Assholes Finish First (30 page)

We go back to my place, make out at the front door for a minute or two, then drunkenly stumble in and throw our clothes everywhere. She gives me one more peck on the lips, pushes me onto the bed, shoots me this devious, almost nefarious look, and then dives toward my crotch…

…skipping past my penis…

…totally ignoring my balls…

…and starts feasting on my asshole.

I am not exaggerating when I say “feasting.” She buried herself in it like a hungry dog in a jar of peanut butter. I look down and her face is so far into my ass crack that all I see is her hair. It looks like a blond mop growing out of my taint.

Don’t misunderstand—I am not complaining. I like it when girls eat out my ass, and she was a fucking expert: She jacked me off while her tongue worked my ass like a lesbian porn star. That is not an easy thing to do, but she did it, and did it well. By the time she was done, you could have eaten off my asshole.

Of course, after I came, the reality of the scene rose up and smacked me in the face. I could think about only three things:

1. If she was so eager to do this to me, how many other guys had she done this to? More disturbing,

2. I had forgotten until that moment that I hadn’t showered since my last shit. And MOST disturbing,

3. She hadn’t even asked about #2.

The next morning, I roll her over onto her stomach and hit it from behind, because I’m afraid she’ll try to kiss me. Sorry Typhoid Mary, I’m not tasting any feces, not even my own.

When we are done, I jokingly call her PoopLips. She doesn’t understand why.

Tucker “Uhhhhhh… are you the same girl as last night?”

PoopLips “Please die. Of course I’m the same girl, DUH!”

Tucker “Do you not remember licking my ass like it was a Push Pop?”

PoopLips “OH MY GOD I DID NOT!”

Tucker “Of course you didn’t. After all, if you don’t remember it, then it didn’t happen, right?”

I tease her about it a few more times, she denies it more, and I assume she is just playing around. Then I make her leave because, you know, I have to play Madden or something.

Later that week she came back over. This time she wore normal laundry-washing clothes… and a pearl necklace. Like a legit, real pearl necklace, not costume jewelry. She might as well have painted a bull’s-eye on her face with the words
AIM HERE
. Not thinking her ridiculous prop was enough of a hint, it took her only about three minutes to spit out this gem:

PoopLips “No one has ever cum on me. I was a good girl in college.”

Tucker “Right. Just like you’ve never eaten out an asshole?”

PoopLips “I didn’t do that!”

Tucker “Of course you didn’t. But that thing you didn’t do, you’d better repeat it, if you want to see me again.”

She put up about as much resistance as the French gave the Germans in 1940. She went right to work, gave me unreal head, and of course there was fantastic rim action too. This girl knew her way around a dick; she was much better at sucking dick than any French girl I’ve ever hooked up with. And they supposedly invented fellatio.

Tucker “So are you still going to maintain you haven’t eaten out my ass?”

PoopLips “Obviously not, as I just did it. But you are the first guy I’ve ever done this with.”

Tucker “Does that lie work on other guys?”

PoopLips “I’m telling the truth!”

Tucker “Of course you are.”

It always makes me laugh when girls play the “I never do this” game. I mean, of course every girl has to have a first time, and many girls have purposely come to me to be their first (that story is coming up), but seriously, ladies: When you claim never to have done something, and then are enough of an expert to teach a Learning Annex course on it… I
mean, come on. Just like it takes years of practice to consistently knock down an NBA three-pointer, it takes a lot of practice to be good at oral sex. Yeah, he may have all the natural talent in the world, but Kobe Bryant still shoots 500 threes a day. Whether you are lying to yourself or just to us, stop. Being a head doctor is nothing to be ashamed of.

Tucker “Well, whatever the case may be, you keep sucking dick like that, and you’re going to have a husband in no time.”

She feigned anger, but I could tell she was proud of her skills.

PoopLips “Whatever, you know I am very smart.”

Tucker “Who said you weren’t? Intelligence and fellatio skills are not mutually exclusive.”

PoopLips “I know if I wanted to, I could be all successful and whatever, but all I really want is to have a family and be a stay-at-home mom.”

Tucker “You going to kiss your kids with those lips?”

I promised PoopLips I would not disclose her real name, and of course I will abide by that oath. But gentlemen, for one of you, she’s going to be using your toothbrush, drinking from your water bottles, and kissing your kids. She’ll dress conservatively and wear pearls, and she’ll swear she’s never done anything like “that” with any other guy.

I’
M
N
OT
T
HAT
T
YPE OF
G
IRL

Occurred—May 2007

One day I got an email from a girl who went on and on about how fascinated she was by me and by my life, and how, even though she didn’t want to sleep with me at all—no, NOT HER, she didn’t do things like that—she really wanted to get to know me. Since she loved doing laundry, she would be happy to do mine while she was at my place “picking
my brain.” Yawn. Of course she attached a picture to this email, the same email where she strenuously took pains to explain that she had no desire to have sex with me.

She gets to my place in NYC at 3pm on a Tuesday. She is dressed up like she’s going to see
Phantom of the Opera
on Broadway: very fashionable blouse and skirt, full makeup, and smells great. She actually does start a load of laundry, but I watch her do it, and though she is going through the steps properly—separates colors and whites, turns the water on, pours the detergent in, waits for it to fill a little, then puts the clothes in—it’s pretty clear by her deliberate motions that she’s not used to this at all:

Tucker “Have you ever done laundry before?”

Girl “Well… no, not really.”

Tucker “Then how did you know what to do? I mean, it’s not brain surgery, but I doubt anyone would just get it right by luck.”

Girl “I had our maid teach me the steps before I came over.”

I laugh for a good five minutes and then tease her relentlessly about it. From there, it takes her only about twenty minutes to decide she wants to find out if my reputation is true, and we fuck. Afterward, we have this conversation. I wrote this thing out almost right away because it was so shocking to me at the time (though considering that she is big in the Tinsley Mortimer socialite crowd in NYC, it shouldn’t have been):

Girl “So… would you have a threesome with me and another girl?”

Tucker “Are you kidding? Why not ask me if I want a ribeye and a beer? Of course I would.”

Girl “This is exciting! I’m sure it’s not your first threesome, so you more than likely know what you’re doing. How does it work? I have never even kissed a girl!”

Tucker “Don’t worry about that. I have that angle covered very, very well. I basically lived with a bisexual girl for a year. I’ve had so many threesomes I got bored with them for a while. All you have to do is show up and follow instructions, I’ll handle the rest.”

Girl “That is too sexy. Do you provide the girl or me?”

Tucker “I can. Depends what you want to do and what kind of girl you want. The more info you give me, the better you will like the actual event.”

Girl “I want someone extremely attractive. I don’t have fake tits, so it would be nice to experience a girl with some. Most important, the girl must be clean. So this means no fat girls or strippers. Or Asians. I assume you don’t sleep with other types of ethnic girls anyway.”

She seriously said that. I thought she was kidding at first, but then I remembered this was an Upper East Side WASPy girl, and all those types are undercover racists.

Tucker “Would you like me to dance for you too, Massa?”

Girl “I’m not saying I’m anywhere near the hottest girl around, but this is my fantasy and I want it to be an amazing night to remember the rest of my life.”

Tucker “You’ve thought about this a lot, haven’t you?”

Girl “I have always wanted to have a threesome with another girl. However, my very conservative boyfriend does not approve of my choice.”

Tucker “Wait, wait—you have a boyfriend? And your boyfriend doesn’t want to have sex with you AND another girl?”

Girl “Thank you! He is an abnormally conservative person. He is a pediatrician on Long Island and seems to think it’s beneath him.”

Tucker “Then why are you dating him? And why are you here fucking me?”

Girl “Don’t get me wrong, he is a great man. Plus, I’m not the type of girl that does this, so I don’t need to date someone who enjoys nightly multipartner sex sessions. That is why I chose you. From reading your stories, I knew you had an immense appreciation for great sex. We don’t have to worry about feelings getting in the way or embarrassing encounters afterward. Just amazing sex, then we can go on our way. Sound good?”

Tucker “You chose me? Haha. OK, whatever, fine with me. But you say you aren’t the type of girl that does this… but you are doing it. So that means you are that type of girl.”

Girl “No, it doesn’t.”

Tucker “What? If A = B, and B = C, then A = C. The transitive property is one of the foundations of logic.”

Girl “But I’m not that type of girl.”

Tucker “Do words have meaning to you? How can you do something and then claim you aren’t the type of person who does that? If you suck a dick, that makes you a dick sucker. If you fuck me, that makes you a cheater.”

Girl “No, I’m not one of ‘those’ types. I don’t do those things.”

After she left that day, I never talked to her again. That is how repulsed I was by our conversation. I will never lay claim to being some sort of moral crusader as I may not have the most conventional moral code, but I do live by a very distinct and clear set of principles—they are just different from most people’s.

I literally stopped fucking her because I found her morally repugnant. I know, makes me laugh too.

N
ILS AND THE
P
EPPERDINE
D-G
IRL

Occurred—January 2008

When writing this story, I sent Nils an email asking him which of my laundry whores he thought was the funniest or the most delusional, because there were so many and I wanted to whittle them down to the best three. Nils is a longtime friend and wrote and produced the movie adaptation of my first book with me, so he was on my couch in LA during some of this time and met many of them. He sent me a one-sentence email:

“That fucking Pepperdine D-Girl. I still get angry when I think about her.”

Oh yes. I had almost totally forgotten about her. It started when she sent me a basic email about wanting to clean my clothes but did something
no one else had done: She included a pic of herself… with a washer and dryer. Seriously.

I started writing up the story about her, but a few days later Nils sent me this follow-up about her. I laughed so hard at the length and depth he went to express his lingering disdain for her, that I scrapped what I wrote in favor of his version.

“For the extensive catalog of your negative qualities identified and exploited by journalists and haterz for their personal gain and amusement, there has been little discussion of your two greatest qualities: loyalty and generosity. There is no greater example than the 18 months during which we finished the script and got it funded. I’d quit law school, moved in with my then-girlfriend, and you floated me cash, picked up food and bar bills, and let me crash on your couch no questions asked for as long as I needed to. When it came time to make the financing deal, you represented my interests faithfully, making sure they were in lockstep with yours and fully accounted for. It was the kind of loyalty and generosity you rarely see in this world anymore, and the kind you NEVER see in Hollywood.

It was not unconditional, however. It came with a price. That price?

Putting up with your stupid whores.

And of all the species of whore in the Tucker Maxonomy of Whoredom, the ones who fucked you under the pretense of doing your laundry were the worst. In normal relationships, laundry is a relatively intimate thing. You can learn a lot about someone by his laundry. What size he is. What colors he likes. What kind of underwear he has. How well he wipes. You can become familiar with a person rather quickly by doing his laundry… unless of course you are on the business end of a purely exploitative exchange of services, and you don’t realize it. Like these stupid whores.

They do your laundry, fuck you, and then hang out, sometimes overnight, and it feels almost like a real relationship. Relaxing. Cozy. They don’t realize that the only reasons you haven’t kicked them out yet are that they haven’t done anything to annoy you and it’s easier to just ignore them while you watch TV or work on the computer. Plus, there’s morning sex to consider.