In the second installment of Pennetration, your one and only source into the scandalous lives of Penn's sexual elite, a Penn gal writes of her encounter with the infamous blogger/self-proclaimed asshole Tucker Max.
Let me preface this with: Tucker Max is the fucking man.
I could try to describe his greatness, but I’d prefer to use his own words. As Tucker writes in the introduction to his website, “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.”
I’ve always sort of fancied myself the female equivalent of Tucker Max. He has unquestionably been one of my biggest influences, in both my personal conduct and my writing style.
When I was a sophomore in high school, one of my male friends introduced me to the Tucker Max website. Right away I thought, “This dude is awesome!” I read through his many chronicles of drunken debauchery, which many times made me laugh so hard that I cried, and found myself strongly identifying with Tucker.
I’ve never really had a filter, or what could be called a proper conscience . . . you know, that voice that tells you that the shit you want to say is inappropriate and will offend any decent human being in the immediate vicinity?
Furthermore, like Tucker, I’m a self-professed slut. I certainly have sex with more people than is safe or reasonable. I love sex, and I’m not ashamed of it. Society tends to frown upon women who fuck whomever they want, whenever they want, which is why I’ve up until now limited my sexcapade tales to oral retellings, rather than writing them out and posting them on the internet.
When I heard that Tucker was touring the nation in promotion of I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell, the movie based on his bestselling book, I immediately jumped at the chance to meet my mentor. I secured a seat at the movie premiere at the Bridge. And of course, I was banking on the possibility that I might be able to seduce him, and thus fuck the man who inspired my love of casual sex.
I wanted to fuck Tucker Max for the simple fact that thereafter I could say, “I had sex with Tucker Max.” Tucker Max is a legend. I consider it an admirable feat to have slept with him.
But I didn’t want to be just another one of the hundreds of girls he’s fucked. I wanted my own personal Tucker Max story.
If you’re familiar with Tucker’s writing you’ll know that in order to be forever immortalized in writing, a girl will have to do something pretty extreme. In many of his stories, the girls he fucks are memorable for their utter vacuity or general whoreishness. I decided that if I was going to be the subject of a Tucker Max story, it was going to have to be an exchange of mutual respect.
I dressed for the premiere like a shameless slut. I wanted it to be pretty obvious that I was down to fuck, and the tight little black number that exposed my tits and rode up my ass made the perfect statement. I got a few disapproving looks from other female audience members, but whatever, I was there on a mission, and couldn’t spare the energy to put the others in their place.
After the movie, I slipped into the movie theater’s bar to get a drink. Tucker was signing autographs, and the line was a mile long. I had some time to kill before I could wrangle my way onto the tour bus. I ordered a vodka and Diet Coke, and not five minutes after I got my drink, I was invited onto the tour bus for a drink while I waited for Tucker. Fuck, they were going to booze me up for free and I just paid six dollars for shitty well vodka? I fixed myself a sugar-free Red Bull and Ketel One. Not top shelf, but certainly better than the cat piss I was drinking at 12 Lounge.
Finally Tucker arrived. He gave me an approving once-over. Sweet. This was going to be easy.
Like Tucker says in The Handprint Story, I was indeed giving him “Fuck Me” eyes, and he returned them. After about 45 minutes or so, the rest of the bus guests took off and I was left to have a private conversation with Tucker. We made a bit of small talk; he asked me what I’m majoring in and all that standard bullshit. One of the guys on the tour bus told Tucker that they had to leave for Boston in about half an hour for early morning press engagements. This was no time for pleasantries. Point blank, I told Tucker that my apartment was kitty-corner to the bus, and we left.
The rest is pretty much exactly how Tucker tells it. I am, in fact, a dirty girl. Even without Tucker clarifying that he means this in “the BEST possible way” I take no offense at this appellation. I like kinky sex and have no problem expressing it. Like I said, if I was going to fuck Tucker it was going to be on my terms. So I told him in the elevator that I wanted to be tied up and smacked around a bit. And Tucker was very accommodating to my wishes.
The sex was enjoyable. We didn’t have a lot of time, so we just had to make a quick go of it. As Tucker explains, I then told him I wanted him to sign the handprints on my ass. He complied. We took a photo.
After we fucked, I put my dress back on and accompanied Tucker to the door. But the night wasn’t over. I only had about 4 or so drinks in me and was only slightly inebriated. So I went back out and met my friends at the bar across the street. The bus was gone.
The next afternoon Tucker texted me to make sure it was alright for the picture go up on the blog. To which I replied, “Of course you can put it on the site! It’s fucking hilarious. It better be a good story.”
And I’m wholly satisfied with The Handprint Story. It’s short, but does the incident justice. More importantly, not once in the story does Tucker demean me. Only compliments. I couldn’t be more pleased. I come across exactly how I am: an aggressive flirt, a freak in the bed, and a huge fan. I have no qualms.
Tucker told me that he wants to fuck again, so he can really work me over. If we have sex again, I can guarantee they’ll be a tale to top the Handprint Story. He has my number, and knows where to find me.