by Tucker Max
Dominatrix “YOU ARE A PIECE OF SHIT, YOU LITTLE FUCKING TURD!! I OWN YOU, I OWN EVERYTHING ABOUT YOU, YOU FILTHY GARBAGE!!! NOW GET ON YOUR KNEES RIGHT NOW!!!”
I started laughing hysterically, for two reasons:
How do people get off on this shit? I can’t imagine anything less erotic than violence.
I immediately realized how to take this up a level. Think about it—here’s this woman who perceives herself to be powerful because she gets paid to beat up important men who have weird psychological fetishes. What’s the best way to fuck with her? Make her feel powerless, which fucks with her identity. And when you mess with the ideas people hold about themselves, well, that always leads to funny.
Tucker “People PAY YOU for this? I’d demand a refund.”
She kinda tried to kick the back of my knees to force me down, and I just laughed more at her. I wasn’t even really resisting much or being a dick about it, but I wasn’t about to follow instructions. Her inability to control me frustrated her, so she took a wooden spoon and started whipping me on the back with it. It stung for a second, but not bad enough to even wipe the smile off my face. She started really wailing on me with it, and I was still laughing … then it broke. In half, on my back.
Tucker “AHHAHAHAHAHHAH—YOU BROKE THE SPOON!!! And it didn’t even hurt! Who thinks this is painful? I’ve had slight breezes hurt more than this. Get someone else over here who can do it right.”
Bitch got PISSED. She went back into the kitchen, found one of those 500ft commercial rolls of Saran Wrap, and wrapped what seemed like half of it over my mouth and around my head, barely leaving enough room for me to breathe. Then she started taking off my clothes. This didn’t bother me until she got down to my pants. I didn’t have any boxers on. She didn’t care. She stripped me down to my skintight Patagonia Capilene long underwear (it was October in Chicago, I was cold, fuck off). Then she bound my hands to a chair with the other half of the Saran Wrap, tied a bandana over my eyes tight enough that I started to see those little starbursts, and went to work.
I’ll be honest: She kinda beat the crap out of me. She was beating me with the type of anger usually reserved for people who owe money to Tony Soprano. She went to work on my ass with the spatula and two different wooden kitchen spoons. She bit my nipples. She left welts on my ass and back, and some of them even bled a little bit. She even tried to go at my nuts with the tongs (I stopped that shit real quick by kicking her in the chest). She cycled through everything she brought out from the kitchen. It was definitely painful, but at the same time it was pretty funny, just because she was sweating she was working so hard. Except I still don’t understand why this turns people on, but whatever, if they like it, more power to them.
I took the bandana off when she was finished, and looked around the room. She was exhausted to the point that she was dripping in sweat, like she’d just worked out. Perusing the eyes of all the girls watching was weird—I did not perceive this as sexual, but it was real clear that a lot of the girls were REAL turned on. That day-shift stripper I was almost drunk enough to be attracted to was particularly into it, and she looked much prettier and more innocent than I remembered from an hour before. So I persuaded her to go next. The dominatrix tied her up the same way, stripped her down to her bra, and went at her. She was much more erotic and sensual with her. It was actually kinda hot.
In the middle of all this, one of the guys who lived in the apartment but had been out all night, “Brian,” came home and walked in on the scene. He later described it in an email as such:
“I come into the apartment to find [Jerry] passed out face first on the computer desk and everyone else crowded into the area over by the kitchen table. There was a girl blindfolded, almost naked, bending over a chair getting spanked in the ass with a wooden spoon by some girl in a red hooker costume who is lifting it up to show everyone her shaved box. I WAS FUCKING SHOCKED.”
At this point, two of us were essentially naked, the endorphins of sexual assault were coursing through our veins, and the people watching us were like chimps rubbing their genitals together. Everyone was shit-housed. The place was delicately teetering on the precipice of a hot, disgusting orgy of uglies.
That’s when someone suggested we all go into the sauna (this apartment is so sweet; it is two stories, has four bedrooms, two decks, a hot tub, AND a sauna).
It was like the beginning of one of those “artsy” pornos where the director pays lip service to the craft of filmmaking or some shit by employing a thinly veiled attempt at plot. We’re all preparing to get into the sauna, stripping off unnecessary clothes, making small talk, even though we all know what the subtext is: whether we’re going to have a nauseating fuckfest.
As we wait for the sauna to heat and steam up enough, the dominatrix takes Jerry, who had passed out on a desk about two hours prior, upstairs to his bedroom. The sauna is upstairs too, so after we get beer we all head up, except I hear some noises coming from Jerry’s room. His room is built like a loft with a space above his door that you can look over. I drag a three-foot speaker over, climb on top of it, and peer into his room. My eyes met this scene:
Jerry, shoes still on, jeans around his ankles, standing behind the dominatrix, who was bent over the bed. He was not fucking her; he was jackhammering her so hard and fast, he was moving like one of those things that mixes paint at Home Depot.
Unable to contain myself, I start giggling like a schoolgirl. Jerry looks up, sweat dripping off his face, sees me, and his eyes go wide:
“Hey! HEY!!!!”
It was NOT a yell of surprise. It was a yell of anguish that said, “Oh God, everyone will know I’ve done this.”
His screaming sent me into convulsive spasms of laughter, which caused me fall off the speaker and crash into a cheap coffee table, smashing it into pieces. I just left the mess and ran into the sauna, still laughing and bleeding. Now we know who else would fuck this sea donkey dominatrix in addition to a heroin addict.
There were five other people in the sauna—Brian and four girls—all in towels. The good thing is that everyone thought the story was as funny as I did. The bad thing is that you don’t want to watch (nearly) naked ugly people laughing spastically. Horrifying.
Then the dominatrix walked in. She was completely naked except for her black knee-high leather hooker boots. To this day I have never seen anything so violently repulsive, yet so oddly erotic. Remember how great I said her tits looked in that costume? Yeah, well pancake batter holds a nice shape too … in the ladle. But when you pour it out onto the griddle? Flapjacks. She walked her naked body, complete with shaved box full of Jerry-semen, right over to Brian and sat on his lap.
This was a tense moment. Mostly because everyone was worried we were going to have watch an ugly girl fuck. The dominatrix, being attuned to this tension, made a point of cutting it—by immediately playing with Brian’s junk and then putting his penis in her mouth. If that’s not a sign to get the fuck out of a sauna, and the apartment I don’t know what is.
The fallout from that party came down for weeks. At first Jerry tried to deny that he slept with the dominatrix. Sorry buddy, I saw it, and it was so traumatic I broke your coffee table. Then he changed his story and claimed he was raped. That’s a pretty strange claim—it’s not often you personally witness a “victim” absolutely CRUSHING a piece of ass from behind.
For Brian, the guy who walked in on the girl getting turned out by the dominatrix, well, I’ll let him describe what that party did to him:
“It affected me in ways that I never thought possible. Last night I got stoned and was going over the events in my head and I came to the conclusion that I need to get my act together quick. I guess that sometimes it takes a freshly fucked hideous dominatrix trying to blow you in your sauna to make you think, ‘What the fuck am I doing with my life?’”
HALLOWEEN 2003
My ex-girlfriend Bunny and I dated for about year, from like end of 2003 to mid-2004. We had a dysfunctional relationsh
ip, didn’t work as a couple, and probably shouldn’t even have dated at all. The good news is that all the bad shit was a result of dating; since we’ve broken up, we’ve become best friends.
The first time she really saw me in action was a month or so after we started dating. We went to a Halloween party in Chicago that some friends of mine were having. I don’t really remember much of that night because I was incredibly fucked up; I was probably drunk enough to play tag with myself. Also, there wasn’t any one big event that made me take notice; it was just a pretty typical fun night out. The next day, I vaguely remember thinking I had a good time and said some funny stuff, but that nothing really “story worthy” happened.
When I said that to her the next day, Bunny almost shit. She had a very different take on my actions that night. Bunny doesn’t drink much, so she was stone sober all night and remembered everything. I asked her to sit down and write out what I did that was funny, because if it was really as good as she said, I wanted to email it to my friends. This is the email she wrote back:
“Honey, I thought you might have exaggerated a little in your stories, but seeing you drunk last night at the party … I’ve never seen anything like that. By the end of the night, when people would see you coming they would audibly gasp and then go the other way. I think a dozen people at least left the party because of you. I have never laughed so hard. Here are some of the things I can remember:
At the party, you introduced me to your friends, who were very nice. A lot of other people would come up to you and say what’s up or slap five, and you’d nod and say what’s up. Then you’d turn to me and say, “I don’t have any fucking idea who that guy is.”
You reduced Sarah [a female friend of mine and Bunny’s] to tears in front of everyone, because you said she is nuts. I think your exact quote was, “Look at yourself—you can’t even hold your drink straight. Everyone around here seems to have no problem keeping the contents of their cup IN their cup. You on the other hand seem to have an inability to hold a glass level. You are obviously insane.” This was what made her cry. I apologized to her later for you.
You must have asked 100 different people if they thought they were better than you. No matter what their answer was, you yelled at them, “YOU’RE NOT BETTER’N ME!”
You and Brian made fun of a lot of people together. One I remember: You tried to make an Asian guy apologize for WW2. He said he was Vietnamese. You told him to apologize for the Vietnam War. He said he was born in 1980, five years after Vietnam ended. You told him to apologize for using sweatshop labor to flood the US market with cheap imports and taking American jobs. He said his dad was American. Then you called him a “dust child” and he got really mad. What does that mean?
This one girl was dressed as a Wonder Bra. You went up to her and said, “You know why they call it a Wonder Bra? Because when she takes it off, you wonder where her tits went. Fucking BULLSHIT!”
You found a bag of ice, and you carried it around the party yelling out, “I’m so hot, I’m gonna melt all this iiiiiiiiccccceee! Look at the ice melting … because I’m so hot.”
You complimented a girl on her costume and said she did a really good job with it, and she thanked you. Then you said, “I assume you were intending to come as a piece of shit, right?” I apologized to her for you.
She got mad and tried to make fun of you. Then you said something very mean. You said you wouldn’t fuck her with Rosie O’Donnell’s dick. I tried to find her to apologize, but I didn’t see her at the party after that.
A girl was telling me about her boyfriend, and you interrupted, “Does this story involve penetration? If not, just shut the fuck up, no one cares.”
We met a very nice man who was an African-American and a homosexual. You called him a “blaggot.” He thought it was funny.
You tried to convince a guy who was dressed as a break dancer to follow you around holding his boom box over your head, playing various theme songs to your life. You told him you’d pay him to do it three nights a week. Then you had a long discussion about what songs worked with what events. Most of your song choices were bad.
One girl dressed as a Franzia box of wine. It was a funny costume. You spun her around and then yelled out that her costume was all wrong, the nutritional label should say the box contained at least 100 pounds of fat. I apologized to her for you.
I think you may have caused a divorce. I didn’t hear what you said, but Brian told me later that you asked the girl where the sign in sheet for her vagina was. They got into a huge argument and then left the party. I think the subject of the argument was whether or not the girl wanted to have sex with you.
Some girl told me that you called her a stupid gutterslut. I told her you meant it in the most respectful way possible.
One girl who was kinda fat came dressed as a lady bug. You told her she looked like a fire hydrant. Then you asked her how many dogs had pissed on her. I apologized to her later.
You convinced your friend’s girlfriend to let me lick her breasts in front of everyone. I have never seen a guy more happy with you. I think he was the only guy at the party who liked you. I liked you then too. Her tits were awesome.
Then you made fun of her because she wasn’t drinking. She was pregnant. You said she should drink anyway, because “some birth defect children are entertaining, like that Baby Ruth guy in The Goonies. He’s HILARIOUS.”
We discussed children. I said I would love any baby I had, even if it was retarded. You said you wouldn’t love a retarded baby, that you’d poke it in the brain with a needle and throw it down a hill, like the Spartans did. It was very mean.
I went to the bathroom, and when I came back you said, “Bunny, we’ve made a lot of progress. She narrowed it down to 7 guys that could’ve gotten her pregnant.” Thankfully they thought you were hilarious.
This one girl was dressed as a dinosaur, and was obnoxiously roaring at people, asking them to guess what kind of dinosaur she was. It was annoying. You said she was a fupapotamus. Everyone laughed, and she got very upset at you, and tried to respond. You said that if she had any more emotions to convey, she should bake them into some chocolate cookies because she’d already eaten all the desserts and other people were hungry too. I saw her crying in the bathroom later and apologized to her for you, even though she deserved it.
This one guy was telling you some story about his job, and you blurted out, “No one cares that you had to work doubles at the dirt factory to make ends meet. Get to the fucking point buddy.”
You almost got in a fight with a guy who was supposed to be the Publishers Clearing House Prize Patrol. He walked out on the deck, and you yell out, “GET YOUR FUCKING BALLOONS OUT OF MY PARTY, THIS IS MY PARTY AND YOU DON’T BRING BALLOONS WITHOUT MY PERMISSION.” He acted like a dick to you, so you continued, “WELL, here’s ANOTHER person who thinks he’s BETTER’N me.” I think he threw something at you or pushed you or something juvenile like that. I thought you might fight him, but you got in his face and yelled, “I REALLY ENJOY BEN & JERRY’S ICE CREAM!” It made no sense. He was confused too, and just went back inside.
You looked over the side of the deck onto the people smoking down below, and started laughing to yourself. Then you tried to stand on the wall of their deck and piss all over them. You said something about cancer not being the only risk of smoking. I told you not to do it because it would be very mean, but you said, “If the thought of something makes me giggle for longer than 15 seconds, then I do it.”
The deck is also three stories up and I told you that if you fell you’d die, but you said, “Relax. Things always work out for me because I do whatever I want without worrying about the consequences.”
Thankfully, you were too drunk to climb the wall, and after many failed attempts, you got frustrated and just peed on your bag of ice.
Then you spotted a bullhorn on a table. When you saw it, your eyes lit up like an 8-year-old on Christmas morning. You kept saying, “Here I am Sap, straight outta your nightmare
s” and tried to pick it up. While holding a 1.75 of vodka in your right hand and the peed-on bag of ice in your left, you somehow managed to sling the bullhorn over your shoulder. Instead of trying to turn it on with your free left hand, you tried to manipulate the dial with the right hand, which was holding the bag of ice (that you peed on) and vodka. Brian said you looked like a tard trying to tie his own shoelaces. You mumbled something about how it didn’t work.
Then someone who I presume was a resident of the apartment came over very quickly and disarmed you of the bullhorn and ran off with it before you could really resist. You looked so deflated. It was sad.
After that, Sarah, Serena, and Rachel wanted to leave with me and you for the fivesome. They were kind of reticent to go with you though because they were afraid you were going to make fun of them. I think you could have come with us if you’d been nice to them for one minute, but I don’t think you were even listening to me. You were too depressed about the bullhorn.
I’m sure I’m forgetting other things. There was so much, it was hard to keep track of it.”
And yes, you’re reading that email correctly—I turned down an orgy with me and four girls, because I was depressed about losing a bullhorn. That’s the problem with alcohol; the bad decisions it causes you to make don’t always lead to fun.
HALLOWEEN 2006
I was living in NYC at the time, but for Halloween this year I was back in Chicago. I hadn’t really given much thought to my costume at all, and after rushing around last minute and not being able to find any costume at all that didn’t suck, I decided to do the obvious thing: Go as Tucker Max.
