Assholes Finish First (35 page)

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

I actually run out of the hospital, yelling random rap lyrics, and high fiving people like it was some Weird Al Yankovich video spoof.

Tucker “You better call Petey Pablo, didn’t he say yo name on ‘Freek-A-Leek’?”

That was the last I ever saw her or heard from her. I have no idea what she did after that. I’m actually not sure how she even got home, because I was the one who gave her a ride to the hospital. I honestly hope, for her sake and the child’s sake, she either didn’t have it, or gave it up for adoption. Or got hit by a bus.

I learned my lesson about believing the “I’m on birth control” lie. Never again.

T
HE
V
IRGINITY
P
ARADOX

“What men desire is a virgin who is a whore.”

—Edward Dahlbert

What if I told you that you could do something so awesome it would inspire hundreds of virgins to seek you out, and ask you to be their first sexual experience? And not only that, you’d actually end up fucking dozens of them?

If you’re a guy, you’d probably think this was the coolest thing you’d ever heard, and you’d want to know how to get started, right? I felt the same way the first time I heard about drive-through daiquiri stores, but both turned out to be disasters, for different reasons. I’m here to tell you:

Having sex with lots of virgins is not as cool as it sounds.

I’ve already talked about how much of a pussy boon it was when
IHTSBIH
became a huge hit. The thing that shocked me the most about its success was not the girls who came to me for sex, but rather the girls who came to me to lose their virginity. And there weren’t just a few of them. Hundreds, at least. I still get numerous deflowering requests each month.

At the time, I had no idea why a girl would want to lose her virginity to me. It’s supposed to be a very special intimate moment, something she cherishes and remembers forever. I’d struggle just to remember her name while she was still in my house.

I used to ask every girl why she chose me, but I stopped inquiring after the first few dozen, because every girl—and I mean every single one, without exception—gave the same combination of three basic reasons. This is an example I pulled verbatim from a virgin email:

“1. I want to lose it to someone I am not in love with, so there are no emotional complications.

2. I want someone experienced, who will know what they are doing and get it right.

3. There is no one in my life like that now and I just want to get this over with, but I don’t want it to be with some random creeper I don’t know, I want someone who I “know” and can know what to expect from.”

If you stop and think about it from the perspective of an 18–21 year old girl, these reasons do have a certain fucked-up logic to them. Most guys in their teens are fucking idiots and terrible in bed (that definitely included me at that age). They aren’t going to have to worry about me getting emotional or falling in love or anything like that. There is no question they know what they’ll get with me, because my writing has one subject: myself. And I’m probably one of the safest guys a girl could hook up with; being famous puts a target on your chest. You have to be extra careful, because you are easy to find and have a lot to lose.

I can’t remember exactly how many virgins have handed me their innocence; I’ve ended up sleeping with at least a dozen, maybe as many as 15 or 20. When this first started happening, I got a huge ego rush thinking about how cool I must be to have all these virgins coming to me for their first times. It was like dying and going to teenage boy heaven, except you don’t have to strap a bomb to your chest and blow up a Jerusalem falafel stand to get there. But at some point along the way, I realized two things:

1. The girls have no interest in me as a human being, and

2. They really, really suck in bed.

After a while, sex with all those virgins stopped being fun and started becoming a job, so I’ve pretty much stopped accepting their requests. A lot of the enjoyment that comes from hooking up is interacting with the other person: drinking with her, talking to her, getting to know her, fucking with her and exploiting her emotional weaknesses—all the normal stuff. None of the virgins really wanted to do that. They just wanted a dick stuck in them so they could tell their judgmental friends they weren’t virgins
anymore. Fucking these girls had nothing to do with interacting with me and everything to do with what I could do for them. In a weird way, it almost made me feel used. I didn’t think it was possible to see sex with lots of random girls as anything other than awesome, but fuck enough virgins, and it happens.

Read that last sentence again and tell me if you thought you’d ever see anyone, much less me, say it in sincerity.

But even though it may not have been the greatest time for me, I always tried to be very cool and considerate with every girl who came to me to lose her virginity. It’s only fair; if I am going to accept the offer, I feel like I have an obligation to do the best job I can. And from what I understand, all of them came away from their encounters having gotten exactly what they were looking for: a safe, enjoyable first time, free from any bullshit or complications.

Well, almost all of them…

D
ON’T
F
UCK
W
ITH
J
ACK
L
ALANNE

Occurred—June 2005

If you’ve never been so hammered you drunkenly ordered something from an infomercial, then you’ve either never been really hammered, or you don’t own a phone. I’ve done this twice.

The first time was as a freshman in college. Drunk on cheap rum, I bought
Freedom Rock
on a dare. (If you are too young to get that joke, go to YouTube and search for “Freedom Rock.” It might be hard to believe, but comedy memes existed before the internet, and in 1995 everyone thought, “Well turn it up man,” was fucking hilarious.)

The second time was in 2005, when I was living in Chicago. My buddy D-Rock and I were always trying to get each other to buy stupid shit we saw on TV or the internet. One night, a lot of alcohol and too much rejection from girls combined to inspire me to purchase a Ronco Food Dehydrator. I think I may have actually said on the phone to the operator, “My luck getting ass tonight was dried up, so my food will be too!”

I didn’t plan to buy it, but when it finally showed up I became obsessed with my new gadget. I could now make my own beef jerky—how could that not get you excited? I bought approximately 30 pounds of various cuts of meat and, over a weekend, turned it into 10 pounds of delicious beef jerky. For at least a week, I ate nothing but desiccated meat. I felt like a Mongol warrior.

Later that week, Bunny and I went to Costco, and I found possibly the only thing that could make me more excited than a Ronco dehydrator: the Jack LaLanne Juicer Pro. On sale! I went nuts. I had to have it. I’d seen too many infomercials about how great juicing was for you, and since the last infomercial product worked so well, then they all had to be that good, right? Juicing was going to change my life!

We bought it and went straight to Stanley’s produce market, where we bought pounds of carrots, mangoes, apples, and copious amounts of veggies like cucumbers, greens, tomatoes, and a ginger root the size of my head. The more we piled into our cart, the more excited we got. It was like being contestants on a really healthy episode of
Supermarket Sweep
. We bought so much fruit and vegetables, it was like a strongman workout carrying all that biomass to the car.

Once we got home, our plan was to juice only a few apples. But after we drank the delicious fresh apple juice, Bunny and I went nuts; we juiced and mixed EVERYTHING. We consumed the enzymes of pounds and pounds of fruits and veggies, more raw plant matter than either of us had consumed all month, probably.

You should have seen the leftover mulch. It was half the volume of a contractor trash bag. I could have made a hippie’s year if I’d composted
it. But Mother Earth has never done anything for me, so we just threw it away.

After drinking almost a gallon of pure fresh-squeezed juice each, Bunny got sick and went to lie down. She’s such a wuss. While I was cleaning the counters, I heard the doorbell ring. Who could that be?

Oh shit.

TheVirgin “Hey.”

I TOTALLY forgot that a virgin was coming over. And this was only the second or third one I had done it with, so at this point, I still thought deflowering virgins was the pinnacle of cool and was concerned with making sure this girl had a good time.

I invite her to sit down and hang out for a minute. I’m my normal relaxed self, but TheVirgin is so nervous and anxious, she’s almost shivering. I offer her a delicious glass of carrot/apple/ginger juice, but she shakes her head.

Tucker “Are you OK? You sure you’re up for this? We don’t have to do this if you aren’t feeling cool about it. There’s no rush at all.”

TheVirgin “No, I want to. I really do. I’ll be OK in a minute. Do you have a beer?”

The girl is 18, so we can fuck, but I’m not serving minors. The last thing I need is some teenage girl coming over to my place to lose her virginity, get hammered, and slingshot her car in a school bus full of retarded children on their way to help out at a soup kitchen. Good-bye rest of my life.

We keep chatting and she finally calms down, so we decide to have sex. Everything starts normal; kissing, clothes off, foreplay, I start playing with her pussy a little. She’s pretty wet anyway, but you never know if a virgin has broken her hymen or not, so I use lube to make sure everything is nice and smooth, and to prevent as much pain as possible. I put the condom on, go slow at first and start up.

It’s going great for the first minute, when I smell something. I smell it even before I feel it: the sneakiest little fart ever.

It was kind of rancid, but not that unusual for one of my farts. I pretend nothing happened, and she’s pretty focused on the sex, so no problem.

A few more thrusts and I can feel another fart coming. I’m determined not to let this one out. I clinch my asshole up tight, but the fart starts pushing back. I focus on holding it in, but this thing is fierce. It was like Chinese fingercuffs: The more I struggle, the worse it gets. I clench every muscle in my core to defeat it—

TheVirgin “Are you OK?”

Tucker “Oh, yeah, sorry.”

PPPPFFFFFFFFFFFTTTTTTTTTTTTT

The second I let up vigilance, the bastard snuck past the bouncers. Motherfucker! This one is silent and smells bad, but still a pretty average fart. I relax, refocus on her, and start humping again.

We’re going along for another minute or so, but it quickly becomes clear that the farts are lined up in my colon like planes on the runway at O’Hare, ready to take off as soon as I unclench my ass cheeks. I try to fuck, but in order to thrust, I have to use my ass muscles, and if I do that, another fart will fly out.

Finally, I make the Hobson’s choice: I’ll let out another fart or two, eat the blame, and that’ll buy me enough time to finish her off with a locked sphincter. I just need to go fast and think about a girl I actually like, and I can finish up quickly.

I relax my ass cheeks, almost hoping the fart would make a loud, ripping noise. Then we can both laugh about it and move on. It doesn’t. Instead, multiple farts machine-gun out, smelling like old, fermented
trash, and sticking to our lungs like a blanket of rotten juice. They enveloped us, leaving no escape and granting no mercy. It was a fruity death mist.

I keep humping away, hoping she’ll play along with my little game of “pretend you don’t smell the fart.” I look down; she is making the same face aerophobics make when their plane hits turbulence.

Tucker “You OK?”

TheVirgin “Yeah.” [
cough
] “Fine.” [
cough
]

The good news: I wasn’t in gastric agony any longer. The bad news: Like a window-washing beggar at the world’s longest stoplight, the fucking smell would not go away.

It gets so bad I can feel myself starting to get soft. I’m not sure if it is performance anxiety, lack of focus, or the fact that the room smells like I was Cleveland Steamered by the Jolly Green Giant. I refocus on her pussy and start humping again, hard.

Keep humping…

Don’t think about the smell…

Focus on the pussy…

This works well for a second, until I feel an ominous rumbling in my abdomen. This is it, the big one. It starts in the small intestine, rips through my large intestine, and comes at my asshole so hard I wasn’t sure if it was going to be a fart or a shart. If this had been a fuck buddy I was more comfortable with, I’d have quoted one of my favorite movie lines, “Everybody run, a shit storm is coming!” but this poor virgin was mortified enough as it was.

RRRRRRRRRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP

Tucker “Sorry about that.”

TheVirgin “Uhh… it’s OK.”

I have to take a shit. And not a normal shit. This was going to be the type of murky, nasty shit you find in a backed-up toilet at a truck stop.