Yeah, well, my imagination had not accounted for a thick-necked trooper white-knuckling his blackjack and storming at my car with veins bulging from his forehead. Confronted with how muscular and pissed off the real life cop actually was, my excitement ebbed and I turned the stereo all the way down and abandoned all smart-ass remarks. I'm pretty sure if I'd said any of that shit I'd planned on, this story would be about my struggles learning how to eat solid food and walk again.
Cop "WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU FUCKING DOING!?!"
I can't transcribe the cop's entire lecture. There is only so much room in a book. The cop screamed at me for at least ten minutes. It was like Bobby Knight coaching a team on the And One street ball tour.
Cop "Well? What do you have to say for yourself?"
It was too late to back down. There's no such thing as a lukewarm hell. As calmly and respectfully as I could, I said: Tucker "Officer, are you going to give me a noise pollution ticket or not?"
You ever dumped someone who didn't see it coming at all? You know the look on their face? That look of complete disbelief mixed with repressed rage, the look that tells you if you don't get the fuck out of there, something is gonna get broken? He got that look.
His face twitched, but he didn't say anything. Then he spun on his heels, abruptly turned, and walked back to his car. For a second, I was legitimately scared. I may have pushed this dude too far. This is a cop, and he has rules he has to obey, and I knew I hadn't done anything that bad-but this is still TEXAS. People have been given the death penalty for less.
He'd been back there for about five minutes when two other cop cars pulled up. Fuck. They talked for a while. One of the new cops came and got my license, registration, insurance, all that stuff. They checked EVERYTHING. He even checked my VIN number to make sure it matched the registration AND insurance. I've been pulled over at least 25 times in my life for various things, and I've NEVER seen that. Judging by how long the one cop was in his car on his computer, my guess is that he ran my name through not just the standard law enforcement databases, but every fucking database on earth-VICAP, INTERPOL, FreeCredit-Report.com, everything. They asked for permission to search my car, and of course I gave it to them-this was a brand new car; there was nothing in it. Still, they went over it with everything but a fucking drug-sniffing dog. After they finished, there was another twenty minutes of sitting in my car waiting for them to decide what they could do to me and get away with. Finally, the original cop came up to my window with his violations pad.
Cop "Sign here."
I didn't say shit, I just signed it and handed it back. He ripped it off his pad so hard it tore in half. I think that actually means he's supposed to write up a new one, but he didn't, he just tore the stub off and gave it to me and stormed back to his car. I'm pretty sure protocol says the cop is supposed to explain the various ways to pay the ticket or whatever, but I wasn't about to press my luck. And besides, I had what I wanted.
THE (ALMOST BANNED, NOW COMPLETE) MISS VERMONT STORY.
PART 1: INTRODUCTION.
There are certain people whose influences define and shape your life: your parents, your friends, your teachers, the people you fall in love with. I have the same basic list of people as you probably do ... but since I'm Tucker Max, there's someone else on my list: The first person who ever sued me because of my stories.
If you've been a fan for a long time, you may have read the old Miss Vermont Story on my website. You may have even been a fan long enough to remember when she sued me in 2003. That means you know the basic facts of what happened ... but you don't know the whole story.
In 2003, I gave my first rough draft of "The Miss Vermont Story" to PWJ to read. He'd met and hung out with MissVermont, so I wanted his feedback on how I portrayed her and the events. Instead of emailing me his notes, he called me. The seriousness in his voice shocked me: PWJ "Dude, you have to cut a BUNCH of stuff out of here."
Tucker "Why? What did I get wrong?"
PWJ "No no-it's not what you're getting wrong. It looks right to me. But if you print this story as you have it now, she's going to sue you. I met her; I guarantee this will emotionally break her. You make her look like a fucking moron, and you make her mom look psycho."
Tucker "I don't MAKE them look like anything. You met her, you know that's the way she is."
PWJ "Oh dude, I know."
Tucker "I don't understand-truth is an absolute defense to libel. It's all true. End of story."
PWJ "No, that's wrong. Dude, you really should have gone to class more in law school."
PWJ went on to explain that it was much more complicated than that and elaborated on a bunch of shit that I would have learned had I gone to class instead of doing things like fucking excessive numbers of UNC sorority girls and spending entire months in Cancun.
Because this story was going to be the first time I would use the real name of the person I was writing about-without her permission-I had to have all my shit straight. I'll spare you the tedious and boring legal explanation, but it boils down to this: If I was going to use her real name, then everything I wrote not only had to be true-which it was-but it had to be PROVABLE in a court of law. In order to insulate myself from liability for any portions of the story that were potentially defamatory-which is like 650% of the story-there had to be witnesses or some other factual record of the event. Even if something was completely true, if I couldn't prove it in a court of law, then she could not only sue me, she might be able to win. Because most of the events took place in public places and were easily provable, I could still write the story, but if I wanted to stop her from suing me, I was forced to leave out a lot of cool details. This frustrated the shit out of me-if it's the truth, why can't I say it?? But ultimately, I recognized that PWJ's abundance of caution was the right move, and I restrained myself.
Well, in the seven years since I wrote and published that story, two things happened: Despite my precautions, Katy Johnson and her mother sued me anyway.
I beat those bitches like rented mules (in technical legal terms: I won the case).
Because of that, I can now do what I couldn't do before: tell the WHOLE story of my relationship with MissVermont, plus, I can update the story with everything that happened after she sued me, which has never been told ... until now.
PART 2: THE (NOW COMPLETE) MISS VERMONT STORY.
Occurred, June 2001 It all started the summer after I graduated from law school. I moved to Boca Raton, Florida and took a job managing my father's restaurants. Considering that the general intellectual level of South Florida is somewhere just above "functionally retarded," I wasn't really expecting to meet a girl I would like as a person. And boy, was I right. The first few months were nothing more than emotionally uninvolved sex with morally suspect girls.
One day I was at my gym, The Athletic Club of Boca Raton. It is a massive airplane hangar of a building: a gym, health club, spa, lounge, and restaurant rolled into one. For several years it had been the "in" place to work out in Boca, one of the prime meat markets in a town full of butcher shops. It was the type of place where guttural grunts, flexing in tight shiny shirts, and spending hours talking to people on elliptical machines passes for foreplay. Welcome to South Florida.
I usually tried to avoid peak hours and the throngs of scantily clad gold-digging whores positioning themselves for third husbands. Don't mistake me-staring at immense fake breasts spilling out of sports bras is fun for a while, but it gets old quick, especially when those breasts are attached to women whose over-enhanced faces tell a story their vacant personalities do not. They've circled the drain more than a few times, and no manner of plastic surgery or trips to the spa can hide the despair in the eyes left by years of whorish behavior and emotional prostitution.
I was in the free weight section of the gym, and one girl kept catching my eye, more for what she wasn't showing than what she was. She had on a navy blue hat pulled tight over her face, a loose fitting white cotton T-shirt, and green basketball shorts. Not the standard Boca female gym outfit. Staring at her between sets, I realized that she was attractive. And by trying to hide that attractiveness, she became even better-looking. The logo on her shorts said, "Vermont Law," which gave me the perfect in. My law degree would finally show a return.
I approached and asked if she'd attended law school at Vermont. She told me she hadn't, that she went to undergrad there, but that she was attending Stetson for law school. I told her I just graduated from law school at Duke, and the look on her face told me all I needed to know. A few more minutes of playful banter and it would be time to close the deal.
It was about 7:30, and I had nothing to do the rest of the night, so I decided to speed the process up: Tucker "So, what are you doing tonight?"
MissVermont [She lowered her head slightly and brushed her hair behind her ear, sure signs of attraction] "Nothing."
Tucker "You hungry? Want to get something to eat?"
MissVermont [She looked up at me, her eyes bright, and said in an earnest, non-seductive way] "I'm always hungry."
I swear to God those exact words came out of her mouth. I was so shocked because that is pretty much the last thing you'd ever expect any girl in South Florida to say, right after "I don't mind that you drive a Toyota."
She agreed to meet me at Max's Grille at around 8:30. By the time I got to the restaurant, I had forgotten her name. Great. I got one of the managers to stand by the door with me until she came in. He introduced himself to her, she gave him her name right back, "Hi, I'm Katy Johnson." I'm sneaky.
I'll be honest: She looked amazing. There are pics of her in the book, but they don't do her justice; she really is better looking in person, that night especially. She wore a peach colored dress that might as well have been painted on her nicely shaped body, full breasts taut against the upper lip of the fabric, cleavage everywhere ... I was excited.
I have charmed my share of women, but I wish I'd recorded what I said that night. The conversation was great; I was hitting all her buttons in exactly the right way. Anyone who has ever played sports knows the feeling of "being in the zone." It's when you have one of those transcendental games, where everything works, when you see the entire court, the game slows down while you keep going at full speed, you're three steps ahead of everyone else, everything you throw up goes in, and when you miss, the rebound comes right back at you. I was having one of those nights.
One of the specific things I remember us talking about was that she was Miss Vermont, twice, and that she hadn't finished in the top ten in either the Miss America or the Miss USA pageant. She had all sorts of endorsement and movie deals set up if she had only finished in the top ten in either, and she was so upset by this failure that now she didn't know what she was going to do with her life. Her life had been so thoroughly dominated by pageants that she had even moved to Vermont and transferred to the University of Vermont during undergrad in order to establish residency there (she wasn't 100% positive that she could win either of the Miss Florida titles). It was painfully clear that Katy was the epitome of a pageant girl. She had defined her life to this point by being judged in that way, and now that it was all over, she was adrift.
There is a saying I have found to be very true: "Tell beautiful women they are smart, and smart women they are beautiful." Seems basic and obvious, but the basics are basics for a reason.
Tucker "I don't know anything about pageants, but I have watched some, and all those girls seem so stupid. You are just as hot as any of them, but unlike them, you're obviously really smart. If the judges don't see that, they're the idiots. Don't let it get you down."
She turned to me, put her hand on my arm, tilted her head, and said "Really?" I just looked at her, with a controlled smirk on my face, and didn't say anything. I've had girls melt on me before, but I'd never actually seen it happen as graphically and completely as it did at that moment.
So let's see ... pageant girl, spent her whole life being judged on external things, twice on the biggest pageant stage, twice judged as falling short, nothing left to fall back on so she gets depressed and insecure, needs to find some kind of external validation ... meets a guy who is smart, good looking, into her, socially adept ... should be obvious where this is going.
After dinner, we went next door to a bar called Gigi's for some cocktails. On the first drink, she said to me, "I can't believe I'm doing this. I never drink this much." This would become the on-going theme in our relationship. Then she got real close to me, moved so I could easily see down her dress, and said: MissVermont "Tucker ... do you find me attractive?"
She was searching for even more validation; I smiled, but didn't say anything. Once you've given some, the best thing you can do is withhold the rest. Like a drug dealer. The first one is free, but the second ... you gotta pay for that one.
She literally put her leg over mine and sort of halfway climbed on top of me, pushing her breasts in my face.
MissVermont "Do you think I'm hot?"
Tucker "What do you think?"
MissVermont "I don't know. That's why I'm asking."
Tucker "Maybe. I'm becoming a fan. There's a lot to like about you. We'll see though."
She took the bait so hard that if we were in the ocean, she would have breached like an orca. The next thing I knew, we were out in the middle of Mizner Park (the outdoor piazza where Max's Grille and Gigi's are located), making out in the middle of the grassy median. It quickly got out of hand; I was pushing her dress up, she was undoing my belt, and we were moving towards passionate and semi-anonymous humping.
I tell her that we have to relax, that we can't do this here. Predictably, she thought I was playing hard to get, and this only made her want me more. In response to me backing off, she desperately intensified her attack on my loins, slipping a hand down my pants, and bringing one of my hands up to her now-exposed left breast.
I tried to figure out a way for us to fuck. My apartment was a no-go; I had just moved in to my new place and didn't have any furniture yet, not even a sofa. She lived with her parents, so that was out. I would have just fucked her right there-it was Tuesday at 12:30, and the park was empty-but I really didn't want to get caught having sex under a gazebo right in front of the restaurant where I worked.
Remembering that she drove, I asked, "Where did you park?" She pointed right behind us, and sitting there on the curb, not twenty yards away, was the solution: A white Ford Explorer. Without the third-row seat.
I did my best to make it romantic: Tucker "Have you ever hooked up in your car?"
Hey-that's romantic for me, alright?
She smiled, so I grabbed her arm, and we half-sprinted toward the car.
I've hooked up with enough girls to make an educated comparison, and let me tell you-I have rarely seen anyone so eager and enthusiastic about sex. Our clothes were off, in the back of an SUV where there is not much room to spare, in less than 30 seconds. About a second after that she mounted me, and we fucked like the plane was going down. When we were finished, she curled up next to me, sweaty and exhausted, and said: MissVermont "You have a lot of experience, don't you?"
The next day, around 11am, I got an exasperated and hysterical voicemail from Katy. She was distraught, nearly crying. It was such frantic gibberish that I couldn't understand anything, so I called her. Apparently, that morning her mother was looking in Katy's car for something, found my boxer-briefs on the floor, which I had, in my post-coital stupor, unwittingly left there.
Now, as I'm sure you know, girls don't generally enter pageants at age 5 because they have some overriding desire to dress like a prostitute and parade themselves in front of creepy old men. They do it because they have evil, overbearing mothers who push them into it in order to live vicariously through their daughters. They don't see their daughters as distinct people they should love and care for; they see them as accessories to their egos, and they measure themselves by what their daughters do. Needless to say, this sort of malignant narcissism is VERY toxic. And though I didn't know it at the time, Katy's mom was one of the worst examples of this type of pageant mom.
For example, Katy was talking about her mom at dinner, and said in the most nonchalant voice ever, like it was a totally reasonable thing, "Yeah, I'm a terrible cook. When I moved to law school, my mother was afraid I was going to starve. But then I had a pageant coming up, so she hoped I did starve." She didn't understand why I was looking at her in horror after she said that.
So of course, when she found the underwear, Katy's mom completely flipped out and stormed into Katy's room, woke her up, called her a whore and a tramp and all sorts of other awful things as she thrust the boxers in her face. To her credit, Katy kept her cool and told her mother that they were her workout underwear, and that she wore them under her shorts to the gym the day before and just forgot to bring them in the house. Her mom bought the story.
In fact, it was only after her mom bought the story that Katy called me in hysterics. I should have known that a hysterical voicemail AFTER the problem had passed was an awful sign, but I was 25 years old and the worst kind of idiot: I knew nothing, but thought I knew everything.
For our second date, I had her over to my place to cook for her. I forget what I made; I think it was miso-glazed Chilean sea bass with Asian baby vegetable stir-fry and polenta croquette. To make this the right way, you have to do it from scratch, which is a lot of work. I grew up in a restaurant family, I can do all that prep work, but fuck that-it's a serious pain in the ass. Why would I now spend an hour buying the perfect ingredients, two hours prepping them, and then another 30 minutes cooking them just to impress some girl I wasn't all that into, and that I'd already fucked?
Instead, I took the easy way out: I went to my restaurant, picked up all the ingredients already prepped by a Haitian making $8 an hour (who's way better at it than me), and had her arrive at my place as I was in the middle of cooking the whole meal-which was actually little more than heating everything up on the stove. I had done this with girls before, and it's a money move-it spares me from doing any actual work, while the girl sits in the kitchen drinking wine and watching me showcase my cooking talents.
MissVermont was more blown away by me cooking than most girls and-after basically pounding a large glass of wine-came over to me as I was standing at the stove searing the fish, pulled my pants down, and went down on me right there in the kitchen.
The fish burned a little, but whatever. She still ate well.
We saw each other somewhat consistently over the next two weeks. It was a relationship defined very much by sex. She could not get enough of me, especially sexually, and I was a big fan of her always-eager body. According to her, I was introducing her to a whole new world. These are verbatim quotes: MissVermont "I didn't know what sex was before you."
MissVermont "You're like a disease. A Tucker sex disease."
MissVermont "You infiltrate me and my body craves you. You're an addiction."
Look, I'm not that good. She was just inexperienced, and the few guys she'd been with sucked, so she thought I was that good. Like when I play basketball with Asians, I look like Dwayne Wade compared to them.
She claimed she'd only been with two guys before me. I generally abide by the "whatever she admits to, multiply by 3 and add in at least one black guy" rule of counting women's sex partners, but given the facts I observed over the next few weeks, she might have been telling the truth.
For example, she was very schizophrenic about sex. One day, she'd want to fuck every minute of every hour, not caring if we ate or slept. Two days later, she wouldn't come home with me after a date. It was like she couldn't resolve the battle in her consciousness, and vacillated between eager slut and chaste prude.
Most tellingly, she just didn't have sex like she knew what she was doing. There is a difference between an inexperienced girl reacting to her first real sexual encounters and an experienced woman acting inexperienced to manipulate the guy. I've been with both, and she was quite obviously the former. For instance, after a few days of intense sexual activity, Katy was having problems with soreness and was waking up with nausea.
Tucker "Just go to your gynecologist, make sure everything is OK."
Katy "Oh ... OK, I guess I can do that ..."
Tucker "What?"
Katy "Well, it's just that ... I don't have a gynecologist ..."
Tucker "You don't have one? Why not?"
Katy "I've never been to one."
Tucker "WHAT? YOU'RE 23 YEARS OLD!!!"
Katy "I know ... it's just ... my mom wouldn't let me go. She said I don't need to see one until I lose my virginity."
Tucker "Oh my lord."
I emphasized how important it was to have a doctor regularly look inside her ham wallet, and that even if it meant lying to her mom and just paying for it out of her own pocket, she really needed to see a gynecologist. She was hesitant, until I showed her some WebMD articles about STDs and HPV and cervical cancer, and the accompanying pictures. She quickly made an appointment. A few days later she called me and left this voicemail: MissVermont "Tucker, I just got back from the ob/gyn and we need to talk."
Now tell me-if a girl you'd been sleeping with, who was complaining of nausea, called and left you that message, what would you have done? I freaked out, found the tallest flight of stairs I could, and was busy orchestrating a complicated plan to "accidentally" throw her down them. I finally got her back on the phone. No, she wasn't pregnant, but, and again I am quoting: MissVermont "Oh no, nothing like that, and I don't have any STDs. My ob/gyn said the soreness is because of you. He said you need to be gentler with my pussy."
I still laugh every time I think about that phone call.
The next time we had sex I was less selfish and much gentler, and I guess it worked well, because she came so violently she almost passed out.
MissVermont "Jesus Christ, you are amazing. Where did you learn to do that?"