I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell
Raise your hand if you’ve ever had that happen to you.
I clawed my way to a park bench, pulled myself up onto it, and saw a huge Tin Man statue. For a split second, I honestly thought I’d died and gone to hell, and it was sponsored by Warner Brothers. That was a bit of a shock, because I’d always thought Disney would rule hell. Then I remembered: I lived right by a park called Oz Park, though until this moment, it had not occurred to me where it got its name.
Encouraged by the fact that I was close to my apartment, I started walking. After falling a few times and finally getting that damn dog to stop following me, I found Halstead St. and followed it back to my apartment.
I was so concerned with keeping my balance and navigating correctly, I didn’t really notice till I got home that my face and scalp were itching something terrible. I was reaching up to discover the source of this itch as I stumbled in my door. My roommate took one look at me, audibly gasped and got that “Oh my God” face I’ve seen so many times. He usually lets out a laugh when he sees the aftereffects of one of my binges, but this time he was so shocked he could only cover his mouth and utter, “Go look in the mirror.”
I felt my face, and there was definitely something sticky and hard crusted onto it. Thinking that it was possibly blood and I had sustained a head injury, I rushed to the bathroom, and there in the mirror was rock bottom:
The “love of my life” stared back at me with a face covered in hardened, crusted vomit. Yellow and brown bile matted my hair, chunks were in my eyebrows and ears, my cheek and neck had pieces of grass stuck in the vomit crust. I looked like some sort of botched special effect. So much for being too good for whores’ sloppy seconds.
But the pièce de résistance lay on the top of my head, stuck to the vomit in my hair:
A small, dry dog turd.
Postscript
The repercussions of that night did not end there. First off, my (now ex-) roommate will call me shit-head for the rest of my life, and I deserve it.
Second, I will never look at women the same way. Ever. This event, combined with a story my friend told me right after that about his ex-girlfriend letting herself get gang-banged by Mexicans in front of him to get even for him cheating on her, totally ruined me. Now, every time I look at or talk to a woman, I can’t help but think to myself, “Has she already sucked a dick today? How recent was her last migrant worker gang-bang?”
Granted, I’ve done horrible stuff also, but anyone in the world can read this book and know what I’ve done. It’s the not knowing that really messes with me. What fucks me up is to think that girls I’m casually dating are fucking around on me, and not even just on other days, but right before they see me. I don’t really go on dates anymore since I learned that you don’t need to spend money to get pussy, but when I did, I wonder how many girls came out with sperm breath? And how many of those did I kiss? And even now I wonder how many women I’ve met out at a bar who fucked a guy before going out, and then went home with me?
I talked to all my female friends about this, and the response was varied.
The dumb ones were like, “Ohhhh—can I come over and suck you off too?” Yes you may. And bring beer.
The naïve ones were like, “A girl came over and sucked your dick before a date?? No girl does that!!” Riiiiight…and you’ve never had a boyfriend cheat on you. Go back to reading books you buy at the grocery store and leave reality to the rest of us.
I finally got some usable feedback from my smart female friends. Most of them were like, “This is news to you? That there are women who do what you do? Tucker, I thought you were smarter than this.” Thanks for making me feel better.
One friend in particular summed it up: “At least you had this realization. Most guys go through life being blissfully ignorant. My girlfriends who juggle a lot of guys are the ones who don’t give off any slutty vibe…which is how they totally get away with it. Every guy they are with thinks they’ve got the perfect situation—a sweet girl who comes over at midnight once or twice a week because that’s all she wants. They don’t understand that she’s got the same perfect arrangement with four other guys.”
I tried to explain that giving me head was so good that women actually wanted to do it and didn’t care about getting anything back, but she just laughed.
Not that sucking my dick is some chore, but the idea that any guy is so much better than other guys that he is above cuckoldry is ridiculous. Believe me, guys: No matter how good you are, some girl has played you…and you probably didn’t even realize it.
Don’t think about this for too long fellas, or it will drive you nuts. I fixated on it for a whole night and ended up dancing with myself in a mirror for an hour and then woke up in a public park with vomit crusted to my face and dog shit stuck to my head—you can trust me on this. Just move on.
THE DOG VOMIT STORY
Occurred—April 2005
Written—April 2005
As I write this I am sitting in my cousin Josh’s apartment in Dallas, Texas. I am fighting a hangover and an intense desire to vomit myself to sleep so that I can get this down now, while it is fresh, because even though it’s not the most absurd thing I’ve ever done, it is up there.
Last night we go to a place called The Corner to meet a group of girls who had been emailing me. This is Josh’s first experience dealing with my website groupies, and even though he understands what I do in the abstract, he can’t fathom that I get laid this way.
Josh “So let me get this straight: Girls email you, meet you out, and then have sex with you?”
Tucker “Yeah. Lots of them.”
Josh “Why?”
Tucker “I don’t know. I am awesome. Some women are sluts. Who knows?”
Josh “All the women in Dallas are sluts.”
Tucker “God bless them, every one.”
The girl who emailed me, Lindsay, shows up. She is even better looking than her pics; blonde shoulder-length hair, cute button nose, that sexy Texas twang, light eyes—a total Southern hottie. Her four other friends ranged from “really cute” to “what happened to her face,” so predictably, I focus all my attention on Lindsay. Tucker Luck being what it is, my cousin not only has a girlfriend but is also a great wingman, so he was happy to handle the group, leaving my flank protected and me free to talk to the hot girl. About five minutes into the conversation, she drops this:
Lindsay “Can we just be friends?”
Tucker “What do you mean?”
Lindsay “Well, I just don’t want you to think that I’m here to have sex with you.”
Tucker “When did I bring up the subject of sex?”
Lindsay “Well, you didn’t, but…well…you know….”
Tucker “Don’t sweat things like that. Let’s just hang out and have fun and everything will work itself out.”
Let me translate that conversation from GameSpeak to common English:
Lindsay “I want to fuck you, but I don’t want to feel like a slut when I do it.”
Tucker “I won’t make you feel like a slut, even if you act like one.”
Lindsay “Good, because even though I think I want to fuck you, I want you to run good game on me first. You have to earn it.”
Tucker “Relax, I have everything under control.”
Now, even though the odds were good that Lindsay was going to fuck me, I still had to play my cards right. I know women well, but I don’t ever claim to completely know any one individual woman. As soon as you think you have a woman totally figured out, that’s when you walk in on her being triple-teamed by the yard workers.
Lindsay did some of my work for me by getting really drunk. I was drinking Goose and Red Bull doubles, and she was lapping me. Then out of nowhere, she brought up my number of sexual partners.
Lindsay “How many girls have you been with?”
Tucker “I never answer that question. That answer never leads to anything good.”
Lindsay “I’ve only been with two people.”
I laughed in her face. [Note: She is 24]
Lindsay “IT’S TRUE!”
Tucker “OK, whatever.”
Lindsay “IT IS TRUE!”
Tucker “I don’t really care, but let me tell you something I have learned about women: They lie. A lot. Especially about that.”
Lindsay “I’m not lying.”
Tucker “OK, I believe you. It doesn’t really matter either way. We’re just friends.”
Linsay “Oh stop it.”
Again, from GameSpeak to English:
Lindsay “Ask me if I’m a slut.”
Tucker “No.”
Lindsay “I was testing you to see if you’ll treat me like a slut for fucking you the first night we meet.”
Tucker “I know. Now I will show you how edgy I am.”
Lindsay “You passed the test. And I like your edginess.”
As the night went on, she got hammered. Housed to the point where she was stumbling into people at the bar and speaking in tongues on her cell phone. Her friends were telling me that it was the drunkest they’d ever seen her. Not to be outdone by a small girl, I did shots with half the bar until I was as drunk as, well, Tucker Max.
But just being drunk and foolish wasn’t enough for Lindsay and me, so we started making out. Yeah, we were that drunk couple that everyone hates, the ones eating each other’s faces at the bar. She kinda stops and pulls me aside:
Lindsay “I never do this. I cannot believe I got this drunk.”
Tucker “You ready to go home?”
Lindsay “That’s a good idea.”
Tucker “You obviously can’t drive. Do you want me to call you a taxi or get your friends?”
Lindsay “No. Are you sober? You can drive me home. I live just like a mile away.”
Translation:
Lindsay “I want to fuck you, but I need to get drunk as an excuse, so I can explain this away when I sober up.”
Tucker “Do you want to back out now? We don’t have to do this.”
Lindsay “I know, but I want to fuck you. Let’s go.”
I drove her home and was immediately met at the door by her ankle-biting yippy dog. I normally love dogs, with the notable exceptions being those brain dead little rat dogs that are fashionable with the I-wanna-be-Paris-Hilton crowd, and this was one of those.
Lindsay “Hey Tucker! How are you?”
Tucker “His name is Tucker?”
Lindsay “I’ve had him for a year, way before I saw your site.”
We eventually get down to business and start fucking. I am not even inside her for a minute when she stops me. OK, no big deal, sometimes girls just need time or whatever. We start fucking again…and she stops me again.
Tucker “Are you OK? Is everything alright?”
Lindsay “Yeah, it’s fine.”
So I start fucking her again…and she stops me AGAIN.
Tucker “OK look honey, either shit or get off the pot. If you don’t want to do this, that is totally fine and I have no problem respecting that decision, I’ll even leave if you want. But you need to decide one way or the other, so I know what to do, because this game has to end. I only start and stop when I’m in traffic.”
She decides that she does in fact want to have sex, so we start fucking, and to her credit she was really good in bed and managed me well. Without direction I am selfish and dominant, but she knew what she was doing and was able to mesh her desires with my style. We finish, and I turn to her:
Tucker “So how many people have you slept with?”
Lindsay “Two.”
Tucker “Yeah, you don’t lie about that.”
Lindsay “NO! I meant three. I wasn’t counting you!”
Tucker “AHAHHAHAHHAHA! What are you, an Enron accountant?”
Lindsay “JERK!”
She goes into the bathroom to do whatever it is that women do after sex. I had been feeling queasy during sex but had managed to force it down until I came, but I couldn’t hold it any longer. I had to vomit. And this wasn’t going to be normal vomit; this was make-your-eyes-water, burn-your-sinuses, I-want-to-die vomit. Thank you tequila shots.
Then I panicked: where was I going to vomit? She was in the bathroom. There was no porch. I tried to open the window but there was a screen on it. That’s a no-go; I’ve tried vomiting through screens before. It doesn’t work.
Suddenly, I had an epiphany: still laying on her bed I pushed it away from the wall, hung my head between the wall and mattress, and blew all over the place. I couldn’t have thrown a bucket of vomit on her floor any harder. Thankfully her room is carpeted, so there was no splashing and minimal running, it all just kinda streaked down the wall and piled up under her bed.
By the time she came out of the bathroom I had moved the bed back and recovered, so we fucked again. Thankfully she was drunk and didn’t notice my rancid vomit breath. Or maybe she did and just didn’t mention it.
The sex the second time was even better. But then in the middle of us fucking, I hear this weird slurping noise. At first I think maybe something is wrong with her pussy, so I stop for a second, but the noise keeps going. Then I hear a jingle associated with it…it sounds like when my dog wants to go out—I think her dog is under the bed eating something…
HOLY SHIT—THE DOG IS EATING MY PUKE!
What the fuck do I do now? I can’t get up and stop the dog, because then I’d have to admit that I threw up all over her floor and didn’t clean it up or tell her. The only solution I can arrive at is to kinda push myself up and down on the bed, thinking that maybe he’ll get the picture. The slurping stops and the jingling increases.
Lindsay “Tucker, what are you doing under there? I think he is licking himself. That dog is crazy.”
The dog takes maybe a three second break and I hear the slurping again. This is great. Now I am simultaneously trying to:
1. Suppress my laughter,
2. Push the thought of the dog eating vomit out of my mind so I can avoid getting sick on top of her, and
3. Maintain my erection and keep fucking her.
Seriously, picture this scene in your mind’s eye: I am mid-coitus, drunk out of my mind, vomit on my breath, on top of a girl I just met six hours ago, her dog under the bed loudly feasting on my barf. What the fuck? What would you do? What could I have done? When in doubt, just fuck harder. It’s what I did.
But it got better. I did manage to finish and we both fall asleep. Sometime in the middle of the night, I woke up to piss and as I step off the bed, my foot lands directly in something musky.
Oh man…there is only one thing that feels like that as it squishes through your toes.
The lights were out but there was enough glow from a street lamp coming through the window for me to clearly see doggy diarrhea all over the floor. I used the floor to wipe the shit off my foot which left a huge brown streak on the eggshell-white carpet. After playing hop-scotch to get to and from the bathroom, I just went to sleep and pretended nothing was wrong. It’s not my dog, plus she’ll see the poop in the morning.
She got up an hour later maybe, and stepped in the same shit I did.
Lindsay “OH TUCKER! You shit on the floor! Why did you do this?”
Tucker “He’s probably jealous that he doesn’t get to sleep in your bed tonight.”
Lindsay “You never poop in the house! What happened?”
[she turned the lights on]
Tucker “How did he leave that huge shit streak on the floor? That is like two feet long.”
Lindsay “OH MY GOD—how did you do that? LOOK AT THE FLOOR! BAD DOG! BAD!”
Tucker crawled up to her, and gave her a few vomit-flavored licks in the face.
Lindsay “OK, I forgive you. But you are still a bad bad dog.”
Postscript
The next day I got this email from her:
“I was being a good hostess because you’re from out of town—but that is the drunkest I’ve ever been in my life so I’m not counting anything that ha
ppened last night.”
Do I even need to translate that from GameSpeak to English?
She didn’t find the vomit, and of course I didn’t tell her about it, so we ended up going out the next night.
Tucker “So, was it fun cleaning up all that crap?”
Lindsay “UH! What a mess. I had to buy all these cleaning supplies at Walgreens and I scrubbed and disinfected and cleaned for two hours, and it STILL stinks in there.”
Tucker “Maybe he ate something. You should check the rest of the room; he might have crapped or vomited somewhere you didn’t find. Dogs are weird like that.”
THE MIDLAND, TEXAS, STORY
Occurred—April 2005
Written—April 2005
Midland, Texas is awesome. Not because it is fun or peaceful or has lots of hot girls. Midland is awesome because it is incredibly and irreversibly fucked up. Remember the scene in Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil where John Cusack calls his editor and says, “This place is like Gone with the Wind on mescaline. Everyone is heavily armed and drunk. New York is boring.” Welcome to Midland, Texas.