Sloppy Seconds: The Tucker Max Leftovers (2 page)
By the time Jaime and I got to the bed, I was so drunk I had forgotten that he was filming this, and of course she had no idea he was there. After a few minutes of standard sex, she kinda stopped and said, all serious and in her best seductive soap opera voice, “I’m ready.”
I quickly flipped her over and grabbed the brand new bottle of Astroglide I had on my bedside table.
A week prior, after Jaime consented to buttsex, I realized that I didn’t have any idea how to do it. How exactly do you fuck a girl in the ass? Luckily, I had the world’s best anal sex informational resource at my disposal: The Gay Waiter. I consulted several gay waiters who worked at one of my father’s restaurants about the mechanics of buttsex, and each one recommended Astroglide as the lubricant of choice. Much to my dismay, I learned that spitting on your dick is not enough lube for buttsex. Stupid, lying porn movies.
The other important piece of advice I remembered, “Make sure you use enough, because if this is her first time, she’ll be especially tight, and it might hurt her. Use enough to really loosen her up and go slow until she gets used to it. Then it’s smooth sailing from there.”
Well, since some is good, more is better, right? At 21, this seemed logical.
I opened the cap, crammed the bottle top into her asshole, and squeezed. I probably emptied half of the four ounces of Astroglide into her. I have since learned from homosexuals that a four-ounce bottle usually lasts them about six months. So yeah—I overdid it.
But Tucker Max wasn’t done. Oh no, after depositing enough grease in her to run a Formula One race car, I dumped half of what remained onto my cock and balls, really wanting to lube up because I didn’t want her to be uncomfortable.
Really—consider my thought process: I was going to fuck her in the butt and film it without her consent, yet I was truly concerned about her personal comfort. Sometimes the contradictions in my personality amuse even me.
Predictably, I slid in with ease. She was a little tense at first, but with an Exxon Valdez-size load spilled into her poop chute, she quickly loosened up and got into it. I liked it also; it had a different feel to it. Not as good as vaginal sex, a little grainy, kinda tight, but still very nice.
Before I knew it I was fucking her like the apocalypse was imminent, burying it to the hilt with impunity. After a few minutes, I was ready to come. My urgency was expressed in my tempo, and I began really jackhammering her. As the excitement got the best of me, I pulled out too far, and my dick came out of her ass. I kinda scrambled to grab my dick and put it back in so I could finish off inside of her, but before I could even get ahold of it and put it back in her ass, I heard a faint “psssst” sound and felt something wet and warm hit my crotch.
It was dark in the room (I was not smart or sober enough to leave the lights on for the camera), so after I looked down it took me a few seconds to realize that my dick, balls and groin area were covered in a viscous black liquid. I stopped moving and stared at my strangely colored crotch for a good five seconds, completely confused, until I realized what had happened:
“Did you…did you just…shit on my dick?”
I reached down to touch the liquid feces, still in complete and utter disbelief that this girl shot explosive diarrhea on my penis, when, without warning, the smell hit me.
I have a very sensitive nose, and I have never been more repulsed by a smell in my life. The combination of synthetic Astroglide and the rancid stench of raw fecal matter came together to turn my stomach, which was full of seafood, veal and wine, completely over.
I tried to hold it back. I really did everything I could to stop myself, but there are certain physical reactions that are beyond conscious control. Before I knew what I was doing, it just came out:
“BBBBBBLLLLLLLLLLLLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH”
I vomited all over her ass. Into her crack. Into her asshole. On her ass cheeks. On the small of her back. Everywhere.
She turned her head, said, “Tucker, what are you doing?” saw me vomiting on her, screamed, “Oh my God!” and immediately joined me:
“BBBBBBLLLLLLLLLLLLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH”
Watching her throw up on my bed made me vomit even more. Her vomiting all over my bed, me vomiting on her ass, the next step was almost inevitable.
I heard the loud CRASH first, and turned to see my friend break through the shutters and rip the closet door off as he, the video camera, and the door tumbled out of the closet and crashed onto the floor next to us:
“BBBBBBLLLLLLLLLLLLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH”
The memory of the two-second span where all three of us were vomiting at once is permanently seared into my brain. I have never heard anything like that symphony of sickness.
I think the crowning moment was when my eyes locked with Jaime’s, and I saw her moment of realization and then her quick shift from shock and surprise to complete and irreparable anger. Between bouts of hurling she flipped out:
“OH MY GOD—BBBBBLLLLLAAAAAHHHHH—YOU FILMED THIS, YOU ASSHOLE—BBBBBBLLLLLLAAAAAAHHHHHH—HOW COULD YOU—BBBBLLLLLAAAAAHHHHH—I THOUGHT YOU LOVED ME—BBBBLLLLLAAAAAHHHHH—OH MY GOD—BBBLLLLAAAAHHHH—I LET YOU FUCK ME IN THE ASS—BBBLLLLAAAAHHHH.”
She tried to stand up, slipped on the huge puddle of backflow Astroglide on the bed, and fell into both my pile and her pile of vomit, covering her body and hair in vomit, shit and anal lubricant. She flailed on the bed for a second, grabbed the top sheet, wrapped it around herself, and started running out of my place. Still naked and retching, my dick covered in shit and lube, I followed her as far as my front door. The last contact I ever had with her is the image I witnessed of her in a dead sprint, a shit, vomit and grease-stained sheet stuck to her body, running from my apartment.
Postscript
The camera we used was one of those ancient fragile ones that filmed onto a VHS tape, and when my friend crashed out of the closet, the tape recorder and tape broke. It didn’t occur to us that the tape records the images magnetically, and we could take the actual tape itself and get someone to put it in another holster until after we had thrown it out. I know it seems stupid now, and believe me I kick myself about it every day, but you should have seen the apartment afterward—the tape was not a high priority. Astroglide, shit and vomit covered EVERYTHING.
I had to rent one of those steam cleaners, buy a new mattress, and I STILL lost my deposit. It was impossible to get the smell out. The next month was like living in a sewer. Every girl I brought back to my place after that refused to stay there, and some even refused to sleep with me anywhere because of how my place smelled.
What I never found out, and I still want to know, is how the girl got home. I never heard from her again, and the mutual friend who introduced us called her but didn’t get her calls returned. I never heard anything about her or from her again, even though she left her clothes and ID at my place (she wore a tight dress out that night, and didn’t bring a purse or any money with her).
Can you picture that scene? What did she do, hop in a taxi? Wave down a passing car? Get on the bus? She lived at least 30 miles away, there is no way she walked home. It perplexes me to this day. I’m hoping she reads this. Maybe then I’ll find out how she got home.
TUCKER GOES TO CAMPOUT, OWNS DUKE NERDS
Occurred, September 2000
I went to law school at Duke, and as you may know, basketball is huge there. The demand for tickets, even for grad students, far outstrips the supply. In order to solve this problem, the people in charge make grad students camp out in a field to get into the lottery for the chance to get tickets. They expect you to spend a weekend sleeping in dirt and checking in every time they blow their whistles, like a fucking homeless kindergartener. You think I’m exaggerating, don’t you? This is taken directly from the Duke grad student website:
“Welcome to Duke! Let’s get right to the most important issue on your mind: How can
YOU
get season tickets to this year’s men’s basketball games in Cameron Indoor Stadium? Eligibility to purchase tickets is determined via the
Graduate and Professional Student Council Basketball Ticket Campout.
Campout for Duke Men’s Basketball season will be held starting at 7:00pm on
Friday, September 8
, and runs through
Sunday, September 10
, at approximately 7am. The rules are simple: make it through the weekend without missing two attendance checks and your name is entered in a lottery. Lottery winners are then drawn and each of these lucky individuals is eligible to buy one of the 700 graduate and professional season tickets… But Campout isn’t just about basketball tickets. With almost 2000 students representing nearly every program and department at the University in attendance, this is also
the premier graduate and professional student social event of the year.
Campout is an excellent opportunity to bond with your students in your own program and make friends in other programs.”
The bolding is theirs, not mine. Not only do they want grad students to spend their limited free time toiling in a parking lot, they are condescending about it. Either that, or they’re just fucking retarded—do they really think that being stuck in a parking lot with 2,000 nerds is
“the premier graduate and professional student social event of the year”
? Not going to a bar or to a party with your friends, or, God fucking forbid, ACTUALLY GOING TO THE GAMES. Nope, to them, the coolest thing a grad student can do is to root around in filth. I want tickets, so I have to go.
OK, fine. But if those Duke basketball tools are going to make me sleep outside for two nights, I’m going to make them pay. And not just by getting drunk and fucking their ugly girlfriends. It took me a few days, but I finally figured out how to completely ruin the event for everyone who sucks, while concurrently making it awesome for me and my friends. About two weeks before the grad student campout was to start, I was in the law library, intently focusing on my computer screen when my buddy Hate walked up.
Hate “What are you up to?”
Tucker “Ordering something online.”
Hate “What, a Russian mail-order bride?”
Tucker “Better.
A bullhorn
.”
Hate “What for?”
Tucker “For Campout. Look at this one, dude: It has a one-mile range! And a 110-decibel siren! It’s made for police use!”
Hate [
ten-second blank stare
] “Jesus have mercy on our souls.”
I paid extra for 2nd day delivery. When the day of arrival came, I was so excited I stayed home from class. Waiting for the delivery guy felt like Christmas, except without the part where your parents drink all the present money and wrap up things from your room as your gifts. Credit and Hate stayed home that day too, not because they were excited about the bullhorn, but because they are dicks. They wanted to taunt me until it arrived, knowing the anticipation was slowly killing me. (That, and none of us ever went to class anyway because law school is ridiculously easy.)
Credit “Max, I haven’t seen you this excited since Brad Pitt took his shirt off in
Fight Club
.”
Tucker “Credit, you’re Jewish, your best friend is black, and your girlfriend is a cheating whore. Even if I
were
gay, I’d still have it better than you.”
When the FedEx truck finally showed up, I sprinted to the front desk. I scribbled my signature, ran back to my room, tore open the package, loaded the batteries I already purchased, then cautiously put the bullhorn up to my lips and whispered:
“Hello.”
My voice boomed out of the bullhorn so crisp and loud it shocked me. I felt a strange new power surge through me. It was like I drank from the Holy Grail. I took a deep breath and bellowed:
“WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!! CREDIT, I AM THE GREATEST MAN ALIVE!! HATE, I’M FUCKING INVINCIBLE!”
I ran out of my room into the living room. Hate was jolted forward in his recliner, white-knuckling the armrests with a look on his face like he’d just seen the devil. Credit had the same exasperated expression he got when he learned the student parking lot was a full mile away from the law school building.
Tucker “Holy shit! The volume’s only at 6! It goes up to 10!”
Credit “Everyone is going to hate us.”
Hate “Max, you aren’t really taking that thing to Campout are you?”
Tucker [
into the bullhorn
]
“We are friends and roommates, and yet… I feel like you don’t know me at all.”
I turned it down to 2—loud but still a manageable indoor volume—and spoke to everyone exclusively through the bullhorn for the next week. It became a part of me, a natural extension of my arm. I put it down only to shower and masturbate.
You know how when you pine after something really badly, like a cool toy or a new car or whatever, once you get it, it’s never as good as you imagined it would be? This was the opposite. This was so much better than I could’ve ever dreamed. No possession of mine, before or since, has ever completed me the way that bullhorn did; it embodied all of the characteristics that I consider most essential to myself… and amplified them.