Do You Want Fries with That?
While I lived in San Francisco, I met a girl out at some dot-com party. She was cute, the lights were low, the liquor was free, I was horny—always a happy confluence of circumstances.
We ended up back at her place in the South Market district of San Francisco (I lived in Mountain View, which is about 40 minutes south by car, so this was convenient). We start kissing, fumbling with buttons and hooks and straps, things start coming off, when she suddenly pulls back and stops me:
Girl “Before we go any further, I have to tell you something.”
Tucker “Umm, OK.”
Girl “I just got over genital warts.”
Tucker [A blank, unregistering stare]
Girl “This always happens.”
Tucker “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you, what did you just say?”
Girl “This always happens…I used to have genital warts, but they’re gone now. HPV is usually not transmittable if there isn’t a breakout, and you use a condom. You don’t…really have to worry about anything, but I thought…that I should probably tell you.”
Tucker [another prolonged, blank, unregistering stare]
Girl “You were going to use a condom anyway. You won’t get them. It’s OK.”
Tucker [putting my clothes back on] “What’s the best way to get back to the interstate from here?”
In retrospect, I kinda feel bad. I probably have every STD known to man, yet this poor girl was honest with me, and I totally dissed her. She courageously exposed part of her soul to me, and I callously stomped on it. Oh well…that’s what she gets for wanting to fuck Tucker Max.
Bros Before Hos
When I was in NYC to finalize the deal for this book, I met some friends out for drinks and invited a few girls along that had emailed me asking to hang out. One girl in particular, “Ho,” took a liking to my friend Credit, and flirted with him all night. This girl was obviously playing the girlfriend game and looking at Credit as boyfriend material: she was nice, a bit coy, not overly aggressive, laughed at all his jokes, and instead of hooking up with him, she only gave him her number.
Credit left early because he had to get up for work the next morning, but this girl wanted to go out drinking more, so she took me and my friend Junior with her. Not even two drinks into the next bar, she is all over me: hands on my crotch, seductive looks, the entire slut repertoire. I ignore her, instead paying attention to my vodka clubs, but this only makes her more into me.
Junior lives in Connecticut, and we accidentally missed the last train out of the city, so Ho politely invited us to stay at her place. When we got there, she gave Junior the couch and told me I could sleep on the floor in her room.
Riiiiight. Not even two minutes after she turned out the lights I was in her bed, and we were tearing the clothes off each other. We both get naked, and I slide it in. Things are going great, when she stops and gets all serious:
Ho “Wait, I don’t know if we should do this.”
Tucker “Why?”
Ho “Well, I don’t want to ruin things with your friend Credit.”
Tucker “HAHHAHAAHAH… I think it’s a bit late for that.”
Ho “NO! You have to promise not to say anything to him! PROMISE!”
After being a lying asshole during my younger years and realizing how awful it is, it is now a rock-solid policy of mine to never ever lie to a girl…but sometimes immediate biological urges put me into situations where I am forced to break this rule.
Tucker “OK…fine. Let’s keep going, I’m not finished yet.”
Of course I ended up telling Credit. I mean—come on. When I am mid-coitus, a girl could extract a promise from me to trade my firstborn for a Twix bar. Plus, I had to tell him. God forbid if he dated this girl, fell in love and got married to her. What a shitty wedding that would have been.
Tucker Goes a Little Booty Call Crazy
I have been saying for years that phone companies should invent a phone with a breathalyzer attached. I cannot tell you how many times I have made awful, terrible drunk-dials and not even remembered them the next day. But one time stands out from the rest.
I was solidly Tucker Max Drunk after a long Friday night bar-hopping, and came home alone at around 2am. I hadn’t fucked for like four days—a serious dry spell for me—so I started scrolling through my phone, calling every female name I come across:
Tucker “Janet, come over, I’m horny.”
Janet “Tucker, I live in Washington DC.”
Tucker “So?”
Janet “You are in Chicago.”
Tucker “Oh. Do you know any girls in Chicago who want to come over?”
Tucker “Krista, come over.”
Krista “Tucker, it’s late.”
Tucker “My horniness is not relegated to business hours.”
Krista “I don’t know.”
Tucker “I SAID DO IT!”
Krista “Well, maybe.”
I don’t really recall the amount of time I spent on the phone or even how many girls I called, but I do remember having the distinct impression that I was shit out of luck. I relegated myself to the couch to pass out while watching reruns of The Shield, when all of the sudden there was a knock on the door. It was an irregular fuck buddy of mine, Sandra. Sweet!
She comes in, and she wants a beer, so I tell her where the fridge is. We kinda start making out on the sofa a little, and then there is another knock on the door. Who the fuck is at my door at 3am?
Uh oh. It’s another booty call, Liz.
Tucker “Well…do you want a beer?”
Both of the girls just kinda stood there, alternately staring at each other and at me. There is a way to turn this situation from disaster to triumph, and even though it’s a long shot, the only way that you can ever win at the table is to throw the dice:
Tucker “So… Liz, uh Sandra is kinda into girls, and I know you’ve always wanted to experiment. What do you say?”
You know that noise girls make when they are so pissed that they can’t even form words? It’s a sort of cross between “uh” and a reptilian hiss? Yeah, she made that noise, turned on her heels, and stormed out.
Oh well, at least Sandra was still there, right? I turned to her, and she was setting her beer down and reaching for her purse. Time to act quick:
Tucker “No wait, honey, you don’t have to go. I didn’t even invite her over, she is a psycho who—”
I was interrupted by some unidentified noise at the bottom of my stairs. It sounded like two girls talking to each other, followed by footsteps, and capped off with the appearance of Krista at my still open door.
Tucker “Oh boy.”
I wish I could tell some story about how I turned this into some amazing foursome, but since I have a policy to tell only true stories, I can’t. Let’s just say that it did not end well. Things were thrown, curses hurled, none of the three ever came over again, and I had to recruit a whole new stable of booty calls. Maybe a better man than me could have turned that night into something out of Penthouse Letters, but all I did was end up with my dick in my hand and a mess in my apartment.
Toxic Shock
While in law school I dated a girl named “Vicki.” A total blonde Southern girl: really hot, really sweet, and really stupid. When we’d hang out with my law school friends she’d be very quiet, and whisper things to me like, “I am afraid to talk to GoldenBoy. He uses such big words.”
She used Depo-Provera as her birth control, and though it was effective at keeping her from polluting the world with little Tuckers, it caused her to spot occasionally. She told me this and it usually wasn’t a problem. [Note for the ignorant males: “spotting” is when a girl bleeds when not on her period.]
One night we came home drunk and proceeded to fuck the shit out of each other. Sex with Vicki was awesome because she was one of those girls who can cum with virtually no effort through regular sex. Every minute or two she would have an orgasm. I loved this not because she go
t off so much, but because I could be ruthlessly selfish in bed, and it didn’t matter. As long as I lasted more than a minute, everything took care of itself.
This bout of drunk sex started off the same as the others; I humped and pumped, and she screamed and came…but after a short time, my dick started to hurt. I kept pumping away, she kept coming, and the pain kept getting worse and worse. It was a weird moment: Think about what goes through your mind when you are fucking…now mix those thoughts with flashes of intense, grinding pain…on your PENIS. This greatly confused my drunk brain, but I still plowed on, determined to not let anything—not even obvious and searing pain—prevent me from reaching the ultimate goal of virtually everything I do in life: personal satisfaction.
I concentrated and was able to pinpoint the actual location of the pain: It felt like the head of my penis was scraping up against something hard and abrasive. I was drunk, so my first thought was that my dick was so big it was hitting her cervix and scraping up against that. As if her cervix was made of sandpaper or something. Yes, I can be that stupid when drunk and fucking.
I tried to fuck through the pain. I really tried to convince myself that everything was OK, but when my eyes started tearing up from the agony, I had to stop.
Tucker “Baby—something is wrong with your vagina.”
She looked confused, and then kinda hurt, “What do you mean?”
My penis was still penetrating her, so I tried to be diplomatic in my explanation, “Bitch, my fucking dick HURTS. Something is fucked up with your fucking pussy.”
She gets up and goes into the bathroom, and I examine my penis. There is a bright red circular area to the right of my urethra (pee hole). Almost all the skin on the right side of the head of my penis has been stripped off. I delicately touch the red throbbing sore, and it burns. I have played many football games on Astroturf, and I recognize exactly what this is: Turf burn.
I have fucking turf burn on my dick? What the fuck? I am confused and pissed off. I mean, how the fuck can I have goddamn turf burn on my dick?
I hear the bathroom door open, and I stand up and prepare to yell at Vicki…and then I see her. She is crying hysterically, tears streaming down her face, holding something in her hand. Her eyes meet mine, she busts out in an even louder wail, and I look into her hand. I don’t really recognize what it is until she says,
“I’m so sorry. I totally forgot I had it in….”
In her hand was a reddish-brown, smashed up Tampax.
Vicki had put one in before we went out drinking, and got so drunk she forgot to take it out before we had sex. This was what my dick head was rubbing up against for that 15 minutes of agony…a FUCKING TAMPON.
As big of an asshole as I am, I’m still a sucker for a hot crying girl, so I gave Vicki a hug and told her everything was OK. Then she stopped crying, and I cut her throat. I’m just kidding. But, true to form for turf burns, I did wake up the next morning with a yellowish brown scab on the head of my penis. Which developed into a small scar that you can still see to this day…if you are a hot girl.
What’s Grosser Than Gross?
This girl I was kinda seeing worked in a financial services office. On Fridays she had the office all to herself, and once I went in to see her. I tried to get her to fuck me on her boss’s desk, that was a no-go. On the conference table, no-go. In the kitchenette, still a no-go.
I can’t figure out what her problem is (we’d had plenty of sex before), so I try being nice, and start making out. I put my hands down her pants and massage her clit, and she likes it at first but then squirms away, “No, not now.”
Getting frustrated, I take my finger which I can feel is covered with her juice, and rub it across her lips, just intending to tease her… OH SHIT!
Right across her lips and teeth is a huge red stain. Now it makes sense.
Tucker “Are you on the rag? Is that why you won’t hook up?”
Girl “Yeah. I hate to say it, it’s embarrassing. How’d you know?”
I just kinda raised my eyebrows…and she licked her lips…and I wished I had a camera to record the look of shock and embarrassment as she tasted the blood on her tongue. She immediately ran off to the bathroom. I was washing my hands in the kitchenette when she rushed back in:
“You aren’t going to write about this, are you?”
Fucked Up Pillow Talk
These are some funny quotes or bits of dialogue that are sexually related or happened while in bed, but that didn’t occur in the middle of a larger story.
This happened with a girl I had been seeing for like two weeks:
Girl “Do you love me?”
Tucker “I don’t understand the question.”
From a girl who had obvious issues with sex:
Girl “OK, I want you to take your wee-wee and put it on my dirty spot.”
Tucker “What did you just say?”
Girl “Take your wee-wee and put it into my dirty spot.”
Tucker “What is this, Sesame Street foreplay?”
This from a girl who, for some reason, thought we were exclusive. She didn’t get that idea from me:
Girl “Why didn’t you shave? You know I hate stubble.”
Tucker “Oh sorry, I forgot that you were the one who liked me to be shaven.”
Girl “I’M THE ONE WHO LIKES YOU TO BE SHAVEN!!! HOW MANY GIRLS ARE YOU FUCKING??”
Tucker “Maybe we haven’t met: Hi, my name is Tucker Max. You’ve seen my website. In fact, that’s how we met.”
A similar exchange, with a different girl, that nearly ended the fuck-buddy relationship:
Tucker “Do you like girls?”
Girl “You ask me that every time I see you.”
Tucker “I forget who answers yes and who answers no.”
Girl “I don’t know why I keep fucking you.”
Tucker “Because I am awesome, and you can’t help yourself.”
Girl “You know, I used to have self-esteem before I met you.”
Tucker “That’s what they all say.”
Five minutes later with the same girl:
Girl “What is your favorite sexual technique?”
Tucker “Well, I’m not sure. Probably where I pretend like she isn’t there, get off as fast as possible, she does my laundry, cleans, and then leaves.”
This was with a total random I picked up at the grocery store. We went home and, with her groceries still in the car, start hooking up. Before we begin sex, she let this out:
“Don’t worry about putting a condom on. I’m already pregnant.”
This one was really depressing. I wish she had told me beforehand: “You are the first guy I’ve slept with since I was raped. Thanks for being gentle.”
I was fucking this one girl with music on. I hadn’t put anything on intentionally, it was just some mix CD I happened to have in. We are mid-coitus, and a Ludacris song comes on:
Girl “Can you please change the song?”
Tucker “Why?”
Girl “Well… I fucked one of Luda’s roadies to get backstage, but I never even got to meet him. I am kinda bitter.”
With a girl whose friend I had fucked:
Girl “You aren’t anywhere near as good as [her friend] said you were.”
Tucker “Well with her I actually tried. I liked her.”
Miss Deaf Australia
The University of Chicago requires that students take a year of a foreign language in order to graduate, so I took American Sign Language. Our teacher got to like our class, so she invited us to some deaf events in Chicago.
The first one we went to was a dance at a bar that some deaf organization had rented out. We get there a little late, and when we walked in the foyer even though I could hear the music I couldn’t hear any voices so I thought it’d be empty, but instead the place was filled with like 100 deaf people. I heard nothing except the clink of glasses and some random grunting—everyone was furiously signing to each other. It was kinda spooky.
I was int
roduced to a girl who had just won the Miss Deaf Australia pageant. She was really pretty and thought that my retarded 4th grade sign language ability was cute. After about twenty minutes of trying to sign and getting frustrated, I asked her to dance, figuring I had to be better at that than her; after all, she can’t even hear the music. That was another mistake. She was an awesome dancer. The deaf people picked this club because it had a great sound system, and they dance by feeling the music. Most of them are really good, way better than me. Well, so much for that.
She ended up liking me anyway, despite the fact that I couldn’t sign or dance, and we went on a few dates, and ended up having sex on the third date.
I start kinda slow with her, but I can tell almost immediately that she is freaky, so I get freaky with her. She is kinda grunting a little, but nothing all that unusual, until she starts to come.
“AAARRRRRRRRRRHRHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRGGGGGGGHHHHHH”
I got so scared I almost went limp. You have not heard a girl scream during sex until you’ve heard a deaf girl come. It was literally like a cross between a retard scream and the noise a horse makes when it’s being slaughtered. I have never heard a more guttural expression of climax in my life.