The TuckerMax Thread

[jase]

Ladies and Gentlemen, TuckerMax! Incredibly suss, possibly susser than every male in our group combined, but he is a grammatical genius...

My name is Tucker Max, and I am an asshole.

I get excessively drunk at inappropriate times, disregard social norms, indulge every whim, ignore the consequences of my actions, mock idiots and posers, sleep with more women than is safe or reasonable, and just generally act like a raging dickhead.

But, I do contribute to humanity in one very important way.

I share my adventures with the world. They are known as "The Tucker Max Stories".

My 21st Birthday
I generally do not celebrate my birthday. Normally, I love being the center of attention, but I?ve never liked being the center of attention without earning it; I want people focused on me because I command their attention, not out of some vaguely felt obligation to celebrate something I had nothing to do with.

My 21st was an exception. The 21st is an important birthday, being the passageway into legalized alcoholism, and my friends plotted to ignore my normal birthday misgivings and celebrate anyway. I was a senior in college at the time. My good friend Colin was tasked with organizing the event, and he had me and about 8 of my best friends start the night at a local bar called Jimmy?s.

The night began innocuously enough. We got to Jimmy?s Woodlawn Tap at about 7pm. The plan was for me to do my birthday shots at Jimmy?s, and then head out afterwards. Colin bought 2 pitchers for the table, and a shot for me and him. Our birthday tradition, as is standard for many of my generation, is that everyone out with the birthday boy buys 2 shots, one for themselves and one for the birthday boy. This pattern continues until the birthday boy has done one shot for each year of his life. Normally, the 21 shots are spread out over the course of the night, beginning early and ending very late.



Not this time.

This time my friends decided that I was going to get shit-housed, fucked-in-half, retarded drunk, and I was going to do it as quickly as possible. So almost as soon as Colin and I finished our shot, Kurt had one waiting for me. Then Steve was right there with his, followed immediately by Jesse. I had not agreed to this plan, nor even been informed of it, so after the forth shot I slammed my beer chaser on the table and screamed,

?HEY GODDAMMIT! There will be a 5 minute wait between shots. And no more fucking tequila or vodka. Whiskey only.?

Being such great friends, everyone respected my wishes. For about 5 minutes. Then the shots started coming quickly again. 3 minutes between shots. 2 minutes. 1 minute. Next thing I know, I have 10 shot glasses in front of me, and it is only about 8:15. I beg for a 20 minute break, and receive a table full of condescending smiles.

At this stage in my drinking career, I was not an experienced enough alcoholic to realize that the only way for me to salvage the night would be to run into the street and get hit by a car. I was doomed. At the very least I could have tried to force myself to vomit, ridding myself of the 15 ounces of hard liquor now metastasizing in my otherwise empty stomach. Not me. I remained in my chair and held up my part of the conversation by giving inebriated opinions in a far louder voice than was necessary.

About 10 minutes later, another shot is placed in front of me. Whiskey. I did it. Mister Stomach was not amused.

Five minutes later, another whiskey is set in front of me. I can no longer discern the faces of my friends without squinting and focusing. I blithely resist the shot, but the boom of castigation from the gets me to somehow get it down my throat.
Something about this shot sets off internal alarms. I start seeing yellow flashing lights. My throat tries desperately to reject it, but I keep my mouth shut and force it down. I try to get up to walk around, but my body does not respond. The environment around me has become nothing more than a vague, shifting mass of irregular shapes and amorphous forms, accentuated by voices I seem to recognize. My only thoughts involve hurting those around me, but I am too afraid to let go of the table to act on them. I hear someone say something about a shot. I begin begging,
?Guys, please, seriously, please, I am begging you with my life, please, please, no more alcohol.?

Everyone has a good laugh at my expense, and another shot is placed in front of me.
?Guys I can?t do this. Honestly, guys, my life is on the line here.?

The shot is put up to my face. The whiskey smell is too much. I try to squirm away and end up falling out of my chair and onto the floor, the shot spilling onto my face and clothes.

The next thing I know my arm is around Kurt?s shoulder, and he is dragging me to the bathroom. Jimmy?s is a very old building and has only one bathroom. It is a room about four foot square, with one sink, one frosted glass window about six feet in height, a wall mounted soap dispenser, a door that doesn?t lock, and one toilet, the old kind that has the water tank in the rear. When we get there, he places me in front of the lone toilet.
Kurt ?Alright, go ahead and vomit.?
Tucker ?Kurt?I haz ta pee-pee.?
Kurt ?OK, then go pee.?
Tucker ?Buu...bu I cant?I cant?can you undo my shurts fur me??
Kurt ?You can?t be serious.?
Tucker ?Pleeeze? I havta pee bad.?
Kurt ?Oh great Holy Jesus.?

Kurt holds his torso and face as far away from my midsection as possible as he undoes my belt and unzips my shorts, which immediately fall to the ground.
Kurt ?OH, MAN?you're not wearing any underwear!!?
Tucker ?I dun like it?it makes me feel constrict-ted.?
Kurt ?Jee-sus.?
He turns me to face the toilet. I just stand there.
Kurt ?Are you going to pee??
Tucker ?Iz comin. Wait?yur makin? me nervous.?

A few seconds later my urethra loosens and the flow begins. I am holding myself up by pushing both hands against the wall behind the toilet, and my penis is caught in the lower lip of my shirt. As a result, my urine is first collected in the lower half of my shirt, before overflowing onto the floor. I don?t really notice. Kurt does.
Kurt ?OH MAN, what are you doing? Oh Tucker??
Tucker [I turn and smile at Kurt] ?It feelz warm.?
Kurt ?OHHHH?I?m not picking your pants up.?

I finish peeing, and as I lean down to pick up my pants, my feet slip, and I fall over, landing in the puddle of urine on the floor. Kurt continues groaning and helps me up. I manage to get my pants zipped up. My stomach is still upset with me.
Tucker ?Kurt, I doan?I doan?feel good.?
Kurt ?OK?then throw up. The toilet is right there. Go ahead, get it out.?

I start swaying. I can feel the vomit coming. Even though I know it?s coming, and it knows it?s coming, it seems just hang there in my throat, teasing me, waiting, letting me contemplate just how stupid I really am, my body punishing me just that little bit extra.

Then, like being shot out of a cannon, it explodes from my mouth.
?BLAHHHH!! BLAAAAAHHHHHHH!!?
The force of the vomit propels my upper body away from the toilet, and I vomit in the sink.
?BLAAAAHHHHH!!!?
The force of the second diaphragm contraction is so strong it pushes my body and head away from the sink towards the far wall. Lost in agony and bile, I stumble over to the toilet, catch myself on the tank in the rear, pull off the lid, drop it on the floor, and vomit in the tank behind the porcelain bowl.
Kurt ?What, what,?what the HELL are you doing? Vomit in the bowl?IN THE BOWL!!?

Kurt?s imprecations cause me to turn my heads towards him in confusion. My innocent look of confusion quickly turns to one of wrenching pain, as the forth wave of vomit forces it?s way up through my throat. I nearly manage to project this stream of vomit onto Kurt, missing him but hitting the door.
Kurt ?JESUS CHRIST!!! WHAT ARE YOU DOING!!!?

Faint and staggered by such violent heaving, I stumble back over towards the sink, and grab the soap dispenser for stability. It is not designed to support such weight, and promptly rips off the wall, falling to the ground. I catch myself on the sink, and then vomit on the soap container, which is now sitting on the floor.

By the time I am completely finished, I heaved and convulsed so many times I?ve lost count. I manage to get vomit on the window, in the sink, on all four walls and the door, even in the tank behind the toilet, yet had somehow spared the actual toilet bowl. Every surface and container in the bathroom had vomit in or on it, except the inside of the toilet bowl. The toilet tank had vomit in it. The window, six feet high in the air, had vomit on it. Even the outside of the toilet bowl had vomit sloshed on it. To this day, I don?t know how I did that. Kurt refuses to talk about the incident.

Somehow tolerating both the urine and vomit my body was covered in, Kurt pulls me out of the bathroom, and manages to walk us to the table where everyone was sitting.
Kurt ?Guys, weneedtoleave RIGHTNOW!?

Kurt?s urgency was less a result of my condition as it was fear of the Jimmy?s bartenders. Had they discovered my mess while we were still there, they would most likely just grab a couple of sawed-off baseball bats from behind the bar counter, make us clean up the mess, beat us savagely, take all the money in our wallets, and then thrown us out into the street. These are old school Chicagoans--not the type of men that call the police.

Apparently, the urgency in Kurt?s voice was enough, and before I really understood what was going on, we were all out in the street. It was 9:15, barely two hours into the night.

Kurt, Colin and Steve volunteered to take me back to my apartment. Everyone else headed off to the Psi U party. As we were walking, three girls came upon us. Their night was just beginning, and they were in good spirits. I, on the other hand, had my arms draped around the necks of my two friends, barely able to muster the strength to walk, my head hung in defeat, exhaustion and drunkenness.
Girl ?Hey guys-what?s wrong with him? Is he OK?? The middle girl seemed to be genuinely concerned about my welfare.
Colin ?He?s fine, he?s just really drunk; it?s his birthday.?
Girls ?Oh, hey--Happy Birthday!?
Tucker ?FUCK YOU WHORES!!!?
Kurt and Colin quickly whisked me away from the poor traumatized girls and into my apartment. When we reached my apartment, the three of them deposited me into my bathtub and turned the water on to clean some of the vomit and urine off of me, and to buy some time to decide how to best arrange my room so that I could safely pass out.

I was very thirsty. Laying in the bathtub, looking up at the faucet, I thought of a great idea. So I turned the nozzle on full blast, and put my mouth up to it. It was like drinking from a firehose, but I was too drunk and dehydrated to notice that I was getting completely soaked, or that water was shooting out of my nose. It was Colin who noticed these things and turned the nozzle off.
Colin ?Dude, what are you doing. That?s a good way to get brain damage.?
Tucker ?Whaaaat??could you get me sum food, peas. There brownies in da kitchen.?

Colin walked off, and Kurt moved me over to my bed, and lay me on my stomach. I felt snot coming out of my nose.
Tucker ?Kurt, will you please blow my nose.?
Kurt ?Oh Jesus.?
Kurt went and got me a tissue, and held it up to my nose as I blew. I felt much better. Then Steve came in my room and placed the phone up to my ear.
Steve ?Here Tucker, it?s your mother. She wants to wish you a happy birthday.?
Tucker ?WHAT THE FUCK?FUCKIN FUCK MOTHER FUCK!?

Steve put the phone up to my ear, and there was noise coming from it. I grabbed the phone out of Steve?s hand, and threw it across the room. The phone shattered against the far bedroom wall. Steve?s hysterical laughter was my last clear memory.

The next morning I woke up so dehydrated I couldn?t even blink my eyes. Kurt, Colin and Steve had placed me on my bed, with my head hanging over the side, a trash can below it. The side of my bed below my mouth was streaked with a black paste, apparently the brownie I ate and then threw up. The trash can was filled with a watery brown paste, about two inches deep, apparently the gallon or so of water I drank last night, mixed with what remained of the brownie.

I slept all day long, my only waking hours occupied with drinking water or listening the countless messages my mother let on my machine, wondering why I called her, cursed and then hung up.

 

[jase]

The Famous "Sushi Pants" Story
I used to think that Red Bull was the most destructive invention of the past 50 years. I was wrong. Red Bull has been usurped by the portable alcohol breathalyzer. The same device that cops have been using for 10 years to conduct field sobriety tests is now offered by the Sharper Image for $99. It is the size and shape of a small cell phone with a clear round tube sticking up from the top, almost like an antenna. One blows into the tube, and a few seconds later a Blood Alcohol Content (BAC) reading is given. Though not as accurate as a blood test, they are accurate to within .01, which is good enough for my purposes.
I was living in Boca Raton, Florida, when I bought one to take out with me on a Saturday night. This is the story:

9:00pm: Arrive at the restaurant. I am the first one of the group there, even though our reservations are for 9pm. The restaurant is crowded full of the abysmal type of people that infest South Florida. Already depressed, I order a vodka and club soda.

9:08: No one else has arrived. I order another vodka and club. I consider checking my BAC, but doubt that it would show anything thus far.

9:10: Two 30+ year-old Jewish women on my left keep eyeing me. Both have fake breasts. One has exceptionally large fake breasts. They are beckoning me from her shirt. She is not highly attractive. I begin drinking faster.

9:15: No one else has arrived. I order my third vodka and club. While I wait for it, I try out my portable breathalyzer. I blow a .02. This is the greatest invention ever made. I am giddy. I show the breathalyzer to the fake-breasted Jewish women next to me. We begin a conversation.

9:16: They both have thick Long Island accents. I summon the bartender over and change my order to a tall double vodka on the rocks, splash of club.

9:23: Four people at the bar have tried my breathalyzer, both of the fake-breasted women included. Everyone wants to know their BAC. I am the center of attention. I am happy.

9:25: The first member of my group arrives. I show him the breathalyzer. He is enthralled. He buys a round. The fake-breasted women loudly inform us they would like drinks. My friend buys them drinks. I order a double vodka on the rocks. No splash.

9:29: I blow again, a .04. I've been drinking for half an hour, and am on my forth drink. My wheels of intellect begin grinding through the vodka haze that is already forming?four drinks?a .04?that must mean that each drink only adds .01 to my BAC. I begin to think that I can drink a lot. I tell one of the fake-breasted women that she is very interesting.

9:38: Six of the eight are here. I lie to the hostesses, and they seat our incomplete party. Everyone is talking about my breathalyzer. I am the focus of adulation. I forgive everyone for sucking so bad. I think this night may go OK after all.

9:40: I blow again, a .05. This confuses me. I haven?t ordered another drink since I blew a .04. I have a vague memory from a long distant D.A.R.E. class about the rate of alcohol absorption being constant, regardless of speed of drinking. This memory quickly fades when two hot girls at the table next to me inquire about my portable breathalyzer.

9:42: Hot girl #2 is into me. She begins telling me a story about how she got pulled over once for DUI, and had to blow into something like this, and the cop let her off. She tells me that she always wanted to be a cop, but couldn?t pass the entrance exam to the police academy, even though she took it twice. I tell her that she must be really smart. She stops paying attention to me. Hot girl #2 is apparently smart enough to detect thinly veiled sarcasm.

10:04: The novelty of the portable breathalyzer has passed. The table has moved on. I am no longer the center of attention. I am not happy with my table.

10:06: The people at my table begin talking about energy healing. Everyone is mesmerized by a girl who took a class in it. I tell them that energy healing is a worthless and solipsistic pseudo-science. They think energy healing is a real science because the instructor of the girl?s class went to Harvard. One guy calls it a ?legitimate, certifiable science,? while making air quotes with his fingers. I tell them that they are all (while imitating his air quotes) ?legitimate, certifiable idiots? because they believe in horse-shit like energy healing. Two girls call me close-minded. I tell them that they are so open-minded that their brains leaked out. They all glare at me with disapproval. I hate everyone at my table.

10:08: I have completely tuned out their inane conversation. I am slamming down straight vodka as fast as the low-rent wanna-be Ethan Hawke waiter can bring it. I blow every three minutes, watching my BAC slowly creep up.

10:10: .07

10:17: .08. I am no longer legally eligible to drive in the state of Florida. I announce this fact to no one in particular.

10:26: .09

10:27: I decide that I am going to see how drunk I can get and still be functional. I know that .35 BAC kills most people. I think that .20 is a good goal.

10:28: I get up, saying nothing to the seven sophists at my table, and go back to the bar. I don?t leave money for my drinks.

10:29: The fake-breasted women are still at the bar. They want drinks. Upset that I?m only at .09 after a good hour and a half of aggressive drinking, I decide to do a round of shots. I let the women pick the shots, with the explicit instruction that it cannot be whiskey, cannot smell like whiskey, cannot even resemble whiskey.

10:30: The shots arrive. Tequila. Judging by the bill, very good tequila. It is smooth. We order another round.

11:14: I blow a .15. I have passed a milestone. Only .05 away from my goal. My pride swells. I show everyone my .15. The bar crowd is impressed. I am their idol. Someone buys me a shot.

11:28: I feel queasy. I realize that I didn?t even stick around the table for dinner. Not wanting to either go back to my table or eat at the bar, I walk across the street to a sushi restaurant.

11:29: There is a lingerie party at the sushi restaurant. Half of the people are in some form of pajamas or other bedtime clothing. Everyone here sucks as bad as the last place, except they are in their underwear.

11:30: I am confused. I only want sushi. I stand at the door, mesmerized by the shifting masses of near nakedness. A mildly attractive girl who apparently works at the restaurant wants me to put on lingerie. I tell her I don?t have any. I just want some sushi. She says I should at least take off my pants. I ask her if this will get me sushi. She says it will. I take off my pants.

11:30: I pause while unzipping my pants, wondering what type of underwear, if any, I have on. I consider not taking my pants off. I realize that getting food quickly is more crucial than my dignity.

11:31: I take off my pants. I have on pink and white striped Gap boxers. They are too tight. I make sure my package is tucked in. People watch me do this.

11:32: I order sushi by pointing at the pictures and grunting.

11:33: I show a guy at the sushi bar my breathalyzer. He is impressed. He shows it to everyone. People begin congregating around me. I am a star again.

11:41: I blow a .17. I tell everyone my goal. Someone orders me a shot.

11:42: I do the shot. Something that has a familiar taste, makes me feel warm inside. I ask what it is. ?Cognac and Alize.? There is a God, and he hates me.

11:47: My sushi arrives. I slosh soy sauce over it and shovel it into my mouth as quickly as my hands will get it there.

11:49: My sushi is finished. No one is paying attention to my table manners, as everyone is crowded around the breathalyzer, waiting their turn to find out their BAC.

12:18: I blow a .20. I AM A GOD. The sushi bar erupts. Men are applauding me. Girls are pining for me. Everyone wants to talk to me. I forgive them their flaws, as they are all paying attention to me.

12:31: My deity status is lost. Someone blows a .22. This is a challenge to my manhood. I order a depth charge with a Bacardi 151 shot. And a beer back. The crowd is in awe.

12:33: I finish the depth charge, and the beer. I talk shit to my challenger, ?Who runs this bar now, BITCH??? The crowd erupts. Momentum has swung back in my direction. I am Maximus. I am winning the crowd. I will rule the sushi bar.

12:36: I take a better look at my challenger. He is a tall, broad-shouldered, heavily muscular man. His natural facial expression is not one of happiness. He quietly watches me, then orders a shot, throws it back without noticeable effect, and smiles at me. I consider that talking shit to him was a bad idea. At this point I also realize that my stomach is very upset with me. I ignore it. I still have a public that needs to adore me.

12:54: I blow a .22. Only mild cheers this time. Everyone is waiting for the challenger to blow.

12:56: He blows a .24. He smiles condescendingly at me. I order two more shots.

12:59: I do the first shot. It doesn?t go down well. I decide to take a short break from drinking. The crowd is not impressed.

1:10: Reality sets in. I am going to vomit. A LOT. I try to discreetly make it outside.

1:11: I knock a girl over as I sprint through the door.

1:11: I trip over a bush, stumble into it, and begin throwing up. Out of my mouth. And nose. It is not pleasant.

1:14: I can?t figure out why my legs hurt so much. I look down at them in between heaves. I have no pants on. Thorns and branches are embedded in my shins.

1:18: The vomiting is over. I am now trying to stop the bleeding. A bright light hits my eyes. I am not happy. I tell the owner to ?get that fucking light out of my face.? The owner of the light identifies himself as an officer of the law. I apologize to the officer, and ask him what the problem is. A long pause ensues. The light is still in my eyes. ?Son, where are your pants?? Remembering past encounters with the law, and realizing there is no one around to bail me out of the county lock-up, I summon every bit of adrenaline in my body to sober myself up. I apologize again, and explain to the officer that my pants are in the restaurant that is less than 50 feet away, and that I came outside to share my sushi with the bush. He doesn?t laugh. Another long pause. ?You?re not driving tonight are you??, ?Oh, NO, NO, NO?no sir, I don?t even have a valid driver?s license.?

1:20: He tells me to go back inside, put on my pants, and call a cab.

1:21: I go back into the sushi restaurant. A few people stare at me in a peculiar manner. I look down, and then tuck my partially exposed sack back into my boxers. I don?t know what to do about my bleeding legs. I look around for my pants.

1:24: I can?t find my pants. My breathalyzer is in clear sight. I blow. A .23. Someone informs me that my challenger just blew a .26. They add that he hasn?t thrown up yet. I tell them to ?kiss my fucking ass.? My last clear memory.

8:15am: I wake up. I don?t know where I am. It is very hot. I am sweating horribly. It smells like rotting flesh.

8:16: I am in my car. With the windows up. The sun is beating down directly on me. It is at least 125 degrees in my car. I open the door and try to get out, but instead I fall onto the pavement. The scabs that cover my legs tear and reopen as I move. My penis falls out of my pink Gap boxers and lands, along with the rest of me, in a dirty puddle on the asphalt.

8:19: The fetid standing water finally propels me into full consciousness. I can?t find my pants. Or cell phone. Or wallet. But I do have my breathalyzer. I blow. A .09. I am still not eligible to drive in the state of Florida.

8:22: I drive home anyway.

Let me be clear about this night: it was in my top 5 drunkest nights ever. I was completely shit-housed. I threw up multiple times, some of them through my nose. JESUS CHRIST, I WOKE UP blowing a .09. That's fucking ridiculous. That thing is awful. All you do is drink in order to increase your BAC. That device is the devil dressed in a transistor.
My advice to you: avoid it at all costs.

 

[jase]

The Blowjob Follies
The problem with oral sex is that it?s like writing. When done right, it?s amazing, but there are just so many ways it can go wrong, and when it goes wrong, it?s just not worth it. These are some of my funnier blow job stories.

Say it, Don?t Spray it

High school was the first time I realized that blow jobs would be a painful pleasure. I was dating a girl from another school in my area. Besides being one of the hottest girls I?ve ever known, she was also one of the very first girls to give me head. We were both new at it, and she liked me to courtesy tap. This was because I had convinced her that--I?m not making this up--it wasn?t ?real? oral sex as long as I didn?t come in her mouth. Aren?t 17 year old girls funny?

The first few dozen times she went down on me I courtesy tapped just like she asked. One time we were in my car, parked right out front of her house because I was dropping her off after a date. Instead of a kiss goodnight, I suggested she blow me goodnight. She thought this was a brilliant idea.
I quickly got carried away with the risk and thrill of having her suck my dick twenty yards away from her house where her father, who I hated, was waiting for her to come home. I was lost in the sexual ecstasy of the dangerous youthful blowjob when I heard her let out a little yelp. She immediately sat up, her mouth half open, full of splooge, the excess dripping off her chin, and uttered a muffled,
"You asshole!?
Then she spit the come all over my face. Sprayed it all over me.
I was still recovering from getting my own jism spat into my own face as she jumped out of my car and sprinted into her house. I quickly drove off. I had no desire to face her rifle-wielding father with my face covered in her spit and my sperm.
Once I was out of imminent danger, I couldn?t help but laugh, even though I had no idea that this would only be the first in a long line of strange blowjob incidents.

Miss Chokesondick

One girl I was dating the summer after I graduated high school, ?Jayne,? had never given head before she started seeing me. Now, my experience has taught me that whenever a girl tells me she ?doesn?t normally give head,? she inevitably ends up giving me an incredible blow job. It?s the ones who say they never do it that do it the best. Jayne was the exception.
She was the absolute worst I?ve ever experienced. I?ve never even heard of girls worse at fellatio than Jayne. Her teeth were all over my dick, she had no rhythm, no enthusiasm, and had a mouth that mysteriously never got moist. It was awful.
It was a month of painstaking instruction before she finally got good enough that I didn?t just stop her after 5 minutes and tell her to jerk me off--she was that bad. After another month or so, she got good enough that she could at least come close to finishing me off by herself. Here?s the weirdest part: no matter how much she improved, she never moved her head. She kept her head still and I would have to move my hips. This was annoying, but I was patient with her because she was stunningly beautiful and I was still young enough to think I was in love (this was back when I thought I actually was capable of love).
One night she was doing a pretty good job and I got very enthused with my hip thrusts when I felt a warm, wet sensation on my crotch. I was laying on my back and I looked down and saw what looked like A LOT of splooge.
This confused me because even though I was close to coming, I didn?t think I had actually achieved orgasm. The come was chunky to the touch, very dark, and much more viscous than any semen that I?ve ever seen shoot out of my dick. My first though was that I she had given me some crazy hybrid VD that made my come all thick and chunky. I dismissed that, but my mind was still racing; I couldn?t figure out what could be wrong, so I said, ?What did you do to my dick??
She looked up at me. The expression on her face immediately gave it away:
"Oh my god--did you just throw up on my dick? Did you just VOMIT ON MY FUCKING DICK??
Yes, Tucker. Yes she did.
I ended up dating her for another two years (beauty does strange things to the male mind), but she stopped going down on me and we just focused on vaginal sex from that point forward.

Bull?s-eye

The next incident was a few years later, in college, right after I had discovered the art of coming on a girls face. Even before I made the term ?dotting her eyes? famous, I was a fan of the facial.
As my climax approached, I moved her onto her back and pulled out just in time, covering her face with a solid 5-roper. Being the neophyte, I had no idea how to aim, and accidentally shot the first--and strongest--rope right in her eye. As I finished and collapsed, very happy with myself and proud of my prodigious paint job, I noticed the look of agony and pain on her face.
Tucker "Baby, are you OK? What?s wrong??
Girl "I...I can?t see?Jesus, it hurts?it?s burning.?
I helped her scoop most of it out of her eye socket and, both of us still naked and sweaty, I led her into the bathroom where she washed her eye out for a good five minutes.
Apparently semen does not agree with the eye. I called her ?Red Eye? for the next few hours, until she got mad and refused to ever give me head again. Then I apologized profusely. She forgave me until she realized that she had ejaculate in her hair and had to wash it twice to get it all out. Needless to say, there were no more facials for her. After that, she swallowed every bit of my seed like a nun taking communion.

The Phantom Menace

One time when I was visiting some friends and family in DC, I went out drinking and ended up going home with a girl. I?ll be honest: this girl was not attractive. But she was into me, and she was there, and perhaps most importantly--she just gave off a blowjob vibe. You know the type; they aren?t good looking or exceptional in any way, but they just give off a look that says "I suck dick like I made it up.?
I was pretty drunk when we got back to her place, but that didn?t seem to faze her. We didn?t even make it to the bedroom. She grabbed me right as we came in the door, undid my pants as she pushed me onto her white sofa and knelt on the ground in front of me, working me right there in her living room.
My god was I right: She blew me away, literally and figuratively. She must have spent at least 20 minutes fellating me, never once taking her mouth off my penis, slurping at the exact right moments in the exact right places. She was so good my ankles even started sweating. God bless whoever taught her.
As soon as she finished, she went to the bathroom to wash out her mouth (she?s one of those), and I stood up to rifle through my pants pocket and get a condom when I saw the sofa: there was a HUGE skid mark prominently displayed on her WHITE sofa.
I laughed at first. Then I remembered that she drove me to her place?and she lived a good 30 minutes away from where I was staying. As the thought of having to hitchhike 45 miles walked through my mind, she appeared out of the bathroom. Fuck.
Thinking fast, I put my pants on the sofa and romantically whisked her into her bedroom, where I had to fuck her at least 3 or 4 times to get to go to sleep. Once she was safely out, I snuck out of her room and flipped the cushion.
I wonder if she ever found that stain.

Blowjob Betty

Those incidents were from back when I was young and cared about things like feelings and emotions. As I grew older and my soul became jaded, I realized that I could be an asshole and get away with it, so I became more risky with my blowjob activities.
One time I was with a girl, we?ll call her ?Betty.? She lived in a house with three other girls, but they were all out, so we hooked up in her living room. Betty was a master of her craft, and especially loved going down on me. She was hitting the crescendo of her well-conducted symphony of knob-slobbing, but right before I felt myself let loose into her mouth, the door to her house opened.
Her roommate was barely inside when she saw Betty on her knees sucking me off like she was auditioning for a porn movie. Betty, lips still wrapped firmly around my penis, hand wrapped around my shaft, heard the noise and looked up. Momentarily the eyes of the two roommates locked, one walking in the door, the other with my dick in her mouth. At that exact moment in time, two things happened simultaneously:
-I shot my load into Betty?s mouth.
-The roommate screamed and ran back out the door.
I had not come for about three days before this encounter (that is a whole other story), and thus I had a Peter North sized 8-roper waiting for her. This did not sit well with Betty, especially because she was not expecting it.
Betty tried to take the porn star load, but it was just too much. She was not ready and still trying to process the fact that her roommate saw her sucking dick, so she started choking. Not coughing or a slight choke--the bitch was turning red and dying right in front of me, with my seed as the instrument of death.
I was unsure what to do; I?d never seen a girl choke on dick before. I thought that only happened in rap songs.
After about five seconds of watching her retch, the words from the Too Short song "Blowjob Betty" rang through my head, "A young girl died just last night, she choked on sperm in her windpipe?,? so I did the only thing I could think of: I gave her the Heimlich Maneuver.
I grabbed her around her chest just below her breasts and pulled my fists into her ribcage with all my force. After about three times she heaved, coughed my splooge all over her couch and started yelling at me, ?STOP IT! [cough] YOU?RE HURTING ME! [cough] STOP ASSHOLE!?
I ended up having to take her to the hospital. Not for asphyxiation--she wasn?t choking after all, the come just surprised her and got in her nose. Nope?in my enthusiasm to save her life, I had succeeded in breaking one of her ribs. The highlight of the night was at the ER when the doctor told me that I did a very good job with the Heimlich. Apparently, you?re actually supposed to break a rib if you do it right.
We never could get the old magic back after that night. It might have been because she couldn?t take a deep breath for two months.

A Satisfying Meal

My personal favorite blowjob story happened with a girl I hooked up with only once. I met her in some city, out at some bar, on some night--I barely even remember what she looked like (thank you, Dollar Beer Night). I am pretty sure she was engaged, but it wasn?t to any of my friends, so I didn?t care.
The girl did a pretty decent job sucking me off, especially considering how much I drank, and I finished in her mouth. Like a pro, she kept her lips wrapped around my dick till it was dry, but when she came up, there was a strange look on her face. She contorted her expression a little, opened her mouth like she was going to vomit, which of course made me pull back quickly, then all of the sudden:
"BUUUUUURRRRRRRRRRRPPPPPPPPP!?
The girl belched like a drunken sailor--OFF OF MY COME!
I couldn?t stop laughing. Easily the proudest moment of my life.

Friendly Fire

These are funny, but karma being the bitch that she is, my activities eventually caught up with me.
The summer before I started law school, I was seeing a girl in Miami named "Courtney.?
She was incredibly hot--one of those girls you have a physical reaction too as soon as you see her.
One time we were fucking doggy style, incredible sex, and right as I was about to come I pulled back too far and my dick came out. I didn?t realize it, and as I thrust forward again, instead of going back into her vagina my dick stuck in her ass crack (NOT into her asshole, but her crack, between her butt cheeks, like a hot dog?sort of).
I was leaning over her, my face right above the back of her head, and I looked down at my dick right as I hit climax?and shot nut INTO MY OWN EYE.
A direct hit, right into my wide-open eye. I didn?t even see it coming?literally.
Almost immediately, I developed a personal appreciation for how much come stings. That shit BURNED. It took me a minute to wash it out, but the sting, and the redness, stayed for a good 4 or 5 hours.
Fuck you karma.

 

[tharaka]

Wow, waaaaaaaaaaay too much to read with this level of intoxication.




Cliffs?

 

[jase]

It's funny stuff.

Well, I find it funny.

TuckerMax has got me into reading again! :lol:

 

[Rusty]

GOLD!
:twisted:

 

[Skuz]

yer ive been a bit of a fan of tuckermax but havent read any of those ones lol

SKUZ

 

[Skuz]

i really do like this story

Sometimes even I need a night off, and after an intense Thursday and Friday hanging out with JoJo, I decided to spend a relaxing Saturday hanging out with a friend of mine from high school who happened to be in town that night. We'll call him "Mark."

He shows up at my place around 4pm with a 30-pack of Old Style, which we manage to polish off rather quickly. As I am trying to decide how to steal some more beer from my neighbors, a commercial comes on for a regional professional hockey team, which coincidentally has a game in two hours. Mark wants to go see hockey. He considers it the best idea of all time. I disagree. I want a relaxing night.

Somehow he manages to convince me that drinking 15 beers and then going to a hockey game can qualify as a "relaxing night."

But not only does he want to go to the hockey game, he desperately wants to bring the CamelBak, having read about it in the UT Weekend Story. I pause and consider my options. I can:

A) refuse to go anywhere, knowing myself well enough to see that this night is obviously on course to become a catastrophic trainwreck.

B) agree to go to the hockey game, but refuse to bring along the CamelBak, because it will quite obviously result in my early demise.

C) say "fuck it," throw all caution and temperance to the wind, go to the game with the CamelBak full of Tucker Death Mix, and dare the consequences of my actions to catch up with me.

You've probably read some of my other stories, what do you think I did?

I load up the CamelBak with Tucker Death Mix [Everclear, Red Bull and Gatorade], but this time, instead of Everclear, I use real Kentucky moonshine. My mother lives in Kentucky, and one of her neighbors makes moonshine in his barn. Seriously.

We arrive at the arena fully shit-housed. We don't have tickets, and the only scalper we can find has got to be the dirtiest, poorest, shittiest looking crack addict in Chicago. He is trying to sell two ratty tickets. They look like he got them with a McDonald's Super Value meal. This does not stop me from bargaining with him. I am a master negotiator, especially when drunk:

Tucker "How much for the tickets?"
Crack fiend "40 each."
Tucker "Get the fuck outta here? Do we get a handjob too? Are you kidding? I'll give 20. Total."
Crack fiend "Awww, come'on man. Deez is good seaats, yo."
Tucker "You know...scalping is illegal."
Crack fiend "Man, don gimme dat shit. Deez is 8th row, at the co'na."
Tucker "40 is steep. After all, you're just going to spend the money on crack."
Crack fiend "Man, fuck you."

We settle on $40 total, find our seats right before the game starts, and much to my displeasure, there are about 10 women total in the entire arena. Not that we came to the game to pick up girls, but there is always that hope. I loudly say to Mark, "Jesus H Christ. What the fuck is this; Gay Hockey Night?" These two dorks on the left look at me horrified, while the old guys on the right start laughing. Fuck the idiots on the left.

We start talking to the old guys, bitching about women and whatnot. One of them starts telling us a story. "Yeah, I was with these two beautiful girls the other night. Wonderful girls. The night was going great until they started using all sorts of horrible four-letter words. Horrible, horrible four letter words, like "can't"..."won't"..."don't"..."stop." Horrible, horrible four letter words." These old guys were cracking us up. Of course, we were quickly approaching Tucker Max Drunk; a dancing Tele-Tubby would probably have had us in tears.

Because I can see the entertainment value from miles away, I start talking to the low-rent Jude Law on my left. I immediately wanted to punch him in the face. He was one of those annoying psuedo-intellectuals; horn-rimmed glasses, drinks Pinot Grigio by the glass at bars, buys poetry books but never reads them, avoids red meat, shops at the Kiehls counter, acts indignantly offended by Howard Stern, like to drop names like "Foucault" and "Sartre" in normal conversation. We all know one or two. I kept laughing to myself, because he looked exactly like Chachi from Happy Days. He thought he was better than me because I was drunk and acting like an idiot, while he was composed and polite. Yeah, I got something for him.

He condescendingly asks me what I do, and I tell him I'm a writer. Then the fun began:

Him "Really? I used to be a writer, until I went to law school." A fastball down the middle.
Me "Really? I never would have guessed. Where'd you go to law school?"
Him "The University of Texas."
Me "Well, I guess not everyone can go to a good school. So what did you write?"
Him "Mostly freelance think-pieces for magazines and newspapers."
Me "So you were an out-of-work copy editor?"
Him "Uh...no. My last piece was published in the Utne Reader."

IS THIS GUY FUCKING SERIOUS?

Me "I bet you're very proud." I laughed, but he just ignored me. "So what do you do now?"
Him "Uh...well, I'm a lawyer. That's why I went to law school."
Me "Suuuper. So, Chachi, where are you from?"
Him "I'm from Texas."
Me "I bet you were real popular there."

He didn't respond. Mark and I order a couple more beers. The game was boring, so I keep fucking with Chachi. His aggravation is growing visibly, but he's the type that signs anti-sweatshop petitions, so I'm not concerned about any forthcoming violence. I continue:

Me "I've been to Texas. I liked it. But I've heard some strange things about the laws there. You're a lawyer: Is it true that you can have open containers in the car, as long there is one less than the number of people in the car?"
Him "Uh...I'm not really sure. We didn't really study that in law school."
Me "Did you ever drink?"
Him "Uh...yeah."
Me "And you never drove afterwards?"
Him "Uh...no."
Me "You don't believe all that Mothers Against Drunk Driving propaganda do you?" He ignored me, so I continued, "Is it true that in Texas you can shoot someone if you find them sleeping with your wife?"
Him "No, that's not true. It's a myth."
Me "I don't know Chachi, I think it's true. What about if you come home, and you find a guy on your porch, nosing around, and your wife is inside, and she's naked. Can you shoot him then?"
Him "No."
Me "What about your wife, can you shoot her?" He didn't answer. "What if there's a guy in your yard, and he's naked, and he's looking at you funny. I bet you can shoot him then."
Him "No, you can't."
Me "What if some guy is on your porch, and he's dancing all funny, like a hippie, and your wife thinks he's attractive? Can you shoot either of them? What is the self-defense standard in Texas--'He needed killin'?'"
Him "What? Are you serious?"
Me "I'm just trying to figure out the law here buddy. You never know when you might have to come out blazing."

He and his friend get up and leave, but he leaves his beer in the cup holder. As soon as he was out of sight, I pour half his beer into mine, finish it off, and head to the bathroom. When I get there, I see Chachi standing at the urinal, so I bust out in song:

"THE STARS AT NIGHT, ARE BIG AND BRIGHT [CLAP] [CLAP] [CLAP] [CLAP] DEEP IN THE HEART OF TEXAS!!"

He looks over, not amused. I make a little gun with my thumb and index finger, point it at him, and go "POW!" He is even less amused. Fuck him if he can't take a joke.

The second period comes around, and Chachi doesn't return to his seat, so I finish his beer. He's not going to need it. Mark is busy sucking on the CamelBak, and appears ready to slip into a coma. Then it happens, that defining moment that I wait for every time I go out drinking:

Right before the second intermission, some guy comes up and asks our section if anyone wants to go on the ice and shoot pucks against the mascot,

"OH ME ME ME!! I WANT TO DO IT!! ME ME ME!!"

The guy kinda stares at me hesitantly, but since no one else in the 1/4 full section dares get up and challenge my drunken enthusiasm, I become the chosen one. I get down to the staging area behind the penalty box, and the other two participants are a girl who was so skinny she looked like she spent three weeks on the Miami 48-hour Miracle Diet, and a fat guy who uncannily resembled the Comic Book Guy from The Simpson's. I asked him if he owns a comic book store, and I guess this is a joke he's heard often, because he got kinda mad at me. Unsure of how to react to his visible anger, I say "Worst. Reaction. Ever." This didn't help.

The waifish usher explains the rules to us: We get a hockey stick and a puck, and are allowed to take one shot against the mascot, this big, furry, dog looking thing. Anyone who scores gets tickets to the next game. I chime in,

Tucker "I don't want to go to the next game. This place sucks."
Usher [stares at me with contempt for a minute] "You can't take your beer on the ice with you."

Once on the ice I flip off the crowd, and start my advance on the mascot. Right before I am about to shoot the puck, genius strikes me.

I hurl my stick at the mascot to confuse him, kick the puck into the goal, tackle the mascot into the net, pull his jersey over his head, and start delivering directed body shots into his ribs.

Raise your hand up if you've ever heard a professional team mascot say "What they fuck are you doing, you asshole?"

I'm not sure if I have ever laughed so hard as when this big fuzzy brown head let loose with a rapid fire barrage of curse words. I am so in tears laughing at him, that I can barely keep up giving him body shots. Of course, my laughter only makes him madder, and I eventually lose the upper hand. He gets me rolled over and ends up on top of me. He is now completely engrossed in the fight, and starts hitting me back, all while I am laughing hysterically.

The crowd went nuts. I mean honestly--picture this scene in your head.

The entire time, the announcer is standing 10 feet away, completely dumbfounded. He had no idea what to do or say, until the mascot got on top, when he finally comes over and pulls the mascot off of me. It actually took him a few minutes to get the mascot composed. The mascot had completely lost his shit; he wanted to keep fighting me, especially after I got up and threw my hands in the air, receiving boisterous cheers from the crowd.

I was escorted off the ice, to continued cheers, when someone who appeared to be in charge started throwing around a lot of words like "assault" and "battery." I paused, staring at him while I composed my thoughts, and said,

Tucker "I'm sorry, but I stand by my decision. I am now a member of the elite club of people that have fought a professional team mascot. You sir, are not in that club."

He stared at me, completely silent, for what seemed like three or four minutes, and then just turned and walked away. I was kicked out of the area, and told not to ever come back.

I had to wait by the car for a good hour and a half until dumbass Mark came stumbling out. When I asked him why he was so late, and didn't leave when I was kicked out, he looked at me strangely and said,

"You got kicked out? What did you do?"

 

[ZedEx]

HAHAHAHAHAHAHA OMFG :lol: Thats one of the funniest stories i have ever read!