Hilarity Ensues - Hilarity Ensues Part 25
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Hilarity Ensues Part 25

Tucker "Oh I know. You're too much of a princess to suck a good dick."

HotOne "I am so good at that!"

If you know ANYTHING about women, you know HotOne and I were destined to fuck. You don't spend that much time pushing buttons, flirting with limits and testing boundaries without knowing that you're about to blow a penis-sized hole through all of them.

The sex was really intense. You know when you have an angry, chemical attraction to someone and you want to pound the shit out of them? That's what we had. We let everything go and fucked like the plane was going down.

At one point, I had her legs over my shoulders jack-hammering her like I was setting a bridge pylon. She had her hands dug into my ass cheeks, pulling me towards her. I came. HARD. So hard that I grunted my orgasm out and shot a snot booger onto her cheek. She didn't notice, as she was just as enraptured as me. I quickly wiped it off her face ... and spread it on her sheets, which she also didn't notice. Then we passed out.

Flawless victory!

The next morning we fucked again and she got in the shower. This was my chance to win the "what's my name" battle. I looked everywhere for something with her name on it: her purse for a driver's license, her coffee table for mail or magazines. I couldn't find anything. Then it hit me: Caller ID!

This was 2000, when people still had landlines, so I called a friend's home phone from her home phone: Tucker "Dude, what name is on the caller ID?"

She came up behind me and put her arms around me, right as he read off the caller ID: HotOne "You figure my name out yet?"

Tucker "Is it 'Blocked Caller'?"

GOLDENBOY'S BACHELOR PARTY - LAS VEGAS, NV

Occurred, March 2001 GoldenBoy only got one bachelor party, so the party combined his frat brothers from UVa with his law school friends from Duke. The best man (his older, married brother) organized it, and decided that we should do GoldenBoy's bachelor party in Las Vegas. OK, I guess. Then he decided we should all stay at the Hard Rock. Fuck.

The Hard Rock had JUST been featured in Playboy; every idiot douche and corn-fed Big 12 meathead on earth was now going there. And of course, since we were going on our spring break, which fell in the middle of March, that meant it fell perfectly on the beginning of March Madness, when about 2 million men-and zero women-descend on Vegas.

In summary: The bachelor party will be 25 guys, in a hotel full of guys, in a city full of guys. This is another example of why you don't let married guys organize bachelor parties.

I showed up at the Hard Rock early in the day, and honestly wondered if I wasn't in a gay club. It was fucking AWFUL. The ratio was at least 80/20, guys to girls. It was worse than a strip club on Saturday night with a Baptist convention in town. And the pool!! Greased-up guidos everywhere, and the only girls around were working-and I'm not just talking about the cocktail waitresses. Super.

In the face of the obvious disaster that this weekend would be, I did the only thing that made sense: I started drinking heavily and gambling recklessly.

Three hours later, I'm up $400 and have put away about ten vodka Red Bulls, and I think I'm fucking king of the casino. I see four guys covered in UVa gear walking through the casino, clearly some of GoldenBoy's frat brothers from college, so I go up and introduce myself. They have no fucking idea what I'm talking about.

Tucker "So you aren't friends with GoldenBoy?"

Guy "I have never heard that name before."

Tucker "What do you mean you aren't friends with GoldenBoy? Why the fuck would you be wearing so much goddamn UVa stuff at the Hard Rock if you aren't here for his bachelor party?"

I was genuinely mad at them for not knowing him. I was that drunk.

Everyone eventually came in, and both groups linked up for a late dinner. We hadn't really discussed plans for once we got to Vegas, so other than the actual bachelor party itself on Saturday night, there was no itinerary. It became clear that the majority of GoldenBoy's friends were in Vegas to do two things: snort a shitload of coke, and cheat on their girlfriends/wives by fucking a bunch of prostitutes.

This was the weekend I came to explicitly understand something that I'd always felt, but never internalized: Not all guys who "party" are the same. There are basically two types of cool party guys: "Beer and girls": Beer and girls guys are about fun. To them, partying is about spending time with their friends, meeting new people, getting drunk, acting stupid and laughing at the ridiculous shit they do. Partying is about fun and the enjoyment of life, and there's always a happiness and joy to what they do-I mean, if you aren't enjoying your life, what's the fucking point, right? These are the types of guys who do something productive with their lives, who build stuff or make stuff or create things. Examples of "beer and girls" guys are me, Charles Barkley, Dean Martin, Ferris Bueller, Van Wilder, Adam Carolla, etc.

"Coke and hookers": Coke and hookers guys aren't like that. They seem to be similar because they party as well, but in a very different way. There is no joy in their partying. It's about excess, self-destruction and escape. Their partying is about fleeing from reality, drowning their self-loathing in serious substance abuse, and about hurting other people to express their inner rage. They're the type of guys who go work for an investment bank or a corporate law firm and revel in the fact that they screw people for a living. But the reality is that they hate themselves and everything about their lives. The iconic coke and hookers guy is, of course, Charlie Sheen. Other examples would be Joe Francis, every trust fund brat in Hollywood, and pretty much any male character in a Bret Easton Ellis book.

These are obviously arbitrary categories, and just like any artificial category, it's not always a bright line distinction-someone can do coke every now and then, but still be a "beer and girls" type. And someone can hate himself and be a piece of shit to everyone, and still never pay for sex. It's less about the precise details of how you party, and more about why you party: are you engaging your life, or escaping from it? "Beer and girls" guys engage their lives because they enjoy them. "Coke and hookers" guys escape from their lives because they hate them. That's the essential difference.

If you go out a lot, you understand exactly what I'm talking about. But I think a lot of people who don't go out and have fun miss this basic, fundamental distinction; they just lump everyone together. Even calling someone a "frat" guy doesn't really mean anything-I know tons of frat guys on both sides of the aisle, and the scene at our table that night was a great example.

The law school guys all wanted to go out, get drunk, talk to girls and have fun-what we always do. The UVa guys all wanted to score blow and fuck as many hookers as they could find-it was creepy. Like watching "To Catch A Predator" (except they wanted fucked out whores, not little girls).

We compromised by going our separate ways that night. Not surprisingly, BrownHole-the one "coke and hookers" guy who was somehow in our Duke Law group-went off with the guys who do things that people who hate their lives do, while GoldenBoy and his one other UVa frat brother went to a bar with us.

I'm not sure how, but someone knew of a cool, laid back bar in Vegas. It was in some random casino that was a little off the strip, but we had a fucking blast talking to all kinds of random girls. Some of the highlights: This girl I met was nice but naive, and this was just too much for me: Girl "I believe there is one person for everyone, and we are all just searching for that person."

Tucker "Are you fucking kidding me? There are 6 billion people on earth. Even if you leave out all the Chinese, Indians, and Africans, you're still looking at like 3 billion people. Subtract the women, and that's 1.5 billion men to search through. Even if I am generous and take out all the old people and the kids and the retards and the people who don't speak English, you are still looking at, like, 250 million men. And you are looking for ONE guy out of that whole pool? YOU'RE TOTALLY FUCKED. You're never finding him. I hope you like cats."

I ended up unintentionally cock-blocking PWJ with this one: PWJ "So you are into astrology? Interesting. Can you guess my sign?"

CuteGirl "YEAH! Let me see, you are smart, confident but still sweet and compassionate ... Aquarius?"

PWJ "Right! Wow, very good." I don't know for sure, but I'm pretty sure PWJ is a different sign.

CuteGirl "I know, I have a gift." [turns to me] "I bet I can figure out your sign!"

Tucker "Oh please do."

PWJ "No, I don't think that's such-"

Tucker "So you think you can tell my birth month based on a few general characteristics? As if everyone born in the same month has the same personality?"

CuteGirl "Yeah! Let's see ... you are aggressive, funny, intellectual ... Sagittarius?"

Tucker "Nope."

CuteGirl "Leo."

Tucker "Nope."

CuteGirl "Taurus."

Tucker "Nope."

CuteGirl "Virgo?"

Tucker "There are only 12 of them, if you guess enough, you'll eventually get it right."

CuteGirl "Well, it's not an exact science."

Tucker "I can read minds too!"

CuteGirl "Right. OK, what am I thinking right now?"

Tucker "Hmmm ... you're thinking about tongue fucking my shitpipe."

Typical SlingBlade: Girl "So, do you have a girlfriend?"

SlingBlade "Well, sort of, but we're not technically dating."

Girl "So you aren't in love with her?"

SlingBlade "No. They say if you love someone, set them free, so I did. But that girl never came back, so I don't love the girls tied up in my basement anymore, I just appreciate them."

An enlightening exchange for PWJ: Tucker "You know you want to hook up with me; just admit it."

Girl "I don't want to just have a one night stand with some random guy I met an hour ago."

Tucker "I don't consider them one night stands. They're auditions for love."

Girl "If you want to have sex with me, we have to already be in love."

Tucker "No, that's not how it works. You provide vaginal access, and in return, I model the awful treatment that your abusive childhood has caused you to interpret as love. That's how it works with fucked up girls."

Girl "I'm not fucked up!"

PWJ "THAT'S how you do it! Now it all makes total sense!"

Tucker "You haven't figured out how that works yet?"

PWJ "Sorry, I wasn't raised in an emotionally abusive household. My parents loved me."

The night ended real late (because of gambling and drinking, not hooking up), so the next day was mainly spent watching basketball and recovering for that night, which was the official bachelor party night. After a relatively calm dinner, GoldenBoy's frat brothers took us to a club before the strip club.

I hate clubs. You know why all clubs are loud and dark? They make it loud because you can't sound stupid if no one can hear you. They make it dark so you can pretend you aren't ugly. The fact is, if your life has meaning, you don't spend time in a Las Vegas night club.

We finally leave and go to the strip club. I was not in a good mood ten seconds before we entered, but once we got inside, I have to tell you, that changed. I've been to a lot of strip clubs in my life, but going to a top 5 Vegas strip club on the Saturday of the beginning of March Madness is like nothing else on earth. I've never seen so many stunningly beautiful women in one place in my life. It was amazing.

And sadly ... I got right back into a bad mood. Why? Because pretty much every single one of these stunning women were emotionally dead hustlers. This wasn't one of those strip clubs where the girls sit and talk and hang out. These girls were professionals in the truest sense. I'm not even talking about them having sex for money-which I am sure 90%+ of them did-I'm more talking about how they sized up and interacted with guys. For example, at an average strip club under normal circumstances we can always find more than a few strippers who think we're hilarious and want to sit and bullshit with us for a long time. That did not happen at this club. Everything was an explicit financial evaluation; there was no pitter-patter. This was within five minutes of entering the club: Stripper "Hey, how are you?"

Tucker "You don't know it yet, but my penis is going to end up in your mouth."

Stripper "Honey, for enough money, that can happen."

Tucker "Uh ... I was kinda making a joke ..."

Hitting on hookers is as pointless as it gets and no fun at all. And they were ALL hookers. I'm not criticizing per se, but places like that are creepy and annoying to spend time in to me. After I realized this, I mainly just kept to my beer and myself. SlingBlade had some fun with it: Stripper "What's your name?"

SlingBlade "Did you get a good discount on your fake tits? I would think brick-layers do them for cheap."

Stripper "I'd love to give you a good time."

SlingBlade "I'm genuinely curious: How much would it cost to shit on your chest?"

Stripper "How'd you like some company?"

SlingBlade "I think if you were reduced to your constituent elements, you'd be nothing more than jizz and glitter."

SlingBlade "You're the kind of creature I feared was living under my bed as a kid."

Stripper "You aren't funny. People don't think you're funny."

SlingBlade "Yes, but they don't mistake me for a whore either."

As you can imagine, girls who are hustling to make their $2k a night don't have time for bullshit like that. The Duke guys were unpopular. But the UVa guys were very popular, and we didn't see much of them over the course of the night. I'm sure you can figure out why. The very best anecdote: One of the UVa guys went off to a private room with a stripper/hooker. He was gone for a long time. When he came back, she was still with him, but now they looked like they'd just fucked. He hadn't even wiped the sweat off his forehead. SlingBlade leans in to me: SlingBlade "She looks like she has a lot of self-esteem."

As they came over and sat down, I knew it was coming, I could see him teeing it up ... but man when it finally let loose, it was even worse than I thought it would be: SlingBlade [turns to the stripper/hooker] "If I wanted to measure the amount of semen currently in your vagina, could I use a measuring cup, or would I need a gallon bucket?"

Stripper "WHAT?"

SlingBlade "I bet your vagina smells like a zoo."

We did not have a good trip. The UVa guys sure did though. The next day at breakfast summed up the whole trip: UVa Guy "Fuck man, I think I forgot to wear a rubber when that stripper was blowing me last night."

Tucker "You wear rubbers for oral sex?"

UVa Guy "With these sorts of hookers, you have to. I got some shit once just from a blowjob. My wife was pissed, she almost left me because she got it too."

Tucker "YOU'RE MARRIED??"

The UVa guy looked at me like it was a stupid question, and scoffed at me to his friends.

UVa Guy "Yeah, of course."

I talk a lot about how people should follow their passion and live the life they want, not the one they think they are supposed to. A lot of what I say in that realm is abstract. This is not-this is exactly what I'm talking about. If you want to be single and bang a ton of girls, just fucking go do it, don't pretend to be something else, like married. I've always lived the life I wanted, I've been happy as a result, and I've never felt the need to do shit like this guy. You don't have to follow my advice ... but if you don't, you've got a life of fucking hookers in strip clubs behind your wife's back to look forward to.

EL BINGEROSO'S BACHELOR PARTY, PART 2 - KANSAS CITY, MO

Occurred, June 2001 El Bingeroso's wedding was on a Sunday, so the "official" bachelor party was scheduled for the Friday night beforehand, in Kansas City, Missouri. Why Kansas City? Well, the wedding was about an hour away in some bumfuck town, and Kansas City was the closest big city. Plus, it was convenient for all of El Bingeroso's and Kristy's extended male family-who were planning to come.

Yeah, you read that right. Uncles, cousins, stepfathers-everyone was going to be there. It was like a hoedown. Now you understand why we wanted to have a real bachelor party earlier in the year.