“My penis is going to be in something tonight. The more you talk, the less likely it’ll be you.”
“When you talk, I have to block out what you’re saying and replace it with thoughts of what you could be saying. That way, you’re still attractive.”
“What do you think is more disgusting: what they put in hotdogs, or what a hotdog would taste like after it’s been inside of you?”
“I know this really sexy move you can do with your mouth. It’s called ‘shutting the fuck up.’”
[in front of her, to a guy who was hitting on her] “Hey dude, make sure you wear a rubber with her. Lumberg fucked her.”
“I can be sensitive sometimes. Right up until I sleep with you. Then I inject all my sensitivity right into you, and it’s gone.”
“No way you can convince me to hook up with you. If you do, I’ll strip naked and let you take a picture of me punching a mule in the mouth.”
“I’m gonna drink until you’re pretty, then fuck you until you’re ugly again. I’m totally kidding, you aren’t ugly. And I’m also kidding about fucking you.”
“If I decide to fuck you, I hope you’re OK with me taping a picture of a hot girl to your back while I rail you from behind. You know, so I can stay hard.”
Lo and behold, after spending an hour saying the most preposterous shit I could think of just to crack everyone up … she was not only still there, she was utterly, completely into me. All the guys sweating her … she didn’t give a fuck about them.
Girl “So what are you doing tonight?”
Tucker “Didn’t you say you had a boyfriend?”
Girl “Yeah.”
Tucker “Shouldn’t you be worried about what he’s doing, not me?”
Girl “He’s in America.”
Tucker “Just like your dignity, right?”
We went back to her room and I knocked the bottom out of her.
Even though I’d hooked up with girls many times before by playing that type of game—the funny asshole game—it was that night where it all clicked for me, where I actually understood what was going on and why. I went from being an above-average guy, to being, well … me. Tucker Max. It’s a very simple lesson, anyone can apply it:
To get what you want out of life, all you really need to do is be honest about it, don’t be afraid to go for it, and have fun while you do it—and you’ll eventually get it.
Girls are no different.
IT’S A LOVE SPOT
When you are on-site staff in Cancun, you get a badge that hangs around your neck. It has your picture, your name, and the company you work for. It’s basically an ATM card for pussy and alcohol. Alcohol, because the Mexicans who work on the island consider you a local and give you everything for free, and pussy, because you are an authority figure and thus every girl automatically trusts you. It’s basically the perfect way to get laid.
It’s not just their loins they trust you with. They also trust you with their secrets. This one girl let me in on the issue she was discussing with her friends because she wanted a male perspective.
Girl “Well, the guy I’ve been fucking all week was in my bathroom last night, and I think he saw my herpes cream in my toiletries bag. I don’t have an outbreak now, and we use condoms so it’s fine, but I still think he’s freaked out. If this were just some random I wouldn’t care, but he goes to my school.”
Tucker “That’s what you get for not fucking randoms.”
Girl “Ugh no! Randoms are nasty!”
Tucker “You have herpes … and you’re calling someone else nasty?”
Girl “It’s different! Seriously though, help me. How do I deal with this?”
Tucker “Here’s what you do: First, tell him you have AIDS and that he needs to get tested. After he freaks out, tell him you’re kidding, you only have herpes. He’ll be relieved. It’s all about framing.”
Girl “You think that’ll work?”
Tucker “Did you not see my staff badge? This means that everything I say is right.”
Cancun is so lawless, Mexicans walk around with chimps on a leash, and charge people for pictures.
THE FIRST RULE OF MEXICO
Everyone knows the first rule of Mexico: Don’t drink the water (that’s for tourists; for Mexicans, the first rule is ‘move to America and become a busboy’). Not everyone heeds this rule, either because they are stupid or drunk, or both.
I was fucking this one girl doggy style, when she started farting. You know those nasty wet farts that come out so hard they smack your ass cheeks together, like you’re kick-starting a dirt bike? Yeah, well, my hotel room sounded like the X Games.
You’d think since quieter farts usually smell worse that these would have floated by without much problem. Oh, no. These smelled like the Puerto Rican Day Parade. And when I say they smelled, I mean they were RANK. It was so bad, I had to stop fucking her.
Tucker “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Girl “Sorry, I think I accidentally drank some Mexican water when I was brushing my teeth.”
We were really drunk, so of course this was uproariously hilarious. Who’s so sensitive that a little bit of toothbrush water turns their GI tract into a barrio sewage pipe? Apparently this girl. We’re laughing our asses off … when all of the sudden her nose starts bleeding.
Tucker “Oh my God—you farted so hard it made your nose bleed!”
I almost pissed myself I was laughing so hard, as she ran into the bathroom to shit and clean up her face. If she’d have puked and achieved the hat trick of bodily fluids, I might have cared enough to go in there and help her. Instead, I passed out.
FINDER’S FEE
It was late in the week, and I was flirting with this girl that had fucked so many guys—just that week—that I probably should have put a condom on just to talk to her. As the case can be with a really slutty girl, there was something attractive about the way she handled herself. Her smile, her attitude, her … alright, I need to shut the fuck up. I wish I could justify my desire to fuck her as something other than a base, carnal urge. It wasn’t. The truth is, sometimes I can be a pathetic hump donkey, and this was one of those times.
After a ton of alcohol, enough for me to stop caring that she’d been passed around faster than the collection plate in a storefront church, we went back to her hotel room to fuck. We start out with some simple foreplay, I start fingering her clit, reach inside to rub on her g-spot, and I feel something weird.
It’s not cottony like a tampon, it’s kinda slippery. I think maybe it’s an IUD, so I wrap my finger around it to pull it out and make a joke … and it’s a condom.
A yellow, used condom was wrapped around my finger.
I was in such shock, and so drunk, it took me more than a few seconds to register what was going on. The normal, instantaneous logic chain broke down, and I had to revert to deliberate steps:
Step 1: That is a condom on your finger.
Step 2: It came out of her vagina.
Step 3: Since it came out of her vagina, it must be a used condom.
Step 4: Someone used that condom in her vagina.
Step 5: That someone wasn’t you.
Step 6: That is someone else’s used condom.
Step 7: YOUR FINGER IS TOUCHING SOMEONE ELSE’S USED CONDOM. YOUR FINGER IS TOUCHING SOMEONE ELSE’S USED CONDOM.
After staring at it for ten seconds and letting my brain work through the logic, I frantically wave my hand back and forth until it flings off onto the ground.
Tucker “WHAT THE FUCK!!!!”
Whore “Eew. Sorry.”
I stare at her in disgust, expecting some sort of apology or explanation of her whoreishness, or something that would explain this abomination. She had this contemplative drunken pause, like she was really considering the options.
Whore “Just put it in my ass.”
At that moment in my life—young, drunk, horny and hard, with a naked girl who wanted to fuck right in front of me—I could not argue with
that logic.
Tucker “Uhhh … OK.”
It’s not sloppy seconds if it’s a different hole, right?
Sometimes I disgust even myself.
BAMBI
I definitely hooked up with a lot of girls in Cancun. But not as many as I could have.
This one girl who was an education major at an SEC school (you make up your jokes with that set-up, you don’t need me to spoon feed it) left some club with me and was impatient to get back to her hotel room, so we took a cab instead of waiting for the bus. We were both really drunk, but that didn’t stop her from trying to make out with me in the cab. Which was fine, until she burped in my face, then got that look of panic that means only one thing:
Girl “Pull over, pull over!!”
I repeated it in Spanish so the driver would understand. It was unnecessary. The language of drunken whore-panic is international. He whipped the car over, and she opened the door to puke outside the cab. But, in her haste, she threw it open so hard, it swung back and hit her in the face, splashing a bunch of the vomit back onto her. I should have helped her, but I couldn’t because I was laughing too hard.
Girl “BLAAAAAAHHHHHH!! STOP LAUGHING!!! BLAAAAAAAAAAA HHHHHHHH!!”
I couldn’t stop laughing the entire way back to the hotel. I mean—picture that scene in your mind. What option did I have but to laugh at her? Well, I guess I could’ve consoled her and helped her wipe the vomit off of her face and dress … actually no, I couldn’t have done that. Someone who cared about her could have. All I could do was cry from laughter.
We finally got back to the hotel, and I helped her out of the cab. Watching her walk into the hotel was almost as funny as the cab door smashing her in the face. It was like watching Bambi learning to walk, if Bambi were a high-functioning alcoholic.
We got back to her room, and it was evident that this girl was in no condition to do anything other than pass out. I walked her to her room and laid her on the bed to make sure she didn’t drown in her own vomit (like the other guy):
Tucker “OK, you lie here on your stomach, here’s the trash can. If you need anything, call the front desk.”
Girl “Are you leaving?”
Tucker “Honey, there’s no need for me to stay, we can’t fuck.”
Girl “YOU DON’T WANT TO FUCK ME!??!?!”
Tucker “You are so drunk, I’m kinda shocked that you’re even still alive.”
Girl “WHY WON’T YOU FUUUUCK MEEEEEE??!?!?”
Then she started crying.
There she lay, puke in her hair and on her dress, missing a shoe, with tears streaking the vomit stains on her face, crying because some random guy won’t shove his penis into her drunk, almost lifeless body. This is a girl people now trust to teach their children. Hate to be the one to tell my Confederate flag-sporting friends, but if this is the type of girl educating your kids, it doesn’t look like the South will be rising again anytime soon.
SWEET CAROLINE
This was one of those things that I’m not sure I would have believed was even possible before I went to Cancun. Simply because I didn’t believe people got this drunk until I saw it:
This one bar in Cancun had what I guess you’d call Mexican Karaoke: the bar would give people a microphone and they’d sing along with the songs that were on the PA. There wasn’t a screen with the lyrics flashing that you could read, so if you didn’t know the words, it just became a drunken scream fest. Which could be fun times also.
Anyway, this one dude had come down to Cancun with his girlfriend (always a bad idea), and they broke up in the middle of the week. He took it harder than she did, presumably because she cheated on him first, and this was his first night out without her. He got the microphone, and requested the song “Sweet Caroline.” I guess his ex’s name was Caroline … so you can guess where this is going: express train to Awesome Town.
He was staggering around the stage singing the song—I’m pretty sure he was crying, but I was in the back of the bar and couldn’t quite see—when all of the sudden he fell off the stage and crashed into a bar table. It wasn’t that far of a fall, only like three feet or something, and even though the table broke and glass shattered everywhere, he jumped up quickly and got right back on stage to continue singing the song.
Then we saw it: He’d cut himself, right above the eye. BAD. It was shooting blood everywhere, like a UFC fighter who’d just taken a sharp elbow, all down his face and shirt, even dripping onto the stage.
Of course people see this and try to rush up there to help him. What does he do? HE PICKS UP THE MIC STAND, AND STARTS WILDLY SWINGING IT BACK AND FORTH LIKE A WEAPON TO FEND THEM OFF, screaming at the top of his lungs, over the song:
“NO! GET BACK!! I HAVE TO FINISH THE SONG!! I LOVE HER!!!”
This went on for at least a minute, him using the mic stand as a weapon against people trying to help him, as blood and tears poured down his face. Eventually the Mexican bouncers tackled him, and assisted him in his moment of physical and emotional trauma by throwing him out on the street. I would’ve helped him, but he wasn’t with my travel company. Plus, I think he was a Notre Dame kid, so fuck’em. What? It’s not like I left him unattended on a temporary tower during a windy day or something. (That’s a Notre Dame joke. If you want to know how awful that school is, Google the name Declan Sullivan.)
EAT YOUR HEART OUT JASON BOURNE
Mexico is a lawless place. I don’t care what the UN says, or what the State Department travel advisories tell you. The fact is that Mexico, as a whole, is a narco-state run by powerful regional cartels, with a hollow and largely irrelevant central government that is nothing more than window-dressing to appease the international community. Freedom is for those who can afford it, law is for sale, and what is fair is determined by who is most powerful. That’s the reality of Mexico. Cancun, Playa, Cabo, Puerto Vallarta—they are all much better than the interior of Mexico, but that is only because their survival depends on a steady flow of tourists with money to burn. To protect that, the government does a good job maintaining the appearance of western-style law and order through the direct threat of massive military intervention. Underneath it all, those places are not much different from the rest of Mexico.
I would explain this to every group of kids that came in every week. I’d emphasize to them that as long as they stayed in the normal places where tourists were meant to go, they were safer than a lot of places in America (e.g. Detroit), but if they went off the island, or fucked with the wrong people, they could disappear, and there was nothing I could do about it. Every kid followed my advice and had a good time. Except one.
I really can’t remember much about this reject Bubba Sparxxx. He was from a small school in Georgia, he had a thick southern accent, and he was possibly the most ridiculous wanna-be hustler on earth. He brought drugs with him to Mexico to sell, and SOLD OUT ON HIS FIRST DAY THERE! How do I know this? Because at the pool party on the second day, he asked me where he could get more.
Which brings us to that night. I think it was the Tuesday night party, because it was the smaller club, but all I remember was watching him being dragged by several large Mexican bouncers to the back of the club. If you’re being dragged to the front of the club, it only means that they’re throwing you out, no big deal. But if you’re getting dragged to the back—that’s bad. That means you’re about to get face-fucked by a pipe wrench.
I followed them, trying to plead his case. Normally the Mexicans would at least pretend to listen to me when something like this would happen, but whatever he’d done was so bad, they were paying me no mind at all. The kid managed to wiggle his way free and sprint down the hallway toward freedom, but waiting at the end were some more bouncers. The dude was caught between two groups of very pissed-off Mexicans, like the cheese in a violent and punitive quesadilla. They were advancing on him, so he did what any normal piece of southern-fried white trash would do: he grabbed the handle of a nearby push broom and started swinging it at them wildly, trying t
o keep them at bay. Clearly this wasn’t going to work for long, as they were advancing on two fronts. Then he recognized where he was and saw what was next to him … I saw the recognition in his eyes before I realized what he was going to do:
He swung the push broom above his head as hard as he could, slamming it into the sprinklers above him. Then he grabbed the fire extinguisher off the wall, ripped the pin, and started charging at the Mexicans, blasting them with fine, white power. Just as he did that, the sprinklers caught and EXPLODED water. You know what happens when one sprinkler goes off? Well, in this club it meant that they ALL went off.
It caused complete bedlam, like what would happen on Twitter if Justin Bieber admitted he was gay.
The sprinklers doused everyone with water, all the fire alarms immediately went off, the klaxon horns blasted, the emergency lights went on, and the entire club—all 500+ drunks—went into a complete panic. The bouncers and the manager freaked out and started running in all directions, as reject Bubba Sparxxx slipped past them and into the night, as cool as his airbrushed blacklight t-shirt.
I actually stood there frozen for a second—drenched in Mexican water, breathing in nasty white CO2 dust, 130-decibel horns blaring in my ear—because I couldn’t stop thinking to myself: