This was quite the shock for me. I tried to be cool about it. I told her it was no big deal, that everyone has issues, hers just happened to be more out in the open than most, and that I would be supportive… all right, who am I bullshitting? I laughed like a fucking hyena, right in her face.
I mean, come on, the girl had a bag of crap on her hip, like some sort of old Western shitslinger. What do you want from me? Caring? Compassion? Sorry, we’re sold out. I immediately asked the first thing that came to my mind:
Tucker “So if you shit in a bag, can we have butt sex and not have to worry about getting crap on my penis?”
Girl “Not exactly. My asshole has been sewn shut.”
Tucker “GET THE FUCK OUT! YOUR ASSHOLE HAS BEEN SEWN SHUT?”
Girl “Uh, yeah.”
Tucker “I want to see, right now.”
I rolled her over and stuck my finger down there. Lo and behold, THERE WAS NO ASSHOLE. It was just all crack, from top to bottom!
She told me that since she never used it, her asshole was sewn shut to prevent infection. I couldn’t hold off anymore. Sex be damned, there were jokes to be made:
Tucker “So I guess opinions aren’t like assholes, at least not for you?”
Girl “Very funny.”
Tucker “If I go too hard, could I fuck your shit right into that bag. I could literally fuck the shit out of you couldn’t I?”
Girl “Tucker…”
Tucker “What happens if I’m too vigorous? Will the shit hit the fan?”
Girl “Well…”
Tucker “You’re only a two-holer! I couldn’t even three-hole you if I tried!”
She explained that as long as she was careful, she could do anything any other girl could do—except shit out of her asshole, of course. Not wanting to lose the opportunity to mark a new type of handicap off my Sexual To-Do List, I coaxed her back into a romantic mood. Just as we started hooking up again, she whispered:
“Be gentle, you don’t want this thing to break.”
TUCKER AND HIS FIRST MILF
Occurred—April 2002
At this point, the majority of my friends are married. Most of their weddings were in places like Vegas or the Outer Banks. One of my boys decided to buck the trend and get hitched in Akron, Ohio. Really. If marriage is hell, I guess he figured it was fitting to have the ceremony at its gates.
He’s a college friend, so I meet up the day before the wedding with my other college buddies and we head out to find the “nightlife” in Akron. What an awful experience. It was like looking for a clean spot in a dirty ass. Leaving some bar, an attractive girl with two other girls and a guy walk by me. I give it a shot:
Tucker “You want to go to a wedding with me tomorrow?”
Girl [stops, looks me up and down] “Maybe. Where are you going right now?”
Tucker “Wherever you are.”
Girl “You can come with us.” [motions to her friends getting into a taxi] “We’re going to get something to eat.”
Tucker “Don’t offer if you’re not serious.”
Girl “I’m very serious. Come with me.”
I wish I could bottle the seductive look she gave me so I could sniff it when I jack off.
I hop into the car with them, don’t even say good-bye to my friends, and head off. We go to some shithole bar/restaurant, but actually have a great time. The girl who invited me is very into me, and I’ve got the perfect amount of alcohol in me, so I’m lighting up the table with jokes about any and everything: our obviously coked-out waitress, the Akron night-life, and the other single girl at the table, who told me, and I quote, “My boyfriend is with his wife tonight.”
Eating time over, we go back to her place, she puts on Indigo Girls or something, lights about six candles, and we have all kinds of great sex.
The next morning, I wake up at 9am and call one of my college buddies to find out when and where the pre-wedding golf game is supposed to be that morning. He gives me directions, and I wake the woman up to drive me there. As she is getting ready, she asks me to write down my number so she can call me that night to meet up again.
I cannot find a pen in her room, so I venture out to the other rooms on the top floor. No pens, but the rooms are filled with toys, coloring books, very small beds, Powerpuff curtains… oh, no.
Tucker “Do you have kids?”
MILF “Yes, but they’re with their dad this weekend.”
Relieved, I search the rest of the house and cannot, for the life of me, find anything normal to write with.
I end up writing my number on a piece of yellow construction paper… with a red crayon. That I found in her daughter’s room. So I could fuck her mommy again that night, in the butt.
Sometimes I disgust even myself.
NOT ANOTHER TEEN HOOKUP
Occurred—January 2005
One of my teenage fuck buddies (yes, she was 18) calls me at 1am:
Girl “I’m at a party and it’s lame and I’m baked and my genitals are burning for sex. Can I come over?”
The only thing that shocks me about this is that she uses the voice line instead of texting. When she gets to my place I’m busy with something important, so I make her wait.
Girl “UH! Come on, let’s fuck.”
Tucker “Not until this is over.”
Girl “This is IRON CHEF?! WHO CARES? I am offering you PUSSY!”
Tucker “I know. And your pussy will wait. Chairman Kaga doesn’t wait for shit. The man takes bites out of raw peppers for fuck’s sake.”
She huffs and pouts. And waits. The funny thing is that I had a TiVo at the time, but fuck her if she can’t take a joke. Teenage girls need to learn patience, anyway.
We eventually have sex and it is great—for me, because I cum. Afterward she is still baked and wants to hang out and talk or eat Sour Patch Kids or whatever it is young stoner girls do. I don’t. I want to go to sleep. She keeps annoying me.
Tucker “You need to shut up before I call your parents and tell them that you just fucked a 28 year old.”
Girl “You know, you don’t have a big dick, so I thought you’d make up for it by being good in bed. You aren’t good in bed, so I thought you’d make up for it by being a nice person. You aren’t a nice person, so I don’t think there is any reason for me to hang out with you.”
Tucker “AAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Awesome! That means you can go. Bye.”
Girl [after a long pause] “Uh… that did not go the way I intended.”
Tucker “It never will. You aren’t as smart as me. Just admit defeat and submit.”
BURN, BABY, BURN!
Occurred—March 2005
When I was living in Chicago, this one girl was so into me she paid for my ticket to come see her in Atlanta for a weekend. She was a cute Southern girl but probably needed to realize that her metabolism wasn’t the same as in college and she couldn’t drink five nights a week anymore. But, hey—free trip to Atlanta!
She picked me up outside security at Hartsfield, holding a sign that said SEXIEST MAN ON EARTH. When we got to her car, she threw me the keys.
Tucker “You want me to drive?”
Girl “Well, I have something for you, and I can’t give it to you if I have to focus on driving.”
I’ve seen this movie many times before, but it’s a classic, and very rewatchable.
We weren’t even out of the parking structure before she has her face in my crotch. The best part was that she didn’t stop when I pulled up to the pay booth. The second-best part was the lady working the booth glanced down, barely raised an eyebrow, and calmly gave me my change. Nothing shocks old black women.
I should have told her that I hadn’t showered in like two days (long story) and had swamp ass from sitting in a middle seat on a hot plane for three hours, but whatever. You play crotch roulette, you’re gonna hit double zero once in a while. Plus, she was wearing one of those WHAT WOULD JESUS DO bracelets. I kept thinking, Jesus would have used less teeth and worked the balls
.
We get on the highway to where she lives to the north of downtown, and it’s rush hour on a Friday. If you know anything about Atlanta, you are laughing right now. If you don’t, let me explain: The I-75/85 corridor runs through the middle of Atlanta. Without traffic, it’s a 15 minute drive across the city. It’s NEVER without traffic. In fact, that section of road has some of the heaviest and most persistent traffic in America.
I’m not a patient driver. I could give you a hundred examples of my road rage, but perhaps the most telling is that on a weekly basis, my dog crawls to the back of my SUV, cowers and gives me her pitiful face, because she thinks my yelling at the idiot drivers is directed at her. Poor Murph.
So here I am, navigating the most aggravating stretch of road in America, getting a nice relaxing blowjob. Who is going to win this battle? Road or Head? It’s like Road Head Thunderdome: TWO MEN ENTER, ONE MAN LEAVES!
Start-and-stop traffic at 5 miles per hour on a 12 lane highway was hard enough. Being cut off by shithead drivers multiple times made it much harder. Still, I maintained my calm. But the accident that was already off to the side, yet still causing delays because ALL THOSE FUCKING RUBBERNECKERS WON’T JUST FUCKING DRIVE… that was too much for me. The road won. Despite the efforts of the hardworking lips on my dick, I got so angry I forgot I was getting road head.
I gunned the accelerator and swerved violently to get around the rubbernecker in front of me. As I did this, I lurched forward in the seat, pushing the girls’ face into the steering wheel as I yanked on it, and I heard an awful screeching squeak—sort of like the sound flesh makes when rubbed against hard plastic.
Girl “OWWW! That hurt!”
She popped up from my lap, and I started laughing so hard, I forgot my road rage.
Girl “What’s so funny!?!”
I managed to point to it in between fits of laughter, and she twisted the rearview mirror so she could see herself.
Girl “Oh my God! We are supposed to go out with my friends!”
On her right cheekbone was a huge, shiny red friction burn.
It was bad. Like, so bad her concealer didn’t even work. The next morning it had a nasty yellow scab on it, like a severe rug burn. She was so distressed about this we stayed in all weekend.
Good thing, too. She was much chunkier than the pics she sent me, which is fine for fucking in private but not so much for going out in public.
I’M A ZIT, GET IT?
Occurred—July 2005
One time in Chicago, I was at a bar watching some complete tool try to hit on a cute girl. He could not have been any more of a douche if his chest cavity was filled with vinegar and had a plastic nozzle sticking out of his head. He was like an Axe Body Spray commercial, but without the plot or character development. It was obvious she was not into him, so I tried to see if I could flip his failure into my success.
Tucker “Hey, dude, I have a bet with my friend. Could you help me out?”
Douche “Uh, yeah, I guess.”
Tucker “Exactly how many shirtless pics do you have on your MySpace page? The over/under is 10.”
She cracked up laughing. I went in for the kill.
Tucker “Don’t worry about it dude, I’m sure you’ll make a Porsche dealership very happy when you turn 40.”
I stood between him and her, smiled at her, and ordered beers for her and myself.
Tucker “Sorry, you might be disappointed by me. I don’t think I have his game.”
Girl “You’re doing OK so far.”
He left, and it was pretty much cruise control from there. A few hours of drinking, a few goofy jokes (“I like it when girls say harder, but not when they say deeper” and “I had a dream that I was in a horrific plane crash, and when I woke up I had an erection”), and we were back at my place.
We started making out, then foreplay, then got down to business. She told me she likes it from behind, so I flipped her over and slid it in. As I was fucking her doggy-style, I reached down to grab her hair—for romance and leverage—and as I did so, I looked down at her back and noticed something so shocking it almost took my breath away:
Right there, in the middle of her back, was the biggest zit I’d ever seen in my life.
It was astonishing. Like looking at the snow-capped peak of Mount Fuji from a plane. I couldn’t get over it. I was so distracted by the fact that this cute, otherwise clear-skinned girl had this single, massive carbuncle on her back, I actually forgot I was fucking her.
Girl “Tucker, are you OK? Why’d you stop?”
Tucker “Oh, sorry. I was… uh… thinking about… um… butterflies?”
She kinda made this weird face so I pushed her head back down, thrust myself back into her, and refocused on fucking.
I kept pushing into her and tried to avoid it, but I just could not get this epic boil out of my mind. I looked around the room for anything else I could focus on, but sadly, I am something of an ascetic in terms of home decoration, and there was literally nothing else in my room to distract me. Trying to count the number of kernels on a popcorn ceiling can keep you occupied for only so long. And it could not compete with the siren’s call beckoning my eyes back to that cyst’s craggy shoals.
Eventually, I could resist no longer. I looked down, and it was still there—staring at me, mocking me, daring me to have the courage to do what must be done. I held off as long as I could. I even tried to make myself cum so I could get away from it, but I didn’t have the dick discipline to pull it off.
I finally just said fuck it and gave in. Knowing I would have only one shot at this, I grabbed the zit and squeezed with all my might.
Girl “OW! That hurts!”
I squeezed the zit so hard, and there was so much pus, it exploded out with such force that the pus HIT ME IN THE CHEST!!
Here’s the strangest thing: I wasn’t grossed out. At all.
In fact, this weird sense of accomplishment and satisfaction came over me, like I had just set right a grave wrong. That zit had been camping out on her back, fucking up the property values for all the nice clean pores around it, stealing her body’s resources to make pus, and I just broke up its criminal enterprise. I had done a legitimately good deed and I was kinda proud of myself.
And nothing was going to convince me otherwise, not even her histrionic yelling.
HEAD DOCTOR
Occurred—April 2007
When I lived in NYC, I came home from a night of drinking and called one of my semi-regular booty calls. I didn’t really like her personality, but it was late and I was horny… so, you know.
She was asleep, but I convinced her to come over by telling her something romantic like, “You’re my number one dick sucker.” I started watching TV while I waited, but the liquor was strong, and I was tired… fading, fading, fading.
I woke up the next morning to 8 new messages on my voice mail:
Message 1, 3:21am [excited]: “Tucker, I’m downstairs, come down.”
Message 2, 3:25am [anxious]: “Tucker, I’m here! This isn’t funny, you need to come down here right now, hurry up, it’s cold and rainy!”
Message 3, 3:29am [angry]: “I hate you so much. Answer the fucking door, you asshole. I know you’re there, stop playing this stupid game with me! Come down here and get me!”
Message 4, 3:35am [confused]: “I cannot believe you are doing this to me. I don’t know what I did or why you are acting like this. Tucker, please, PLEASE just answer the door. It’s cold and raining, this isn’t funny anymore, please just come down and get me, I’m sorry I yelled, but just come get me.”
Message 5, 3:39am [exasperated]: “YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE! I spent the last cash I had on the cab coming over here, now I have to walk back home IN THE FUCKING RAIN. You don’t even care, you fucking asshole, I cannot believe you are fucking doing this. I HATE YOU!”
Message 6, 3:45am [serious anger]: “I am completely disgusted with you. I can’t believe you would do this to me. I cannot believe it. You are such a fucking
prick. I am so fucking pissed off right now. I hate you so fucking much.”
Message 7, 4:08am [sobbing]: “Why would you do this, Tucker? What did I do? Why would you be so mean to me? I love you so much, and you treat me like this? Why? How could you do this to me? I just… I can’t understand it at all.”
Message 8, 4:19am [hurt]: “I’m back home. I don’t know what happened or why you did that. I just wish you had let me in. Well… call me tomorrow I guess, I still want to see you.”
I called her the next day. Normally, I wouldn’t want to deal with all of this drama, but she is a Head Doctor. She has honed her craft to an art form, and one does not discard a dick-sucking artist lightly. Take note, ladies.
EARTH FIRST
Occurred—April 2010
As I was finishing this book, I lived in Austin, Texas (I still live there, actually), and one of the girls I was fucking was really sweet and nice but ridiculously crunchy. She liked to say she was “environmentally conscious.” OK honey, fine, but when you’re recycling your own poop to use as fertilizer in your garden, that crosses the line from “environmentalist” to “crazy hippie.” Fortunately she was hot and fun (and she introduced me to the best new liquor I’ve had in ten years, Deep Eddy Sweet Tea Vodka), so I kept fucking her.
To her, I was like her naughty vacation sex. All her friends hated me, so by being with me she felt like she was transgressing. Of course, this didn’t bother me at all, because her friends were those annoying pretentious fucks who think that being vegan makes them better than everyone else. Tell it to the cow who died for the leather seats in your Lexus, you fucking hypocrite. At least I have enough respect for the animal to eat the resulting ribeyes.
She always wanted me to go with her on hikes to see some collection of rocks or look at some old tree. Normally, I would rather jump ass-first into a dildo factory than do that shit, but my dog Murph loves hiking, so I would bring my goofy pup and go with her.
One day she took me to some park that must have been extra full of nature or something, because she was super horny. I’m always horny, so once we got a little ways down the trail, I grabbed her, pulled her about two feet off the trail—you know, for privacy—and started to take her pants off.