QUITE THE VACATION
Occurred—May 2000
Written—March 2005
I don’t know exactly how many girls I’ve slept with, but it’s well into the triple digits. You start to forget a few last names somewhere in the 30s, some first names around the 60s, and entire girls altogether somewhere around the 90s, but no matter how much or how many you fuck, some are just unforgettable.
This particular girl, “Candy,” I met while working in Cancun. I was so busy fucking her sorority sisters, I didn’t hit on her until the day before she left, but she was having none of me. I figured that she just respected herself and didn’t want to fuck someone like me, so I was kinda surprised when she asked for my number the day she left. I gave it to her and didn’t think twice about it, until two months later when Candy called and wanted to come visit.
By that time I had kinda forgotten what she looked like, so I was stoked when I picked her up at the airport, and she was even hotter than I remembered. Short and Vietnamese but with just enough of the French rapist heritage coursing through her veins that she had that hybrid-vigor hotness that you really only see in mixed races.
I was 24 at the time and still didn’t know as much as I thought that I did, so when on the ride back to my place she was very formal and quiet, I didn’t understand what was going on. Why would this girl call me to come visit, knowing what I am like, and not be more into me?
One of my roommates was home when we got to my place, so we had a few beers in the living room and talked. Well, my roommate and I talked, and she just sat there and acted obsequious. Every time I tried to involve her in the conversation, she would briefly answer and then go back to her beer. I’ve seen kidnapping victims be more social with their captors.
Then my roommate left for the gym. As soon as the door closed behind him, I learned a very important lesson: sometimes the quietest and meekest in public are the loudest and wildest in private. I mean, I knew this about women in an intellectual way, but the reality of this proverb never hit home with me until I found myself being nearly sexually assaulted by this girl who had said no more than 10 words over the past hour.
Right after the front door clicked shut, she calmly put her beer down and then pounced on me like a jaguar. Since I have never had an Asian projectile fired at me, I wasn’t sure what to do. She was literally jumping me, but I was so shocked and totally taken by surprise that I put my hands up and kinda hit her. Right in the face. I didn’t mean to, but for a split second I thought she was trying to kill me. What would you think if some quiet Asian girl unexpectedly jumped at you?
She was fine, and I tried to apologize but couldn’t talk because she was kissing me so hard. Fuck it; if she isn’t hurt, I’m not going to worry about it.
Before that day, I thought I was aggressive and dominant in bed. That was before a 5'3" Vietnamese college girl turned me out.
She wanted everything, and she wanted it hard. I hit it from the front, the back, the side, from underneath, on top, diagonally, every way I thought possible and then learned some new positions. I honestly didn’t even think the pile driver was possible for normal people. I was wrong.
And no matter what I did, she wanted it harder and faster. So I put my dick in her ass. Not hard enough. I hit harder. And harder. And harder. I hit it so hard I was hurting myself. It got to the point where I was fucking with so much force her booty was clapping like Madison Square Garden, the bed was chipping the paint off the wall, my hips were bruising as they slammed against her ass bones, and I was sweating like a migrant worker in a strawberry field, but it still wasn’t enough.
I fucked her in the ass with so much force it started to bleed. Not much blood, but enough that I had to get new sheets. She didn’t care, she just took my cock out, put a new condom on, and threw it in her pussy. Then in her mouth, then back in the ass again when it stopped bleeding. Unreal.
I needed a few more dicks that weekend, because mine was not enough. It got to the point where I had to schedule rest breaks, because she was shredding me. It was emasculating in a way; this little docile girl totally out-fucked me. By the end of the weekend, after we had had sex some ridiculous number of times and my balls were aching and my cock was raw, she was still horny and would go down on my limp penis for like five minutes to get me hard, then she’d mount me and impale herself on my cock like a jackhammer. I think I could have gone to sleep and as long as I stayed hard, I doubt she would have cared.
I didn’t fuck for like a week after she left, I was so tired. My dick was raw. That normally only happens when I am blackout drunk and try to jack off (which is a supremely bad idea). I still have scars on my back from her nails and rug burn on my knees from two days of violent sex with her.
She left and I told myself that was it. I couldn’t handle another weekend of that, especially when it appeared that she was just fine.
Then I got the email. I still talked to one of her sorority sisters I had slept with in Cancun, and like a week later, she sent me this:
“Do you remember that girl [her name]? The quiet Asian girl in my sorority? She supposedly went home to visit her parents last week, but the day after she got back she had to go to student health with “female problems.” Well, she always told us that she’s never had sex, and she wouldn’t tell us what was wrong, but my friend is a resident there, and he said that she had impacted bowels AND a urinary tract infection! Can you believe that? How could that happen if she doesn’t have sex?”
BITCH, I’LL TELL YOU HOW IT HAPPENED—I AM AWESOME!
Truthfully though, I can’t really take much credit. Whatever damage was done, she pretty much did to herself. I’m not going to sit here and write some lie about how big my dick is; it is exactly average for a white guy. I’ve measured and compared to numerous studies, and no matter how much I wish it hung to my knees, it sits right on the top of the bell curve. Her UTI was from going directly from anal to vaginal, which even with a new condom isn’t a good idea, and the impacted bowels…well, she was a tiny Asian girl. My dick may not be huge, but it is probably bigger than her colon.
Nevertheless, to whomever is dating that girl now: You are a better man than me, and I wish you luck.
TUCKER GOES TO VEGAS
Occurred—October 1999
Written—April 2005
There are certain defining events in every man’s life: the first time he has sex, the first time he gets drunk, the first time he gets in a fight….and his first trip to Vegas.
During my second year of law school I had to fly to LA for callback interviews, and I planned to stay with my good friend “Junior” while there. Junior is 5'9", well-built, half-Italian half-Arabic, with light green eyes and olive skin. He’s got that “dark with light eyes” look that that women lose their shit over. I knew Junior from Florida, where he used to work for my father. We became friends because he is one of the few people I’ve ever met in my life who not only does better with women than I do—WAY better, actually—but simply put, he can not only keep up with me, he can exceed me at times. Not many people can.
Junior lived in Santa Monica and was attending UCLA at the time. I arrived at LAX around 8pm on a Thursday, intending to party all weekend and go to my interviews on Monday. Junior was there to pick me up.
Junior “Hey, what’s up man?”
Tucker “Not much, what’s up with you?”
Junior “Nothing. Let’s go to Vegas.”
Tucker “Well… OK.”
By about 8:15, Junior and I were on our way. I didn’t even drop my bags off at his place.
Halfway there, in some shit-bag cow town called Barstow, Junior tells me to exit the highway and pull into a place called “In-N-Out.” I was not impressed:
“Dude, where are we going? This place looks like shit.”
Junior glared at me like I had turned down sex with Penelope Cruz and said nothing. He insisted that we go inside, as he said that one couldn’t properly drive and give these burgers the attention necessar
y at the same time. He ordered me the Double-Double, and looking at it, I was still unimpressed. It’s just a fucking hamburger.
I have only fallen in love three times in my life, and the first bite of that Double-Double was one of those times. The crispy bun complimenting the cool lettuce, the special sauce accentuating the fresh tomato, the sweet meat mixing with the salty cheese, all of it coming together in a harmonious medley of flavor thus far unseen on the American fast food landscape—I was smitten. It was the single greatest fast food meal in the history of civilization. Even though I was full, I immediately ate another Double-Double. I was nearly in tears at this meal, it was so transcendently excellent. Those fuckers should hire me as a spokesman.
This is me eating an In-N-Out burger—from the looks of it, my second of the day. I look pissed because pausing to pose for the picture is keeping me from my Double-Double.
Junior insisted that he drive for the second half of the trip. I didn’t understand why until we pulled onto the strip; had I been behind the wheel, I would have wrecked. I am not a big fan of the movie Swingers, but I have to give it to Favreau, he really nailed the scene where they come over the mountain and see the lights of Vegas. I was like a child, I was so completely fixated by the flashing bright lights and shiny things everywhere. Times Square has nothing on driving into Vegas.
We pull into the Bellagio around 1am and immediately sit at the $25 blackjack tables and start playing. And drinking. And winning. Before I realize it, I am drunk, Junior and I are screaming, and we have collected quite the crowd around our table. We were “that table.”
Everyone who has been to Vegas, or really any casino, knows the table I’m talking about: The one with the guys standing up, cheering at every winning hand, cursing at every losing hand, making ludicrous bets that pay off, yelling at everyone within earshot, ordering drinks for the entire floor, telling random onlookers to bring us food, grabbing the asses of cocktail waitresses, demanding the pit boss comp a room and some whores—that was us. There were many aspects to The Tucker and Junior Gambling Show:
We called every dealer, no matter what his or her name, “Slappy.” We would routinely threaten every Slappy with bodily injury:
Junior “If you beat my 20, I’m gonna kick you right in the crotch.” Tucker “I swear on my grandmother’s dried-up decomposing corpse, if you draw a five card 21, I’ll punt your tits across this casino floor.”
One dealer nearly cleaned us out, so we threatened and cursed her and called her “The Angel of Death,” to the point where she left the table nearly in tears. This didn’t stop us:
Junior “You better not leave this casino alone! I’ll find you!”
Tucker “I hope your children get lupus!”
One of the Slappys was quite the Puritan:
Tucker “Look at that card. FUCK ME IN THE EAR.”
Dealer “Quiet. You can’t say ‘fuck’ here.”
Junior “We can’t say ‘fuck’ in this casino, but prostitutes can run around selling themselves all over Vegas?”
Dealer “Prostitution is legal in Vegas. Saying ‘fuck’ isn’t.”
Tucker “THAT’S HORSESHIT.”
Junior “Can he say ‘horseshit?’ Is it legal for horses to shit in Vegas?”
I honestly have no idea how we didn’t get kicked out.
As much fun as messing with Slappy was, you can only have so much fun with a dealer. What was more fun was the people who either gambled at our table or watched us. These two women stood near the table, one very young, and the other old and obviously her mother. Junior has the sex drive of a bull elephant in mating season, so he immediately perked up.
Junior “I’m going to go hit on her.”
Tucker “Dude, what are you talking about? She’s not even old enough to have seen all the episodes of Seinfeld.”
Junior “I have to compliment you, because you obviously did a great job raising your daughter.” [As he says this, he is facing the mother but ogling the daughter.]
Mother “My daughter is 15.”
Junior “Well… I’m rich. I’ll give you a large dowry.”
Tucker “HOW MUCH FOR THE LITTLE GIRL! HOW MUCH FOR THE WOMAN!!”
Mother “Goodbye.”
We got so carried away with the gambling and attention, the next time I took notice of my watch, it was 9am Friday morning, and I was feeling a bit tipsy. I casually ask the cocktail waitress how many beers I’ve had:
“I don’t know sweetie. I work the 2am to 10am shift, and you were rolling along when I got here. I’d guess you’ve had at least 20 or 25 since I’ve been working.”
Like when a young child doesn’t know he’s hurt until he actually sees the blood oozing out of the cut, I didn’t realize how drunk I was until I realized how much I’d had to drink. I grabbed Junior,
Junior “You OK man?”
Tucker “Get me a fucking bed… I am about to hit a wall.”
Junior laughed at me, told the pit boss and dealer to watch me, gave me about twenty $5 chips, and ran off. I went from “Fun Tucker” to “Comatose Tucker” in only five minutes. I am not sure what happened over the next half hour, but when Junior came back my head was on the table, I was randomly pushing chips forward, and the dealer was playing my hand for me. People were gawking and laughing like I was some sort of street performer. The best part: I was up $20.
Junior “We can’t get a room, they are completely booked up, but I just met this girl, you can stay in her room. Tucker, meet [Charlene].”
Junior is amazing with women, but even for him this was something special. He not only picked a girl up in twenty minutes in Vegas—a hot girl no less—he got her to agree to let a complete stranger, me, pass out in her room while he gambled with her. Golf clap for Junior.
Too drunk at that moment to recognize this feat, I grunted a response, took her room key, and headed upstairs. I don’t remember the trip to her room, or taking off my pants, or pissing on the bathroom floor instead of the toilet, or knocking over a side table, or laying on a bed or anything else that I did. I still deny responsibility for those incidents. That’s the beauty of alcohol: if you don’t remember it, it didn’t happen.
My next clear memory is waking up to the sound of skin slapping against skin. I was so dehydrated, I couldn’t even blink my eyes. Rubbing them, I saw Junior on the other bed humping that girl so hard that through my fogged vision, I thought he was trying to dig his way to China. A real pleasant scene. I passed back out.
When I woke up, they had showered and cleaned the stench of stranger sex off themselves. Junior and I left her room to go gamble some more, but not before Junior gave her a fake cell number, because he is a bad person. About two hours later, I realized that I had left my glasses in her room:
Junior “How could you leave your glasses? Are you so drunk you forgot that you couldn’t see?”
I went back up to her room and knocked on the door. I think she thought that Junior was coming back for more sex, because she answered the door only in her towel with this seductive smile. When she saw me, her expression shifted to confused, then quickly moved to sly.
Charlene “What can I do for you?”
Tucker [confused by the palpable sexual tension] “Uhh… I, uhhh… I left my glasses here. Really.”
Charlene “Come in.”
I looked around and found my glasses under the bed. Then it just got weird. She was leaning up against the wall between me and the door with this look on her face I had never seen before. Well, I had seen it before, but only in porn movies where the lonely wife fucks the muscular plumber in the cut-off jean shorts, and that just couldn’t be happening here, could it? I mean, this is real life, and real life is never like porn…is it? Women don’t randomly fuck strange men they just met…do they?
You have to understand, I was only 23 at the time, and didn’t quite understand what I do now: While there are many wonderful women in the world who should be treated with respect, some are just filthy whores. Even though I w
as inexperienced, I relied on my sixth sense about this and decided to roll the dice. Besides, what’s the worst thing that could happen? She kicks me out? I’m leaving anyway:
Tucker “You aren’t dry yet? Why are you still in a towel?”
Great line Tucker, real smooth. Apparently, it didn’t matter:
Charlene “Why don’t you finish drying me off?”
Twenty-three and naive, even I couldn’t miss that one.
Now that I think about what I actually did, I am kinda disgusted. I followed one of my best friends not even two hours after he was done. She did shower though, so I guess that’s good. Whatever; nothing counts in Vegas, right? The best part: I’ve never even told him about that. He’s going to find out when he reads this story.