Assholes Finish First (45 page)

When I heard that Tucker was touring the nation in promotion of
I Hope They Serve Beer In Hell
, the movie based on his bestselling book, I immediately jumped at the chance to meet my mentor. I secured a seat at the movie premiere at the Bridge. And of course, I was banking on the possibility that I might be able to seduce him, and thus fuck the man who inspired my love of casual sex.

Tucker Max has sex for the conquest. He admits it. As Tucker writes, “Some things in life you want to do just so you can say you’ve done them.”

I wanted to fuck Tucker Max for the simple fact that thereafter I could say, “I had sex with Tucker Max.” Tucker Max is a legend. I consider it an admirable feat to have slept with him.

But I didn’t want to be just another one of the hundreds of girls he’s fucked. I wanted my own personal Tucker Max story.

If you’re familiar with Tucker’s writing you’ll know that in order to be forever immortalized in writing, a girl will have to do something pretty extreme. In many of his stories, the girls he fucks are memorable for their utter vacuity or general whoreishness. I decided that if I was going to be the subject of a Tucker Max story, it was going to have to be an exchange of mutual respect.

I dressed for the premiere like a shameless slut. I wanted it to be pretty obvious that I was down to fuck, and the tight little black number that exposed my tits and rode up my ass made the perfect statement. I got a few disapproving looks from other female audience members, but whatever, I was there on a mission, and couldn’t spare the energy to put the others in their place.

After the movie, I slipped into the movie theater’s bar to get a drink. Tucker was signing autographs, and the line was a mile long. I had some time to kill before I could wrangle my way onto the tour bus. I ordered a vodka and Diet Coke, and not five minutes after I got my drink, I was invited onto the tour bus for a drink while I waited for Tucker. Fuck, they were going to booze me up for free and I just paid six dollars for shitty well vodka? I fixed myself a sugar-free Red Bull and Ketel One. Not top shelf, but certainly better than the cat piss I was drinking at 12 Lounge.

Finally Tucker arrived. He gave me an approving once-over. Sweet. This was going to be easy.

Like Tucker says in “The Handprint Story,” I was indeed giving him “Fuck Me” eyes, and he returned them. After about 45 minutes or so, the rest of the bus guests took off and I was left to have a private conversation with Tucker. We made a bit of small talk; he asked me what I’m majoring in and all that standard bullshit. One of the guys on the tour bus told Tucker that they had to leave for Boston in about half an hour for early morning press engagements. This was no time for pleasantries. Point blank, I told Tucker that my apartment was kitty-corner to the bus, and we left.

The rest is pretty much exactly how Tucker tells it. I am, in fact, a dirty girl. Even without Tucker clarifying that he means this in “the BEST possible way” I take no offense at this appellation. I like kinky sex and have no problem expressing it. Like I said, if I was going to fuck Tucker it was going to be on my terms. So I told him in the elevator that I wanted to be tied up and smacked around a bit. And Tucker was very accommodating to my wishes.

The sex was enjoyable. We didn’t have a lot of time, so we just had to make a quick go of it. As Tucker explains, I then told him I wanted him to sign the handprints on my ass. He complied. We took a photo.

After we fucked, I put my dress back on and accompanied Tucker to the door. But the night wasn’t over. I only had about 4 or so drinks in me and was only slightly inebriated. So I went back out and met my friends at the bar across the street. The bus was gone.

The next afternoon Tucker texted me to make sure it was alright for the picture to go up on the blog. To which I replied, “Of course you can put it on the site! It’s fucking hilarious. It better be a good story.”

And I’m wholly satisfied with “The Handprint Story.” It’s short, but does the incident justice. More importantly, not once in the story does Tucker demean me. Only compliments. I couldn’t be more pleased. I come across exactly how I am: an aggressive flirt, a freak in the bed, and a huge fan. I have no qualms.

Tucker told me that he wants to fuck again, so he can really work me over. If we have sex again, I can guarantee there’ll be a tale to top “The Handprint Story.” He has my number, and knows where to find me.

O
BJECTIFICATION

Occurred—September 2009

I honestly forget in which city I met this girl on the movie tour—I feel like she might have been a Michigan State girl—but she was pretty persistent about fucking me, to the point where she tracked me down in my hotel room, woke me up from my nap, and did everything but pull my dick inside her.

As soon as we were finished—and I mean the very fucking second I rolled off her, before I even took the condom off—she picked up her phone and started texting on it.

Tucker “What are you doing?”

Girl “Texting my friends, of course!”

Tucker “What are you texting them?”

Girl “I just fucked Tucker Max!”

I looked over at her phone. She wasn’t just texting some friends.

Tucker “You are MASS TEXTING your whole phone book?”

Girl “Of course; it’d take forever to text each of my friends individually and tell them that I fucked Tucker Max.”

Tucker “You know, I’m an actual person. I’m right here next to you, in fact.”

Girl “Wait, what? Hold on, let me finish this.”

G
OOD
G
AME,
G
REAT
G
AME, AND
N
O
G
AME

Occurred—March 2009

Many people misinterpreted a lot of things about my first book. For example, a ton of people think that because I mostly wrote about my crazy nights out, that’s all there is to me—that I’m drunk all the time and my entire life is a 24/7 party.

This just isn’t remotely true. The book is only a small slice of my life, the absolute craziest things that happened to me over a ten-year period. Of course there is plenty more to my life, I just don’t write about it because it’s not entertaining. Who cares that I go mountain biking with my dog or that I’m an avid rap fan or that I am into paleolithic eating? None of that makes people laugh, so I keep it to myself.

Along the same lines, some people think that because I don’t write about girlfriends or meaningful female relationships, that I’ve never had one. That’s definitely not true. I get some variation of this question a lot, and it always confuses me: “Do you believe in love and/or do you think you are capable of love?”

I mean, OF COURSE I believe in love. Who doesn’t? Getting drunk and having sex with a hot girl is awesome; getting drunk and having sex with a hot girl you love is even better. Love is amazing; it’s one of the greatest emotions, if not the greatest human emotion there is. The only people who spout anti-love drivel are the defeated emo navel gazers who were hurt at some point in their lives and refuse to face the pain and get over
it, so instead they spread toxic bullshit like a festering boil. Get over yourself, get past your pain, and quit being stupid. When it’s right, love is awesome.

The only reason I am even bringing this up is that I have a story about something astounding that happened with a girlfriend of mine. But the entertaining part requires a proper setup, so bear with me for a minute. It’ll pay off, I promise—this is the last story in the book for a reason.

The Backstory

From September 2008 to about July 2009, I had a girlfriend. This was not a bullshit fling; it was a real, committed, monogamous relationship, with a great girl I was very much in love with. Her name was “HotNurse.”

At this point in my life, it is not only common for girls to email me to meet or hook up, it’s how I meet the majority of women I interact with. I get so much contact from girls through email or Facebook or Twitter or whatever that I don’t need to do anything else. Like I said in the intro to the second half of the book, I haven’t had to go out and pick up a girl in years. HotNurse was no different. She emailed me to hang out. She explained that she was a traveling nurse who had just moved to LA from Michigan, didn’t know anyone in town, and though she didn’t really know who I was either, she had read my book on the plane to LA, loved it, thought I sounded like fun, and wanted to meet someone cool to hang out with.

Normally I am not eager to respond to emails from girls who want something from me but aren’t obviously looking to hook up. This is for many reasons, the main one being a lot of girls who email me clearly suck; either they try to play bitchy (why would anyone think that would work with me?), they try some stupid call out or lame challenge, or they just ramble pointlessly about how cool they are or how much they drink or what a slut they are, but they’d never sleep with me, but please let’s hang out anyway.

HotNurse didn’t do any of that. She seemed like a normal, nice girl. We exchanged a few emails, and the more I interacted with her, the more I realized there was something different about this girl. It’s hard to describe, but after reading hundreds of thousands of emails from strangers over the past eight years, I have developed a pretty sensitive radar for personality in email, and—though she might not be looking to hook up—she came across as a fun, intelligent girl who would definitely be enjoyable to be around. At the very least, it would be worth meeting her for beers.

On the appointed night, I walked into the bar, and though I don’t believe in love at first sight—only lust at first sight—something about her just hit me in the right way. Of course she was hot; about a hundred times hotter in real life than the picture she had sent me. But hot is easy to find. And of course she was sweet; almost any nurse you meet will be a caring person, and HotNurse was the real deal. What made her stand out, what was so attractive about her, was the happiness that radiated off of her. Living in LA, I had forgotten what it was like to be around a real human, and here was the opposite of everything bad about LA: a fun, happy girl who was sweet and caring and compassionate, but still sexy and smart. I was smitten. Not only that, but her fake tits were incredible.

I’m not all that selective about who I fuck, but I am extremely selective about who I date. If you’re a girl and want my dick in you, you pretty much only need to make it easy for me. If you want me to date you… good luck. Any sort of commitment from me, and there has to be a serious underlying reason; with her, there was. We clicked on every level. So much so that we had sex four hours after we met. It was incredible too. I think we had sex five or six times that first night/morning, and we hung out pretty much every free moment we had had from that day forward. I am not sure when we started officially dating, but it was basically a done deal before it happened. She was the only person I hooked up with from the moment we met until after we broke up.

A lot of girls ask me what it will take for a woman to tame me. That’s not possible, and it’s the wrong way to look at relationships. HotNurse did not
tame me. I was ready to be in a relationship—I had been for a while—and she was the right person at the right time. She didn’t try to change me or alter me. We just fit.

HotNurse and I dated for ten months, which is a long time (for me, at least), and this was a real relationship, built on shared experience and meaningful connection. I’d had other meaningful relationships with great girls in the past, but this one was different; it was the most intense, meaningful, and rewarding romantic relationship I’ve ever had.

We did break up, though. It was not a nasty, angry breakup, but was difficult to get through, for both of us. We probably broke up and got back together three or four times before it stuck, as is common in situations like this.

Why’d we break up? I could write 10,000 words about that, but it comes down to the fact that we weren’t exactly right for each other. We connected deeply on many levels, but not all the levels you need to for a sustainable, long-term relationship. That’s the hardest relationship to break off, the one that is right in so many ways but not quite all the way right. The specific reasons aren’t that interesting, except to know it wasn’t because either of us cheated or betrayed trust or did anything bad to the other. Sometimes two people can be very much in love and, despite their attempts to make the relationship work, still don’t get there. That was the case with us. Sucks, but that’s life sometimes.

You are probably expecting me to reverse this and come back with a snappy one-liner that puts her down or whatever. It’s not coming. She’s a wonderful, caring, compassionate woman whom I deeply and truly loved, and I’m glad we dated. We’re still friends, and she’ll always have a positive place in my heart.

If that was the end of our story, I would NEVER have put it in the book. I mean, as great as it was for me, none of that part is funny or entertaining—so who the fuck cares besides me and her?

Well, our otherwise boring love story got very weird and astounding at the end. What happened to us I didn’t even think was POSSIBLE, and when you can shock me—Tucker Max—that is something I have to write about.