Assholes Finish First (34 page)

Subject: re: Charitable Sex

Think of it as an act of selfless humanitarianism.

It’s a win-win-win situation: the [charity recipients] get $, you get karma points, and the highest bidder can have tax deductible sex with a best-selling author and cultural icon!

We’ll fly you in for the event… and it would definitely make good material for any future literary endeavors you might pursue…

Like I said earlier, it’s not an easy thing to creep me out. It takes a lot to make me feel queasy and uncomfortable and morally repulsed. Well this did it. In a BIG way.

Even if a hot girl wins the auction, I’m still, on a core level, having sex for money. Once I step up on that podium and let the bidding begin, I essentially give up all choice, and I become nothing more than a slave to the person who buys my sex.

I may endure all sorts of nonsense because of my dick—I may even properly be referred to as a slave to my dick—but at least it’s MY dick. I can accept being a slave to myself and my own desires, I can accept that because of this I have to do things to get pussy, I can even accept having to endure some bullshit for pussy… but I cannot accept being a slave to pussy. Not even for an anti-slavery charity.

You may be laughing, saying something about how I should not be surprised, that this is the logical consequence of the path I have chosen in life. And you may be right… but fuck you.

B
ABY
M
AMA
D
RAMA

Occurred—March 2008

No one likes condoms. They’re awkward to put on, they require you to interrupt a passionate act in order to unroll a latex tube onto your dick, they diminish the tactile intensity of skin-on-skin contact at the most pleasurable location, and they fucking stink like a chemical factory. I hate condoms as much as the next guy, but here is the list of things I hate more than condoms:

—herpes

—chlamydia

—syphilis

—gonorrhea

—AIDS

—having bastard children with dysfunctional girls

If you’re like me and have been doing things like this for a while—guy or girl—you know the worst thing on that list is the last one. Don’t think so? Every STD on that list is either curable or not a big deal, except of course AIDS. And even that’s debatable. Yeah, AIDS definitely sucks, but Magic Johnson has had AIDS for twenty years. Do you think he’s spent more money on his medicine for that disease, or on child support for his numerous out-of-wedlock kids?

I always try to use condoms, but condoms can break. Sometimes I put them on wrong and they come off. Sometimes I’m drunk and just forget. Other times I can’t find any, get impatient, and dive in anyway. If you are a guy and can always think rationally in that situation, please tell me your secret, because I have only enough blood in my body for one head to function at a time.

But even though mistakes with condoms are inevitable, the decision about using a condom is yours to make, and if you don’t make it, you’re stupid. Take heed and learn something important from my stupidity, and DO NOT EVER believe the following sentence:

“You don’t need to wear a condom—I’m on birth control.”

That is always a lie. Even if she’s telling the truth about being on birth control, it’s a lie that you don’t need to wear a condom. Other than festering, oozing sores directly on her labia, there is no bigger red flag of impending danger than when you are putting on a condom and a random girl STOPS YOU. Abandon hope all ye who enter her.

This is not me moralizing. I tell you this from experience. The last time I foolishly believed that lie was in 2008. I did a book event, and during the Q&A, I noticed this girl in the corner, eye-fucking the shit out of me. I looked over at her—she was so hot my dick immediately turned into a railroad spike. She didn’t just have amazing tits, they were better than amazing. I normally like fake tits the best, but hers were those gravity-defying natural tits that are one in a million, and even then exist for only a short window of time. Her eyes were a piercing light amber, like a lioness. She was some sort of indeterminate mixed race and had that hybrid vigor hotness that can be so great.

When she came through the line to get her book signed, she talked to me for a minute, but she was just too hot for me to listen to anything she said. What little I did hear made it clear she was young, immature, not emotionally stable in the least, and completely obsessed with me. I have a name for this: My wheelhouse.

I write my number in her book, tell her to call me, and I swear I could smell her get wet right there. She starts texting me before she even leaves the bookstore, and it’s hardly dark before she’s naked in my hotel bed.

We are getting ready to fuck when she seductively whispers in my ear, her warm, sour-apple-candy-scented breath wafting into my nostrils:

HotHybrid “I want to feel every inch of you inside me.”

Without hesitating, I reach for a condom. There was no question this girl was as fecund as the Fertile Crescent; she was that type of young girl you can get pregnant just by looking at her.

HotHybrid “It’s OK. I’m on birth control. I want to feel your cum inside of me.”

I am a grown man who’s been in the game for more than 15 years—I
definitely
know better. I hesitate, am about to do the smart thing and turn her down… but she finds my weak spot. She starts licking and kissing the back of my neck and shoulders. If you’re a girl and can do that well, I’m as powerless as you were before the 19th Amendment.

All rational cognitive thought leaves my brain, and I push her on her back and hit the hole like Walter Payton: hard, focused, and unstoppable (though sadly for her, still white). I stayed an extra day in her city so I could fuck her more, spending essentially every waking moment the next two days firing it into her with reckless abandon. I pumped so much cum in her she could have stayed hydrated on it for a month. The sex was so primal and intense, her vagina took part of my soul that weekend, and I gave it up with aplomb. I am getting hard right now just remembering it.

Any retard can tell you what happened next:

Three weeks later she drives to my place, ostensibly to see me and fuck some more (she lived in a different city but close enough to drive). But instead of sex, she wants to talk.

HotHybrid “I took two tests. I’m pregnant.”

Tucker “I thought you were on birth control?”

HotHybrid “I am.”

Tucker “Then how did you get pregnant?”

HotHybrid “I don’t know. I guess it happens sometimes?”

Tucker “Are you fucking anyone else?”

HotHybrid “OF COURSE NOT!”

Tucker “OK, well, do you need help paying for the abortion?”

HotHybrid “Abortion? I don’t want to do that!”

Tucker “Are you morally opposed to it, or just don’t want to do it?”

HotHybrid “I don’t know… I just don’t want to do it, I guess.”

Tucker “You guess? You were on the pill, right? This means you have no moral issue with birth control and don’t want kids. Well, if the oral contraception fucks up, this is the next option.”

HotHybrid “It’s gross and I don’t like it.”

Tucker “You’d rather have a child???”

I try to discuss this with her, to make her understand that I don’t want a child with a 19 year old whose last name I don’t even know. And that as much as she may want to have kids at some point, doing it with a committed husband is the right way to raise a child—not with a baby daddy who will be fucking lots of other girls and not returning her calls.

It goes nowhere. This girl is just not able or willing to think about anything beyond how sexy she’d look pregnant and all the cool baby stuff she’d get to buy. The idea that the child was not a doll, but a human being who was going to require two decades of care, was beyond the comprehension or interest of her 19 year old brain. And then she lets this slip:

HotHybrid “I mean, plus you’re like famous and stuff. Everyone wants a famous dad.”

I almost laughed. My childhood dream was to be an NBA point guard, but I am white, 6 feet tall, and have small hands, so that dream wasn’t in the cards for me. Looks like having a kid out of wedlock with some groupie is the closest I’m going to get. Only 11 more to catch up with Shawn Kemp.

She sets the first doctor’s appointment for a week later, and asks me not only to pay for it, but also to come along. I agree to drive the three fucking hours to her city, but only because I figure I can get the OB/GYN to make her understand what having a kid means, and discuss options other than keeping the child.

I pick her up, and she’s giddy with excitement, talking about names and wondering what features of mine it’s going to have and whether it’s going to be a boy or a girl.

HotHybrid “What kind of name do you like? If it’s a boy, I like more traditional names like Joseph or Mark, but if it’s a girl, I like unique names, like Anastasia and Alyandra. Do you think it’s going to be a boy or a girl?”

Tucker “I hope it’s stillborn.”

HotHybrid “I hope it has your eyes, you have the coolest blue eyes, but I want it to have my hands, yours are too stumpy and meaty.”

At this point, it starts sinking in: This fucking girl is serious about having a child. OF MINE. It wasn’t really real to me until this moment. This is NOT good.

By the time we get to the doctor’s office and go into the ultrasound room, I am visibly and seriously depressed. Like, to the point where I am sick to my stomach and can’t even make jokes anymore, because she is very serious about having this kid.

It’s not just the money she’s going to want that’s upsetting me; this is more of a personal issue. I grew up in a single-mother household with a largely absentee father, and it sucked. That’s not how children should be raised, and I do NOT want to be responsible for bringing a child into that situation. I definitely want to have kids, lots of them, but I want to do it in the right situation, when I’m in a stable, committed relationship and ready to be a father and provide a healthy, loving, safe environment for my children to grow up in.

Not to mention, I want to do it with a woman I love, one who is just as committed to being a good parent. God fucking forbid I do it with THIS girl. Yeah, she’s hotter than a blast furnace, but she’s about as smart and ambitious as one too. She goes to community college for massage therapy, works at the Abercrombie outlet, still eats Jolly Ranchers, and lives in an MTV reality for fuck’s sake. I’m not even sure how she can pay her rent, much less expect to be a good mother. And now, because of
me, she’s breeding? And not only will the child be mine, but it’s my fault that it’s going to be cursed with this retard as its mother? FUCK. I want to puke.

There is a nurse and an ultrasound tech in the room. I have dated enough nurses to know that, as a group, they are pretty smart, and this one was no different. One look at my face, and no rings on any fingers, and she knew what was up. But they are pros, so they tend not to ask any questions beyond the immediate pregnancy. I’m really only half paying attention, trying to think about how to deal with this, until I hear the tech:

Tech “There’s the yolk sac, and you can just barely see the heartbeat there, if you look. So it’s six or seven weeks old. Everything looks good.”

Tucker “Wait—what did you just say? How old is it?”

Tech “About six weeks.”

Tucker “Are you sure?”

Tech “Of course.”

Tucker “Is there ANY chance at all it can be” [
I pause to do the math in my head, counting back from the first day we fucked
] “31 days old?”

Tech “No. None at all. At 4 weeks, the baby looks very different. And this baby has a discernible heartbeat, which can happen after 6 weeks, but not before. It’s definitely not younger than 6 weeks. It might be 7 weeks. Gimme a minute, I can do some measurements and tell you the exact number of days if you want.”

I look at HotHybrid and see pure panic in her eyes. Instantaneously, everything becomes crystal clear. I can’t believe I didn’t think about it earlier.

Tucker “You fucking liar.”

HotHybrid “No, Tucker, it’s got to be a mistake—”

The knot in my stomach releases, the monkey hops off my back, and I jump so high in celebration I almost hit the ceiling. I didn’t think it was possible to be any more excited than when you get a negative STD test back, but this tops it, big-time. It’s like winning the whore lottery!

Tucker “We fucked 31 days ago. FOUR WEEKS!”

HotHybrid “No, wait, Tucker—”

Tucker “YOU BETTER CALL MAURY! BECAUSE I AM NOT THE FATHER!!!!”

I have a confession to make. I love daytime TV. Maury Povich, especially. Not only that, but music-wise, I am a huge rap fan. It’s pretty much all I listen to, and even though I am very white, I was so exuberant that I went straight ghetto crunk Shawty Putt on her:

Tucker “DAT BABY DON’T LOOK LIKE ME!!!!”

HotHybrid “No, Tucker, not—”

Tucker “We were doin’ our thang, but dat nappy-head baby lookin’ like T-Pain!!!”

HotHybrid “Tucker, wait, Tucker, please wait, I can explain—”

The ultrasound tech is confused. She is white and clearly doesn’t understand what is going on at all. The nurse is a middle-aged black woman and figures out what is happening and immediately starts laughing. Though she might be laughing at me butchering the lyrics and acting the fool more than at the situation.