Assholes Finish First

by Tucker Max

  I’m not going to lie, I freaked the fuck out. All I could think was that one of two things happened:

  1. I killed her with my dick, which would ruin my whole night, or

  2. She is possessed. Which would make this the part of the horror movie where I need to get the fuck out of there.

  Twitching on the floor, she managed to crawl to her side table, yank the drawer open, pull a full hypodermic needle out, rip the top off with her teeth, slam it into her thigh, depress the plunger, and inject the entire contents into her body.

  Tucker “WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON!”

  She lay there panting heavily with her eyes closed for what seemed like forever, but was probably only 15 seconds in non-I-just-killed-a-girl-with-my-dick time. I was about to pick up the phone and dial 911, when she said:

  Crissy “Sorry, I didn’t tell you… I’m diabetic.”

  Holy shit, of course! That explains everything about her! She acts so weird because she’s in a constant state of mild diabetic shock! Every time I see her, she is either drinking or starving herself. Her weird behavior, her slurred speech—it all made sense now!

  OH MY GOD! That’s why she insisted on swallowing in the park—she was trying to regulate her blood sugar with my cum!

  WHAT THE FUCK!?!?!!

  What the fuck is wrong with her? That’s not going to work! Is she nuts? The questions were flooding my head. I would have asked her myself, but she had already passed out. Right there on the floor. The combination of alcohol, extreme exertion, and a huge insulin injection were apparently too much for her to handle.

  Even though her pulse was OK, I was still seriously worried. If she died, I could only imagine how I was going to explain this situation to the cops. “No Officer, even though she has my cum in her stomach and an empty hypodermic needle on the floor, I had nothing to do with this girl dying.” Yeah, right. Even the best-case scenario sees me spending a night in The Tombs while they sort it out. I’ve read Bonfire of the Vanities. No thank you.

  I called an old fuck buddy of mine who is a nurse:

  Tucker “OhMyGod, AngieYouHaveToHelpMe, ThisDiabeticGirlUsedMy CumToRegulateHerBloodSugar, IThinkSheMightBeDead!”

  Angie “Tucker, I can’t understand a word you are saying. Slow down and explain this to me from the beginning.”

  I took a deep breath and went through the whole story. After Angie stopped laughing hysterically (thanks again, bitch) she broke it down:

  Angie “If she has a steady pulse and is sleeping peacefully, she’s going to be fine. But she’s a complete idiot. You cannot play roulette like that with diabetes; she could easily go from diabetic shock to diabetic coma and potentially die. That is very, very dangerous.”

  Tucker “But she’s going to be OK?”

  Angie “Now she is, yes, but she could have died. Tucker, where do you find these girls?”

  Tucker “They find me, Angie.”

  Angie “Keep telling yourself that.”

  I contemplated what to do next. It’s not like I was going to fuck her while she was passed out. I’m not Armenian. I decided just to go home and try to finish off to MILF porn.

  I moved her to the sofa where her roommate would see her in the morning, turned her on her stomach in case she puked up my cum, got dressed, and left.

  She called me a few more times after that. She was hot and smart and fun, but I couldn’t hook up with her again. If she wanted to be a fucking nut job and risk going into a diabetic coma, that’s fine, but I have no desire to watch a girl die while impaled on my dick, not even for a story.

  LA GIRLS HAVE THEIR OWN CATEGORY

  Occurred—September–November 2006

  Living in LA is weird for a number of reasons: The weather never changes, the people are all malignant narcissists who live in a fantasy world, and no one drinks at bars, they all do pills or coke. But to me, the weirdest thing about LA is the women.

  LA women are not like any other women on earth. It’s hard to truly understand LA girls without interacting with them, sort of like describing what it’s like to eat a raw jalapeño to someone who’s never had one. You can say it’s hot, but that doesn’t really capture the richness of the experience. This is the closest I can come to making someone understand without going there yourself:

  No matter what you want to say about women from any other part of America, good or bad, you would still never think to describe them as inhuman. Well, that’s LA girls. They aren’t human, at least not in the way that other women are. They seem to lack some of the most fundamental characteristics of all the women in the rest of the world: empathy, compassion, sweetness, caring, consideration for others, attentiveness, etc. It’s as if they lack a soul. This is fine if you are looking to cast reality show contestants, hire contract killers, or staff a death camp, but not so great when you are looking for someone to interact with on a human level. It is not a coincidence that Paris Hilton, the Kardashian whores, Heidi Montag, all the girls from Laguna Beach and The Hills, Octomom, and basically every talentless, famous-only-for-being-famous celebwhore on earth lives in LA.

  I’m sure there are countless men from other parts of America who will dispute my claim and hold out examples of specific girls they know who are like this. The answer to this challenge is simple: Where do all those girls end up moving to? That’s right, Los Angeles.

  I’d heard about LA girls before I moved there, and people had told me all these awful things about them, but it didn’t register. I’d spent much of my youth in south Florida and had no problem running circles around the shallow women in the South Beach club scene during my college summers. Not only was I much older and wiser now, but how different could LA girls really be?

  Oh boy, was I wrong. That’s the equivalent of thinking you’d have no problem in real battlefield combat because you’re awesome at Call of Duty. The difference between shallow and soulless is like the difference between chicken salad and chicken shit. I learned my lesson about LA girls the hard way—by dating one of them. One and one only; that was all it took.

  Her name was Alexa. She was the worst kind of LA girl, because unlike most of them, she wasn’t a transplant. She was born and raised there. The thing to understand about transplants is that, while they are despicable in their own right and have every opportunity to rise through the ranks of the LA Girl Sociopath Mafia, they will never reach the level of depravity achieved by born-and-bred LA girls. It’s like a bunch of Tom Hagans in a sea of Corleones. If you’re not Sicilian, you can work for the family, but you’ll never be a don. Same principle applies.

  My first contact with her was when she emailed me to fuck. This isn’t unusual, except that she emailed me while she was at a funeral. Seriously, her family was on a boat, dumping her grandfather’s ashes in the ocean, and she was on her Sidekick, setting up a hotel sex rendezvous with me.

  Over the course of several emails, I learned more about her and realized she embodied almost every LA girl stereotype:

  She grew up in Malibu (the most “LA” place in the greater LA area).

  She had been in rehab. Twice. By age 21.

  She dropped out of USC because of some preposterous euphemism for being a slut (a car wreck or exhaustion or something like that).

  She had dated a few celebs, notably some midlevel TV star from some crappy show.

  Her dad was an agent and her mom was an actress who married her dad after her career flamed out.

  One of the biggest stereotypes of LA girls is that they’re all hot. It’s true. That’s the one benefit to having no soul: They’re forced to pay a lot of attention to what they do have—their appearance—because it’s the only currency soulless people have and care about (other than power).

  Thankfully, she did not let me down in that regard either: Alexa was REALLY fucking hot. Big, glittery, audacious tits paired up with a small waist, tight ass, soft blond hair, and a face that stopped traffic—the valets actually stopped cars to stare at her as she entered the hotel. I can still get hard
thinking about seeing her walk into the lobby in that practically see-through designer dress. We fucked three times, and it was really good.

  Afterward, I just assumed she’d text all her friends about it, go shopping on Robertson, do coke at the Standard, and then fuck Mickey Avalon or some other D-lister. I thought I knew what to expect.

  But instead, she was the complete opposite of what I expected from an LA girl. She stuck around and hung out with me, and acted very normal. None of the LA girl bullshit, in fact, I thought she was kinda cool. She didn’t seem shallow or bitchy or anything like that. She was brutally honest about herself and fully admitted that though she participated in it some, the LA culture was bankrupt and absurd. She hated it as much as I did, and being that she grew up in it, she could deftly articulate its problems better than I could. She couldn’t stand celebwhores and fameballs, had no desire to be one or to get into that scene at all, and she seemed to actually have plans to do something legitimate with her life. It was a bit of a shock, but in a good way. I decided we’d hang out a little longer, so we drove to get some food.

  This was when I was right in the middle of selling my TV show a second time (what ended up being the Comedy Central deal), and in the car, I had to take a call from my agent. While I was on the phone, she undid her seat belt, leaned over, and started blowing me. Right there in the car, as I was driving and talking. This girl’s a gamer, I like that.

  But that’s not all. She was kinda listening to my conversation, overheard me asking him a question, realized that he didn’t know the answer, came up off my dick and said to me:

  Alexa “No, HBO won’t do deals with Sony. Chris Albrecht and Sony’s CEO hate each other. They got in a huge fight at a party a few months ago.”

  I looked down at her in shock. She coyly smiled and then went right back to sucking me off.

  I’m not kidding. She knew ancillary details about various networks and producers that my agent didn’t know, and she related all of it while blowing me, as I drove down the 405 talking to my agent. If I hadn’t been there, I wouldn’t have believed it.

  Tucker “Jesus Christ, Jack, there is a 21 year old girl sucking my dick right now—literally sucking my dick—and she knows more about this than you do. Get on it and call me back.”

  Granted, Alexa’s dad was an agent, so it makes sense that she’d know about the entertainment business, but still, that was ridiculous. Let’s check the scorecard:

  1. So hot she literally stops traffic

  2. Down to fuck and good at it

  3. Cool to hang out with and hates fake LA people

  4. Smart and wants to do something with her life

  5. Knows more about internal TV politics than my agent

  6. Fellates me while I drive, and is good at it

  This girl can’t be real. She must be too good to be true, right? I considered that, but I didn’t care. With that list of attributes, she could be in Al Qaeda and I’d still be down.

  Keep in mind, not only was this my first LA girl, but I was still just young and foolish enough to think that I was different, and the rules for women didn’t apply to me. I mean, I’m Tucker Max. Those other guys may get fucked up by LA girls, but they just don’t know how to handle women like I do… right? I can always succeed where others fail, right?

  We started hanging out pretty much every day. She began perfect and somehow got better. She loved watching basketball. I could take her anywhere; she knew how to handle herself at parties and functions just as well as she knew her way around a dick. Even better, she was bisexual, but she didn’t use it as a selling point, which would have been a bad sign. Instead, she just casually asked if I knew any hot girls in LA for us to fuck together. Well, hello. It was like someone had gone to Build-a-Girlfriend and got all the best parts.

  And this girl was INTO me. The way to tell if an LA girl really likes you is if she doesn’t introduce you to her female friends. In most places, this is a sign that you are either a fuck toy or an embarrassment. Not in LA. In LA, all the girls are evil, catty, deceitful whores. If an LA girl keeps you away from her female friends, it means she is afraid they will try to fuck you and steal you away.

  At the beginning, I thought maybe I was just getting swept up in the hype, and that LA girls weren’t that bad. But at the same time, I was still going out and meeting other LA girls, and Alexa wasn’t like any of the rest. They were not only shallow, they were soulless and transparent in their career climbing; Alexa seemed to have depth and authenticity. She had me convinced that she wasn’t like them at all. And those tits. Fuck me running.

  By the third week of us hanging out, she had completely hooked me. The girl even manipulated me into DATING her. How? Well, aside from everything else I’ve already listed, she understood that I was still not ready to be with one girl. She really wanted to date me, but more than that, she wanted me to be happy. She told me that as long as she knew she was my actual girlfriend, she was more than willing to share my dick with other girls every now and then. I was so taken by her evolved perspective, she even convinced me to change my Facebook/MySpace status to “in a relationship.” That night.

  If nothing else tipped me off to her craziness and the inevitable disaster that would result, this should have. I should’ve known that the “I’m cool with you fucking other girls” shitck was a bad sign, and ANY girl who claimed to be cool with it was not only very delusional but also self-abusive and bug-fuck crazy.

  In fact, I DID KNOW THAT. Of course I did, it’s obvious. I just convinced myself that this was different. She wasn’t crazy, this was just a sign that she recognized how awesome I am. Clearly all these hot girls should want to be with me this much, no matter what the cost. I’m Tucker Fucking Max!

  The idea that she was an emotionally unstable codependent train wreck, who would do anything and pretend to be anything in order to attach herself to a high-status man who showed her even basic decency never occurred to me. I was too addicted to the constructed image of my own transcendent awesomeness to see the grains of truth starting to assemble themselves, but they were there, if only I’d had the courage to see them.

  Gentlemen, listen to me: What seems too good to be true, is. It’s never different, and you’re not different. You may be really awesome, you may even be more awesome than me, but there are some inviolable rules of life that none of us can escape from. I’ve made a career out of breaking every rule there is. Most are easily breakable, without any consequence. But some are not: gravity, death, taxes, and the fact that no sane woman—no sane HUMAN—would subject herself to that degree of disrespect from her partner. These are just not changeable. I may be awesome, and I may have all the game on earth, but a disaster is a disaster, no matter who you are.

  I did not always know this. I used to think I could get everything I wanted without having to pay the price for it. You can’t. Life is a trade-off. This relationship taught me that the devil doesn’t come dressed in a red cape and pointy horns. He comes as everything you’ve ever wished for, which is exactly what this girl held herself out to be: everything I could ever want in a girl… but with a hidden cost.

  Once we actually started dating—only three weeks or so after we met—with each passing day it became a little more obvious what that cost was: delusion. I had not found the perfect girl for me. What I had found was an LA girl who quickly figured out what I wanted her to be, then masterfully changed her external self into that. I was dating an actress, except this wasn’t a movie, it was real life, and she wasn’t playing a role, she was playing me.

  There’s one problem with playing a role: It works for only a limited time. Your real self comes out eventually. For Alexa, it started with some minor crisis, like she couldn’t start her car and needed a ride to school. Then she had a fight with a friend. Then her mom threatened to cut off her credit cards (yes, her parents still paid her bills). Then came some issue with an ex-boyfriend stalking her. The crises started small but kept building, kept getting bigger and bigger and
more and more time-consuming. Before I realized what was happening, she turned me into Captain Save-a-Ho. Me. Tucker Max.

  This perpetual state of crisis allowed her to probe the emotional landscape of the relationship. What I would tolerate, how I responded to issues, and where my weaknesses and vulnerabilities were. Guys, let me explain something else to you: A woman in constant crisis is a Charybdis to be avoided at all costs. I know that sometimes it can feel nice to be the problem solver or the white knight, but her problems are a way to (1) control you, (2) soothe and reassure her insecurities, and (3) use you as a shield from the world so she doesn’t have to face her inability to deal with reality. Alexa was doing all of this to me and, like a pussy-whipped teenager, I was falling for it.

  Once she figured out what worked and what didn’t, she knew how to run me, got secure in her position, and shifted from playing the role I wanted to being who she really was. The cool, mature girl became a petulant child, who pouted and whined about everything. The fun, carefree girl who was always down for a good time became insufferably selfish and evidenced a complete lack of empathy for anything or anyone. The mature, grounded girl with ambitious plans for the future started to display a soul-sucking insecurity about everything in my life, becoming petty and manipulative about even the smallest things.

  A specific incident really sticks out in my mind as the moment I began to recognize that this girl wasn’t who I thought she was. When I met Alexa, I was living in NYC; I was only staying in LA for a few months to sell the TV show. My last night in LA before I went back, Alexa and I went to a really nice sushi dinner with Bunny and a few other friends. Alexa was a fucking brat all night because she wasn’t the center of attention—this was mainly because the people at the table were really smart and she had nothing to add to the conversation, since it wasn’t about celebrity relationships or haute couture or any of the five or so topics she could speak about intelligently. Afterward, trying to be nice, I decided we’d go to her favorite dessert place. Like any spoiled child who manipulates the situation into her way, this cheered her up immediately.