me and have been doing things like this for a while—guy or girl—you know the worst thing on that list is the last one. Don’t think so? Every STD on that list is either curable or not a big deal, except of course AIDS. And even that’s debatable. Yeah, AIDS definitely sucks, but Magic Johnson has had AIDS for twenty years. Do you think he’s spent more money on his medicine for that disease, or on child support for his numerous out-of-wedlock kids?
I always try to use condoms, but condoms can break. Sometimes I put them on wrong and they come off. Sometimes I’m drunk and just forget. Other times I can’t find any, get impatient, and dive in anyway. If you are a guy and can always think rationally in that situation, please tell me your secret, because I have only enough blood in my body for one head to function at a time.
But even though mistakes with condoms are inevitable, the decision about using a condom is yours to make, and if you don’t make it, you’re stupid. Take heed and learn something important from my stupidity, and DO NOT EVER believe the following sentence:
“You don’t need to wear a condom—I’m on birth control.”
That is always a lie. Even if she’s telling the truth about being on birth control, it’s a lie that you don’t need to wear a condom. Other than festering, oozing sores directly on her labia, there is no bigger red flag of impending danger than when you are putting on a condom and a random girl STOPS YOU. Abandon hope all ye who enter her.
This is not me moralizing. I tell you this from experience. The last time I foolishly believed that lie was in 2008. I did a book event, and during the Q&A, I noticed this girl in the corner, eye-fucking the shit out of me. I looked over at her—she was so hot my dick immediately turned into a railroad spike. She didn’t just have amazing tits, they were better than amazing. I normally like fake tits the best, but hers were those gravity-defying natural tits that are one in a million, and even then exist for only a short window of time. Her eyes were a piercing light amber, like a lioness. She was some sort of indeterminate mixed race and had that hybrid vigor hotness that can be so great.
When she came through the line to get her book signed, she talked to me for a minute, but she was just too hot for me to listen to anything she said. What little I did hear made it clear she was young, immature, not emotionally stable in the least, and completely obsessed with me. I have a name for this: My wheelhouse.
I write my number in her book, tell her to call me, and I swear I could smell her get wet right there. She starts texting me before she even leaves the bookstore, and it’s hardly dark before she’s naked in my hotel bed.
We are getting ready to fuck when she seductively whispers in my ear, her warm, sour-apple-candy-scented breath wafting into my nostrils:
HotHybrid “I want to feel every inch of you inside me.”
Without hesitating, I reach for a condom. There was no question this girl was as fecund as the Fertile Crescent; she was that type of young girl you can get pregnant just by looking at her.
HotHybrid “It’s OK. I’m on birth control. I want to feel your cum inside of me.”
I am a grown man who’s been in the game for more than 15 years—I definitely know better. I hesitate, am about to do the smart thing and turn her down… but she finds my weak spot. She starts licking and kissing the back of my neck and shoulders. If you’re a girl and can do that well, I’m as powerless as you were before the 19th Amendment.
All rational cognitive thought leaves my brain, and I push her on her back and hit the hole like Walter Payton: hard, focused, and unstoppable (though sadly for her, still white). I stayed an extra day in her city so I could fuck her more, spending essentially every waking moment the next two days firing it into her with reckless abandon. I pumped so much cum in her she could have stayed hydrated on it for a month. The sex was so primal and intense, her vagina took part of my soul that weekend, and I gave it up with aplomb. I am getting hard right now just remembering it.
Any retard can tell you what happened next:
Three weeks later she drives to my place, ostensibly to see me and fuck some more (she lived in a different city but close enough to drive). But instead of sex, she wants to talk.
HotHybrid “I took two tests. I’m pregnant.”
Tucker “I thought you were on birth control?”
HotHybrid “I am.”
Tucker “Then how did you get pregnant?”
HotHybrid “I don’t know. I guess it happens sometimes?”
Tucker “Are you fucking anyone else?”
HotHybrid “OF COURSE NOT!”
Tucker “OK, well, do you need help paying for the abortion?”
HotHybrid “Abortion? I don’t want to do that!”
Tucker “Are you morally opposed to it, or just don’t want to do it?”
HotHybrid “I don’t know… I just don’t want to do it, I guess.”
Tucker “You guess? You were on the pill, right? This means you have no moral issue with birth control and don’t want kids. Well, if the oral contraception fucks up, this is the next option.”
HotHybrid “It’s gross and I don’t like it.”
Tucker “You’d rather have a child???”
I try to discuss this with her, to make her understand that I don’t want a child with a 19 year old whose last name I don’t even know. And that as much as she may want to have kids at some point, doing it with a committed husband is the right way to raise a child—not with a baby daddy who will be fucking lots of other girls and not returning her calls.
It goes nowhere. This girl is just not able or willing to think about anything beyond how sexy she’d look pregnant and all the cool baby stuff she’d get to buy. The idea that the child was not a doll, but a human being who was going to require two decades of care, was beyond the comprehension or interest of her 19 year old brain. And then she lets this slip:
HotHybrid “I mean, plus you’re like famous and stuff. Everyone wants a famous dad.”
I almost laughed. My childhood dream was to be an NB
A point guard, but I am white, 6 feet tall, and have small hands, so that dream wasn’t in the cards for me. Looks like having a kid out of wedlock with some groupie is the closest I’m going to get. Only 11 more to catch up with Shawn Kemp.
She sets the first doctor’s appointment for a week later, and asks me not only to pay for it, but also to come along. I agree to drive the three fucking hours to her city, but only because I figure I can get the OB/GYN to make her understand what having a kid means, and discuss options other than keeping the child.
I pick her up, and she’s giddy with excitement, talking about names and wondering what features of mine it’s going to have and whether it’s going to be a boy or a girl.
HotHybrid “What kind of name do you like? If it’s a boy, I like more traditional names like Joseph or Mark, but if it’s a girl, I like unique names, like Anastasia and Alyandra. Do you think it’s going to be a boy or a girl?”
Tucker “I hope it’s stillborn.”
HotHybrid “I hope it has your eyes, you have the coolest blue eyes, but I want it to have my hands, yours are too stumpy and meaty.”
At this point, it starts sinking in: This fucking girl is serious about having a child. OF MINE. It wasn’t really real to me until this moment. This is NOT good.
By the time we get to the doctor’s office and go into the ultrasound room, I am visibly and seriously depressed. Like, to the point where I am sick to my stomach and can’t even make jokes anymore, because she is very serious about having this kid.
It’s not just the money she’s going to want that’s upsetting me; this is more of a personal issue. I grew up in a single-mother household with a largely absentee father, and it sucked. That’s not how children should be raised, and I do NOT want to be responsible for bringing a child into that situation. I definitely want to have kids, lots of them, but I want to do it in the right situation, when I’m in a stable, committed relationship and ready to be a father and provide a healthy, loving, safe environment for my children to grow up in.
Not to mention, I want to do it with a woman I love, one who is just as committed to being a good parent. God fucking forbid I do it with THIS girl. Yeah, she’s hotter than a blast furnace, but she’s about as smart and ambitious as one too. She goes to community college for massage therapy, works at the Abercrombie outlet, still eats Jolly Ranchers, and lives in an MTV reality for fuck’s sake. I’m not even sure how she can pay her rent, much less expect to be a good mother. And now, because of me, she’s breeding? And not only will the child be mine, but it’s my fault that it’s going to be cursed with this retard as its mother? FUCK. I want to puke.