The Universal Law of Gravitation and Other Stories

written by SleepySheep683 - illustrated by Friggingodess

-Friggingodess-

PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT

Notes

Big thanks to my awesome Beta Druekee, who has been great with the dual task of beta-ing and helping me to Americanise things. Any errors are mine and mine alone. Also, big thanks to anyone who actually reads this through to the end — it's a mammoth fic which has been written in notebooks on many trains, living rooms, aeroplanes and hotels spanning two continents and through mysterious fever, but I promise you it's worth it.

Prologue: A Night in the Slammer

The door to the town jail scraped open against the concrete as Stan found himself unceremoniously shoved into a cell, followed by Kyle and Cartman.

"Wait, you can't do this!" Stan protested. "We haven't done anything wrong!"

"You were fighting. I think you'll find that falls under aggravated assault and actual bodily harm," Sergeant Yates announced gruffly. "Besides, I owe a friend of yours a favour."

Cartman clenched his fists. His chins quivered like jelly as he shook with rage, making the developing bruise on his jaw look like a Magic Eye poster. "What! Which black asshole screwed us over? I'll have their nuts on a goddamn platter!" He started to take off his dinner jacket, as though to prove he meant business.

Sergeant Yates grinned cruelly. "Take a guess," he said, casually tossing Stan an unopened crumpled envelope.

"See you in the morning, boys," he said with a smirk, before locking the door to their cell and walking away.

"Damn it!" Stan hissed, sinking down onto the lower bunk bed. Kyle paced across the room, wide-eyed with panic.

"I'm screwed; I'm screwed; I'm screwed," he chanted, his voice nasally from the blood-stained bandage wrapped around his nose.

"It's just one night," Stan snapped, unfastening his cummerbund. "God, quit whining!" He pulled the letter out of the envelope and struggled to focus on the scraggly writing; he could only fully open one eye.

"You're one to talk," Kyle spat back as he continued to pace maniacally, the blood on his dress shirt drying to brown. The vomit, however, stank as strongly as ever.

"I have every reason, you bastard!" Stan shouted.

"You leave him alone, butthole," Cartman snapped. Both Kyle and Stan stared at him in shock.

"What the..." Stan glanced from Cartman to Kyle and back again. Kyle and Cartman exchanged a curious glance before Kyle trained his attention to Stan.

"Just read it out loud," he said, rubbing his bruised neck. Not in the mood to make things any sourer, Stan obeyed. He lay back to hold the letter closer to his good eye and winced as his bruised back made contact with the mattress.

"It says, 'Dear guys. Sorry to do this to you, but I promise, one day you will thank me. Someone needed to lock you in a room together to sort things out without beating the living shit out of each other. Only wish I could be there to see it. Have fun! Kenny.' Oh, and there's three kisses," Stan finished. He folded the letter into a paper airplane.

-Friggingodess-

"Goddamn it, Kenny, you poor piece of crap!" Cartman yelled at the bars of their only window.

"Don't speak ill of the dead, fatass," Kyle yelled back. They all fell silent at this cold reminder. Stan aimed the paper airplane at Cartman.

"Yeah, real mature, Stan," he drawled as the airplane hit him in the ear.

Stan felt the weight of the mattress shift, and out of the corner of his eye he could see Kyle at the foot of the bed. His shoulders were hunched dramatically as he tried to fit his head under the bunk, then gave up and rested his head in his hands.

"Dude," he said softly. "I'm—"

"Don't." Stan cut him off almost immediately, feeling hot tears build behind his eyes.

"What the fuck happened; he cheat on you?" Cartman queried suddenly, his eyes narrowed like slits. Stan felt his stomach knot up in rage.

"No." Kyle answered in an irony-free way that surprised Stan. He let out a long sigh. "I can't believe this; we're completely fucked! We're going to get a criminal record and..."

"Kyle, relax," Cartman said. "We're not getting a criminal record. There's been no paperwork. We haven't actually been arrested; Kenny's just being a dick from beyond the grave."

Stan propped himself up on his elbows and eyed Cartman warily. "What's going on? Since when have you said even a single sentence to Kyle that hasn't included the words 'stupid' and 'Jew'?"

"Since when have you tried to break his nose?" Cartman retorted smoothly.

"Oh, he didn't just try; he succeeded," Kyle announced dryly. "And we could still get a caution."

"Since when do you care about stupid cautions?" Stan shot back.

"Since... It doesn't matter."

"Anyway, he totally deserved it, Cartman."

Cartman laughed at this. "Oh really? What, did he refuse to pound your tender little ass? Or wouldn't cuddle you afterwards?"

"Shut up, Cartman," Kyle said wearily.

"Yeah, why are you so obsessed with the idea of us two fucking? We're both straight," Stan said, glaring at Kyle. "Totally fucking hetero, right?"

Kyle began to fiddle with the buttons on his shirt. "If you're going to do this all night, Stanley, I swear to Abraham I'm going to knock you out."

"Oh, what are you going to do, throw your AP calculus textbook at me?" Stan immediately felt his stomach know up in pain once more. She takes AP calculus, too.

"Shut up you pair of fags." The phrase fell from Cartman's lips so quickly that it sounded like a single word.

"Cartman!" Kyle stared at him, uncomprehending. Stan stared at them both, increasingly aware he was missing a crucial piece of this particular jigsaw puzzle.

Chapter One: Vivisection Now! — The Race to First Base

Cartman stood behind the open door of his locker, his gym kit slung over the top, and eyed Kyle. Or, to give him the full name Cartman knew him as, that skinny little midget Jew rat Kyle. He was talking to Stan, one arm out of his gym t-shirt, as Stan hastily dried himself off.

"So, you're not coming round to play 'Zombie Sodomy Massacre VII'?"

"Can't. Wendy wants to see 'Light a Candle for My Broken Heart' at the movies." Stan hastily tugged on his underpants, and sprayed liberal quantities of Lynx deodorant everywhere he could. Kyle coughed; Cartman was sure he could see his eyes water.

"That dumb chick flick? Why do you want to see that?" Kyle asked, while Stan nearly toppled over in his rush to tug on his jeans. "Some film about a chick who gets cancer and falls in love with her radiographer? Who uses candles to send her love notes in Morse code because he's the only person who can treat her and he'll get struck off if anyone finds out? You seriously think that'll be good?"

"No, dude; it'll be totally lame," Stan replied in a disgusted tone as he pulled on his sweater and combed his hair into something resembling a style. "But Wendy really wants to see it, and if I take her, she might let me put my tongue in her mouth when we kiss."

"Sweet!" Kyle enthused in a way that suggested to Cartman he was only excited on Stan's behalf. Of course Kyle wouldn't be interested in girls and putting tongues in their mouths. Kyle was at the back of the queue when it came to handing out puberty; God probably sent him there for being Jewish. All he'd got out of the deal was skin that had erupted with the force of Vesuvius. All the boys were taller than him. So were all the girls. Cartman obviously pointed this out to him at every opportunity, because what were friends for if not to endlessly rip on their Jew friends for being spotty, scrawny and generally physically repugnant?

Stan slouched on the bench and tied his sneakers. Now Stan was someone to whom puberty had smiled upon. He was tall, graceful, handsome — objectively speaking; Cartman wasn't some kind of gay-wad, thank you very much — with messy dark hair that always looked cool and a straight, shiny smile.

"I'll catch you later, man," Stan said as he slung his bag over his shoulder.

"Good luck, dude," Kyle replied as Stan scooted off. "I bet you ten bucks he gets struck off and she dies in his arms!"

Stan stopped and turned around. Kyle flashed him a cheeky smile, all crooked and gun-metal grey. Oh, Kyle had braces; big metal ones with garishly coloured bands. As if Cartman's life couldn't have been made any easier.

Cartman watched as Kyle's smile faltered; his shoulders drooped and he started to get undressed. Cartman followed suit; pulling down his underpants just as Kyle absently poked at an angry looking pus filled zit on his shoulder. Cartman glowered at him; he fervently hoped it would burst in the little Jew bastard's face after what he did in their eighth grade gym class. They were exercising with medicine balls, and the little rat threw his right in Cartman's balls while he was trying to do a sit-up. It wasn't even one of the sissy two pound ones only girls used, but a goddamn fourteen pounder — right in the nuts. The pain was so intense Cartman thought he would pass out. It was completely unprovoked; all Cartman had done was chat with Kyle about how he'd have to use the pussy two pound medicine balls because he was Jewish and everyone knew Jews couldn't lift heavy weights because they were so puny, and Cartman knew this to be fact because he'd seen those old black and white photos where they were in stripy pyjamas with papery skin and jutting ribs. Kyle had got up, walked over to the rack of medicine balls, gritted his teeth as he lifted the fourteen pounder — which proved Cartman's point — and then threw the thing straight at Cartman's unguarded balls, just as he had finally managed to lift his shoulders off the mat. He had cried to Mr Blowitz, their decrepit old gym teacher who had to be nearly eighty, but he acted as though he had never seen it. Cartman knew the walking rotting corpse was lying; he was standing right next to them, and he smiled — smiled! — at Kyle afterwards. Freaky asshole; he was always giving Kyle weird looks. Cartman figured he must be some sort of paedophile, although why the school let him work there he could never figure out. It's not like he even hid the fact he had been in jail; he had his prison number tattooed on his forearm, for Christ's sake.

Well, if the corrupt school system wasn't going to meter out justice, Cartman was just going to have to get it for himself.

When Kyle grabbed his bottle of medicated wash — some day-glo lotion that made him smell like hospitals — and headed to the now empty showers, Cartman took his chance. He was going to get his revenge. He'd seen through cracks in his mother's bedroom door what her gentleman friends did to her if she had been naughty; he knew just what to do.

He stood next to Kyle as he put conditioner on his hair — what a fucking girl — which almost touched his shoulders when soaking wet.

"Evening, Kyle," he said as he took his own shower gel and started lathering up. Kyle glared at him.

"What are you doing, Cartman?" he asked in a low voice laced with suspicion.

"Showering off after a hard gym class, why else would I be here?"

"Yes, but why are you standing right next to me, and not under any of the other dozen shower heads that are currently free in this empty shower block?"

Cartman looked Kyle up and down. "I just thought it would be nice to talk to my friend Kyle while we soap down our hot, sweaty bodies," he replied nonchalantly.

"How the hell did you manage to get sweaty, fatass? From bending over to tie your—"

Cartman didn't give Kyle the chance to finish and instead tackled him to the wet ceramic floor.

"What the hell are you doing?" Kyle yelled as Cartman struggled to get purchase on Kyle's skinny frame; the weird lotion he used made him slipperier than a priest avoiding molestation charges. Finally he managed to sit up and hold him on his lap, his ass wiggling in the air as he tried to get away.

"Oh no, Kyle," he said in his best authoritarian voice, remembering how those men had spoken to his mother. "You've been a very naughty little girl and you need to be punished."

"What the fuck are you — Ow!" Kyle yelled in surprise as Cartman brought the palm of his hand down on his ass in a stinging slap.

"I'm punishing you," he said, slapping him repeatedly on the buttocks and grinning as he saw the skin there redden. Kyle kept trying to squirm away; this was clearly hurting him. Well, that would teach him to throw fourteen pound medicine balls in bigger, more handsome boys' nut sacks.

"Say my name, bitch," Cartman hissed as he continued to hit Kyle.

"Stop it, you fucking freak!" Kyle yelled. He balled his hand into a fist and punched Cartman's thigh, but he was much too stocky and big-boned for it to actually hurt.

"Say my name!"

"No way, you fucking weirdo! Quit doing — Ow!"

"Nyah uh! Daddy needs to teach you a lesson; you've got to beg Daddy to stop, you dirty little slut!"

"Jesus Christ, Cartman, what the fuck is wrong with you?"

Cartman was about to deliver another stinging blow when he felt a sharp pain on his arm. The little Jew rat had bitten him! Before he could recover from the shock, Kyle had pulled himself up onto his knees and straddled Cartman. He pulled his arm back and with a grunt of effort, thrust his fist straight into Cartman's face.

Cartman felt as though his whole face had broken.

Tears stung his eyes as he felt something hot and wet dribble down his nose and over his lips. He stuck his tongue out and tasted blood.

Kyle stood up, shaking. His teeth were gritted and his fists clenched. He tilted his head forward to meet Cartman's eyes, which made his enormous nose seem even larger. Cartman, however, was distracted by something even more hideous.

He couldn't help but point at Kyle's testicles.

"Oh my God, you've got ginger—"

"You ever, ever, touch me like that again, I swear to Abraham I will fucking kill you," he spat, before backing away into the changing rooms and running towards his locker, almost slipping over as he did so. He grabbed his clothes and a towel and locked himself in a toilet cubicle.

Cartman watched the blood as it gurgled down the plughole. His whole face hurt; despite a puny child-like body, that Jew could really throw a punch.

Then Cartman remembered the red hand print on Kyle's backside, and he started to laugh.

"Oh my God, you've got my handprint on your ass! That's, like, so frickin' funny!"

"Shut up, Cartman!" Kyle yelled from inside the cubicle. Cartman got up and rinsed the blood away before scuttling out of the shower and finding some paper towels to stem the flow still pouring from his nose.

Then he remembered what was probably the greatest discovery a thirteen year old boy could have ever made in a shower block after gym class.

"Oh my God!" Cartman shouted out again.

"What?" Kyle sounded murderous, but there was something about Kyle in a murderous rage that deeply entertained Cartman; providing he was safely out of harm's way.

"You've got ginger pubes! You've got ginger pubes! Nyah nyah nyah, nyah, nyah nyah! You've got ginger pubes!"

~

Stan found Wendy waiting for him by the school steps, wrapped up in a trench coat that was a size too big for her and wearing skinny jeans tucked into flat boots. Stan thought she looked adorable. His heart skipped a beat as she rushed towards him.

"Hi, Stan," she said, kissing him chastely on the cheek.

"Hey, Wendy," he replied, taking her gloved hand in his as they walked along the street. She was a little taller than him, and he hoped that would change when they were older; he didn't exactly love being Tom Cruise to her Nicole Kidman, but he lived with it.

"How was gym?" she asked

"Lame," he replied. "We had to do, like, circuit training. Highlight of the whole class was Kyle hitting Cartman in the balls with a medicine ball. How about your gym class?"

"Painful," she replied. "We had hockey. Red's vicious. I've got bruises all down my shins."

"Aww; want me to kiss them better?"

Wendy blushed. "Maybe another time." She stopped walking and kissed him smack on the lips.

"Wow, what was that for?"

"For taking me to this movie," she said, smiling. "I know it isn't exactly a guy thing."

"Well, I'd be lying if I said my friends are jealous. But, you know, they don't get you resting your head on their shoulder for two hours, so I'd say that's their loss." He absently stroked her hair as he said this.

"Aren't you cold?" she asked as they approached the centre of town; a centre that really just comprised of one street and a small industrial estate.

Stan looked down at his unbuttoned sheepskin jacket. "Nope." He grinned. "What guy could possibly be cold near a hottie like you, anyway?"

Wendy's eyes narrowed at this. "Okay, Stan. What do you want?"

"Huh?"

"You're laying the compliments on a bit thick. So, what are you trying to wheedle out of me?"

"Nothing! I swear!"

Wendy merely smiled to herself. "Whatever."

"Can't I say nice things about my super cute, super-hot, smart, witty, mature, loving girlfriend without having a hidden agenda?" he asked amiably. Wendy said nothing, and instead let go of his hand and tucked her arm through his as they walked.

South Park's only movie theatre was situated at the end of the high street and staffed by a man who treated Stan with utmost suspicion whenever he bought a ticket.

"Two, please." Stan said, handing over fifteen bucks. There was no need to say which film; only one was every shown at a time. The usher looked at Stan and then at Wendy, as though he couldn't believe how lucky the fourteen year old was. At least, that's how Stan saw it. He took his tickets with a smile and slung his arm over Wendy's shoulder as they entered the theatre. Wendy bought them both popcorn and soda because she called herself a new wave feminist. From what Stan could gather, this meant she wore brightly coloured bras — he could see the straps peek out from under her vest tops sometimes — and insisted on going Dutch on every date. Could she be any more perfect?

The screen itself was pretty much full of women with thick-framed glasses and twin sets. Stan and Wendy took seats at the back, the ones slightly left of centre because they didn't have cigarette burns on the upholstery or chewing gum on the arm rest. It if were a film neither of them were that interested in, they would have sat in the back corner because it was easier to make out there. A quick glance to his right told him a couple had already bought tickets to this film for that very reason. A more intense study showed him Kenny was the perpetrator. He waved casually, and Kenny waved back just as he was reaching under the mystery girl's shirt. She slapped his hand away so fiercely Stan thought he felt it, too.

Wendy let out a gentle sigh and rested her head against Stan's shoulder, prompting him to forget about everything else. Which was just as well, because the film sucked donkey balls. It was just some chick at the doctor's looking weepy, then the same chick sitting in the park watching red-orange leaves swirl around in the sky, then some doctor with big eyes and designer stubble fitting her with tubes while intense music played. Then Wendy leant over for some soda, her fingers sliding over Stan's as he gripped the cup. She sucked on the straw in a manner that Stan managed to find rather erotic, which got him thinking about kissing her again, so he started stroking her hair because he knew she liked it and it felt nice and silky between his fingertips. Then the doctor lit candles with tears in his big doe eyes and finally the doctor gave up his career so they could spend the chick's last few months together, which made Wendy sob buckets but pissed Stan off because now he owed Kyle ten bucks.

Still, outside the theatre he got to comfort Wendy and make her feel all safe, secure and possibly a little horny, so it wasn't all bad.

"Hey, it's okay. She doesn't really die."

"She doesn't?" Wendy's voice was muffled as she pressed her face into his sweater; he had his hands in his pockets and his arms and jacket wrapped around her, cocooning her against his chest.

"Sure." He kissed the top of her head. "His brother is, like, the best radiograph dude ever and he comes to help them. He's got some puppy that can sniff out cancer, and they make her all better so they can get married and live in a house with a big back yard and lots of trees."

"What about the puppy?"

"They adopt him."

Wendy drew herself up to her full height and wiped her eyes. She smiled, and started playing with the belt loops on his jeans, seemingly engrossed in the action until she looked at him shyly through her long lashes. Stan felt his stomach lurch pleasantly. He recognised that cue; it was what she did whenever she felt he should be romantic or intimate. Given there were no flowers within a half mile radius, it could only mean one thing.

He leant towards her, trying not to appear too eager, and let their lips brush together. She felt warm and pliant, her lips parted a little and fire tickled deep in the pit of his stomach. Hell yeah, his dreams were finally about to come true...

"Stop animal cruelty! Close down Harrison Life Sciences!"

Wendy broke away and Stan inwardly cursed the mob of protesters heading their way. One of them, a short woman in a cable-knit sweater and glasses, shoved a leaflet in Stan's face.

"No, thank you," he said crossly, but Wendy took it and studied the contents.

"Close down Harrison Life Sciences!" the woman continued to shout. "End animal torture!"

"What?" Stan found himself asking.

"We want to end Harrison Life Sciences' horrific record of animal abuse!" The woman eyed them both eagerly. "Did you know they ship monkeys over from Peru and cut out parts of their brains? Are you going to stand by and let that happen?" She stared at Stan as though he personally were chopping up monkeys.

"Oh no! How awful!" Wendy exclaimed. "We have to do something, Stan!"

"Come to our meeting tonight," the woman said, pointing at the leaflet in Wendy's hand. Stan found himself staring helplessly at the flyer. The sad, wounded eyes of a puppy covered in sores stared back at him pleadingly.

~

"...So you've totally got to come, Kyle!"

Kyle pressed the 'end' button on his mobile phone and ended the voicemail. It was rare to hear Stan rage about anything, but when he did it almost always involved animals. Four legs good, two legs bad... He shook his head and inspected his red-raw skin. He had practically jumped in the shower upon getting home and scrubbed himself so hard that some of his spots had started bleeding. His ass was actually bruised. That fucking freak.

His phone rang again; he answered it while getting changed.

"Dude, I said I'd come!"

"Maybe Stan's into that sort of thing, Kyle, but keep it in your pants with me, yeah?" The giggling that followed was all too familiar to Kyle.

He rolled his eyes and pulled on his long-sleeved t-shirt. "Oh, hey Kenny. I take it you got Stan's message?"

"Yeah. You going?"

Kyle sighed. "Yeah. That's what friends do, right?"

"Yeah, plus I got one of those flyers shoved at me, too. There's free wine and nibbles; I'm fucking there!"

"You wanna walk there together?"

"Dude, I'm already outside your fucking house!" The call cut off and Kyle heard his front doorbell ring. He got dressed as fast as he could and ran down the stairs, just as his mother was engaging Kenny in conversation.

"... And how are you, Kenny?"

"All the better for seeing you, Mrs. Broflovski," he replied in a sickly sweet voice. Kyle cringed in horror as he watched Kenny's eyes glaze over and settle at her chest region.

"That's great, Kenny, but we'd better be going!" He all but shoved Kenny out onto the porch as he grabbed his coat.

"Kyle! That's no way to treat your guest!" his mother remonstrated.

"We're just in a hurry, Ma," he said, speedily fastening the buttons.

"Well, make sure you're back by ten, Bubbeleh," she replied. "And Kenny, you make sure he doesn't lose track of time. I know how you boys are about band practice."

"Umm, sure, Mrs. B," Kenny said uncertainly as Kyle nudged him sharply in the ribs.

"Love you, Ma," Kyle called sweetly as he shut the door.

Kenny stared at him.

"Band practice?" he queried incredulously.

Kyle shrugged. "It's the only activity on tonight where she doesn't know anyone's parents."

"You've got real sneaky in your old age," Kenny commented admiringly. Kyle punched him hard in the arm.

"Ow! What the fuck did you do that for?" Kenny rubbed his arm.

"For staring at my Mom's boobs!" Kyle snapped back. "You're not even subtle about it! She thinks you're shy and have issues with eye-contact!"

Kenny shrugged. "I can't help it; she has a fantastic rack. It's all full and maternal; you could just nestle between them after a hard day's work and all your cares would just vanish." He sighed. "You're so lucky; once upon a time you got to suck on them titties—"

"Sick, dude! That's my mom!"

They walked along in a comfortable silence, Kyle grateful for the fact. He liked hanging out with Kenny — he wasn't much taller than him, for one, and that made him feel less of a freak — but he was so damn handsome that Kyle felt subhuman in comparison. How did he miss out on zits? Why did he get to have straight blonde hair? Kyle knew he was never going to be model material, but every time he saw his reflection, he just figured God was taking the piss.

"You okay?" Kenny asked quietly. "I didn't freak you out too much, right?" He peered through his bangs at Kyle, head hunched into his coat like a turtle trying to hide in its shell.

"It's cool," Kyle replied, noticing the threadbare patches on Kenny's jacket. "I've got a scarf if you want it; Mom insists on way too many layers," he lied. He was fucking freezing, but he had a padded coat and Kenny needed it more than him. He took the scarf off and placed it around Kenny's neck. Kenny didn't argue.

By the time they reached the venue, even Cartman had beaten them to it.

"About goddamn time you lazy Jew!" he shouted.

"Shut your fat mouth, you freak," Kyle growled back, shoving past him as Wendy pushed the doors to the community centre open.

"You okay, dude?" Stan asked as they went inside.

"Fine," Kyle lied. There was just no way he could explain to Stan what had happened in the showers; he felt like he kind of understood why Julie Spencer in ninth grade hadn't wanted to say anything when the police interviewed her about having her boobs felt up by the 'FunTyme' arcade manager who had greasy hair and smelled of milk. Apparently he'd said she could play the games for free. That was an awkward time; Kenny had said if he let her play 'Cheerleader Rampage II' then the very least she could do was suck him off. It had taken the police three hours to talk Julie out of the toilets.

Cartman gagged as he entered the community hall. "Oh my God, it stinks of hippies!" he complained, coughing dramatically.

Kyle rolled his eyes. "Why are you even here, fatass?"

Cartman looked outraged. "Because, Kyle, I care deeply about the plight of those poor, defenceless animals!"

Kyle continued to glare at him. Cartman stared back.

"And Stan said he'd buy me some Snaky S'Mores."

Kyle trained his frosty glance onto Stan, who merely shrugged.

There was a convenient row of three seats nearby. Stan offered one to Wendy before sitting down next to her. Kenny had made a beeline for the buffet, and was stuffing as much food as he could into his jacket. Cartman went to take the last remaining seat, but instead gestured for Kyle to take it.

"Would you like to sit down, Kyle?" he asked in a sickeningly saccharine voice.

Kyle felt himself grow red. "No, thank you," he managed to spit out, subconsciously rubbing his ass.

Cartman smirked and put his hands on Kyle's shoulders. "I knew you wouldn't be able to sit down after I'd finished with you," he whispered in his ear. A couple next to them stared, aghast.

The rabble started to quieten down as a woman in cheesecloth and dreadlocks took to a makeshift podium near the basketball hoop. Kyle noticed that Kenny was still clearing out the buffet.

"Hi everyone, thank you for coming. My name is Clarice, and I'm the president of MYOPIA — the Many Young and Old Protestors against Injustice to Animals," she announced in a reed thin voice. "As you all know, the evil, animal torturing corporation Harrison Life Sciences have taken residence here in South Park and we have to put an end to their... their butchery!"

The crowd cheered in angry agreement. Kyle stuck his hand up, but Clarice ignored him.

"We have formulated an effective strategy to—"

"Excuse me?" Kyle piped up.

"An effective strategy to take down—"

"Hey, lady!" Kyle yelled. Everyone turned to look at him.

Clarice sighed in irritation. "Yes, little boy?"

Kyle felt his blood simmer at that; if there's one thing he hated, it was that particular epithet. Like he needed reminding.

"What do Harrison Life Sciences do?" he asked.

Clarice looked at him as though her were retarded. "They torture animals, and—"

"No; what do they actually do?"

She looked blankly at him, so Kyle continued. "You said they were an evil corporation. Evil corporations have to make money to keep being corporations. I'm no economics expert, but I'm pretty sure you can't make money just from torturing animals. The animal torture must be a by-product, so what do they do?"

Clarice sighed. "They're a research company who work in neuroscience—"

Kyle got up. "Right. Thanks. That's all I needed to know."

Stan grabbed his arm. "Dude, where are you going?"

"Home," he said simply. "This isn't about animal torture. This is about legitimate medical research, and I'd be a hypocrite if I tried to stop that."

Clarice glowered at him. "Go ahead and leave, animal torturer!" she screeched, taking out an inhaler from her pocket and putting it to her lips. She breathed in hard.

"Dude! How could you?" Stan gasped hotly.

"Yeah," Wendy piped up. "These are innocent creatures being mistreated; how could you be so heartless?"

Kyle pointed at Clarice. "And she's a hypocrite!" he said firmly, and the whole congregation gasped.

Clarice turned purple with rage. "How dare—"

"You're using an inhaler to stave off an asthma attack. How many animals do you think they tested those drugs on? You're trying to stop something that you reap the benefits of every day; you hypocrite."

Clarice was speechless as the crowd looked at each other in surprise. She appeared to compose herself.

"I... I... That... That was done a long time ago, before we became better educated on how we should treat—"

"And how do you think they create pioneering cancer treatments, test them on trees?" he replied breezily, getting into his stride. "It's not nice, but neither is building houses on animal territory or breeding them just for food. It's what we do to survive, and that's the choice you have to make. Do you want to die of some horrible disease, or inject a few mice to find a cure that'll improve your quality of life?"

"The little spotty kid's right!" someone announced. A murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd. Soon, all but ten of the congregation simply got up and left. Stan and Wendy stared at Kyle in horror.

"Dude!"

"What?"

"Yeah, Kyle's right," Cartman said. "Goddamn hippies..."

Kyle inwardly grimaced; he never enjoyed it when he and Cartman had the same opinion on anything. Thankfully such occasions were few and far between.

Wendy looked forlorn. "Come on, let's go," she said sadly, and Kyle almost felt bad for speaking his mind as she brushed gently past him.

"Wendy, wait up!" Stan almost knocked his chair over in an attempt to reach her, but not before he shot Kyle an angry glare. Kyle bit his tongue; he would have liked to point out Stan was only so enthusiastic about this whole MYOPIA group so he could get his tongue in Wendy's mouth, but Kyle knew — when it came to animals at least — his intentions were true. He wondered if Stan would feel quite the same way if it were snakes being experimented on.

The exit was swiftly blocked by Clarice and two burly — and armed — guys with torn combat pants and Birkenstocks.

"Where do you think you're going, saboteurs?" she demanded haughtily.

"Home. This is a total bust," Stan said.

"Thanks to Kyle," Wendy added crossly. Kyle stopped feeling guilty and firmly decided she could go fuck herself.

The two men pointed their guns at them. Clarice smiled darkly from behind them.

"Oh no," she said. "MYOPIA are going to shut down that torture chamber, and seeing as you drove away all of our supporters with your evil propaganda, you're going to have to do it." She eyed Kyle and her eyes glittered with malice. "Maybe once you're forced to see the truth, you'll think twice before spreading your ignorant, animal-hating lies!"

Cartman nudged Kyle. "Man, she's totally hot for you. Poor bitch."

"Dude, no way," Stan said firmly. "We're fourteen."

"Thirteen," Kyle and Cartman corrected.

Wendy tugged on Stan's arm. "Stan! We've got to help!" she pleaded.

"What!"

"We've got to save those poor animals! They have a right to a happy, safe life!"

"You do realise they're just going to get killed in the wild, right?" Kyle commented.

"Dude, seriously, just shut up!" Stan hissed.

"We have to save all innocent life on this planet; and if any of you kids refuse, I'll fucking kill you!" Clarice yelled, grabbing one of the guns.

"Okay, okay; Jesus!" Stan promised, palms aloft in surrender.

At that moment, Kenny returned from the buffet with his pockets bulging.

"What did I miss?" he asked through a mouthful of vol-au-vents.

~

"My mom's going to kill me," Kyle whispered as Stan cut through the wire fence, barely visible against the dark night in his black ops gear.

"Well, we wouldn't be here if you hadn't shot your big fat Jew mouth off," Cartman grumbled. "See, this is why you guys keep getting gassed; you just won't learn your place."

"Don't belittle the massacre of my people, you fat fuck!"

"Guys, this isn't helping!" Stan hissed back. From the corner of his eye, Kyle saw Kenny casually hold a napkin out to Wendy.

"Sausage?" he offered.

"Thanks." Wendy took one of the chipolatas and Kenny started to snigger.

"Do you like my sausage, Wendy" he asked between giggles.

"Eww!" She dropped the chipolata on the floor.

"Damn, don't waste it, bitch!" Cartman said, outraged.

Stan cut the last piece of wire and bent the bottom of the fence back enough for them to squeeze through.

"Okay, I've got it," he said into the walkie-talkie.

"Good." Clarice's voice crackled over the speaker. "Now head for the centre and deactivate the alarms."

"Dude, how are we supposed to do that?" Stan asked as he crawled through the newly formed gap under the fence, beckoning for the others to follow suit. Kyle crawled under without any difficulty, so did Kenny and Wendy. Cartman, however, got stuck half way through like a pig caught in a trap; Kyle imagined if the fence were pressing any harder against his fat gut, he'd look like a string of sausages.

"You need someone to get into the air ducts and crack the code on the circuit breaker there," Clarice explained via the walkie-talkie. "According to our plans, that will cause the doors to automatically unlock."

"So, we basically need someone tiny and nerdy," Cartman commented as Kenny and Kyle pulled him through the gap in the fence, tearing his balaclava in the process.

One by one, they all stared at Kyle.

"Goddamn it!" he muttered.

They snuck past the dozing security guard without many problems, although they kept bumping into each other.

"Damn it; I wish we could use a flashlight or something," Stan whispered.

"If you need a light, we just need to pull down Kyle's underpants and let his fiery balls guide the way," Cartman replied.

"Shut the hell up, Cartman!" Kyle realised he shouldn't have been remotely surprised by Cartman bringing this up.

"What?" Wendy sounded legitimately confused.

"Just ignore him, babe."

"Goodness gracious, great balls of fire!" Cartman sang loudly.

"Shut up, fatass!" Kenny hissed, covering Cartman's mouth. "You're going to get us caught!"

"I'm flattered you think my balls are 'great', Cartman," Kyle commented calmly.

"They're great, Kyle, but terrible. Like Genghis Khan."

"Like you even know who he is."

"Sure I do, I know loads about cricket!" Cartman protested.

"Seriously? It's taken you this long to start these jokes?" Stan said contemptuously as he opened the door with a skeleton key.

"What? It's not my fault it's taken Kyle so long to get his first pubes."

"Shut up, Cartman!"

"Dude, he's had them ages."

"How do you know, you fag?"

Stan sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose in irritation as he held the door open.

"Just... just get the fuck in there."

The five of them crept along the long corridor in silence.

"Hey, you guys," Cartman whispered. "I brought some tea in a flask. Very English, is tea. And so are biscuits. Like, over here, biscuits are those shitty bread things poor people have with gravy. Over there biscuits are, like, cookies. Fucking retards; they should learn to speak English like us instead of whatever the fuck they speak in...."

"England?" Kyle offered sarcastically.

Cartman ignored him and put a gloved finger to his lips in dramatic thought. "But wouldn't it be great if we had some English biscuits for our English tea? Like, they have bourbons, which are all chocolatey, and ginger snaps..."

"Do you ever stop thinking with your stomach, fatass?" Kyle hissed.

Cartman stopped dead and his smile widened. "You know what? I just thought of something! In England, they don't call them 'ginger snaps'; they call them 'ginger nuts'. Which is totally awesome, because Kyle's got some ginger nuts we can dunk in our tea!"

"Shut the hell up, lardass!" Kyle spat.

"Wow; I've always wondered how you make a ginger snap," Cartman said, sniggering.

They continued in silence for a little while longer, passing the door to the staff room. Wendy squeezed Stan's hand.

"I hope we get there in time," she whispered. "The idea of those poor monkeys being tortured like that; it's just horrible!"

"It's okay, babe," Stan whispered back. "We'll free them."

"And thwart a load of life-saving medical discoveries in the process," Kyle muttered under his breath.

Then Cartman started humming 'Bright Eyes'.

"You've got some ginger pubes,

That sprouted around your ball sac,

There's nothing else we can do,

But wax your crack..."

"Cartman, leave Kyle's pubes alone," Stan said wearily.

Kenny chuckled. "Yeah, leave Kyle's pubes alone, you queen."

Wendy stopped dead.

"We're here," she whispered, pointing to the large imposing 'Keep Out' sign over a door with a security key code lock and a small air vent beside it. Wendy and Cartman carefully prised off the cover to the air vent. Stan clapped Kyle on the shoulder.

"You ready?"

"Yeah, yeah," Kyle grumbled, hoisting himself up and crawling into the vent.

"You see anything yet, dude?" Kenny asked.

"Yup, got it." He jemmied at the gunmetal grey box in front of him with a screwdriver. "I've just got to get the cover off and cut the right wires."

"Awesome," Stan replied.

"Yeah," Wendy agreed. "I know you think it's right to maim and torture animals for the heartless progress of mankind..."

"Wendy, save the moralising until you have to take life-saving drugs," Kyle spat back. He saw Stan sigh and put his arm around Wendy.

"Shit, dude. I'm sorry," he said.

"Forget it."

"Kyle..."

"I said forget it."

Wendy looked to Stan for clarification. He shook his head.

"Doesn't matter," he said.

"Come on, you guys. It's not natural!" Cartman protested.

Stan rolled his eyes. "Cartman, are you still going on about Kyle's pubes?"

Cartman looked to Wendy for support. "I mean, come on, Wendy. Say you were unfortunate enough — or blind enough — to be dating Kyle instead of Stan, and you were, like, getting all hot in the bedroom, and he was all, 'Oh yeah, Wendy; you're so hot you're making my balls really fucking tight,' and you were all, 'Oh, Kyle; let me suck them; I totally dream about sucking your balls!' and then you unzipped his pants and pulled down his white cotton underpants, and there's this firm, young ball sac nestling between his thighs and this weird foreskin-less dick because his parents are freaky penis-chopping—"

"You've put way more thought into this than a heterosexual man ever should," Kenny commented idly.

Cartman ignored him. "Yeah, and you're all, 'I wanna suck those balls like a vacuum cleaner sucks up marbles,' so you dive in to gobble those balls up in your warm, wet mouth..."

"Dude! Don't talk to my girlfriend like this!" Stan snapped as Wendy gave Cartman a death glare. "And Kenny, stop laughing. You're just encouraging him."

Kenny bit his hand to muffle his giggles, but Cartman was in full flow and Stan's demands fell on deaf ears.

"And then you see those gross ginger pubes, just sprouting there like a creepy ginger cornfield. You just know they're going to make a little ginger moustache when you're going down on him, and when you look up at him pleadingly with his balls in your mouth — because you totally would look up pleadingly when you're 'bagging a guy — he's going to see those ginger pubes tickling your upper lip like a big old 'tache of pubes. Even he's going to be grossed out..."

"Shut the hell up, Cartman!" Kyle yelled, just at the time lights started flashing an angry red and a huge siren blared.

"Shit!" Kyle roared.

"Oh nice one, you fucking Jew!"

"I did what that idiot woman told us to do, you fat fuck!"

"Oh no, what should we do?" Wendy pleaded, looking to Stan for support.

"You should totally suck Kyle's balls, that's what," Cartman said. "At least one of us would die happy — clearly he was jacking off back there..."

Kyle quickly shimmied out of the air vent and stabbed Cartman in the arm with his screwdriver.

"Ow! What the fuck?"

"How about we get the fuck out of here?" he suggested, glaring daggers at Cartman.

They dashed for the exit as fast as they could.

"Kyle..." Wendy's voice was uncertain and timid.

"Wendy, words cannot express how little sexual interest I have in you or your mouth," Kyle replied, to which Wendy appeared relieved. He tried not to feel too insulted.

Suddenly, their way was blocked by swarms of armed officers. One of them raised a megaphone to his lips.

"Don't move; you're surrounded!"

"Aww, crap!" Stan muttered as a rifle nudged him in the arm.

"We're just peaceful protestors!" Kyle offered. Kenny started raising his hands in surrender; the officers immediately started firing. Stan and Wendy jumped one way, Kyle and Cartman the other. Kenny was caught in the crossfire, pinned to the wall by hundreds of rubber bullets fired at close range.

"Oh my God, they killed Kenny!"

"You bastard!" Kyle eyed the lead officer angrily.

"We said don't move! We can't risk everyone's safety by ignoring the actions of vicious thugs who hide behind demonstrations," the lead officer retorted.

"We have to get out of here!" Cartman was starting to go purple in the face.

Kyle spotted the sprinkler system overhead, but it was Stan who grabbed his screwdriver and flung it against the 'Test' button. While the officers were distracted by the gushing water, they made their escape, barrelling through the wall of people and running as fast as they could to the exit.

As they got outside, Kyle noticed half of MYOPIA sneaking into the back laboratory.

"Those bastards set us up!" Kyle hissed as they reached the security guard's hut. Stan stared and tensed up.

"Dude, that's the last of our problems," he replied, pointing at the TV playing in the security guard's shack.

"...And we've just received CCTV footage from inside the Harrison Life Sciences building of the five mystery saboteurs," a balding reported announced from only a few feet away, judging by the familiar backdrop. To their horror, the footage showed Cartman in his torn balaclava.

"Oh no, he's completely recognisable!" Wendy moaned.

"No way, bitch," Cartman raged. "Lots of people have my hair and eyes..."

"Yeah, but not many of them have your fucking girth," Kyle spat.

Stan drew himself up to his full height. "We have to get out of South Park until this dies down," he announced, tugging Wendy's hand.

The four of them ran as fast as they could to the railway station, which was almost abandoned. Fortunately, a train stood at either platform. Stan looked to Kyle.

"Right," he said, panting. "We need to split up. Wendy and me will go west, you and Cartman go east."

"Whoa, wait. Why do I have to go with the lard bucket?" Kyle asked. Stan dragged Kyle over away from the others.

"Because, dude, Wendy needs me!" he whispered desperately, jerking his head subtly towards Wendy. She was beaming at Stan, her fingers were clasped together and she glanced up at him coquettishly.

"You're so brave," she sighed. Kyle rolled his eyes.

"Urgh, whatever," he grumbled. "You owe me."

He grabbed Cartman's arm. "Come on, asshole; we're heading east."

~

Kyle sat hunched in his seat, chin resting on his knees, as he listened to the news report through his phone.

"...And police are still looking for the remaining mystery fugitives; one of whom has been reported killed when police tried to prevent him from smashing in the windows of Harrison Life Sciences and threatening all the workers in there at nine P.M last night..."

Damn it; Kyle hoped Stan thought that Kenny's death was worth a proper make-out session with Wendy in a train carriage. He had already stuffed his Kevlar vest and black top into his back pack and put on a white t-shirt and his padded jacket in the hopes of looking a little less conspicuous, but he still tried to hide himself whenever he heard the carriage door open.

Cartman was still snoring on the seat next to him, the buzz-saw noise emanating with the rise and fall of his chest. It wore Kyle's nerves down further with every breath. He caught a glimpse of the drool caked on Cartman's chin and turned away, disgusted, to look out of the window. They had passed through a bunch of towns he only recognised from maps. Kyle figured they would stay on the train until it terminated, and find somewhere to hide in whatever dump they wound up in.

Bored, he started to text Stan.

'Hey dude, where are you?'

Just as he pressed the 'send' button, the deep voice of the train guard sounded over the tannoy.

"We are about to reach our final destination. Please take all your suitcases, backpacks and explosive devices with you when you leave the train, and beware of thieves, homicidal maniacs and turf wars operating in the area. Welcome to Newark, we hope you have a pleasant stay."

Kyle poked Cartman sharply in the ribs. "Oi, fatass, we have to get off."

Cartman yawned and stretched. "Man, that was quick. Where the hell are we?"

"Newark," Kyle replied, grabbing Cartman's arm and jostling him off the carriage. He was sure Newark was supposed to be a fairly significant place to him, but for the life of him he couldn't remember why. They slipped past the guard, who was busy inspecting the undercarriage of the train with a Geiger counter.

"We have to hide somewhere; lie low," Kyle advised as they walked through the exit. Cartman nodded, stroking his chin in thought.

"Right; we've got to find the seediest, most run-down neighbourhood where we can hide beside the drug dealers, crack addicts and people who watch 'Jerry Springer'." He paused and studied the area map outside the station, running a finger along the road to the harbour. "Which part looks most like Kenny might live there?"

Kyle said nothing and instead walked purposefully towards the city lights. Cartman followed, panting with exertion as he fought to keep up.

"Hold up, Kyle! Wait up, you stinking Jew! I need to find a disguise!"

Kyle raised an eyebrow at him but kept walking.

"I'm serious! My face was on that news report; I need to hide my striking features."

"There's no way you going to hide those striking features," Kyle scoffed, prodding Cartman in his flabby chest.

"You're just jealous, scrawny little Jew boy," Cartman retorted. "Are we in the poor white trash part of town yet?"

"I don't know," Kyle replied through gritted teeth as they passed yet another shabby looking gym. He was starting to feel weird; like he had a fever, except he didn't feel passive and exhausted as he usually did. He felt more short tempered than ever; even with Cartman mouthing off he normally didn't feel this wound up.

They passed a huge woman in the tightest leather miniskirt and a red boob tube as she sashayed up and down the street, occasionally coughing wetly into her hand.

"You got five dollars, boys?" she drawled, her blonde wig tilting as she moved her head.

"No," Kyle replied, picking up his speed. Cartman stopped dead, then chased after the woman.

"Hey, I've got five dollars..."

"Cartman, stop it!" Kyle yelled, but it was too late; Cartman had gone chasing after her down some sinister looking alleyway. He waited around for a few moments, avoiding eye-contact with the various hookers that started glancing his way.

He was about to go when someone tapped him on the arm. He whirled around and saw the ugliest blonde girl put her hands on her enormous hips, fat bulging out of a too-tight leather mini-skirt and red boob tube...

"Cartman?" Kyle's eyes widened in disbelief.

"What do you think of my sweet disguise? Nobody will recognise me now," he said, doing a twirl on the spot as though it were for Kyle's benefit.

Kyle's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Where did you get that?"

"I knocked out that prostitute and stole her clothes," Cartman replied blithely.

"What?" Kyle yelled.

"Alright, fine; I didn't knock out that prostitute and steal her clothes. Happy?" Cartman retorted.

Kyle sighed and closed his eyes. "Why do I have to be saddled with you?" he complained, opening his eyes to see Cartman shrug.

"Because Wendy gives better head?" he offered. Kyle rolled his eyes and strode ahead.

They walked on in silence. Kyle figured they were at least going in the right direction; the graffiti on the walls was becoming more frequent. As the sun dipped lower in the sky they stopped to take a breather near a tanning salon; or rather, Kyle stopped to wait for that fat fuck to stop panting like an asthmatic warthog.

"Jesus Christ, do you not even play Wii Fit?" Kyle complained, languidly examining his fingernails under the street light. They were crusted with dirt and he really, really needed to clean them.

"Wii Fit... Is for... gay-wads," Cartman huffed. "Screw... you... Jew..."

A couple of perma-tanned girls with super-straight black hair who looked as though they had been poured into their tiny dresses tottered out of the salon.

"So, I says to her, I says, 'You leave my man alone, you no good bitch,' and she's all, 'Don't you go dissin' on me; you think you're better than me?' Damn right I'm better than her..."

Kyle felt something strange tug at him in his very bones as he watched them pass. Cartman looked at him and laughed.

"Way out of your league, kid," he said, "but you might as well learn now that's the case for, like, every girl with all her limbs intact. And you don't have enough cash for that one with a leg missing who married the Beatle."

"We need to find somewhere to stay," Kyle announced, ignoring Cartman's comments. Now he was older he did his best not to react Cartman's legitimately hurtful comments about his looks and his religion. He rarely succeeded. At least with his religion he felt he had a leg to stand on; he couldn't really argue about the former.

A few blocks down, they found a suitably seedy hotel nestled between a gym and a pool club. The hotel had a neon heart emblazoned on the front.

"Is this a brothel?" Kyle mused, peering in the window. It looked ordinary enough; a few more crucifixes than he was strictly comfortable with, but apart from that it seemed... anonymous.

A man with a tight vest and slicked back hair laughed at him. He got up from his seat on the concrete steps and patted him on the back.

"No, little man. It's, you know, a place to take a girl for a little fun if the missis is home. You get me?"

"No," Kyle replied, but Cartman tucked his arm through Kyle's and batted his lashes.

"Oh, baby; this place looks perfect!" he simpered, to Kyle's horror. "Check out the cracks in the wall; they're, like, sooo cool."

The man put out his cigarette and gestured for them to enter.

"What the hell are you doing?" Kyle hissed at Cartman.

"Getting us a room," he replied. "I'd let you be the girl, but face it, nobody would believe that I'd drop my standards so low and you're a Jew. They'll just assume I'm after your money."

They approached the MDF desk and the mahogany coloured receptionist; Kyle seething. Cartman always drove him nuts but today was so much worse. He figured lack of sleep must have been getting to him.

The woman at the desk took exactly forty-seven seconds to stop twiddling her obviously fake hair extensions around her finger, pop her gum and look up at them.

"Yeah?" She glanced at the both as though they'd just crapped on her ledger.

"Umm, we'd like a room. Please," Kyle stammered. The woman leant back in her chair and felt behind her for a pen.

"Name?"

"Umm..."

"Mr and Mrs Smith." Cartman stroked Kyle's arm affectionately. "We just wanted some time alone, you know?" he explained to the disinterested receptionist.

"That'll be fifty bucks for the night," she said holding out her hand. Panic flooded Kyle's stomach as he felt around for his wallet, hoping he and Cartman could scrape enough between them. To his amazement, Cartman tossed a small wad of cash onto the desk.

"I think this should cover us for a few days, plus a little something for yourself. See that we don't get disturbed, huh?"

The receptionist gawped at him for a while, and then nodded. She gestured casually to Kyle.

"Bit young, ain't he? Looks like he should still be in grade school," she commented.

Cartman giggled girlishly. "Oh, he's older than he looks." He leant over and whispered conspiratorially in her ear. "I know he's not much to look at, but he's a Jew — and you know what they say about Jews." He patted the wad of cash on the desk. "And boy do I earn my keep — he's so fucking dirty. This one time, I had to put my finger in his ass while he was doing me. He loves it up the ass. I've lost, like, a watch up there; isn't that right, honey?"

Kyle bunched his fists in his pockets and tried to take calming breaths so as not to punch Cartman in the balls and give away his already flimsy disguise.

Cartman grabbed his hand. "Come on, my little Kosher Boy," he crooned. "I know a lucky little man who is going to be pounding some serious snootch tonight!" He yanked Kyle towards the stairwell as the receptionist dropped the key in Kyle's hand, staring at them with horror in her eyes.

"I hate you, Cartman," Kyle said in a low voice as the climbed up the stairs. "Let this be on record; I legitimately hate you."

-Friggingodess-

The room was on the third floor and serviceable, if grim; paint peeled from the walls and the fixtures were nicotine stained. There was a small couch and, predictably, one double bed. Cartman immediately spread out on it, making himself comfortable.

"Damn it, Cartman! Give me the bed, I haven't slept a wink!" Kyle demanded.

"Where are your manners?" Cartman teased. "I'm the lady, I should get first dibs. Besides, you're a midget; you'll fit on the couch. Or, we could always share," he offered in an attempt at a sultry voice. He patted the duvet next to him as though to tempt Kyle with the deal.

"Have you gone fucking insane?" Kyle raged. "Forget it, I'll take the couch; your fat ass barely fits on the bed anyway."

"I'm not fat; I'm a BBW," Cartman said defiantly.

"A what?"

"Big Beautiful Woman."

"Well, one out of three isn't bad, I suppose," Kyle shot back.

Cartman sighed dramatically. "Just because you can't handle all this jelly that I've got..."

"Cartman; ten children's birthday parties couldn't handle all the jelly that you've got," Kyle retorted.

Cartman stretched out on the bed. "It's Irene, remember? And it's sad that my body's too bootylicious for you."

Irene? Kyle struggled to recall him ever giving his dumb disguise a name.

Cartman rolled his eyes. "Irene? Hard life; torn between two lovers, an addiction to abortions? No wonder she ended up here, stuck in this dump with a goddamn Jew dwarf and having to pay the rent on this crummy hotel room herself, no less."

"Oh, great." Kyle slumped onto the couch. "Just what I need. And where the hell did you get all that money?"

Cartman smiled. "You know that prostitute I knocked out?"

Kyle glared at Cartman, who rolled his eyes in response. "Fine, fine; that prostitute I didn't knock out? I also totally didn't go through her purse, okay?"

"You are unbelievable!"

"Hey!" Cartman's voice had an edge of indignant rage to it. "We do what we gotta do to survive, okay? It's a hard life, and I've gotta pay for my abortions somehow..."

Kyle couldn't take it anymore. His skin was starting to itch and worse still, he realised he didn't have his medication with him. He got up, grabbed his wallet and headed for the door.

"Where are you going?" Cartman asked.

"Out," Kyle replied simply, slamming the door behind him.

~

Stan lay awake, Wendy's head resting against his chest as she slept. He was grateful they had found the hippie commune; when the community had found out just why Stan and Wendy were wandering the outskirts of Reno begging for a place to sleep they had fallen over themselves to help. The room was clean and felt reasonably warm, at least under all the crocheted blankets they had been given.

In any other circumstance — if the police hadn't launched a full-scale manhunt for them that stretched across the whole of Colorado — Stan would have been pretty fucking stoked right now. Wendy was in bed with him, actually in bed with him. Okay, they were both fully clothed, but still. They'd had a pretty intense make-out session beforehand; there had been definite tongue action and Stan was fairly certain he'd managed to feel a bit of her left boob, although it might have just been the way her sweater had bunched up.

She sighed and shifted against him in her sleep, and the action went straight to his dick. God, she was beautiful. He kind of felt like he'd taken it for granted and that seeing her lying against him, all sleep-softened ivory skin and inky black hair, was forcing him to take stock. She was like his Snow White, and only he could awaken her with a kiss. Not that he would; he rather liked just watching her sleep, nestling against him so trustingly, like he could protect her from the world.

God, if any of the guys knew what he was going through his mind right now, they'd think he was such a fag.

Gingerly, he took his phone out of his pocket and looked at his messages. One from Kyle. He opened it just as Wendy stirred.

"Stan?" She propped herself up on her elbows next to him. "How long have I been asleep?"

"Not long, babe," he replied, stroking the small of her back. "You okay?"

She nodded and rested a hand on his chest. "What'cha doing?" she murmured.

"Reading Kyle's text," he replied. "They're in Newark."

"Wow, they got all the way up to New Jersey?" she asked.

Stan sat bolt upright. "New Jersey?"

"Sure; right in the very heart."

"Oh, shit." He grabbed his phone and started dialling.

"What's the big deal? Newark's nowhere near as bad as it used to be."

"The big deal?" Stan spluttered. "The big deal is that it's Kyle. In New Jersey. Kyle is in the heart of New Jersey." He jumped up out of bed. "Fuck!"

"Stan! He'll be fine," Wendy insisted, sitting up and pulling the covers over herself. Stan shook his head.

"He won't be fine, Wendy. He'll be... Oh, for fuck's sake, Kyle; answer your God damn phone!"

Chapter Two: Vivsection Now! — Jersey Rising

Kyle was dimly aware of his phone vibrating somewhere in his pants, but he was too busy to deal with it right now.

"Look, I really, really need 10 nanograms of tacrolimus, like, right now," Kyle repeated.

"I can't just give you that over the counter," the leathery-skinned technician said. Kyle slammed his fist on the counter; he could feel his rage boiling over.

"I don't have my prescription with me; I got stuck here and I don't have my medication. I need that medication; you're a technician, I'm sure you can figure out why!" He folded his arms and began to stare out the old man behind the counter.

"I'm sorry." He reached for a telephone. "If you can give me your doctor's details I can have him fax me a copy—"

"No!" Kyle yelled. "I... He's out of town!"

The technician frowned at him in suspicion. Kyle couldn't exactly blame him; what was he supposed to say? 'Sorry, but I'm on the run from the cops right now and I'd rather you didn't alert anyone as to my whereabouts.'?

"There has to be something you can do," Kyle pleaded. While he tried to argue his point and also wondered if God would let it slide were he to sneak into the back and take what he needed — he'd leave the money, obviously — three muscle-bound men with orange tans entered the store; their slicked-back hair glinted under the fluorescent lights.

The technician tensed. Kyle felt his temples start to throb wildly. The greasy haired guys shoved him out of the way and leant casually on the counter.

"Mr Miller, how you doin' today?" one of the guys enquired while another tapped a baseball bat menacingly against the palm of his hand.

Mr. Miller's milky eyes widened in fear as he backed away. "Now Frankie, I don't want no trouble."

Frankie laughed and gestured to his companions. "Hear that? He don't want no trouble. We don't want no trouble either; do we, boys?"

Another of the meatheads grabbed Mr. Miller by the shoulder. Normally this would have been Kyle's cue to quietly leave and call the police, but for some reason, today his body didn't want to comply.

His vision blurred, he started to see an almost literal red mist descend. His heart felt like it was going to pound right out of his chest and sweat trickled down the back of his neck. The last thing he clearly remembered was grabbing a container of hair gel from the shelf in front of him before...

"Hey, grease balls!"

The three guys stopped threatening the technician and turned to face Kyle.

"You talkin' to me?" Frankie asked, clearly stifling sniggers. It only served to enrage Kyle further.

"You see anyone else around here? Yeah, I'm talkin' to you, you piece of trash!" He walked up to the guys and drew himself up to his full height, leaving him face to shoulder with Frankie.

Frankie brushed down his jacket as though trying to brush away Kyle.

"Oh, so you wanna get all up in this, punk?" He poked a manicured finger at Kyle's chest

"I'm getting so far up in this, I'm going to rip out your colon!" Kyle snarled, shoving Frankie hard and making him lose his footing. Frankie laughed, albeit a little more nervously.

"Lookie here, half-pint's got some lip. Pity he ain't got the balls to back it up!" As he said this, one of his cronies grabbed Kyle by the neck of his t-shirt and hoisted him into the air. Without thinking, Kyle brought the back of his heel down hard into the guy's crotch. He whimpered and fell to the floor, wheezing. His baseball bat rolled out of his hand and rested at Kyle's feet. He picked it up.

"You took my place in line, you fuckin' piece of garbage!" He wielded the baseball bat like he did this every day of his life.

"Oh, I'm garbage? You no-good wannabe, you're goin' down!"

There was a lot of yelling as Kyle swung the bat and managed to make it connect with Frankie's knee, dead-legging him and putting them face-to-face. Kyle smacked him in the face — because that's what fucking line-jumping pieces of trash like him deserved.

Frankie moaned and covered his nose with his hands. Kyle leant over him menacingly.

"You know what you are?" he ground out, nostrils flaring. "You're muff cabbage. Now get the fuck out of her before I finish what I started."

Frankie's cohorts helped him up and the three stumbled out of the store. Kyle walked back to the counter, baseball bat still in hand.

"Right, as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted; I need..."

Mr. Miller put a tiny case of pills down on the counter with a shaking hand. Kyle smiled.

"Finally, thank you." He reached for his wallet and Mr. Miller jumped out of his skin.

"N... No!"

"Here!" Kyle handed him his one and only twenty-dollar bill, which he shook his head at.

"It... It's... it's seventy dollars," he stammered out, quivering.

"What the fuck?" Kyle snapped. Goddamn, medication was expensive.

Mr. Miller shook once again. "Don't... Don't worry about it. Just take it!"

"Really?" Kyle looked at him warily.

"Of course, of course! Take it!" He jammed at the till anxiously, and slammed the drawer shut without making a transaction. Kyle stared at the pot of tablets in his hands and smiled.

"Wow; thanks, sir. I'll pay you back; my dad's insured. Good night," Kyle called as he left the store with the baseball bat, as Mr Miller sank down onto the floor and start taking deep breaths.

As he stepped out into the cold night, he wondered what to do next. It was then that he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirrored windows of the nearby gym.

Holy fuck, what had he done to himself?

The sleeves of his t-shirt had been ripped off, his hair was blow-backed to within an inch of its life and where the hell had he got that gold chain? Or that knuckleduster?

Oh God — he hadn't been sleep-deprived at all. He had turned Jersey. Again.

He really didn't fancy going to the fatass in this state; he'd never hear the end of it. He felt a sudden urge to hit the gym and do some reps.

~

Stan threw his phone against the bed. "Damn it!"

"Stan, he'll be okay," Wendy soothed, rubbing his shoulders gently. He sighed and leant against her.

"Sorry, babe," he said wearily. "I just... I've seen what happens to Kyle when he's around Jerseyites. It's not pretty."

He felt Wendy's eyes bore into him. "Stan! I can't believe you could say such a thing! You're talking about people from New Jersey as though they're some kind of infection you can catch!"

"Well, they are!" he spluttered. "Kyle's mom's from New Jersey. It's in him. And when he gets around other people from New Jersey..."

He felt Wendy let go of him as though he had electro-shocked her. He sighed heavily.

"Look, babe; trust me on this." He gently grabbed her arm. "New Jersey is no place for Kyle, okay?"

Wendy still sat ramrod straight on the bed, her body turned away from him as though on defensive lock-down. Despite this, he stood up and grabbed his phone.

"What are you doing?" Wendy's eyes had narrowed to slits as Stan started frantically searching AirTran's webpage.

"Finding the next flight to Newark." He didn't look up from his phone.

"Why are you going to all this trouble for him?" she demanded icily, her back still turned on him

"Because, dude, it's Kyle!"

Wendy rolled her eyes. "Wow; you know something, Stan? All my friends go on about what a sweet, caring boyfriend you are, and they're totally right! Kyle's such a lucky guy!"

Stan gawped at Wendy as she folded her arms grumpily. "Jesus Christ, Wendy; quit being so childish," he said, using her stock insult for him against her. "He's in deep shit!"

"And it's his own fault!"

"No, it's those stupid MYOPIA people's fault," Stan shot back.

Wendy stood up and faced him, her nose almost touching his as she glared. "They're not stupid, they want to stop animal cruelty! Kyle was the one who got us caught!"

"They set us up!" Stan argued back angrily.

"Kyle deliberately wound them up!"

"Well what do you expect?" Stan snapped. "He's on immune-suppress... something to keep his body from rejecting that goddamn kidney of Cartman's..."

"What?" Wendy looked horrified, and Stan swiftly remembered that she wasn't supposed to know; that nobody was supposed to know. He felt a stab of guilt deep in the pit of his stomach.

"Look, Kyle doesn't like people knowing, okay. So... So you don't know, alright?"

Wendy nodded dumbly.

"Anyway, of course he's going to believe in medical research..."

Stan stopped mid-flow as another horrible realisation hit him. No way would Kyle have carried his medication on him when he wasn't expecting to stay over anywhere. He even hated having to take his pills in front of Stan if they'd had a sleepover; he always used Stan's room to avoid any of their other classmates seeing his little kite-decorated pill box labelled with days of the week that he'd had since he was eight.

Wendy was staring at the floor.

"He doesn't have them with him, does he?" she asked quietly. Stan shook his head. He hung his head in his hands and allowed Wendy to take his phone.

"There's a flight in a couple of hours that looks like it has some cancellations," she said after a few moments. "I'm sure we can make it." She squeezed his shoulder.

"I love you, babe," Stan said, without considering anything except that it was a dumb thing to say and that he meant it.

Wendy kissed the top of his head, but said nothing in response.

~

"Oh, Jesus!" Vinnie said in dismay as Kyle potted the black and cleared the table. He slammed his pint glass down and his companions groaned.

"Hey, mind the baize!" Kyle ordered, rubbing his fingers together in the international gesture for cash. Vinnie rolled his eyes and pulled his wallet out of his too-tight stone-wash denim jeans. He shoved a handful of cash into Kyle's hand, who counted each bill and checked it against the light.

"Pleasure doing business with you, gentlemen," he said, pocketing the cash. He raised his pool cue. "Anyone care for a friendly round?"

The other grease-slicked guys mumbled incoherently and wandered off to the bar. Vinnie picked up his pool cue and grinned.

"Sure thing, half-pint," he replied. "I want to learn from the ultimate hustler..."

"Hey!" Kyle snapped. "I ain't no hustler, you got that?"

Vinnie raised his hands. "Sure, sure. No drama, no drama." He took the triangle from underneath the pool table and began to set up the next game. "It's just... I'm looking for something else. Boxing's for the young, I ain't got it in me no more."

Kyle nodded sympathetically. "There's got to be better ways to make a living than hustling."

He chalked his cue and was about to break when the door to the bar flung open, making a loud slamming noise as it hit the wall.

The room went silent. Kyle looked up to see a very angry Cartman — no, wait; Irene — hands on his hips and what looked like a fur coat draped over his shoulders. Kyle caught a glimpse of his furious expression and... and found himself strangely distracted by Cartman's orange face, dark-lidded eyes and bright red smeared lips. He was wearing make-up that looked shockingly well applied. Where Cartman had got this stuff from, God alone knew.

He staggered down on heels that he must have had to wedge his fat feet into and grabbed Kyle's arm, forcing them both face-to-face.

"This is where you've been? You don't come home all night because you've been hanging out in some no-good dive?" he demanded in a low, indignant voice.

Kyle shrugged. "So, what of it?"

Cartman grabbed him by his t-shirt and pulled him up to his height.

"I've been waiting for you, you no-good asshole" he raged.

"Alright, I'm sorry. I had stuff to do," Kyle said in a dismissive tone, pushing Cartman off him. Cartman still appeared enraged and almost hurt, to Kyle's utter incomprehension.

"You're gambling our money away and you're 'sorry'? How are we meant to eat?"

"You could afford to skip a few meals," Kyle retorted as he took his shot.

Cartman turned dramatically on his heel and folded his arms.

"What would you have me do, huh? Go back on the game?" He whirled around and grabbed Kyle's arm. "I'm pregnant with your baby, Kyley! Am I just going to have to abort it? I mean, there is a fifty per cent chance it'll be born ginger. It's probably the kindest thing."

Vinnie stared in utter amazement. Kyle merely rolled his eyes. "Oh, stop it, you aren't pregnant!"

Cartman raised an eyebrow. "That's a low blow, Kyley. You accusing me of lying?"

Kyle felt the rage build up inside him; goddamn Cartman and his stupid games. He glanced up at Vinnie's horrified, yet fascinated expression. Well, fine. If Cartman wanted to play games, he'd pick up the dice and shove them right up his nose.

"You told me you'd had a hysterectomy. So either you were lying then, or you're lying now, dame."

Cartman's face contorted into genuine bewilderment. Kyle took his chance and cupped his face with his free hand, the other still gripping his pool cue.

"Hey; no broad of mine's going on the game, alright?" He grabbed a handful of his winnings and tucked them down the enhanced cleavage of Cartman's man boobs.

"Go get yourself something nice, doll," he replied, smacking Cartman hard on the buttocks before continuing his efforts to break. Cartman gawped at his, his mouth opening and closing like a startled goldfish. Satisfied, Kyle potted two stripes off the bat and began to line up his next shot, only to feel clammy hands reach around his stomach.

Soon enough, Cartman's breath was fanning over the back of his neck and it wasn't exactly a pleasant experience.

"I'm sorry, baby," he whispered. "What do you say we forget this silly pool game and go back to the hotel? I promise to make it up to you," he added in a breathy tone, pouring his words straight into Kyle's ear. He grimaced and pulled away.

"Hey, Kyley; you show the lady a good time," Vinnie said, putting down his cue. "You got a diamond there." He winked at Cartman.

Just as Kyle was wondering exactly how much brain damage Vinnie had endured from his days as an amateur boxer, Cartman grabbed his hand and tugged on it coquettishly.

"Come on, Kyley; don't make mamma wait any longer," he teased, twisting his foot into the beer-sodden carpet. Feeling as though there was little choice, Kyle reluctantly followed Cartman out of the pool bar and back to their hotel room; stopping off just long enough pick up some Chinese take-away that looked to be equal parts lard and chicken skin.

They sat on the double bed in their room, the static-laced TV blaring out some documentary about Greenpeace.

"You're the most unbelievable asshole," Kyle grumbled through a mouthful of kung-pao chicken.

"What? I'm on the lam in disguise; I do whatever it takes to survive," Cartman insisted. Kyle rolled his eyes.

"Whatever." He eyed Cartman's three noodle boxes with interest.

"Forget it, kosher boy. I got pork."

"Dick."

Cartman looked at him; If Kyle didn't know better he would have thought it was with concern. "I didn't know you could play pool."

"Neither did I," Kyle replied. "It's just physics, really."

"We've got to get out of here," Cartman said through a mouthful of Singapore noodles. "I think the Jersey in you is going to stick if we stay holed up here. We've not even made it through twenty four hours and you've practically got your Guido membership card."

"Watch your mouth, you mook," Kyle spat back, before covering his mouth in shock. Cartman was right. He curled up into a ball on the bed and moaned.

"I can't take much more of this!" he hissed. He felt the bed groan under Cartman's weight as he shifted position to kneel behind him.

"You need to sleep, Kyley," he whispered into his ear. "Let me help."

"I really don't want you to—"

"Shh," Cartman said soothingly against his ear, his nylon wig tickling Kyle's neck. Soon, Kyle felt Cartman's chubby fingers kneading his neck muscles.

"Just relax, honey. Let Irene take good care of you."

Kyle felt all the rage and tension start to leave his body. It felt amazing; not in a remotely sexual way, but in a soothing way that made him want to stretch out his cramped body and just fall asleep.

"This is fucking weird..." Kyle let out a yawn. "But, you know, it feels pretty good. Peaceful."

"See? You should trust me more," Cartman said, as he continued to rub Kyle's neck and shoulders. "I learned this from watching Mom through the crack in her bedroom door; she does it all the time to people who come over. I heard her explain how it helps them relax just the other day."

"Mmm huh," Kyle grunted, letting his head flop down as the tension slowly drained from his knotted muscles.

Cartman's hands slid down to the waistband of his trousers. Kyle felt a fat finger gently run up and down the scar there.

"How does it feel to have me inside you?" he asked. Kyle felt his forehead pucker into a frown until he realised what Cartman was talking about.

"Shut up, asshole," he said, trying not to smile.

Cartman began to sing. "Every time you go away, you take a piece of me with you..."

Kyle couldn't help it; he started to giggle.

"You'd better be taking good care of that kidney," Cartman said. "I might need it back some day."

"Fuck off, fat boy — it's mine now," Kyle mumbled. He felt his eyelids droop with the sudden need for sleep.

In fact, he was so relaxed and close to the land of nod, he didn't even register Cartman unzip his pants and pull out his penis until he was physically pumping it.

Suddenly, every relaxed muscle knotted up tenfold.

"Cartman! What the fuck do you think you're doing? Get off me!" he roared in horror.

"What? It's a happy ending!" Cartman seemed genuinely offended at Kyle's reaction. "You rub the guy's neck and shoulders, then you rub their dick. It's a happy ending; it helps them relax. I saw my Mom do it to some Japanese business man, and he was super sleepy afterwards..."

"Cartman, you do know what your mom does for a living, right? Like, we're not just ripping on you for the sake of it, it's based in truth."

"It's Irene, asshole," Cartman said sulkily, until he looked down at Kyle's crotch and smiled. "Anyway, it looks like Little Kyle was enjoying it."

Kyle glanced down at his half-hard cock and rolled his eyes. "Cartman, I'm thirteen. I get hard whenever the school bus goes over a pothole."

"Whatever. You love it, isn't that right, Little Kyle?" He put on a falsetto voice and wiggled Kyle's penis like a puppet. "Oh yes, Irene, you've got such nice hands. They make me feel safe..."

-Friggingodess-

"Cartman, if you don't stop using my dick as a marionette this second, I swear to Abraham I will end you."

Cartman let go of Kyle's penis and shrugged. "God, you are so frigid. If it's good enough for Ben Affleck and Leonardo DiCaprio..."

Kyle stared at him momentarily. "Dude, you are fucked up beyond the art of telling it."

~

Stan woke from a vivid dream about lying naked on satin sheets to find his head on Wendy's shoulder, her hair fanned around him and drool caked on his chin.

"Sleep well?" Wendy asked fondly from the seat next to him. She took a tissue from her bag and wiped away his spittle.

"Are we in Newark yet?" he asked, glancing up the aisle of the plane in a vain attempt to find any air stewardesses.

"Almost." Wendy pointed at the window. Stan peered around her and was just about able to see land from between the clouds; from this high up it looked more like a relief map than actual land.

He glanced across at Wendy and smiled. He couldn't help but think about his dream and how much more awesome it would have been if she had been there too. Preferably naked. Or in the frilly stuff in his mom's catalogues that he and Kyle had giggled over when they were seven. Not the stuff he saw in Kenny's magazines — that was a little too scary for him. Wendy didn't seem into that sort of stuff, though; Stan had caught a peek when he shouldn't have in the commune. It had been completely accidental; she had squealed and blushed, he had closed his eyes, spewed apologies and blushed. Nevertheless, there had been a few precious seconds between seeing her in the middle of undressing and covering his eyes. The upshot of this was that Stan now knew what sort of underwear Wendy wore — all fairly utilitarian but brightly coloured. He also knew what her small but perfectly formed breasts looked like encased in a bra. He knew the dip of her back and the curve of her ass. He knew how pale and untouched her skin was underneath her clothes...

"Umm, Stan? Were you... Were you thinking about something else?" Wendy stared steadfastly out of the window. Stan looked down and saw, to his embarrassment, he had pitched a tent in his black combat trousers.

"I was thinking about you!" he blurted out in protestation, but if anything, it seemed to make her even more uncomfortable. He tried to kiss her but she kept her head turned away, allowing him to only managed a chaste peck on her jawline. She folded her arms defensively.

"I'm not touching it," she said firmly, just as the announcement for them to fasten their seatbelts echoed through the plane.

"What?"

An air stewardess pointed at his undone seatbelt, carefully avoiding looking anywhere below his chest. Stan buckled up.

"I'm not touching it, okay!" Wendy insisted, more loudly this time. The air stewardess stopped dead in her tracks and walked back over to them.

"Is this gentleman bothering you?" she asked, glaring at Stan as though he were some sort of sex pest; the kind that used to sit on the Greyhound to Denver and offer you sweets if you sat in his lap. Cartman always asked what kind of sweets they had before loudly proclaiming, "I ain't wiggling on your dick for goddamn Tootie Rolls, you pervert!"

He'd made about three of them cry.

"I'm not doing anything!" Stan protested, and the stewardess gave him one last revolted look before walking away.

"Wendy, I'm not expecting you to do anything with it. It's just there and kind of embarrassing and I just want to ignore it. Okay, babe?"

Wendy nodded, but kept her eyes on the view from the window. She did hold his hand until the plane landed, however, so he assumed he was forgiven.

Suddenly, the plane doors opened and scores of police officers in riot gear flooded the plane. The other passengers started to scream and panic.

"Don't move! Police!"

One of the armed officers stormed over to Stan and Wendy.

"They're here!" he said, grabbing Wendy's arm.

"Hey, let go of her!" Stan demanded angrily.

"We need you to come with us," the officer said.

"No way! We've got to find our friend!" Stan replied. The officer pulled out a pair of handcuffs.

"We can do this the easy way, or the hard way, Marsh."

"How do they know your name?" Wendy whispered to Stan, who shrugged.

Whatever the reason, Stan figured it couldn't be good.

~

The moonlight illuminated the rock-strewn path to the ramshackle tent; Cartman adjusted his ten gallon hat and glanced around. He could see scores of sheep nestled on the grassy ground, their wool shifting with the breeze.

Man, was it ever freezing without that fire.

The tent was pulled open; Kyle popped his head out. "Get in here," he said, irritation leaching into his voice. Cartman hurried over and tied the tent closed behind him. It wasn't much warmer here but there was at least some body heat trapped in the confined area.

"They're still there. All thirty-five of them," Cartman commented. Kyle nodded, biting his lip. They stared at each other for a while, Kyle's eyes big and bright in the lamplight.

"I'm cold," he said eventually.

"What do you want me to do about it?"

Kyle looked away and made no reply. Cartman took off his Stetson and tossed it casually against the side of the tent. Kyle was clad in a white half-buttoned night shirt tucked into his worn jeans, the shirt and one of his braces sliding off his shoulder. Cartman leant over and propped himself up on his elbows, his body hovering mere inches over Kyle's.

"Better?"

"A little," Kyle replied breathlessly, his puny chest rising and falling dramatically.

Cartman smirked cruelly. "That's because I make you hot, isn't it?"

Kyle looked away, his cheeks flushing crimson.

"I make you really fucking hot, you dirty little slut. Isn't that right?"

All Kyle did was grab his wrist with a trembling hand. It was enough; Cartman wasn't so cruel as to deny him what he'd needed ever since they came out here herding those fluffy little casseroles on legs. He pulled away from him and stood up.

"Get on your knees," he ordered, delighting as Kyle eagerly complied. Dropping behind him, he took a weighty arm and pushed down on Kyle's shoulders. He buckled and fell onto his forearms, gripping at the grass as his ass poked up in the air like a cat in heat. Silently, Cartman reached around and unbuckled his belt, tugging Kyle's trousers and underpants down sharply with one swift movement. Feeling a sense of urgency he couldn't fathom, he unbuttoned his own fly, spat into his hand and gripped his dick.

"Beg for it, you filthy little Jew," he whispered into Kyle's ear, seeing him shudder.

His lips parted, he gasped audibly. "Please," he croaked.

"Please what?"

"Please, Cartman... Do it in my butt like Larry Craig in an airport!"

Cartman gripped his thighs and thrust into him, as hard as he could. He wanted it to fucking hurt. He wanted it to fucking burn.

Kyle cried out in a weird mingling of pain and pleasure, which made Cartman's dick even harder.

"Oh yeah? You like that, don't you? You filthy little girl." He smacked him hard on the ass, delighting in yet another scream.

"Oh, God!" Kyle moaned. "Oh God, yes... Fuck, I hate you!"

Cartman laughed and smacked him again. "You wish. You can't hate me. You love my cock too much, you sick fuck." He thrust harder and faster, watching Kyle's fingers dig into the dirt.

"You're so big and manly," he moaned. "I don't think I can take it..."

"Oh, you'll take it," Cartman hissed into his ear. "Unless... you want me to stop?"

"No! No, please, no! I need your totally hot and not at all fat body smacking against my ass!" Kyle was near tears; Cartman relished it.

"Thought not. You're fucking disgusting. What are you, huh?"

"I'm... I'm a filthy fucking Jew."

"That's right." Cartman patted his ass affectionately; his reward for Kyle's admission of a truth he had been denying for years. "And what does my filthy fucking Jew need?"

"I... God! I... I want you. I want your sweet ball juice in my mouth."

Cartman bit down on Kyle's shoulder; he sobbed from pain or something else, Cartman didn't know. Or care.

"It tastes like that little creamy bit in Twinkies," he moaned. "So fucking good."

Steadying one hand on Kyle's outer thigh, Cartman grabbed a fistful of his red curls and yanked his head back so he could stare at Kyle's big, ever darkening eyes. "Wow; you're such a little whore for me, huh?"

Kyle turned his head further towards Cartman; he could now see his flushed cheeks, damp with tears. "But I'd pay you, Cartman; I'd pay you for your massive cock."

"Of course you would, my little Jew slave. Be patient; I don't want you to gargle on my jizz just yet." He let go of Kyle's head. "I'm not done with your tight gay-doh fun factory yet!" He kept his one hand firmly on Kyle's thigh and reached around with his other to fondle Kyle's tiny penis, delighting when Kyle's whole body thrummed from his touch.

"I'm going to make you cum all over your tits," Cartman hissed, just as Kyle started to sob and moan...

Cartman woke up with a jolt, feeling completely disorientated. He felt someone shove his side and roll him over onto his back.

"Were you spooning me, fatass?" Kyle's voice was far too close. He looked around and as his eyes adjusted to the dark, he remembered. He was stuck in a goddamn double bed in a goddamn shitty hotel room in goddamn Newark with goddamn Kyle. And if he had been spooning him, it wasn't by choice.

Kyle shifted next to him on the mattress.

"What the... Eww! What the hell did you do? Did you pee on me, you sick fuck?" Kyle sounded positively apoplectic with rage.

"What the fuck? No!" Cartman protested, just as he noticed his underpants were soaking wet. Maybe he did? How embarrassing. It didn't seem right, though; he hadn't done anything like that since he was seven years old, apart from that one time he had a nightmare about hippies in his fridge.

Kyle sat up suddenly.

"Eww! Eww!" he practically squealed.

"Stop being such a girl; it's just some pee and I'm sorry," Cartman said wearily.

"Cartman; it's not pee," Kyle said quietly.

"What else could it be, fucking space rain?" Cartman snapped.

Even though it was effectively pitch black, Cartman could still feel, if not see, Kyle's eyes burn through him. He could think of nothing to say except, "Well, that's never happened to me before. Guess that makes me a man now."

He heard a rustling of sheets.

"I'm going to take a shower," Kyle mumbled, rushing to the en suite bathroom. "There are spare sheets in the closet."

The door slammed shut; Cartman heard the lock click. Discarding his soiled underwear, Cartman reached over and snapped on the lights. He stared at the sheets. What the hell did Kyle mean, 'spare sheets in the closet'? What the hell was he meant to do with that information?

"Eww, Cartman! It nearly touched my ass crack!" Kyle whined from the bathroom.

By the time he emerged wrapped in a towel with red, bleeding skin, Cartman had found the sheets but was at a loss what do to next. Didn't they just call a maid or something?

"Goddamn it, Cartman." Kyle pulled the sheets off the bed in one quick movement. He handed Cartman one end of the clean bed sheet.

"Here, put that in the corner like this..."

Within five minutes, Cartman had been shown how to make a bed for the first time in his life. He watched in amazement as Kyle stripped the cover from the duvet and put a fresh one on single-handedly.

"Wow, you're going to make a terrific wife for someone," he replied in genuine awe. Kyle glared at him.

"Shut the hell up!" he spat through gritted teeth. "Just... just go and get cleaned up."

Cartman, for once, didn't want to start another argument — Kyle he could deal with, but Kyley B was a step too far. As he meekly went over to the bathroom he felt something soft hit the back of his head. He grabbed the offending missile and discovered it consisted of three pairs of pants and a pair of pyjama bottoms he didn't recognise — he assumed they had been left by previous visitors.

"I'm not going through that again," Kyle said simply. "And get that make-up off your face, too!"

Cartman didn't bother locking the door and started up the shower.

"That Jew bastard had better not have used up all the hot water," he thought to himself as he stood under the faucet. He washed himself absently. Had he really just had a wet dream? It seemed kind of screwy — but then, he always got off on seeing his friends humiliated, and what could be more humiliating that Kyle on all fours with his pants round his knees taking it up the ass?

By the time he had failed to get rid of the make-up, dried off anyway, put on his several protective barriers and entered the bedroom again, Kyle was busying himself with some cotton wool balls and some weird pink cream.

"What's that?" Cartman asked as he sat next to Kyle on the bed. Kyle squeezed a dollop of the pink stuff onto a cotton wool ball and wiped it over Cartman's face.

"What the fuck are you doing?" he demanded, grimacing at the slimy wet sensation.

"It's lotion," Kyle replied. "Says it removes make-up. Found it in the drawers." He wiped the offending lotion off Cartman's face in firm strokes.

"Why thank you, Mother. Are you going to tuck me into bed and read me a story next?"

Kyle stopped. "Hey; if you want that shit all over your face for the next three days, be my guest."

Cartman kept quiet and let Kyle continue. Eventually, Kyle brought the conversation round to somewhere Cartman had fervently hoped it would never reach.

"So, what did you dream about?" he asked.

"Umm... Bebe's tits jiggling in my face," Cartman lied. Kyle nodded as though this explained everything.

"Why are you such a little housewife, anyway?" Cartman asked, taking any opportunity to change the subject. "Is it because you get cranky and have periods?"

Kyle's eyes narrowed in irritation; it was a look Cartman was used to seeing. "I have a little brother," he replied. "Sometimes it's just easier than getting Mom involved and freaking her out. Like the time I found Ike playing with her make-up and high-heels... Better?" he asked, dropping the cotton wool ball into the nearby waste paper bin.

Cartman actually felt much better, but he was damned if he was going to tell Kyle that. Instead, he picked his wig up from the floor and pulled it onto his head.

"You've such gentle hands, Kyley," he simpered, taking Kyle's hand in his. "A girl could get used to this kind of... tenderness."

Kyle raised an eyebrow. "Are we back to this again?"

"I can't help it; no man's ever treated me right before. They've all been assholes; fighting over me, using my hot body for sex. They've never cared, Kyley. Not like you."

"I don't care, Cartman," Kyle replied.

"Yes, you do," Cartman replied, reaching out and stroking Kyle's cheek. Kyle flinched.

"Come on, baby," Cartman coaxed. "Give Irene a kiss."

"No way, fatty!"

"Just one little kiss. Just a teeny, weeny kiss?"

"Fuck off!"

"You're just like the others," Cartman yelled dramatically. "They all wanted to pound my super tight snatch, but they never wanted to love me! They never cared about me as a woman!"

"Cartman, shut up! The whole fucking block will be able to hear you! What if someone calls the police?"

Cartman raised his volume even higher. "Perhaps I should just go, walk out the door, don't turn around now, 'cause I'm not welcome anymore..." He clenched his fists and started to punch the partition wall repeatedly; it echoed and shook.

"Dude!" Kyle actually looked worried. "Just chill. And be quiet!"

"Will you kiss me goodnight?" Cartman asked, looking up at Kyle hopefully. Kyle rolled his eyes, shrugged and shuddered, all within the space of ten seconds. "All right, if it'll shut you up."

Kyle wrinkled his nose and leant forward, his lips slightly puckered. Cartman made a great show of pursing his and closing his eyes, unable to believe it when he felt a damp mouth touch his for the briefest of seconds. He opened his eyes to see Kyle's disgusted expression.

It had to be done.

He leapt off the bed and pointed at Kyle. "Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha-ha! You're totally gay!" he sang.

"What? You asked me, fat boy!" Kyle raged.

"Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha-ha. You kissed a boy and you liked it!"

"Shut the hell up, Cartman; it was gross!"

"Dance, then, wherever you may be,

Kyle is the Lord of the Gays, said he,

And he'll lead you all to the shopping marquee,

Because Kyle is the Lord of the Gays, said he!"

This shit was so funny, Cartman didn't even care that Kyle was flexing his fingers as a vein appeared to throb at his temple.

~

"So, let me get this straight..." Stan stopped staring at the obvious two-way glass in the tiny interrogation room and focused on the young officer in front of him. "You want us to find that MYOPIA chick? We don't know where the hell she is!" he fumed. Wendy looked positively terrified sat next to him, hands in her lap.

The blonde officer smiled genially; the name badge pinned to his breast pocket read 'Sergeant Roberts'. "We know where she is," he replied, pushing a set of documents across the desk to Stan. Wendy peered over and clutched Stan's arm.

"Newark?" she queried, her previous apprehension suddenly replaced with curiosity. Stan could see it in the way her eyes glinted.

"Right," Sergeant Roberts replied. "She and that band of merry men have set up some kind of camp around this building here." He pointed to the document in Stan's hand — an annotated aerial photograph — and jabbed his finger at a skyscraper on the periphery of a park.

"Lars Newark Enterprises? Who are they?" Stan asked.

"They're known as Lars N.E," Roberts answered.

"Yeah, but who are they?"

"They're an investment bank; they pour money into Harrison Life Sciences," Wendy replied.

Stan stared at her in amazement. "How did you know that?"

Wendy rolled her eyes. "I actually read the pamphlet they handed out, Stan."

"All we need you to do is get them to come out and talk to you; then all this breaking and entering business can disappear," Roberts said, flashing a smarmy smile Stan didn't like the look of.

"So, we get her to come out and talk — then what happens?" Stan asked warily.

"You kids get to go home and all this will be over. That includes your little friend who must really be in need of his medication." Roberts looked at Stan pointedly. He felt impotent rage bubble up inside him, though he held his tongue.

"Okay, okay! We'll-" Stan stopped as he saw another piece of paper beneath the aerial photograph. He lifted it up and saw the same photograph but with an overlay of arrows, stick figures with batons and biro drawings of fires over the photographed tents. It bore the legend 'Operation Get the Soap Dodgers'.

"Wait, what the hell is this?" Stan demanded. Roberts hastily cleared away the papers.

"That? Oh, that's nothing. Just doodles. Forget them." He put on a pair of sunglasses and pressed down on the top of his pen. A bright white flash filled the room.

Stan sighed heavily. "Dude, you can flash lights at me all you want, I'm not going to help you beat up a bunch of protesters."

"Who said anything about beating up protesters? I didn't, did you?" Roberts turned to one of his men for support, before looking at his pen in dismay. "Why didn't it work?" he said to himself. "Will Smith managed it..."

"Yeah, because that was a film, douchebag!" Stan shouted, feeling close to losing his temper. He absently wondered how Kyle found the energy to be in an almost permanent state of irritation; Stan personally found it exhausting.

Wendy perused the files.

"Fine," she said eventually. "You give us — and I mean all of us — immunity from prosecution for everything, and ensure we have clean records. Then we'll do it," she said, folding her arms.

"Wendy!"

"What? You said it yourself, MYOPIA set us up. Plus, I don't want a criminal record; it could hurt my college applications!" She fixed Roberts with a steely glare. "But we won't move even a finger until get that in writing and signed by two commanding officers."

Roberts blinked, clearly surprised. "I'll... I'll get that printed up," he said, somewhat lamely, before scraping his chair back and leaving the room.

As he left, Stan stared at Wendy. "Dude!"

~

The journey to the park was a boring one; once you'd seen one riot van, you'd seen them all in Stan's opinion.

"Wait, what about Kyle?" Stan asked. "And Cartman," he added as an afterthought.

"We'll pick them up on the way," the cheerful and portly driver explained. "We've taken eye-witness accounts and analysed spending patterns; we've narrowed it down to this location.

He stopped the van and Roberts stood up.

"Come on, men! We've got to find those kids!" he announced. The officers, all decked out in riot gear, clambered out of the van and started scouring the area.

"They could be anywhere," Roberts said grimly. "Spread out! If we have to comb every inch of this neighbourhood, we'll do it, got that?"

Suddenly, Stan heard scuffles and screams.

"I'm going to fucking kill you, you fat fuck!"

"I think someone's in denial..."

"Fuck you!"

"You wish — ow!"

Stan poked Roberts in the arm. "They're over there," he said casually. Wendy grabbed his hand.

"Come on!" she insisted, running in the direction of the yells.

By the time Stan and Wendy reached the squealing mass of limbs, Roberts had reached them and instantly attempted to separate Kyle and Cartman. He eventually succeeded but Kyle managed to land a final punch on the back of Cartman's neck.

"What the hell happened?" Stan demanded, surveying the damage. Kyle looked like a 'Dragon Ball Z' character, Cartman was wearing ladies' clothes... The whole situation generated too many questions that Stan didn't want the answers to.

"Kyle's totally gay!" Cartman sang gleefully.

"What?" Stan thought it explained a few things — Kyle's utter lack of interest in girls, for one. He couldn't help but feel very insulted that Kyle hadn't told him first, however.

"Bullshit!" Kyle said in an accent that sounded worrying similar to his mom's. "This mook has been up in my face all day, ends up begging — begging! — me for a kiss. So, I say to him, I says, 'If it'll shut you the fuck up, I'll work my magic...' It's a Jersey thing, you know?" He casually brushed his t-shirt down; the knuckle-duster on his hand didn't shock Stan, mainly because he had seen the imprint of it on Cartman's face.

"You did...? Urgh, whatever. It's you two; nothing surprises me."

Wendy stared, wide eyed, from Kyle to Cartman and back again.

"Can you do it again?" she asked eagerly.

"What? No way, Wendy, you fucking freak!" Cartman spluttered.

"Dude! Don't call my girlfriend names!"

Kyle nonchalantly slung his arm over Wendy's shoulder. "I ain't interested in putting on a show, Princess; but if you meet me down Tribecca's tonight, maybe I can be persuaded to show you just what happened one-on-one." He gently caressed Wendy's chin with his thumb and winked at her.

"Dude! What the hell?" Stan gasped in horror. Kyle turned a deep shade of crimson and hastily dropped his arm from around Wendy.

"Sorry, Dude. It's the Jersey. It's too strong..."

One of the riot police approaching Roberts stared at Kyle in horror. "My God, he's almost full Jersey!" he said.

"What can we do?" Stan asked. The officer shook his head.

"Nothing, I'm afraid. I've seen this before; there's no power great enough to counter this level of change."

"Wait, you mean I'm stuck like this?" Kyle asked in a quivering voice that Stan knew to signal the onset of ultimate rage. Roberts clearly mistook it for tears, for he put a comforting arm around Kyle.

"It's okay, little man," he said in soothing tones. "Plenty of people learn to manage it. Now, we really need you to be a brave little soldier and —"

Kyle pulled away and grabbed a baseball bat seemingly out of nowhere.

"Where are those lanky dregs of muff cabbage?" he raged, wielding the bat like he meant business. "I'll show them fucking vivisection!"

~

"What I don't get," Stan mused as the riot van pulled away from the burnt out remains of the protestors' encampment in the park, "is why they were even out here in the first place?"

"They're trying to stop Lars Newark Enterprises from investing in Harrison Life Sciences," Kyle replied, stroking the burn marks on his baseball bat. "No investment means no more research. Only it won't work because these companies have so many funds and investment arms, twenty people with placards aren't going to mean shit when stacked up against hundreds and thousands of pension providers, insurance companies and conglomerations who want to spread their risk. They want to stop animal research? They should invent a viable alternative and, like, fucking contribute to scientific progress instead of trying to hinder it. Then you might get closer to a decent balance between ethics and development." He jiggled his foot. "Is there a gym near here? I need to work on my abs."

Stan looked at Kyle sadly. "Is there really nothing we can do?" he asked.

Roberts put a hand on Stan's shoulder. "This level of Jersey can only be countered by intense levels of hickdom.

The other officer nodded. "I can't think of anywhere that would come close to having the concentration required."

Stan smiled. "I think maybe I can." He touched Kyle's arm. "Hang on, buddy. We're going to be okay. We're going home."

The officer raised an eyebrow. "Where's home?"

"South Park," Wendy replied.

"South Park, Colorado?"

Stan nodded. The officer's lips formed a pink 'O' of surprise.

"Oh, he'll be back to normal in a week," he replied confidently.

Cartman was still giggling.

"Wow, we beat up hippies, burned down their tents and we found out Kyle's a flaming Gay Lord! This is, like, the best day ever!"

"One more word, Cartman, and this is going right up your ass," Kyle said through gritted teeth, gripping the baseball bat menacingly.

"Really? I totally figured you'd prefer to have stuff shoved up your ass than the other way around..."

Stan sighed; it was going to be a long journey home.

Chapter Three: Summer Awakening — A Rush of Blood to the Little Head

Kyle sat perched on the edge of the bottom bunk of the cell, digging his fingers into the fabric of his trousers. That fat... Cartman was snoring. God, the noise went right through him. In, out, in, out; like a fucking saw cutting through firewood.

He stopped. He didn't want to think about firewood. He didn't want to think about anything.

Stan was lying down, eyes open but looking anywhere except at him. Kyle sighed and got up. He was royally pissed off with Stan for being such an ass about this... but at the same time, he couldn't blame him. He deserved it. He was the worst kind of friend, let alone best friend. There was no doubt in his mind he was going to have his Super Best Friend membership revoked.

He unbuttoned his blood and vomit encrusted shirt and gingerly peeled it off. That was one problem solved; he no longer smelled like closing time at the local bar. Then he stood up and walked over to Cartman with the sole intention of solving problem number two. He had a choice of kicking him in the balls or pinching his nose to force his breathing pattern to change. Normally the first option would have won out; a complete no-brainer. Today? He didn't feel like being any crueller than he already had.

Cartman snorted and writhed in an apparent attempt to gulp air into his lungs.

"Stop trying to murder Cartman," Stan said languidly. Kyle felt his muscles tense, as though awaiting a fight. Or, to be more accurate, another fight.

"I'm just trying to stop him from snoring," he replied. Stan scoffed.

"Oh, and shoving your fingers up his nose will—"

Cartman shifted in his seat and stopped snoring. Kyle looked at a surly Stan, satisfied. He grabbed the metal ladder welded to the bunk beds and climbed up to the top in two steps. In a mess of long limbs, he managed to sit on the bed with his legs dangling over the side and his hair touching the ceiling.

"You always have to be right about fucking everything, don't you?" Stan sneered.

"It's a gift," Kyle shot back, grabbing the bed rail as Stan kicked the bottom of the bed and made it shake.

Stan broke the resulting interminable silence with a resigned, "How did you do it?"

"How did I do what?" Kyle asked, fairly sure he knew what Stan meant but wanting to prolong the conversation; it passed the time, of a fashion.

"Was it flowers? Jewellery? Chocolates? Did you read her poetry? Oh, you probably wrote your own..."

"Stan, if you think any of that would sway her, you have a really low opinion of her," Kyle said, far more calmly than he felt. A click of a tongue in irritation was all Kyle needed to hear to know he had truly infuriated Stan.

"All that time together — AP classes, rehearsals; you had plenty of opportunities to worm your way into her—"

"Hey; I didn't do anything!" Kyle protested angrily; he felt the blood pump thick and hot through his veins.

Stan sighed. "That's exactly my point."

"What?"

"Don't act like you don't get it. You're supposed to be smart. Smartest guy in class, right? Or is that the school by now?" He laughed bitterly. "Still, I guess you don't have to worry about following me to college anymore. You two can head off into the sunset and get fucking married after graduation; that way you might get a room together at college, huh?"

"Stan, there's no sunset and no heading off towards it, okay?" Kyle said quietly.

He heard Stan chuckle. "So, even after all of this, she doesn't actually want you."

Kyle said nothing; it was the safest response. As much as Stan's little digs stung, Kyle knew he had the pneumatic drill that could plough open his ribcage. Truth hurts, and all that.

"I figured I'd apply to UDub," Stan said firmly. "I think you should go elsewhere."

Kyle thought back to the kitchen table at home, the letter lying there that had his mom in tears for a whole evening.

Maybe Stan had a point.

~

"Dude! Weak!" Stan practically pouted at Kyle. "I thought we were going to spend the summer hanging out!"

"So did I," Kyle replied miserably. "Believe me, I don't want to spend three months with my stupid cousin." He shoved his backpack to one side with the edge of his foot, just as his mother walked past with two suitcases and Ike shuffling his feet behind. He saw her pop open the trunk of their car.

Cartman sighed wearily. "God damn it, Kyle. We're practically sophomores now. You don't have to take this crap from your fat bitch of a mom..."

"Don't call my mom a bitch, you fat fuck!" Kyle snapped hotly, drawing himself up to his full height. Not for the first time, he found himself surprised that he towered over Cartman. Seven months of being woken up by aching shins had meant something after all; the downside was that all his clothes were too small.

"Cheer the fuck up, Kyle," Kenny said languidly, taking a furtive drag from a cigarette he had no doubt bummed off one of the juniors. "You're going to New York! I'd take three months with a lame cousin for three months in the Big Apple."

"That's because your family's poor, Kenny. You'd take three months of Kyle's cousin's jizz in your mouth for three bucks."

"Shut up, Cartman!" Kyle felt genuinely furious on Kenny's behalf.

Stan suddenly appeared a little anxious. "Kyle, you're going to be in the New York area for three months. Won't you... you know?"

Kyle understood. "Apparently New York, New York is safe," he replied. He took one look at Stan's puzzled expression and added, "Yeah, I don't get it either. It's only, like, ten miles from Newark."

"Kyle!" his mother yelled. "Hurry up!"

Stan patted him on the shoulder. "Well, keep in touch, dude."

"I will," Kyle replied, returning the gesture just as his mother rushed up to him.

"Kyle, Bubbeleh, come on! We're going to miss the flight. Put your bag in the car and..." She stopped and sniffed the air before turning to Kenny.

"Are you smoking?" she demanded. Kenny froze and hastily flicked the cigarette out of his hand.

"N... No, Mrs Broflovski," he insisted timidly. "I... My parents smoke in the house. Maybe that's what you can smell?"

He smiled angelically at her; Kyle knew it wouldn't fool his mother for a second.

"Every cigarette takes five years off your life, Kenny." She shook her head and walked back to the car.

"Sorry about that," Kyle said, feeling deeply embarrassed. Kenny shrugged.

"It's nice somebody's mom cares enough to stop me," he replied nonchalantly. Kyle suddenly felt very small.

"I'd better go," he said. "See you in three months, I guess."

Stan reached forward and gave him a hug. "Yeah, yeah. Have fun, man."

Cartman folded his arms. "You'd better not expect me to hug you, you stinking Jew."

Kyle would have retorted, but Kenny quickly interposed himself between them and stuck out his hand.

"Be safe, man. New York's crawling with hot chicks," he said with a wink as Kyle gripped his hand in a firm shake, before hoisting his backpack onto his shoulder and walking towards the car. He glanced over his shoulder at Stan's disappointed face, and then threw his bag into the trunk of the car. He waved at his friends — and Cartman — and clambered into the back of the car with Ike.

"Mom," Ike whined as their mother got into the driver's seat. "Why do we have to spend the summer with Aunt Sarah?"

"Because, Bubbeleh, she's just come out of hospital and needs me to help with the family."

"Yeah," Ike said slowly, as though talking to someone mentally deficient, "but why do we have to go?" He gestured towards himself and Kyle as their mother drove out of town.

"Because, Ike, that's why. You'll love New York," his mother enthused.

Ike harrumphed. "I'd probably love heroin, it doesn't mean I should do it for three months."

Kyle stared at his little brother for a moment. "Mom, was I this much of an asshole when I was nine?"

"No, Kyle — you were worse," his mother replied sweetly. "And watch your language!"

Ike laughed. Kyle jabbed him under the ribs with a well-placed finger and his laughter turned into hysterical giggles. Ike was so amusingly ticklish.

"Knock it off!" he yelled.

"Kyle, stop teasing your brother," their mother snapped.

"It won't be so bad," Kyle offered.

"Liar."

"We've just got to make the best of it," he whispered. "They've got museums and stuff there. We can go and look at dinosaurs."

Ike seemed to cheer at this. "Really?"

"Sure."

"Kyle, I'm going to be spending a lot of time with your aunt," his mother pointed out. The disappointment on Ike's face was palpable.

"I'll take you," Kyle promised and this seemed to do the trick.

"Yay! Dinosaurs!"

"Kyle!" His mother sounded horrified. "New York is a dangerous city!"

"Mom..." Kyle couldn't bring himself to explain. How his mother had managed to forget about what he went through in South Park every fucking week was beyond him.

"Trust me, I can handle New York," Kyle reasoned as they passed a sign to the airport.

As Ike sang a loud, improvised song about dinosaurs — which utilised the words 'Minotaurs' and 'Underscores' more than Kyle had ever know before — he began to wonder if just leaving him to be a snippy little asshole would have been more peaceful.

~

"Wow, a whole three months without the Jew." Cartman stretched and grinned in satisfaction. Stan wanted to punch him in the face.

Kenny shrugged. "I guess this means we can go out and hook up with chicks? No offense, but Kyle kind of harshed our buzz." He slapped Cartman and Stan on the back.

Stan rolled his eyes. "Dude, why would I want to go and hook up?"

"Fine, fine. You hang around with your hippie girlfriend crocheting or whatever; Kenny and I will climb aboard the Poontang Express!" Cartman even made an exaggerated train horn noise.

"Great," Kenny replied with far less enthusiasm.

In some ways, Stan would kind of like to be out there, hanging at the diner or the mall in Denver hollering at hot chicks. In other ways, well — why have a hamburger when you can have steak? Wendy had to be the finest prime cut he could ever imagine and... and he really detested himself for comparing his girlfriend to meat products.

"We should totally go to Denver," Cartman announced. "The girls there are, like, smoking hot."

"Or to Middle Park. The girls there are totally slutty!" Kenny added, sniggering.

"Dude!"

"I meant it as a compliment, Stan," Kenny replied earnestly. Cartman scoffed.

"Stan, seriously, you're so pussy whipped. Wendy's got you kissing her ass and she ain't even here!"

"At least I have a girlfriend," Stan retorted, and it seemed to shut Cartman up. For thirty seconds, at least.

"Did you say that to your Jew boyfriend? No wonder he fled to New York..."

"Cartman!"

The subject of Kyle and his sexuality had cropped up a number of times in the past year; mainly as a result of Cartman's endless mocking, but even Kenny had taken Stan aside and asked, "Is he? I mean, dude, it's cool with me. I just wondered.... Well, he'd tell you, wouldn't he?"

Stan had replied with a casual, "Dude, he's not said anything to me," but he did wonder. Kyle showed absolutely no interest in the opposite sex — even Butters had more of a roving eye. He'd tried to coax it out of him by commenting appreciatively on various ladies; ladies in the street, ladies on the screen, ladies in class — both teachers and pupils. Nothing. Zip. Nada. Stan hadn't quite built up the courage to flat out ask Kyle, and was currently delicately approaching ways of commenting appreciatively on men and seeing if he blushed. So far Kyle hadn't even noticed his attempts.

"Guys, I've got it!" Cartman yelled, interrupting Stan's train of thought. "Road trip."

"Road trip? Cartman, none of us have a car!"

Cartman shrugged. "Fine, whatever — Greyhound trip, then. I dunno. Go to the sluttiest parts of Colorado and get, like, totally laid."

"What about Kyle?" Stan asked.

"Jesus Christ, will you stop mooning over your boyfriend for one second and listen? Road trip. Colorado's finest. Sluts."

"I'm in," Kenny said eagerly.

"I guess Wendy might like a trip together," Stan mused. Cartman closed his eyes and sighed in irritation.

"Stan, you're really not getting the purpose of a boys' trip around the state, are you?"

"Sure he is," Kenny replied. "We're trying to bang chicks; he's trying to bang Wendy." He put his hand on Stan's shoulder. "You whisk her away on a romantic trip amongst the stars, ply her with a little wine to get her in the mood..." He winked suggestively.

Cartman scoffed. "Just spike her drink and get her panties down while she's out. Less hassle."

Stan felt himself grow almost purple with rage. "Cartman, don't you dare even joke—"

"In fairness, the only difference between my plan and Cartman's is budget," Kenny mused.

Stan sighed. Sometimes he really hated his friends.

~

Kyle lugged his bag, Ike's bag and... well, all of the bags up to the red brick town house with its wrought iron railings. He tried to ignore the sweat trickling down his back as his mother rang the doorbell and wiped her brow. The sun was beating down almost oppressively; Ike was effectively wilting against their mother's leg.

"Mom, Ike's fainting," Kyle pointed out. "I'd pick him up, but I think the extra weight might send me sinking into the earth."

His mother glared at him. "Don't start, Kyle."

She picked Ike up with a grunt of effort. "Bubbeleh, you're getting too big for this," she mumbled into his neck.

"I'm not starting anything," Kyle replied. "We can swap if you like." He held out a bag to show he was serious. His mother rolled her eyes; Kyle always had to bite down a smirk whenever she did anything she would reprimand him for.

The door opened and Kyle had to look down rather a long way before he could see his cousin's gel-soaked hair plastered to his skull.

"Hi Aunt Sheila," he said, all lisp and spittle. Even Kyle wasn't that bad, and he had enough metalwork in his mouth to build a model airplane with.

"Oh, Kyle; haven't you grown?" His mother grabbed Kyle and planted a huge kiss on each cheek, knocking his thick angular framed glasses as she did so. Kyle watched him grimace as she did so, but he gingerly hugged her back.

"Please, come in," he said almost mechanically as Kyle's mother barged in and set Ike down.

"Where's your mother, dear?"

"She's upstairs, convalescing," Kyle replied. "The doctors have given her antibiotics and told her to rest, but she has a really scratchy cough. Do you think it might be serious? Dr Compton says it's normal but you can never trust doctors — one minute it's normal, the next your insurance premiums are hiked; it's daylight robbery, it really is."

Kyle shook his head. His cousin Kyle was all neuroses, all stereotype and apparently fifteen going on seventy-seven.

As his mother made her way upstairs, Ike clung to Kyle shyly. Kyle and Kyle eyed each other warily. They didn't exactly hate each other, but they barely got along. Kyle Broflovski saw Kyle Schwartz as an embarrassingly stereotypical Jew; Kyle Schwartz saw Kyle Broflovski as an embarrassingly stereotypical redneck. It occurred to Kyle that both of them were probably incorrect in their assumptions, but neither of them had shifted from this stance in seven years.

"So, how are you, Kyle? Was the journey okay?" his cousin asked with the kind of bright smile on his face that Kyle instantly recognised as false.

"Fine, fine. Yourself?"

"Well, obviously Mom hasn't been well, which is a strain. You worry that the doctors are taking advantage of her health insurance. Did I mention what it's done to her premiums? Oy Vey..."

Kyle groaned internally as Kyle droned on. He felt Ike tug his arm.

"Can we go home yet?" he asked plaintively.

"Umm, can I put these bags somewhere?"

Kyle watched as his cousin glanced at him and all the luggage he was carrying,

"Oh, of course. You'll be sharing with me; Ike and Aunt Sheila are in the spare room."

Kyle heard Ike grumble behind him.

After putting Ike and his mother's bags in the spare room, he followed Kyle into his room. His cousin was still in full flow.

"... and colleges are so expensive! I mean, you get what you pay for, I suppose. Not that you have to worry about that, I imagine... I mean, it doesn't automatically follow that you'll be having a shotgun wedding when you're sixteen..."

Kyle ignored the blatant insult. Whether Kyle was having a little dig at his expense or he was genuinely oblivious was of no concern to Kyle — he knew from his mother's cheerfully smug relaying of every phone call she had with his aunt that he was wiping the floor with his cousin, academically speaking. Not that Kyle let it go to his head; when your little brother is classed as a genius, it knocks your gifted status into quite the proverbial cocked hat.

What was of concern to him, however, was Kyle's bedroom. For one, he had a bunk bed, and Kyle knew he'd have to take the top one.

"The altitude affects my asthma," Kyle offered up without Kyle even having to ask. At least on the bottom bunk, Kyle could let his long, gangly limbs hang over the edge of the bed without running the risk of falling six feet to the floor.

The biggest reason for Kyle's discomfort was the posters of girls. Girls leaning against each other smoking, girls draped over cars like pliable ornaments, girls cuddling on beds pretending to kiss; even neurotic, whiney Kyle drooled over girls.

Kyle had already confused his friends with this; he had no interest in running around hooking up — or trying to. He had no interest in celebrity girls with their tits barely covered by lacy lingerie. Stan had been making gentle, but pointed, comments that appeared to be building up to the sixty-nine thousand dollar "Are you gay?" question. Kyle had been unable to tell him the truth.

He wasn't particularly attracted to anyone.

Sure, he had appreciated the girls staring down at him — or up at him in the past few months — on an aesthetic level. He recognised that Stan's girlfriend Wendy was very pretty and he understood why the boys couldn't take their eyes off Bebe whenever she ran to reach class on time; although in Kyle's opinion they seemed to miss her pretty, old-soul eyes in favour of more obvious attributes. Yes, he asked Bebe to their school dance in seventh grade and yes, she had turned Kyle down while her friends clutched their sides in mirth, but she had done so very graciously and Kyle had always remembered that. Nevertheless, Kyle had never felt that raging, desperate longing Stan spoke of experiencing when he was alone with Wendy; or the palpable excitement Butters exuded whenever he saw a Beyoncé video on MTV. Nothing.

Kenny had given him a few dirty magazines after he'd been caught thumbing through them and deftly avoiding the pages that were stuck together. They'd certain helped speed things up in the bathroom, but Kyle's fantasies were always somewhat faceless. He was fifteen now and showed no signs of changing. He was starting to wonder if he was a bit of a freak.

His cousin hovered around him, and was suddenly anxious when Ike was on the bottom bunk bed.

"Umm, that's my bed," he commented. "I can't have other people sitting on it; I get allergies."

Ike rolled his eyes and climbed off.

"You can sit on the top bunk, Ike," Kyle offered. Ike eagerly climbed up the ladder and started playing astronauts. Meanwhile, Kyle folded his arms and looked Kyle up and down with mild disdain.

"You actually go out in those schmattas?"

Kyle looked down at his baggy jeans and baggier t-shirt; chosen to hide as much of his matchstick frame as possible. "What of it?"

Kyle shook his head. "Your pants are half way up your ankles. Do I need to continue?"

Kyle couldn't really argue with that. He swore blind he had grown a foot overnight, although in reality it was probably closer to four months. Even so, he felt like Ripley in 'Aliens' when she piloted that powered exoskeleton — everything felt like an unnatural extension of his body. He was amazed he could even get up the stairs without toppling over, let alone get on the basketball team.

"Mom says I have to take you out with me," Kyle said finally, and in a tone that suggested the idea was loathsome to him. "Don't you have anything less... less hick to wear?"

"Damn; guess I'll have to leave my wife beater and flannel shirt at the bottom of my bag." Kyle slapped his thigh in mock frustration.

"Yeah, you're such a comedian," Kyle snorted. "Just try not to embarrass me too much in front of Jenny, okay?"

Kyle tried to hide the jaw-slackened look of disbelief he could feel his face contorting into. Kyle had a girlfriend? Now he really did feel like a loser.

"I wanna see dinosaurs!" Ike chimed in.

Kyle looked at Kyle, his eyebrows quirked. "Dinosaurs?"

"I promised Ike I'd take him to the Museum of Natural History," Kyle explained.

"Fine. We can go after," Kyle conceded and Kyle realised the only time he was expected to have alone would be in the bathroom.

He figured this summer could make an interesting physics experiment about time and relativity when bored out of your fucking mind.

~

"So, whaddya say? Road trip?" Stan was sitting on Wendy's bed, looking up at her with his best winsome expression as he sank slowly into the fluffy purple bedspread. Alas, Wendy didn't look all that impressed.

"With Kenny? And Cartman?" Her tone conveyed more disgust than Stan thought possible. Not that he was that surprised; he knew he'd have had more luck in persuading her if Kyle were coming along, too. Despite the fact they constantly argued — or 'debated' as they called it — she seemed to hold him in higher esteem than Kenny and Cartman combined.

Wendy frowned in thought and Stan found his attention drawn to a picture of the two of them in a purple glittery stand-up frame on her white dresser. He was the sole masculine presence in a sea of glitter body spray, jewellery and colourful barrettes.

"I thought we were going to spend some time together this summer, Stan?" she said sweetly.

"And we totally would! Just, Kenny and Cartman will be around for some of it," Stan replied, taking her hand. "It'll be sweet. We can go exploring the mountains, go to the museums in Denver—" Stan hated museums, but they made Wendy happy — "sit under the stars, skinny dip in the lakes." He raised his eyebrows in a way that he hoped came across as enigmatic and sexy.

Wendy smiled and pulled her hand away gently. "But we could do all of that together. Alone together," she clarified, sitting down next to him on the bed, her knees knocking against his. "If you want to go, that's fine," she said, running her fingers through his hair and making his skin tingle, "but do you have to go for the whole summer?"

"I... I guess not." Stan felt his mind fog utterly as Wendy's index finger lightly traced the shell of his ear.

"Well, that's something," Wendy whispered into his ear, causing shivers to run through every fibre of his being. They built to a delicious crescendo as she started to chase her whispers with delicate kisses.

"I... Um... I, uh..." Stan felt her cool little hand crawl up his thigh and tug at his belt loops.

"Kiss me, Stan," she urged. As Stan eagerly complied with her wishes, he knew he was going nowhere.

~

"God damn it!" Cartman glared at his phone. Fucking Stan and his fucking hippie slut girlfriend. She had clearly seduced him away from having any fun this summer, eschewing their manly pursuits for... for whatever boring shit chicks liked to do.

"Just us then?" Kenny remarked, one hand holding a pair of greying underpants, the other on his ratty backpack.

"Yeah; Stan's too busy being pussy whipped."

Kenny smirked. "Good luck to him, I say. But I don't think she'll put out. I'd imagine trying to get into Wendy's panties would be like trying to steal the crown jewels of Buckingham Palace," Kenny replied, his expression thoughtful.

The very idea made Cartman's heart soar. If he could get laid before Stan and Kyle — especially Kyle, but Cartman imagined that would be embarrassingly easy — it would be the best thing ever. He would dine on it for years.

He hoisted his backpack onto his shoulders. "Come on, you poor piece of trash. I'd better not have to sub you all trip like some Tom."

Kenny glowered at him, clearly pissed off that he didn't have Cartman's quick wit.

"Tom? What 1970's cop drama did you crawl out of?" he grumbled, fastening his backpack and heading out of the door.

"Aren't you going to tell your mom where you're going?" Cartman asked as they got outside.

Kenny shrugged. "I left her a note. That way she'll have something to remind her when she sobers up."

Cartman laughed. "God damn your family sucks, Kenny."

Kenny glared and punched him in the arm. Cartman hoped he wasn't going to be this whiney for the entire trip.

As they trudged along the road towards the Greyhound stop, something caught Kenny's eye. Cartman deduced this after Kenny walked into a lamp post, his gaze directed across the street. In between laughing so hard at Kenny his stomach hurt, Cartman glanced across and saw what had distracted Kenny. A hottie of a chick with cropped blonde hair, a slutty denim dress, fuck me boots and a cigarette hanging out of her mouth was sitting on the hood of a sweet looking red Cadillac and in Cartman's opinion, she was eminently fuckable. He had to admire Kenny's good taste.

-Friggingodess-

"Having fun there, boys?" she called from across the street, her cigarette now trapped between her fingers, smoke billowing from between her lips. Cartman felt deeply embarrassed and was about to lay the smackdown on that poor fuck, except Kenny grinned at the hottie and shouted back, "Not as much as you. Anyone tell you you're a road hazard in that dress?"

She grinned back — God damn Kenny was good.

"You're the first, Sugar. Where you headed?"

Kenny shrugged. "Wherever the open road takes us."

She got up from the car, stubbing that cigarette out under her heel. "Sounds fun. You boys want a ride?" She gestured towards her car.

Kenny looked at Cartman as though he couldn't quite believe what was happening. Cartman shrugged. If some crazy bitch wanted to drive them around, he was all for it. He couldn't help but think it was in part down to the natural sexiness he emanated.

"Fine, bitch, but we ain't paying your God damn gas," he said, slinging his backpack into her car. Kenny stared, aghast.

"Shut the fuck up; of course we will," he replied to the woman.

"With what, fucking food stamps?" Cartman shot back. Kenny sighed and looked the hot chick in the eyes.

"Thanks," he said, bringing her hand to his lips. God damn he was smooth. And a dick.

Kenny sat up in the front, and apparently no amount of kicking the back of his seat was going to change this anytime soon.

"So, where to, boys?" the woman asked, one hand on the steering wheel, the other holding yet another lit cigarette as they sped along the main road out of South Park.

"Denver," Cartman said firmly. "We're looking for hot chicks." He'd decided, on closer inspection, this slut was way too fucking old. She had to be, like, thirty or something, and she looked kind of haggard. Probably some kind of junkie. Besides, her breasts were practically rigid, and bad boob jobs weren't really Cartman's bag. Still, a ride was a ride.

"I think we've already found one," Kenny said with a wink. Cartman rolled his eyes.

"Please; we can do better than this bitch."

Kenny reached over and punched Cartman on the arm. Fucking hard, too, the little dick.

"I'm sorry about my... about Eric," Kenny said to the woman. "He's got an incurable condition; douche-baggery."

Cartman saw the bitch's smile in the rear-view mirror.

"That's cool," she said, taking a drag of her cigarette. "I've got an incurable condition, too."

"What's that; hotness?" Kenny offered with a smirk.

"Cancer," she replied, stepping on the gas.

~

Kyle grabbed Ike's hand as they crossed the busy street. Despite his cousin practically running ahead, Kyle didn't find it very difficult to keep up.

Suddenly, he whirled round and Kyle nearly smacked straight into him.

"Listen, Kyle," he said very seriously, adjusting his glasses. "Please don't screw this up for me. I'm this close—" he mimed a tiny gap between his thumb and forefinger — "to getting Jenny to go out with me. My friends and her friends are going to be here, so my friends are going to occupy her friends so that she's got no choice but to hang out with me. I bought her a Rolex for her birthday last week, and that ought to cinch the deal. Just go and bother someone else while I'm with her, okay?"

Kyle frowned at his cousin. "You bought her a Rolex?"

"I got a good deal down at Goldstein's Pawn Shop on 7^th," he said, as though this made everything make sense.

"Isn't trying to buy her affection kind of shallow, not to mention insulting? Shouldn't she just like you for you?"

Kyle rolled his eyes. "You know nothing about women, do you?"

"This is so fucking lame," Ike mumbled. Kyle squeezed his hand in an attempt at comforting him.

His cousin stopped in front of an old looking wrought iron gate. Through the railings Kyle could see neat, landscaped grounds and a white Georgian style building. The sign on the gate read 'Nin Pho's School for Girls'.

"They don't finish for summer until next month," Kyle explained. "Some of the girls board. Jenny's a day student, which makes life easier."

"Uh huh," Kyle replied, not caring at all.

A group of three guys, all with slicked-down hair and shirts with tank tops, joined them. Kyle greeted them enthusiastically, and then gestured towards Kyle.

"Guys, this is my cousin Kyle. The one I've been telling you about," he said meaningfully. Kyle didn't have to guess too hard what he'd been telling them.

"Kyle, Ike; this is Matt, Nathan and Aaron," he finished. Kyle felt Ike cling to his hand as the boys casually inclined their heads in greeting. They stood that way for a while, until Kyle felt he ought to break the silence.

"So, you all go to the same school, right?"

The boys smirked at each other. Nathan, who was distinguishable only by his blonde hair and expression that seemed to suggest he was permanently smelling farts, looked up at Kyle.

"Yeah, because that's the only way you meet other kids around here," he said disdainfully.

"We go to the same Synagogue," Aaron offered more helpfully, adjusting his thick framed glasses. Kyle nodded in understanding.

"Cool."

"I'm bored," Ike announced.

Kyle looked down at him. "We'll be going soon," he assured him.

"So," Nathan drawled in a nasally fashion, "you're the one from South Park, right?

"Uh huh."

"How's it been staying in New York City? I mean, are you missing your pick-up truck and your gun?"

"Nathan, shut up," Kyle hissed frantically. Kyle raised his eyebrows archly.

"Dunno, are you missing your butt plug?" he shot back. The other boys sniggered, but his cousin appeared horrified. Nathan had a murderous expression, but Kyle barely had time to react to it as Matt spoke up for the first time.

"You've really got a gun?" he asked, awestruck.

"No, dude. My friend's parents have, though. And I've been hunting with my best friend's uncle before."

Kyle glanced around to see his cousin's mortified expression. As soon as he caught his eye, Kyle waved his finger across his neck frantically.

Nathan snorted. "What, you just find cute, cuddly animals and shoot their brains out?"

"No, assmaster; you find animals that are overpopulating the ecosystem, shoot them in the chest because there's less room for error, then you use their meat in stews. My best friend's uncle knows a guy who buys the pelts."

"You nerds talking about 'Guild Wars' or something?" a blonde girl with heavy lip-gloss asked wryly. She wore a distinct blue and white uniform with a thigh-length skirt and fitted blouse; her tie was tied so only the thinnest part showed. Her hand appeared to be surgically attached to her hip, which jutted out at what was probably meant to be a rakish angle.

"Kyle? How do you spell 'skank'?" Ike asked with an innocent expression on his face. Kyle hushed him with a finger to his lips.

"No, we're talking about Kyle's cousin shooting bear cubs in the face," Nathan replied. "He was about to tell us how his family drives home in his U-Haul and he chops firewood before dinner."

The other boys sniggered; Kyle could tell it was taking his cousin a Herculean effort not to join in. Kyle rolled his eyes.

"First of all, my Dad's a lawyer. He has a Lincoln. Second of all, of course we chop firewood. It's a tiny mountain town. We have two seasons — winter and July. We have power cuts, and it can take the technicians days to get out there. How else are we supposed to keep warm, burn fucking snow?"

Kyle was dimly aware of the girls giggling. The blonde was staring at him in a way Kyle could only describe as weird. His cousin rushed over.

"Kyle, this is Jenny. Jenny, this is Kyle," he explained, gently taking Jenny's arm. Jenny shook him off and stuck her hand out towards Kyle.

"Oh, so you're Kyle's cousin," she said, looking him up and down in an appraising fashion. "You're much taller than he suggested."

"Well, it's kind of a new thing," Kyle admitted, shaking her hand. Ike tugged at his pant leg.

"I'm still bored," he pointed out crossly. Kyle glanced at Jenny.

"Excuse me," he said, turning to Ike. "Alright, pain in the ass. Want to ride on my shoulders?"

"Yay!" Ike jumped up and down, but allowed Kyle to pick him up and sling him onto his shoulders. He felt Ike's little hands grip at his head, and the sudden weight of Ike's chin pushing his hair down. He was also dimly aware of the sound of girls cooing.

"Oh, these are my friends; Peri, Jocasta and Beth," she said airily, pointing to a skinny girl with sleek brown hair, a sour-faced girl with blonde ringlets and a tall, curvy girl with cropped red hair. Kyle noticed another girl standing behind them; he could only make out a halo of curly brown hair.

"Who's your other friend?" he asked. Jenny rolled her eyes.

"Oh yeah, that's Rebecca," she added as the most cursory of afterthoughts. "She's not exactly a friend, more of a hanger-on. We needed to make the numbers even; what can you do, huh?"

Kyle saw the girl shyly step out from their shadow as she stuffed a book entitled 'Grandmaster Chess Volume II' in her bag; his stomach leapt up and collided with his heart. She was beautiful. Truly, awe-inspiringly hot. The kind of girl that inspired poetry; he could have written several on the spot just about the way she bit her lip. She caught his eye through her thin-rimmed glasses and smiled. Even the way her braces glinted in the summer sun took his breath away.

Jenny clicked her fingers, stuck out her thumb and flicked it back; the girls scurried away. Kyle felt an ache of disappointment.

"We should get going," his cousin pointed out, sounding oddly cross. Kyle couldn't understand it; he'd been nice to his dumb not-girlfriend, what more did he want?

"So, Kyle," Jenny said matching his stride. "You like the City, huh?"

"This is my first day out here, actually," he replied. "We got in a few days ago and have been doing family stuff until today."

"Oh; cool." She smiled. "We'll show you around. If we don't show it you, it isn't worth knowing about." Her laugh was tinkling and saccharine. Kyle didn't get it; on one hand she was being a total bitch, but on the other hand she was being quite friendly to him. He'd never understand girls.

He glanced over his shoulder and saw Rebecca and his cousin talking. Well, that just took the piss. Kyle specifically told him his one job today was to hang out with any girls who could take Jenny's attention away from him, and he fucking slopes off with Kyle's new fantasy woman. He glared at him, his cousin glared back.

"So, you really hunt and chop firewood? Or were you just taking the piss for the benefit of those nerds back there?" she asked.

"I've hunted a little bit, but I do chop firewood regularly," he replied. "Why, are they hobbies of yours?"

She laughed again. "They could be... So, what does a guy like you do for fun in a mountain town?"

Kyle shrugged. "I don't know. I'm on the basketball team; but I guess mostly we just get into trouble."

"What kind of trouble?"

"Chucking rocks at cars, shooting beer cans, running black-market tooth rackets, breaking into laboratories." Kyle rattled off a list of the most believable acts he had committed.

Jenny giggled again. "Wow, I don't think I've ever met a guy so... so butch before."

Kyle replayed her words in his head and detected no trace of irony. He took a moment to bask in them solely because he had never heard, nor did he ever expect to hear, the word 'butch' used to describe him ever again.

Ike tugged at his hair.

"Ouch; what is it, squirt?"

"Why does that girl have black hair on the top and blonde hair on the bottom?" he asked loudly. Jenny looked somewhat uncomfortable at this query.

"I dye my hair, sweetie. My roots are showing a bit. No biggie," she said quietly, which suggested to Kyle it was an enormous 'biggie'.

"Mom says that only prostitutes and girls who go on 'Jerry Springer' have their roots showing," Ike announced proudly.

"Mom says that little fifth graders should shut the fuck up about girls' hair," Kyle said cheerily.

"No, she doesn't!" Ike retorted sulkily.

"So; you had a growth spurt, huh?" Jenny was looking up at him quizzically.

Kyle didn't know what to say to this. Fortunately, Jenny clarified her position. "You mentioned being tall was kind of a new thing. Plus..." She bit her lip as though to suppress a giggle as she stared at his pant legs.

"Yeah, yeah — laugh it up," Kyle replied. "I've been meaning to go and get new clothes."

Kyle felt warm fingers trace a pattern on his forearm. "Well, you know what they say about clothes making the—"

Suddenly, footsteps raced behind him. His cousin swiftly placed himself between Kyle and Jenny.

"So, you two seem to be getting on well." He shot Kyle an angry glare.

"You know what we should do? We should totally take Kyle to Macys!" Jenny announced boldly. "We can get him a new wardrobe!"

"There's really no need," Kyle protested loudly.

"Yeah!" Ike agreed. Kyle couldn't be certain which one of them appeared more horrified at this prospect.

~

"Stanley! Wendy's at the door!" His mom's voice had a sort of sing-song quality to it which actually kind of grated at this time of a morning.

As Stan was halfway through brushing his teeth, he quickly spat out and yelled, "Coming!" and hastily carried on brushing while he wiggled into his jeans.

"Stanley, hurry up!" his mom called again.

"Alright, alright!" He dumped his toothbrush in the sink, sprayed himself liberally with Lynx, grabbed his t-shirt and dashed down the stairs; taking two steps at a time.

Wendy was leaning against the door frame, looking as cute as can be in a little purple sundress and matching flip-flops. She was chatting amiably to his mom, but flashed him a wide smile as soon as she caught his eye.

"Hey, babe," he said, pressing a chaste, mom-friendly kiss to her lips as he finished putting his arm through the sleeve of his t-shirt. He made a point to stretch and flex subtly in the hope that Wendy might notice his... well, it wasn't so much a six-pack as maybe a three-and-a-half-pack, but still.

Her gaze lingered around his belly-button area for a moment and roamed a little around the strip of hair there — ever since Stan got his happy trail he'd made a point of letting his jeans ride that little bit lower on his hips. She bit her lip, and the only thought left in his head was just how much he wanted to shove her up against the wall and—

"Stanley, have you got your swimming trunks, honey?" Wow. His mom was better than any cold shower. They should bring her into schools for sex ed lessons; nobody would be getting anybody pregnant ever again.

"Yes, Mom," Stan said, gritting his teeth. He knew she meant well, he knew she cared but Jesus tap-dancing Christ!

"What about your towel?"

Stan grabbed his bag from the balustrade. "Right here."

"Have you put sunscreen on?"

"Mom! I'm good!"

His mom merely looked at Wendy and smiled. "You'll look after him, won't you, dear?"

"Of course, Sharon," Wendy said, taking Stan's arm. It both thrilled and alarmed him that his mother and Wendy were on first name terms. Even Kyle still called her 'Mrs M', as though she were a matronly head of MI6.

Once they finally got out of the door, Stan grabbed Wendy around the waist and pulled her into a kiss. He pressed gentle, fluttering pecks against her lips until he felt her surrender; then he went in deep.

Wendy swiftly slapped his arm. "Stan, we're keeping Bebe and Clyde waiting."

"I'm sure they can entertain themselves," he reasoned, slipping his hand under the criss-cross straps of her dress and caressing the small of her back. She pulled away, smiling, and grabbed his hand.

"Come on!" she ordered in a faux-whine. Stan made a play of reluctance, even pouted, as he followed her to a Volkswagen Beetle that he recognised as belonging to Clyde's mom.

"Hey, Clyde. Bebe," he said as he opened the door for Wendy.

"Hey!"

Stan figured from their flushed cheeks that they had indeed been keeping themselves occupied in the front seats. He clambered into the back with Wendy and tossed his bag onto the parcel shelf.

"Can you see with that there?" he asked.

Clyde laughed. "Using the rear window's for pussies," he said, speeding off before Stan had managed to fully close the door.

"Oh, this is going to be so much fun!" Bebe squealed. Stan fought not to roll his eyes. A day at the water park would have been his idea of fun when he was nine. He glanced across at Wendy, who appeared equally excited.

"I got a new swimsuit," she said, and Bebe's expression took on an aura of almost orgasmic pleasure.

"Oh. My. God! Show me! Did you get it at Forever 21?"

Wendy nodded, apparently barely able to contain her excitement. Bebe craned her neck to stare at her.

"Is it the one with the silver trim and the sweetheart cutaway? Ooh, tell me it's not, you bitch!"

Stan was completely in love with Wendy; he figured this out last year when she was asleep on him in that commune in Reno. He'd kind of kept it to himself, but he knew it was the real deal; the kind of in love with her that meant just hanging out with her doing nothing made his heart soar. The kind of in love that meant he knew in great detail exactly how he wanted to lose his virginity to her, right down to the time, place and setting — on her sixteenth birthday, in a room at the Ritz-Carlton, where silk stockings and vanilla frosting would be heavily involved. The kind of in love that had him hazily picturing them getting married and having kids and arguing over their shattered dreams.

None of that made the conversation he was currently being forced to listen to any more bearable.

"Sup?" Clyde asked, tilting his head back with staggering nonchalance given he was about to break the sound barrier.

"Are you really looking forward to...?" He leant in close to Clyde and whispered conspiratorially. "This is going to suck, right?"

Clyde looked surprised. "No way! It'll rock!"

Stan must have looked as sceptical as he felt, for Clyde laughed and clapped him on the shoulder with a hand Stan was pretty sure should have been involved in controlling the vehicle.

"Dude, this is going to be killer. Trust me."

By the time they arrived at the water park, the queue had stretched around to the car park, and Stan had learnt possibly every nuance of Selma Blair's post-wrap party dress. Wendy's political leanings seemed to all but evaporate around Bebe.

He felt Wendy's hand rest lightly on his arm, followed by her head flopping against his.

"It's so hot," she moaned and even her voice appeared to have wilted.

"Almost there, babe," he said comfortingly. Bebe was sitting on Clyde's shoulders, her hot-pink string bikini top doing little to keep her enormous breasts secure. Clyde also had all the bags, but he didn't seem to mind. He didn't even seem to mind the group of eleven year old boys who had started loitering around them, sniggering and glancing up at Bebe as though she were a sun god.

"Hey, scram!" Stan shoved the kids away. They merely sniggered some more and tried to inexpertly chat up an uninterested Wendy. Stan wished he had Kyle's way with young boys; he seemed to know how to make them fuck off with just a different inflection in his voice. He figured it must be a big brother thing.

Once they finally got into the water park and stuffed their bags into a single locker — only one dollar between them that way — Clyde took some loose change and said, "I'm going to get drinks; what do you want?"

A few requests later, he wandered off towards the drinks stand and Stan was left alone with Wendy and Bebe.

"We should get sun loungers," Bebe piped up. "I want to work on my tan."

Wendy rolled her eyes. "Bebe, you can do that anywhere; let's go on the corkscrew ride!"

Stan couldn't help but smile as he stripped off his t-shirt; his girlfriend was way better than Clyde's.

A gaggle of ten year old girls stared at him and giggled nervously, leaving Stan to feel ridiculously proud of his physique. Wendy took his hand.

"Come on, Enrique, let's go and get a lounger for Bebe." Stan noticed she gave the girls a look of pure hatred. Was it wrong that he even loved her insane jealousy?

As Stan commandeered a lounger and plonked himself down on the edge, Bebe wiggled out of her denim booty-shorts.

"Let's go and rinse off for the pool," she instructed, unfastening Wendy's dress. Stan stared, open-mouthed, as Wendy stepped out of the sun dress to reveal a backless swimsuit with a little heart cut out of the belly button. She and Bebe skipped hand in hand to the open showers next to the pool and both ducked under the same shower head.

Stan nearly fell off the edge of the sun lounger as they started to play with each other's hair and grab each other as they whispered conspiratorially.

"Dude," he breathed, barely noticing Clyde as he pressed a plastic cup of cola into his hand.

"Told you it was worth it," he said, slapping him on the back and sitting next to him on the lounger.

Stan's eyes were on stalks as he watched the rivulets of water cascade down Wendy and Bebe's supple bodies; Wendy lithe and slender, Bebe full and curvy. Through a combination of bare flesh and their impossible swimwear, Stan could see the shape of their erect nipples, the indentation of their belly buttons — Bebe had an outie, who knew? — and that little bump at the small of the back. Their lips parted and the running water kissed them gently; Wendy pushed her wet hair out of her face and as she giggled about something with Bebe, one of her breasts appeared to brush against Bebe's.

"Dude! Did their nipples just touch?"

"Yeah. Nice. Very nice," Clyde agreed in a monotone voice that didn't match his shit-eating grin. "You wait until they start applying each other's sunscreen."

Stan felt as though he had died and gone to heaven. Then he suddenly had a sickening thought, and turned to Clyde.

"Dude! You've been staring at my girlfriend?"

Clyde shrugged. "You were staring at mine."

Stan felt himself grow red with shame. "I wasn't! I mean... I don't!"

"You saw their nipples touch."

"Well, that was a by-product of watching my girlfriend!"

"So? Seeing Wendy's side-boob was a by-product of watching my girlfriend get sunscreen massaged into her soft body."

"Side boob! What do you mean, side boob?" Stan couldn't help but feel enraged.

"What cup size do you think Bebe is?" Clyde asked casually.

"Maybe a DD, but I think the one on the left might be slightly smaller," Stan answered before he realised he had been tricked. Clyde looked at him in grim triumph.

"How about we just pretend not to notice we're drooling over both our girlfriends in a sort of package deal, okay?" Clyde suggested and Stan nodded vigorously in agreement.

A hundred or so miles west of Denver, and Cartman was bored out of his mind. They had done nothing but drive around in this admittedly sweet Cadillac while Kenny drooled over that skank Maria, who was twenty-six —God she looked rough for it — and a former nurse who had jacked it all in after getting that life sentence from God and had been travelling all over North America. Cartman was starting to think that maybe God was doing the rest of them a favour by killing her with cancer; the way she snorted when she laughed was enough to make him want to do the job himself.

"I'd love to see the Grand Canyon," Kenny said, staring out of the window.

Maria gently nudged his arm. "Do you want to go? It'll take a few days, but—"

"We're not going to fucking Utah!" Cartman yelled, slamming his fists against the leather seat. Kenny turned around and glared at him.

"It's in Arizona, actually," Maria replied sweetly. God damn she was annoying, and all Kenny could do was laugh. It's as though she wanted to get her own back for her tittie cancer or whatever it was by taking Kenny's balls.

Suddenly, she screeched to a halt and Cartman nearly went flying through the window.

"The fuck?"

"Look, boys — it's so beautiful!" Cartman peered out of the window, but all he could see were some twisted up trees, some rocks and a big pond.

Kenny looked awestruck. "Hey, do you think there might be a waterfall near those rocks?"

"Could be, up in the distance." Maria pointed somewhere and Kenny's eyes followed hungrily.

"Let's stop here," Kenny suggested.

Maria smiled. "I've got some tacos in the trunk. They'll be cold, but I like them best that way."

Finally this woman was starting to talk some sense.

As Cartman lay sprawled out on the grass — sweet, sweet tacos lining his stomach — he could maybe see what those two pussies were taking about. It was quiet and green; the tinkling water was oddly tuneful as it dribbled through the towering rocks near the stream, which flowed into the lake.

Maria hissed behind him and Kenny seemed to practically leap to her aid.

"Are you alright?"

"Fine, just a bit..." She gripped the blanket she and Kenny were huddled together on. His hands flew to her sides.

"Can I do anything?"

Maria laughed. "You can drive the car for a bit."

"Hey, no fair — I wanna drive!" Cartman demanded. It was only fair — he hadn't had his permit yet; he needed the practise.

"Sure; whatever you need," Kenny said as Maria pulled out some weird tobacco stuff in a zip-lock bag from her handbag. She rolled a cigarette paper between her fingers.

"Doesn't bother you, does it?" She asked. "I know Colorado isn't into the whole medicinal thing anymore, but it helps me."

"Go ahead," Kenny replied casually, as Maria rolled up a joint and lit it.

"I've been smoking normal roll ups in the car, by the way — I don't toke and drive," she insisted.

"It's cool, Maria."

"Why the hell do you smoke anyway, bitch? You have cancer," Cartman interjected.

Maria smirked. "What's it going to do, Eric? Kill me?" She took a deep drag and offered the joint to Kenny. He shook his head.

"I'll try some," Cartman said before he even realised the words were out of his mouth. He was amazed when Maria actually handed him the joint and figured he couldn't back out now and look as much of a pussy as Kenny.

One puff later and he felt sick and heady, but whatever.

A comfortable silence filled the air while Cartman felt his head become liberally stuffed with cotton wool.

"My folks. They do that shit a lot." Kenny's voice was a whisper. "I'm not judging. I... I just don't want to end up like that, I guess."

"You won't." Maria's voice seemed firm, yet oddly far away.

"How do you know?"

"I just do."

Cartman looked up just in time to see Maria lie down on the blanket and rest her head against Kenny's lap.

"Have we got any food left?" she asked.

"Yeah; loads." Kenny was stroking her hair like some gay-wad. "You want some? I can get you some."

"I want to give it to the next homeless person we see," she said firmly and Cartman barely suppressed a groan. Why did he always end up stuck with a bunch of God damn hippies?

Kenny smiled. "Sure. We can do that. Maybe divide it up a bit; there are loads of homeless people in Denver."

"What do you care? You're fucking dying," Cartman pointed out. Slowly, he felt a blossoming pain in his shoulder. It took him a while of staring at the worn grips and rotting rubber of Kenny's soles to realise he had kicked him. Poor piece of trash.

"Exactly." Maria appeared to be looking at him, but neither of them were the right way up and Cartman couldn't muster up the energy to interpret his surroundings. "I don't want to spend my last months in fear and misery. I want to make me happy, and I want to make other people happy; my little gift to the world. People are seldom remembered, but their acts are."

"That's awesome," Kenny said dreamily.

Cartman smirked. "Maybe you should suck my friend off; that'd make him pretty fucking happy."

"Shut up, Eric!" Kenny's face had gone a hilarious shade of red. Maria merely shrugged and smiled at him.

"So, Denver?" she enquired, sidestepping Cartman's insightful suggestion altogether.

"Denver," Kenny affirmed, and they performed a little puke-inducing fist-bump.

Maria curled up a little against Kenny. "In a bit, yeah?" she asked sleepily, pulling his arm around her.

"Yeah." Kenny was back to stroking her hair with his free hand, as though it was the most amazing thing in the world. God damn poor people sucked.

"What about this one?" Jenny was shoving garment after garment under Kyle's nose, and he couldn't bring himself to have an opinion on any of them.

"Sure, whatever," was the best he could muster up from his slouched position on the leather-esque sofa in the changing rooms of some European shop with too-loud music. Jenny had taken them into Macys, picked up a few items, shaken her head and dragged them out to a series of shops he'd never heard of.

Jenny bent over and wagged her finger at him. "Come on, you must care on some level," she insisted. "What about if I brought you a nice evening gown, huh? Would you be all, 'sure, whatever,' then?"

Kyle shrugged. "So long as there's no taffeta. It does nothing for my complexion." He smiled a little as he said this; a smile which rapidly vanished as Jenny perched herself on his knee and draped one arm around his neck.

"So, here's what I was thinking. Slim fit jeans, a v-neck tee that's actually your size—"

"What's wrong with baggy?"

Jenny rolled her eyes. "What's wrong is that you have a really nice shape and you ought to show it off."

Kyle couldn't help but burst out laughing at this. "Jenny, I look like a ladle. It's very sweet of you to try and ignore it, though."

"Bull. Shit," Jenny said in such an insistent tone, Kyle thought she might swing an interrogation lamp on him until he agreed.

"Slim jeans, v-neck tee in your size—" she jabbed him in the chest at both 'your' and 'size', presumably to emphasise her point— "and I'm thinking a jacket." She frowned and rested her hand across her chin in thought. "Yeah, a tailored jacket in navy or teal... oh, and definitely some Converse. Very hipster."

Before Kyle could protest, she was up and dashing around the menswear department. Ike was lying on the floor, looking ready to chew on the upholstery out of sheer boredom.

"It's nearly over, Ike. It has to be."

Ike glared at their cousin's back. "Doesn't she have her own Barbie doll to play with at home? Why does she have to use my brother?" he grumbled.

Kyle didn't turn around, "I don't know. Why don't you ask him?" he spat.

"Dude, what's your problem? You're not the one being made over until they surrender."

His cousin turned and glared at him; Kyle found himself backpedalling. "I mean, it's very thoughtful, I guess, but half the stuff she's brought out would get me beaten up back home."

Kyle's expression suggested that not only wouldn't he mind, but he'd buy popcorn and watch.

"And Converse? Have you guys ever even seen snow?" Kyle continued unabated.

"There's... there's a... an outdoor sh... shop on f... fifth," a timid voice suggested. Kyle looked up and saw her looking back at him with huge almond-shaped eyes behind thin-rimmed glasses. He took a deep breath; she even smelled good, all fruity shower gel and mints. If she had wanted to perch on his knee, he'd have been overjoyed.

"Cool, thanks. Rebecca Cotswolds, right?" he asked as casually as he could manage. She blushed crimson and for some reason that Kyle didn't understand, this pleased him immensely.

"Yes," she replied. "How... how d... did y... you know?"

Kyle grinned. "Wow, fancy meeting you here, of all places."

"You know her?" His cousin appeared to have come out of his funk long enough to be curious about this.

"Sure. She was my first love. Ripped out my heart and fed it through a meat grinder. I was eight," he clarified.

To his horror, Rebecca looked deeply upset. "I... I d.... didn't realise... I'm s... sorry, Kyle."

Without thinking, he grabbed her hand. "Hey, I healed. I mean, I think my left ventricle's still a bit mushy, but what can you do?"

She giggled at this and started to fiddle with her skirt, which Kyle noticed was longer than Jenny's.

"How come your skirt's longer than Jenny's? Do you have different uniforms, or something?"

"N... No," she stammered. "Jen... Jenny tucks the skirt into her w... waistband to make it look sh... shorter."

"Oh. Why?"

Rebecca shrugged. "I d... don't know."

He was about to keep the conversation going with questions such as 'When did you move to New York?' and 'Are you free this evening?' except that Jenny returned. Rebecca practically fled, and Kyle felt a bubble of disappointment well up in his throat.

"Whaddya think? Navy or teal?" She put each jacket against him and stared thoughtfully as though putting the final touches to an art project.

"Get both," she declared eventually, perching herself in his lap again. "God, I'm good," she mused, and Kyle could have sworn she wiggled deeper against his crotch; her stocking covered thighs nudged at his stomach.

Suddenly, she reached forward and stroked his hair. "You should quit going to the barbers," she announced. "They have no clue what to do with your hair."

"Burn it?" Kyle suggested. Fifteen years on this planet, and he still had no clue how he was supposed to make it look even halfway presentable. He'd even tried shaving it all off a while back, but he looked like a knobbly sex toy — Cartman would have had years of mileage out of it, except that Kyle agreed with his assessment and thus spoilt all of his fun.

"I'd kill for your hair," Jenny said, pulling gently at a coil of his red hair. Kyle carefully wrapped his fingers around her wrist and moved her hand away from his head.

"Yeah, because you're a girl." Deep down, he knew this all meant he would find himself dragged to a hair salon. He'd simply accepted it, like those kidnap victims who survive for years because something in them breaks and the just keep obeying their captors to survive even if they could easily escape.

Which is why, three hours and four shopping bags later, Kyle found himself in pants that felt too tight while touching his weird, slightly greasy feeling hair, wondering what had happened to him.

"It looks good," Jenny insisted, and Kyle figured it was just safer to agree.

"It really does." Rebecca turned away, her cheeks flushed a rather attractive shade of pink. Suddenly, Kyle felt that all of the time he'd spent sat in a chair at the mercy of a camp man wielding scissors and a gay hairstyle was worth it.

"Thanks," he said, as Jenny looked him up and down before grabbing his arm.

"Very nice, if I do say so myself," she commented, admiring her handiwork.

"Thanks for going to all this trouble," Kyle said, feeling that he probably ought to.

Suddenly, Kyle felt someone kick him sharply in the ankle. He whirled around to see his cousin glaring at him.

"Dude, what?" Kyle snapped irritably. He felt Ike tug at the hem of his t-shirt; Jenny slapped his hand away.

"Don't ruin the effect, kid," she ordered. Kyle felt a surge of indignation.

"Hey, leave him alone; he's nine!" He turned his back on Jenny and bent down so he was face to face with his brother. "What is it, squirt?"

"I think Kyle wants to talk to Jenny," he said, his expression both knowing and derisive.

Kyle looked over at his cousin and suddenly got why he was so peeved. Jenny had spent so much time dolling him up, he hadn't had chance to hang out with her. Still, Kyle figured that if the girl was willing to go to that much trouble for one of Kyle's family members then maybe she really did like him, Rolex or no.

"Oh, sorry, dude. I'll make myself scarce." He gently detached himself from Jenny's iron grip, winked at his fuming cousin — was he ever fucking happy? — and deliberately hung back from Kyle's pissy-looking friends. To his surprise, Nathan came up to him and shook his hand.

"God damn. You're amazing, Broflovski," he said between fits of laughter. "I've never seen Kyle so pissed. You have to teach me your ways!"

"Wait, what?" Kyle asked, but Nathan was gone and there was someone far more distracting nearby anyway.

Rebecca walked a few steps behind her giggling friends, the sunlight catching her chestnut hair and threading golden hues through her curls. She paused to take off her blazer; the steam pouring from the vents in the street merely added to the already aggressive heat. Sweat trickled down her throat and under her open collar towards her hidden breasts; Kyle surprised himself with his sudden urge to lick it up.

He sidled up to her. "Want me to carry that?" he asked, gesturing towards her bag and blazer.

"Umm... I... I... Are you s... sure?" Her teeth pressed against her plump lips; Kyle's cock pressed against his zipper. He silently took the bag and slung it over his shoulder, then draped the blazer across his arm, using it as a handy shield across his crotch.

"Th... Thanks." Rebecca started fanning herself with her hand. "I d... don't th... think I've ever b... been s... so hot!"

"Me neither." Kyle imagined if she were any hotter, he wouldn't be able to breathe.

A tiny hand felt for his fingers; Ike was by his side, looking mournful.

"Are we going to see dinosaurs yet?" he asked.

"Hey, Kyle!" he shouted. "Museum of Natural History?"

His cousin's shoulders sagged. "Not now, Kyle."

Ike appeared positively betrayed. Kyle glanced at his cousin again.

"Look, dude. I promised him," he pleaded.

Kyle's hand was pressed against the small of Jenny's back. "Not. Now," he said through gritted teeth.

"Well, how about I go and meet you guys later? Our moms need never know."

Jenny looked as though she was going to protest this, but Kyle appeared delighted.

"Sure! Great idea!"

"We could all go," Jenny suggested.

Aaron snorted. "You said museums are for nerds and losers — ow!"

Aaron started rubbing his shin as Jenny scowled at him.

"Come on, let's go," Nathan said. "Later, Broflovski."

"Later," Kyle replied, watching as Nathan, Aaron and Matt quickly paired off with Jenny's friends, leaving Rebecca alone.

"W... Well, b... bye, Kyle," she said with a sad smile. Kyle grabbed her arm almost reflexively as she turned to leave.

"Hey, why don't you come with us?"

"Wow. Th... Thanks, but I have t... to get back to the d... dorm..."

"I'll walk you home," Kyle replied, and was rewarded with a shy smile.

"Well... I guess... Okay."

Ike groaned; Kyle slapped him across the head.

They walked to the subway in relative silence until Rebecca stammered, "Did... Did you know the T... Tyrannosaurus Rex p... probably w... wasn't a p... predator?"

"Was too," Ike insisted as they waited for a train.

"Evidence... Evidence suggests it was... was p... primarily a sc... scavenger."

"Nuh uh!" Ike retorted. "It ate everything else and had no predators; right, Kyle?"

"It's definitely a theory that they were apex predators," Kyle clarified, fascinated by the sheer fact that this argument was happening on a crowded subway platform. "But they've got tiny arms and large olfactory receptors, so I guess they could be scavengers."

"There... there was a... a specimen of T... Tyrannosaurus Rex with no... no w... wear to its t... teeth," Rebecca added. "So th... that c... could suggest they sc... scavenged. But... but they're from a... a suborder which rapidly re... replaces its own teeth."

"Cool." Ike suddenly seemed to warm to Rebecca.

"So, do you study palaeontology, Rebecca?" Kyle asked.

"As... as a hobby." She looked at the floor. "It's... it's kind of... of geeky."

"It's kind of cool," Kyle replied, because he adored geekiness when directed at the appropriate subjects.

"It's fricking awesome" Ike exclaimed. "Do you have fossils? I've got seven," he announced proudly.

"Wh... what era?" Rebecca enquired. "Mine are mostly la... late Cr... Cretaceous."

"I've got four Cretaceous and three Jurassic — my favourite is the ammonite Kyle found when we were on vacation in British Columbia. You can see the whole shell."

They soon reached the imposing faux-Roman entrance to the American Museum of Natural History.

"Wow; it's huge!" Ike exclaimed happily.

Kyle grinned. "When was Kyle expecting to meet up with us again?"

"Who fucking cares." Ike's expression was deadly serious as he dashed up the stairs and past the Roosevelt statue. Kyle had to rush after him; he could see unimpressed security guards eyeing him as though he were a walking anti-culture bomb.

"Two students and one child, please," Kyle said at the desk when they finally got through the bag searches — and Kyle had a lot of bags — and had left their belongings in the coat check. The clerk sullenly handed over their tickets as Rebecca reached for her purse.

"It's on me," Kyle said and Rebecca stared at him wildly for a moment.

"Umm... Is this... Are you... Is this a date?" she managed eventually.

It was now or never. Kyle raised an eyebrow and smiled at her. "If you want it to be," he challenged.

Rebecca continued to gape at him; the passing seconds felt ceaseless. When Rebecca finally smiled and said, "Okay," the rush of relief Kyle felt was intense.

Despite its enormous size and Ike's obsession with Microraptors — in Kyle's opinion the lamest of all the dinosaurs — Kyle barely noticed the time go by. He was genuinely interested in the history of the earth, and the forensic minutia of the human body whittled down to its component DNA, but when Rebecca laced her fingers with his during an intense discussion on convergent evolution in the Wallace wing, she was all he could think about.

"D... Do you... We c... could go to the p... planetarium. It's in the... the Rose C... Centre."

"Planetarium? Really?" Kyle was always a little wary of planetariums; he hadn't been near one since he was eight.

"It'll be f... fun," Rebecca insisted, then hesitated as though it were a crime. "I think Wh... Whoopi Goldberg is narrating." She smiled and squeezed his hand.

"Ike, do you want to go to the planetarium?" Kyle called, his anxiety suddenly less important than the feel of Rebecca's hand in his.

After ten minutes of wandering around the Rose centre, then checking the map and realising they had to be on the first floor to get in, they finally managed to get into a showing of 'Journey to the Stars'. Kyle put himself between Ike and Rebecca, so he could keep an eye on Ike and also let his gaze linger over Rebecca as she lay back in the sixty degree tilted seats. Her school uniform kind of hid her figure, but not enough that he couldn't make a reasonably accurate estimate. She definitely had generous breasts and hips, and he had a feeling from the way her white shirt creased around her middle that she had a surprisingly tiny waist. He wanted to touch her to be sure; he'd assumed before this moment she was fairly voluptuous everywhere.

She glanced up at him and he instantly felt ashamed.

"Are... are y... you okay?" she asked nervously.

"Yeah, I'm great," he replied with a smile he hoped wasn't too lecherous. She looked down at his hand, just as the lights darkened and the show began to play.

"The stars, the planets. We take them for granted as an unchanging part of the universe; but he universe is constantly changing, expanding, with every passing second..."

"May I... I'd l... like to h... hold your hand," Rebecca whispered.

"You don't have to ask," he said, taking her hand in his. She smiled at him through the dim light of the show.

"You d... don't h... have to a... ask e... either," she whispered. "If you... if you want to..." She looked away, apparently unable to finish her sentence.

Kyle was pretty damn sure at least seventy percent of the things he wanted to do with Rebecca required him to ask first, not only out of politeness but in order to avoid a law suit.

Ike was gazing up at the swelling pin pricks of light with eager interest as Whoopi Goldberg's soothing voice filled the air; Kyle was basking in the warm glow he felt from holding hands with Rebecca. How could something so simple feel so amazing?

He wasn't sure how long the show had gone on for, but around the time that Whoopie Goldberg began to explain how stars were formed, he felt Rebecca kiss him gently on the cheek. Unable to do anything but turn towards her, he soon saw the flush of her cheeks and her almost terrified expression. He didn't exactly know what the protocol was for these situations — did he thank her? Return it; place a delicate kiss to her cheeks too?

He ended up doing none of those things, and instead cupped her chin as carefully as he could in his clumsy, too big, hands.

"K... Kyle?" she whispered, just as he swiftly pressed a kiss to her lips. He went in too hard, and bumped the metalwork on her teeth against his; they both winced from the contact.

"Sorry," he whispered back, feeling like a complete idiot.

"It's o... okay." Rebecca had her hand clamped over her face, but he could see in her eyes she might have been smiling. That was enough to make him be really stupid and try again. This time, he cupped her face carefully and gently moved towards her, as though he was trying to pull a Jenga block out without sending the whole tower tumbling. Eventually, his lips pressed ever so delicately against hers.

"Gravitational centres in the nebulae pull atoms towards each other, drawn in by an irresistible force..."

-Friggingodess-

Their faces were close, much too close for Kyle to focus properly on Rebecca's expression, but he felt her smile against him. Taking this as encouragement, he kissed her again and felt her lips slide against his, hot and tempting. Her lips parted a little and he matched her movement; licks of tingling fire leaping deep in his belly.

"The combination of attraction and intense heat causes the particles to fuse; thus, a star is born..."

Rebecca's hand settled on his shoulder, her head leaning to the side as though to accommodate him. Kyle tried to push the arm of the chair out of the way, but it wouldn't budge. Stupid thing. He did his best to negotiate the obstacle and leant over it, his hands hovering awkwardly at Rebecca's side as the rhythm of their kissing gave way to a sudden, surprising, slip of her tongue against his. Barely able to control himself, Kyle's hand caressed her back as her tongue ran across the bud of wax stuck around the sharp wire of his braces and knocked it away. Kyle was too far gone to care; he just wanted more of this, of her. It took every shred of self-control he had not to let his hands roam over areas he knew he shouldn't be allowed access to on a first date. He let his tongue explore her; it slid between the wetness of her lips and the brackets they pressed against.

"As a star dies, it burns itself up. If it burns too hard and too fast, it can cause the star to collapse on itself..."

Their rhythm broke and as Kyle broke from her briefly to take a breath, he heard a little moan of pleasure escape from her lips. Literally everything tightened inside him. Ignoring the awkward position of the arm rest, he pulled Rebecca closer to him and kissed her again. She tilted her head back as though in surrender and he tentatively pressed kisses along her neck; relishing the salty taste of her skin, the thudding of her pulse against his lips. Her fingers grasped his hair inexpertly but desperately, and Kyle was pretty sure any sliver of self-control he had was well and truly gone.

"Urgh! Gross!" Ike's voice, full of disgust, sounded very far away.

"On the brink of collapse, all that heat and pressure builds and builds and the particles are crushed closer and closer together. Soon, the star blows apart in an intense explosion, generating one hundred quintillions more energy than our Sun releases every second..."

"Kyle," she gasped, as he bit down tenderly on the delicate skin where her neck and shoulder met. A weird, twisted part of him wanted to taste her blood, hear her cry out. He refrained, but almost subconsciously slid a hand over her right breast.

He stopped dead. "Sorry!" he gasped out. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to—"

Rebecca grabbed his hand and placed it back over her breast. "D... Don't st... stop," she moaned.

"Fuck!" he hissed, kissing her so hard he felt the force knock the back of her head against the padded chair. By the time he felt Rebecca's warm hand start to slip falteringly down the back of his pants, he was so lost in her he didn't notice the flashlight beaming down at them.

He couldn't ignore the rough hand that grabbed his shoulder and yanked him away from his prize.

"Oi! This ain't a drive-in theatre, kids," the usher said, glaring at them both. Kyle felt his whole face burn with embarrassment.

"Sorry," he whispered. "It won't happen again."

The usher flicked his flashlight from him to Rebecca and back again. "Any more funny business, and you're both out. Got it?"

"Got it. Sorry," Kyle offered again, slinking sheepishly down in his seat.

Ike stared at him in horror. "Christ, you are so embarrassing sometimes," he hissed.

Kyle shrugged, but as he caught Rebecca's shy, yet mischievous, expression he couldn't help but grin to himself.

~

As Stan showered away a day's worth of chlorine, he couldn't help but let his mind wander over the erotic fantasy that Wendy had conjured up for him at the water park and that he'd had to bury away for most of the day. On the way home as they sat in the back seat, she kept giggling and gently slapping his hand as he tried to touch her in the ways he'd been dying to ever since she'd let him wrap a big beach towel around her, so that it and his body heat could warm away the goose pimples on her sun-touched skin. He had behaved himself; he'd even gone around to Wendy's home and had dinner with her and her parents — which was never entirely comfortable because Stan was pretty certain Wendy's father hated him as much as her mother loved him — and kissed her goodnight in a way that made Mr Testaburger cough and look at his watch, but nothing worse.

Still, this was his time now, and he wasn't about to let today's exciting new thoughts leave him in a hurry.

He imagined Wendy and Bebe in their swimwear under the shower, shampooing each other's hair as they had done before leaving the water park, the soapy suds running down their wet, sun-touched bodies.

"Ooh, that feels so good," Wendy moaned.

"Oh yeah, so good," Bebe moaned back. "It's making me so horny..."

"Let's kiss with tongues!" Wendy exclaimed.

"Great idea!" Bebe replied with equal enthusiasm, and proceeded to lazily kiss Wendy's plump, reddening lips with her own. The moaned and gasped as their tongues slid against each other; Wendy gave a little surprised moan of pleasure as Bebe circled her left nipple with her thumb. Stan watched it grow harder with every touch as he gripped his dick and slowly pumped it.

"Ooh, I just wish we had a big, manly man to make love to us right now," Wendy sighed.

"Yeah," Bebe breathed. "This is good, but we can't possibly come by ourselves..."

"I need cock so bad." Wendy practically dry-humped Bebe as she moaned this, her back arching as though already in the act.

They both looked straight at him, wrapped in each other's arms. Their dilated pupils took in every detail of him, and lingered over his cock. Wendy licked her lips.

"Oh, Stan," she moaned, flicking her wet hair back. "Make love to us!"

"Make love to both of us," Bebe added with a shuddering sigh, untying her bikini top just as Wendy pulled her swimsuit down to expose her perfectly pert breasts. He started speeding up his actions.

Suddenly, Clyde appeared in the corner of the room, smiling.

"I'm just going to get us some pizza," he said. "Make sure you come all over Bebe's tits, dude."

"Oh yes," Bebe agreed enthusiastically. "I love hot jizz splashing all over my big, bouncing titties!"

"Oh, come on my tits, too, Stan; please!" Wendy begged. "I'll touch myself while you do it; I know you like that, you naughty, sexy...."

"Stanley, what on Earth are you doing? You've been in there ages!" his mother yelled, slamming the door with her fist and pulling Stan out of his fantasy as a very inopportune time.

"Umm, I'm coming, Mom," Stan shouted back, which was actually far more truthful a response than he thought his mother wanted.

"Well, Kyle's on the phone for you," she said. "Do you want him to call you back?"

"Just... just give me a minute, okay?" Stan grunted; his penis was so hard he thought he might be able to operate the damn phone without using his hands.

"Okay, I'll tell him. Shall I transfer the call upstairs?"

"Yeah; whatever, Mom!"

Finally he heard her footsteps echo along the hallway. A man on a mission, it took Stan an embarrassingly short amount to time to finish the job; he'd got as far as imagining Wendy on all fours pulling her swimsuit down to expose her firm little ass cheeks and moaning, "Oh, Stan; I need it so bad!" before he erupted with the force of a minor volcano and covered the tiles — and in a shameful realisation, probably covered fantasy Wendy's hair — with his semen.

He hastily pulled the shower head down and rinsed off the tiles before jumping out and drying himself haphazardly. Wrapping his towel around his waist, he padded over to his bedroom and took the call.

"Dude, what the fuck!" Stan hissed down the phone, his own slight shame tainting his voice.

"What? I'm just calling you." Kyle didn't sound particularly annoyed with him. "How are things with Wendy?"

"Fine until you phoned." Stan sighed heavily as he looked out of his window. Perhaps Wendy was looking out of her window and thinking about him, too? Maybe she was thinking about him in the shower, flicking herself into a frenzy over his flexing muscles and burning kisses... Stan suddenly felt terribly guilty, but also horny; neither of which were great states of mind to be in when your best friend is trying to hold a conversation with you.

"Whoa, dude! What did I interrupt?" Stan could picture the smile he knew was plastered on Kyle's face just from the tone of his voice.

"No! Nothing like that!"

"I was going to say! It's, like, one o'clock in the morning." Kyle didn't sound remotely sleepy.

"Not here it isn't."

There was a brief silence.

"Shit, I forgot. Sorry dude."

"Tard. Anyway, what's up?"

Stan could hear Kyle sigh heavily down the phone. "I'm in love."

"What?" Stan would have been less surprised if Kyle had told him he'd gunned down a school.

"Her name's Rebecca. You remember Rebecca Cotswolds, right?"

"No."

"Seriously? Rebecca? Home-schooled kid? Her brother was in third grade with us for a little while? She let me play doctors with her, then let me kiss her, then took my heart and ground it into dust?"

"No; when did you kiss anyone other than Bebe?"

"What?"

"Bebe. You kissed her in third grade."

"I don't remember that."

"Yeah, we built a clubhouse, she dared you to kiss her and you ran away like a pussy afterwards."

"Really?" Kyle sounded deeply sceptical.

"Yes, really. She moped over you for days. She waxed lyrical about your ass for... You really don't remember?"

"No, I really don't remember," Kyle snapped. "Anyway, I don't want to talk about Bebe. I want to talk about my siren."

"Your... siren?"

He heard Kyle sigh deeply again, followed by a squeak and rustle of fabric which suggested he had flopped onto his bed. "Rebecca. Oh, Rebecca. How she tortures me, Stan. I am in turmoil. I fear I must lash myself to the helm of my rationality, lest I steer my ship into the exquisite rocks of my desire and dash myself against them thoroughly, lured by her pulchritudinous charms into sweet oblivion!"

"Kyle, I only understood about a fifth of what you just said." Stan was starting to think that he preferred Kyle when he hadn't discovered girls.

"My mind is fogged with lust and my dick is in a constant state of readiness," Kyle clarified. "It hasn't stopped straining against my jeans since we made out in the Hayden Planetarium earlier. It's just there, mocking my useless desire."

"For Christ's sake, dude, just jack off like a normal person," Stan replied.

"I can't, it's Shavuot."

"So?"

"So, I kind of made a deal with God," Kyle explained. "The Torah says I shouldn't masturbate, like, ever. Which is insane. So, on the morning of my Bar Mitzvah I promised I'd restrict it to outside of our religious festivals. And I don't break my promises." He sighed heavily again. "Oh, Rebecca; you sly temptress! Your sensuous poison unravels in my very heart..."

"Dude, why the hell are you talking like a gay-wad?" Stan practically heard Kyle shrug in response.

"I'm feeling very Byron-esque," he admitted. "All brooding and self-absorbed in my desires... Fuck, how do you cope with this? You've been dating Wendy for, what, two years now?"

"Almost three," Stan corrected.

"Right; you must feel like this all the time. I've been coping with it for seven hours and I want to die!"

"Kay. I'm still not sure I get it."

There was a pause as Stan heard Kyle shift his position on the bed. "I want to be inside her, Stan," he said solemnly. "What's there to get?" He shifted again. "Damn it! What is wrong with you? You are surplus to requirements tonight, get the message and chill the fuck out!"

"Who, me?"

"Sorry, I was talking to my dick," Kyle replied as though this was perfectly normal. "Wait — chill. That's it!"

Stan heard another squeak of a mattress and a dull metallic thumping sound.

"Dude, what are you doing?"

"I'm going to the kitchen," he said. Stan heard a few doors open and close with care, then the ping of what he assumed was a refrigerator light.

"Umm, you want me to leave you alone?"

"No, dude. I need you to distract me. This is going to hurt."

"What exactly are you doing?"

"Making an ice pack for my genitals. I'm going to get soft by forcing the blood out."

"Dude, I'm not entirely sure that's going to work."

"Why not? We have cold showers, right? This is, like, an über cold show— Oh Jesus fucking Christ!"

Stan heard Kyle's frantic panting.

"You okay?"

"Fuck, that's cold!" Kyle gasped.

Stan sighed and leant back onto his bed. "Hang on in there, buddy. It gets better. How long's Shavuot?"

"One more night."

"Well, just think about how you can jack yourself off until you faint the day after tomorrow," Stan soothed. "Tug it until you think it's going to drop off. You'll feel better. Trust me."

"Thanks Stan. You're a real pal," Kyle said, without a trace of irony in his voice. Stan wondered if Kenny and Cartman were having these sorts of problems on their road trip. They were probably screwing the night away with a bunch of women too drunk to really notice.

He almost felt jealous.

Chapter Four: Summer Awakening — Girls, Girls, Girls

Cartman sipped casually at his double stuffed Oreo milkshake, eyeing the other occupants of the diner with interest. He was alone, having ditched that loser Maria and that even bigger loser Kenny.

They had spent the past couple of weeks being lame-ass goody goodys. If it wasn't handing out free tacos to homeless people — who Cartman figured should really just get a job instead of relying on handouts — it was carrying people's shopping bags home for them, or talking to random old people at the bus stop, or reuniting sad old spinsters with their cats; Kenny spent three hours up a tree coaxing some tabby off the top branch. Cartman felt sorry for the poor thing after seeing the dried up old husk she was being forced to live with.

Anyway, after calling dibs on one of their hotel rooms — he'd let those two fucking share — Cartman had left them to their gay little chit chat in the hotel bar and gone out to explore Grand Junction, and by explore he meant pick up chicks.

So here he was, scanning the diner. There were a couple of guys in tight jeans and jersey sweaters — probably gay-wads from the way their stuck out their little fingers when they drank their coffee — a group of giggly girls with teased hair and short skirts sharing a sundae — probably poor-ass college students, so worth a second look — some drippy, fat Goth chick with a coffee and a copy of 'The Call of Cthulu and Other Weird Stories' — no way was he that desperate — and a couple with a sharing platter — she had a short skirt and bare legs so she was probably a prostitute. So, nobody of major interest to Cartman; but he figured if the college girls split up, there were a couple he'd work his magic on.

Just as he was contemplating spreading a few Chinese whispers to get the girls fighting amongst themselves — divide and conquer, and all that — a girl snuck into the diner as though she felt unworthy of being there and took the most out of the way seat she could. Cartman got a look at her face; vulnerable, puffy and tear-stained.

She was perfect.

Taking his chance, he sidled over to her and sat right next to her in the booth.

"You look like you could do with cheering up," he said as kindly as he could manage. She looked up and wiped her eyes as though ashamed.

"Oh... I'm sorry," she said. "It's just." She smiled sadly. "You don't want to hear about my problems."

"Sure I do!" He made his voice go up a bit to sound both sincere and a tiny bit indignant. As he handed her a handkerchief, he watched her throat constrict as she swallowed, the flushed patches of skin almost aglow in the harsh lighting of the diner. She wiped her eyes, smearing her make-up; Cartman could picture her underneath him.

He leant towards her, his elbows on the table, making just enough eye-contact without staring her down.

"So, what happened?" he asked in pitch-perfect concern. The girl sniffled.

"I was supposed to be meeting Brad — that's my boyfriend, well, ex-boyfriend — down at Infinity. You know it?"

Cartman shook his head. "I'm afraid not."

"Well, it's this kind of club, and I was early, so I figured I'd wait outside. Anyway, I saw his car, so I thought, well, he must have been early too, I'll go and let him know I'm here. But when I got close, I could see it was kind of rocking." She started to breathe faster; her eyes glistened with fresh tears. "He was screwing my best friend in the back seat!"

Cartman allowed his face to form the perfect mask of horror, ignoring how desperately he wanted to laugh. "No way!" he gasped.

"I know. He just... He just laughed at me; said what did I expect when I was so... so... frigid!" She burst into tears again. Cartman did his best to hide his glee as he tentatively patted her shoulder. This was a gift from fucking God.

"I hope you don't mind if I'm honest with you," he said seriously. "He sounds like a grade A asshole. You're better off without him."

"I know," she said in a trembling voice, "but I... I loved him!"

She stared to sob yet again. What a fucking loser. Still, she had nice titties; Cartman was getting a good long look as they heaved and wobbled with every strangled sob.

"Shh," he soothed, stroking her back and shoulders with more certainly than before, as though her admission had made him bold. "It's okay."

They stayed like this for a while, Cartman feigning ultimate patience and compassion as she poured out her life story. He noted the important details; picked on at school for being ugly (low self-esteem), a series of dirt-bag boyfriends (perpetual victim), a need to follow her heart and not her head (slut; whenever bitches talked about their hearts like that, they were talking about their vaginas).

He stroked a tendril of her dark hair behind her ear. "Do you know what I think, Stacey?" he whispered, because they had got around to introducing themselves and he made sure to use her name as often as he could without sounding like he was taking the piss; it made them feel special.

"No," she said, her demeanour a little calmer, but her doe eyes almost expecting a rebuke. Cartman was tempted to offer one up just to see if he could thoroughly break her, but he had grander plans.

"I think... and I'm sorry if I'm being too forward, but I think you're a really special girl," he said with a straight face he couldn't quite believe he'd kept up. "I bet you've met a lot of people in your life who are a bit jealous of that, so they try and keep you down."

She giggled and pushed his arm away. "Shut up," she said in a self-deprecating tone that told Cartman she'd bought it hook, line and sinker.

"I mean it!" He took her hand in both of his and looked her straight in the eye. "Why don't we...?" He trailed off and shook his head. "I'm sorry. Forget it; it's a dumb idea."

"What is?" She seemed genuinely curious. Cartman affected a shy glance.

"Well, I was just thinking it'd be really nice if I could maybe take you out for dinner tonight."

She blushed. "You don't have to; you've been nice enough to me."

"I want to," he insisted, trailing a finger along her jaw. "Maybe, I dunno, tonight was fate, or something? I'm here all alone, then you turn up because your loser of a boyfriend doesn't appreciate what he's got..." She's a needy girlfriend who probably does his washing but is too frigid to do anything more than missionary, and she's got a slutty best friend who's nasty in the bedroom? That dude appreciates exactly what he's got.

She smiled at him and laced her fingers around his. "Yeah. Fate," she said boldly. "Why not?"

Cartman grinned; this was turning out better than he'd imagined.

Three hours and a fancy meal at some Italian restaurant later — you had to speculate to accumulate — and Cartman was strolling with Stacey back to her place.

"It's my parents', actually," she confessed. "They're away for the weekend, though."

"Nice," Cartman commented idly, his mind racing ahead at the possibilities. She wasn't too shabby — some junk in the trunk, to be sure, but Cartman was beginning to wonder if his tastes leaned towards the slightly anorexic look. Not merely skinny like Wendy, but girls who looked like they might snap under his buff body. Still, she was eager, and if it meant getting laid before Stan and Kyle, then he was all for it.

They reached an apartment block in a decent part of town and Stacey lightly padded up the steps and unlocked the door.

"Come on in, Eric," she said huskily. God damn, he was definitely getting some tonight.

He smiled and silently followed her to an apartment on the fifth floor.

She stopped suddenly in the living room and turned around to face him. "Would you like some coffee?" she asked awkwardly.

"Sure," Cartman replied, despite not particularly liking coffee. He figured it was just part of what you did. He sat on her plain cream couch which she busied herself in the kitchen. Cartman liked the arrangement; a chick that knew her place, for once. There were photos on the wall of a happy looking middle-aged couple and their accomplished daughter. Stacey apparently did ballet — so, flexible — and had got her high-school diploma.

"Here," she said, shyly putting two mugs on the coffee table and sat next to him. Sat very close next to him.

"Nice place you have here," he commented as her leg brushed against his.

"I suppose it beats student digs, right?" she teased. Cartman smiled back as though the joke had been hilarious and cute. Dumbass; she had actually believed his bullshit about being a college underclassman.

She gently touched his hand, and Cartman suddenly felt rather nervous — it was probably due to him dropping his standards so much.

When she kissed him, he was shocked at first, but this quickly settled into a feeling that sat somewhere between nice and anxious; like the moments just before executing some brilliant plan against Kyle, where it could go wrong or it could go so very right.

Her cold hand slipped around his neck, making him jump as he tried to follow her lead. If she pushed forward, so did he. If she ran her tongue over his lip, he did the same to her. It was like the weirdest game of 'Simon Says', although he couldn't recall a version where 'Simon Says' unbutton Cartman's shirt and rub his nipples. Apart from that one family Christmas.

Just as he was getting into it, she broke away.

"I don't normally do this," she said, blushing. "Take a virtual stranger home."

He cupped her face with his hand like he'd seen them do in the movies. "It's cool," he said. "I... Well, this probably sounds really corny, but I feel like I've known you all my life."

He smiled timidly to offset the sheer balls-out audacity of the statement. He figured maybe he'd pushed it too far with such Hallmark crap, but instead she sighed, "Oh, Eric," and all but clambered onto his lap to stick her tongue down his throat.

God damn this broad was dumb.

After around half an hour of this, she pulled away and stood up.

"I'm just going to go and freshen up," she said. "Why don't you wait for me in the bedroom?"

Cartman stared after her, slack-jawed, as she slinked her way down the hall. She was serious? What a slut!

He stood up, feeling panic flood him. Of course he wanted to — he wasn't some kind of pussy like Stan or Kyle who had to 'wait for the right girl' — but... but... there were things to consider. Important things. Like the fact that she could be some kind of lunatic who lures young boys to her home and kidnaps them; or she could be riddled with diseases! Yeah, sure she didn't normally do this. She was probably incubating some new kind of super-AIDS in her gusset.

He had no choice; he had to make an escape.

Using all of his skill, he stealthily opened the fire escape and crept down all five flights. Despite barely having the energy to even move after that, Cartman ran on empty along the deserted urban streets as though his life depended on it, eventually reaching the hotel.

He took the back route via the swimming pool, ready to regale Kenny with his awesome exploits, only to notice Kenny and Maria in the pool. Fucktards; it was midnight and not exactly warm.

Maria was wearing a surprisingly conservative bathing suit, given her whorish clothing; it was all high necked and Cartman was convinced he could see her bra, of all things. She sat on the edge of the pool, dangling her legs in the water.

Kenny was wearing nothing at all and happily floating on his back, exposing himself for all to see. Goddamn poor people; no fucking shame.

"I'm not sure it matters," Kenny was saying. "Everyone pretty much goes to hell."

"That's horrible, Ken!" Maria looked genuinely appalled.

Kenny smiled. "It's not that bad. I mean, Heaven's nice, I suppose, but it's fucking boring. Full of Mormons, what do you expect?"

"Mormons?"

"Yeah. 'Course, now Satan's finally kicked his douchey boyfriends to the curb and got his groove back, Heaven's been a lot more open; they need the numbers to fight against Satan's uprisings."

Maria was smothering giggles. "Wait, Satan's gay?"

"As a window."

"Okay. What about Hell, then?"

"It's alright." Kenny flicked a leaf off his stomach and into the pool. "People go on about fire and brimstone and all that shit, but really? It's okay. A little dark and muggy, maybe; but Satan throws the best parties. And it's true what they say about his music."

Maria giggled again as Kenny kicked his legs a little, causing him to float closer to her.

"You talk like you've visited them both and written a travelogue about it," she said.

"What can I say? I've been around," he replied and was rewarded by Maria splashing him.

"Idiot," she said fondly.

"Hey, watch the hair!" Kenny said with mock indignation. Maria grinned and slid into the water, grabbing his head and dunking him. When he popped back up, his blonde hair was plastered to his face. He pushed it back and grinned maniacally.

"Well, that does it. You just incurred the wrath of Kenneth McCormick," he boomed as she laughed.

"Oh yeah? And what's he going to do, huh?"

Apparently, he was going to chase her — Kenny was an irritatingly fast swimmer, probably due to his scrawny, malnourished form — then grab her around her waist and throw her into the water as she squealed in protestation. Fucking pussy didn't even do it properly; he just lightly pulled her under. If Cartman had been there he'd have thrown her in head first.

She emerged and wiped her face. Kenny grinned shyly at her.

"Are we still friends?" he asked as she swam closer to him.

"Hmm... I guess I can maybe find it in my heart to forgive you; but I warn you, my pride hurts a whole lot."

Kenny's expression suddenly became rather serious. His cheeks burned red as he whispered, "Well, I'll just have to kiss it better, won't I?"

Maria gazed at him. "I'm not sure where my pride is."

"I think—" Kenny floated a little nearer, his face impossibly close to hers — "it might be right..." He didn't finish and instead kissed her lips like a girl in some lame teen romance movie. She kissed him back and soon they were locked in an embrace, hesitantly kissing as though they'd just invented the whole fucking thing.

God damn it, poor people sucked balls.

~

Stan sighed heavily at the eager look on Wendy's face.

"Do we have to?" he asked eventually, absently feeling the cotton of her bed-sheets between his fingers.

"Stan, it'll be fun!" She was standing over him, her hands on her hips, staring him into submission.

A party at Butters'. It would not be fun. Not because of Butters himself — although he was a bit of a freak — but because Butter's father would inevitably turn up after one too many and creep Stan the fuck out.

"His parents are out of town," Wendy coaxed. "We'll be able to do whatever."

'Whatever' or the promise of it had featured heavily between Stan and Wendy for the past few weeks. Water parks, picnics; he'd even suffered a few art galleries, which got him access to her boobs through her top. He'd also discovered how amusingly ticklish she was.

"Okay, okay," Stan replied.

"Cool." Wendy appeared relieved. "Bebe and the others are all going, but I didn't want to end up stuck there alone."

Stan nodded; he understood. Butters kept some strange company, so his parties usually involved at least one drug dealer present and generally ended in a violent showdown between him and his father while his mother had a nervous breakdown in the car.

He reached out and grabbed Wendy around the waist, pulling her towards him.

"I guess it could be fun," he mused, reaching up to kiss her lips. "Especially if we can do 'whatever'." He kissed her again, sliding his hands around her back and towards her butt as he did; she deftly grabbed his hands and held them instead.

"I have to go and get ready with the girls," she said.

"But it's one o'clock!" Stan protested. "The party won't start until seven."

Wendy looked at him as though he were deeply stupid. "So, that's only six hours to get ready!"

"Alright, alright." Stan stood up reluctantly and pulled her into a hug.

"I'll see you later, babe." He kissed her again as much as she'd let him before he was summarily kicked out of the house. As he left her room, Stan glanced over his shoulder and saw Wendy stuff her entire closet in a bag.

"Umm, what's that for?"

"I'm taking it over to Bebe's. We have to decide what to wear."

"I don't know why you bother; you look good in anything, babe," Stan added, before leaving her to it.

~

Kyle dashed through the back streets of New York City, grateful for the speed and general fitness the past six months of basketball practise had given him. He checked his watch as he reached his aunt's smart terraced town house, where his cousin and Ike were waiting on the step.

"You're late," his cousin said disapprovingly.

"Sorry, Mom," Kyle teased. "I was only five minutes late." He knew his mother would be waiting in the hallway to give them a thorough tongue lashing, but he figured it'd be kinder not to let his cousin know and have to linger on the expectancy.

"Let me guess, you got held up?" Kyle asked archly.

Kyle grinned at him. "Like you can't say the same?"

Ever since Kyle and Rebecca had got together all those days ago, Jenny had suddenly become really receptive towards his cousin's advances — every time Kyle looked at them, she was shoving her tongue down his throat. His cousin didn't seem as thrilled by this as Kyle would have expected.

"She's only like that when you're around," Kyle said sadly.

"Huh. Maybe she's an exhibitionist and just likes being watched?"

His cousin surveyed him appraisingly for a moment, then sighed and shook his head. "Yeah. That's probably it," he replied, in an oddly bitter voice. Kyle decided not to worry about it; he was blindly fumbling through his first proper relationship, and he hadn't a hope in Hell of figuring out anyone else's.

Ike pointed at Kyle's crotch.

"You're hiding something in your pants!" he shouted far too loudly. Kyle felt his whole face glow; he'd been in such a hurry to get back he hadn't noticed. Trading minutes that could have been wasted on a leisurely walk home to be wrapped up in Rebecca was definitely worth a bit of absent-minded showcasing of his penis. He stuffed his hands in the front of his jean pockets to lessen the effect.

The front door swung open and his mother stood in front of them; her hands on her hips and her expression set into a scowl.

"What are you boys doing standing out here? Dinner's been ready for over five minutes!" she glanced at Kyle. "And take our hands out of your pockets," she demanded.

Kyle tried to ignore the instruction and pass by unnoticed, but to no avail.

"Kyle!"

"What?"

"Don't you 'what' me; hands out of your pockets, this instant."

"He can't," Ike announced proudly. "He's hiding something in his pants."

His mother folded her arms and fixed him with a stern glare.

"Kyle, what are you hiding?"

"N... Nothing, Ma."

"Kyle!"

"My erect penis, okay!" he snapped. "God damn!"

"Language, Kyle!" she scolded, but Kyle noticed she let the pocket issue drop.

A heavy silence descended over dinner; Kyle looked across his cousin's slightly melancholic expression, then at Ike's thoughtful one. His aunt Sarah, reed-thin and with a raspy voice, picked at her potatoes.

"You have to eat, Sarah."

"I know, Sheila. Just give me a minute." Kyle remembered when Aunt Sarah was twice the size of his mother and three times as loud. Not for the first time, he silently wondered if she was actually going to get better.

His mother glanced at them all and smiled hospitably. "Well, did you boys have a nice time today?"

"Yeah," both Kyles said in unison.

"What did you boys get up to?" Aunt Sarah asked.

"I showed them the Empire State building," Kyle said, which was partly true. They had visited the Empire State building and peered over the edge through the safety netting at the skyline of buildings laid out beneath them; it just so happened that Rebecca and Jenny had accompanied them. Two hour queues seemed to fly by when you had a Rebecca in your arms; Kyle could taste coffee and mints when they kissed. His cousin had been surprisingly nice by taking Ike home so Kyle could walk Rebecca back to her school. Of course, they had to say goodbye before she ran off to her dormitory in the grand limestone building. The way they said goodbye tended to take around an hour; natural exploration gripped them and Kyle always started to do mental calculations to justify spending longer and longer memorising the feel of every bracket glued to Rebecca's teeth against his tongue and squeezing any part of her that could be squeezed. Rebecca was so enthusiastic that she just squeezed right back and seemed to revel in his touches. He'd never tried to delve under her clothes — it seemed a bit too soon — but he figured his shaking fingers had caressed every clothed part of her that didn't cover anywhere that was particularly self-lubricating.

"Yeah, it was pretty cool," Kyle added to keep the story going.

"What's an erect penis?" Ike asked suddenly. Aunt Sarah dropped her spoon in shock.

"Ike, eat your dinner, Bubbeleh," his mother swiftly replied before glancing up. "That sounds wonderful, boys."

"It is like cooties?" Ike asked.

"Ike, not now," his mother replied wearily.

Ike suddenly sat bolt upright, his features horror stricken. "Did Kyle catch it from eating that girl's face?"

All eyes fell on Kyle; he did his best to stare at his salad intently.

"Kyle, is there something you want to tell us?" His mother's expression was surprisingly fond, as though she were trying to hide a smile.

"No," Kyle replied sulkily, wanting to keep Rebecca his private treasure and certainly not share her with his mother.

Aunt Sarah beamed at him. "Oh, he's so shy, Sheila. It's alright, Kyle. Have you met a nice Jewish girl like Kyle has?"

Suddenly, all of Kyle's back-bending accommodating of Kyle's crush made sense; Jenny was many things, but she was about as Jewish as Mel Gibson. It was clear his part of the bargain was to never let on to Aunt Sarah.

"Kyle has a little girlfriend?" It was actually kind of heartening to see his mother's look of unflattering disbelief upon hearing this news.

"Oh yes," Aunt Sarah said. "They're at that age, though, aren't they?"

"We're going to Ellis Island tomorrow," Kyle interjected in a desperate attempt to move the conversation on. "It's fascinating; do you think we'll find Grandpa's name in their database?"

After dinner, Kyle went upstairs to take a shower. He started to get undressed in the bedroom ready to grab a towel to take into the bathroom. Half-way through taking his shirt off, he heard a knock at the door.

"Who is it?"

"It's your mother."

Kyle walked over to the door and opened it. His mother entered the room and sat on Kyle's bed, then patted the quilt next to her.

"Sit down, Bubbeleh," she said softly. Reluctantly, Kyle did as he was told and sat on the bed next to her.

"So, this girl. Does she have a name?"

Kyle didn't want to answer, didn't want to give up his secrets, but he realise that his mother wasn't going to shift until he did.

"Rebecca," he said eventually.

She smiled. "What is it with you and Rebeccas, hmm?"

"Huh?"

"I remember your first little crush..."

Kyle couldn't help but smile. "It's the same girl, actually."

"Oh." His mother gazed at him curiously. "Well, you're nothing if not loyal."

Her smile was maddeningly infectious. "How long have you two been dating?"

"A few weeks, I guess." Kyle paused; there was no point in hiding it. "Three weeks and two days," he confirmed, and he was embarrassed he could count down to practically the hours.

His mother suddenly looked uncomfortable. "I don't know much about dating nowadays but... are you being careful?" she asked hesitantly, as though afraid of the answer.

"Mom! We're not doing anything!" Kyle protested.

"Kyle, I'm your mother. I have to check these things." She was clearly relieved as she patted his hand. "You know, if you need to talk about anything like that, about girls and... and sex... you can talk to me."

Kyle couldn't think of anyone he wanted to discuss his potential sex life with less.

"I think fifteen's a little young, but I was a teenager once. I know what it feels like to have all those hormones flying about—"

"Mom!"

"I just want you to be safe, Kyle." She smiled and glanced down at the floor.

"Mom?"

"Yes, Bubbeleh?" Her expression was calm, but Kyle could see the panic in her eyes. He briefly considered asking about something disgusting he'd seen in Kenny's fourth favourite porno — 'Moulin Splooge' — just to see the look on her face, but he thought better of it. He had a far more pressing question.

"Rebecca isn't... Are you going to freak if I bring home a gentile girl?"

His mother appeared deeply grateful. "Oh, Kyle! Your Aunt Sarah, she... she feels rather strongly about that; but as far as your father and I are concerned, you can bring home who you like, so long as you love each other and treat each other right."

Kyle nodded. He was fairly certain that, despite her assurances, if he were to bring home a stripper with a coke habit who loved him and treated him right, she'd find herself on the receiving end of a shotgun.

"Thanks, Mom," he said, grateful for her attempts.

"It was just lucky for your father and I," she continued. "Our eyes met across a crowded bar in Newark; he grabbed my breasts and said, 'Did you clean your pants with Windex? I can practically see myself in them,' I punched him in the face and broke his nose." She smiled fondly at the memory. "By the time the ambulance had arrived, we'd swapped phone numbers and, well, the rest is history."

"That's... that's a lovely story," Kyle said sardonically. His mother shook her head and glanced at him tenderly.

"You shpitzik boychik." She stood up and brushed down her skirt. "Come and give your mom a hug."

Kyle got up and stooped over to hug her.

"How did you get this tall, bubbeleh," she said while she squashed him against her. He let go and she smiled as she looked at him and tucked a coppery curl behind his ear.

"Just remember, if you're going to... just make sure you're protect—"

"Mom!"

~

"Oooh, what about this one?" Bebe asked, pressing a hot pink strapless dress to her ample cleavage.

"Put it on and let's see!" Millie squealed excitedly.

"Yeah," Wendy added to ensure she looked like she was paying attention. Red glanced at her and rolled her eyes, which was her default reaction to anything.

Bebe swiftly returned in the dress and Wendy could see it left very little to the imagination. Every curve was clung to; Wendy was fairly certain she could tell what underwear Bebe was wearing, judging from the embossed patterns in the fabric and the exposed bra straps.

"Oh, he'll totally love it," Millie enthused.

Bebe beamed. "You think?"

"Yeah, totally," Wendy agreed.

"Yeah, if you want him to think you'll open your legs after the party."

All the girls stared at Red in horror, except for Bebe.

"Perfect!" she said with a clap of her hands. "I mean, I was going for the 'I'll open my legs during the party' look, but that'll do."

At this point, Wendy decided she ought to stare at Bebe in horror instead of Red.

"What?" Bebe demanded. "Clyde and I have been dating for, like, nine months now. I want to get laid!" She looked at Wendy enviously. "Just because some people have been getting drilled for years doesn't mean the rest of us have been so lucky."

All eyes bored into Wendy, who felt the hot, sickly feeling of ultimate humiliation.

"Stan and I are not doing... you know. It," she protested, feeling her cheeks glow red.

Bebe rolled her eyes. "Whatever."

The others soon ignored the topic of conversation to discuss Millie's outfit and how Token would totally notice her, but Wendy could hardly concentrate. Nine months and Bebe wanted to have sex? Was that normal? The very thought of it terrified Wendy; Stan was testing the limits of her comfort zone already with his wandering hands, and that was over clothes. Maybe guys liked their girls to be like Bebe. Maybe that's what Stan wanted; he'd paid an awful lot of attention to her down at the water park, and why wouldn't he? Bebe was blonde and perky and big breasted and kind of slutty and everything Wendy wasn't.

"Wendy?" Bebe's voice sounded in her ear; Wendy looked up to see Bebe clicking her fingers in front of her face.

"Come on, Little Miss Daydream; we've got to give you a killer makeover too! When we're done, one look at you and Stan will be so horny, he'll be dry-humping you before we even get past the hallway!"

"Great," Wendy replied meekly, wondering if there was a makeover that would do the opposite.

~

"Come on, squirt; I'm fucking you up right here!"

"Hey, no fair — you cheated!"

"Performing an incredibly complex kill combo to reach Armageddon status is not cheating, Ike."

"When I got the magic bullet in 'Mario Kart', you said that was cheating."

"Yeah, because that's a game breaker."

Kyle and Ike had been duking it out in 'Slugathon IV' down in the basement for about an hour now. Their cousin refused to play on account of it triggering his migraines, but he was still in the room, idly watching when he wasn't texting Jenny.

"Beth says that Betsy's sister is in Colorado with her dad on business." Kyle shook his head. "I hope he's keeping an eye on her; she's a little off the rails."

"Who's Betsy?" Kyle asked, while slaughtering a camp alien vampire named Fab the Impaler.

"Beth's friend. Her and Rebecca are in the chess club together, I think." He sounded unimpressed by this.

"Oh," Kyle replied, thinking he really ought to meet some of Rebecca's friends. Then he thought about how he'd have to return the favour. Stan would be fine, but Kenny? Kyle was pretty sure he'd have to tie Kenny's hands behind his back and find some way of stopping him gawping at Rebecca's impressive breasts. As for Cartman? Kyle could see no alternative but to have him assassinated prior to the event.

"Ha! I got 'Kill 'Em All' mode — eat that!" Ike yelled in triumph as his gun strafed bulled fire in physics-defying directions to the strains of Metallica, while his score went through the roof.

"Goddamn it, Ike!"

His phone started vibrating in his pocket. He paused the game and fished it out of his pants.

"What the hell!" Ike grumbled. Kyle glanced at his phone — Rebecca's picture was flashing up along with her name.

"Yeah, whatever, you win," he said, jumping out of his seat and dashing upstairs to the only place he could get a bit of privacy.

Ike's shout of, "Coward!" followed him up the stairs as he closed the door to his and Kyle's bedroom and shoved a chair under the door handle as a make-shift lock.

"Hey, Rebecca. What's up?" he asked casually, in complete contrast to his thumping heart.

"Umm, Kyle? Can... can w... we t... talk?" she asked nervously and Kyle's heart plummeted into his stomach.

"Sure. What do you want to talk about?" He knew very little about girls in a dating capacity, but he knew that those words tended to signify one thing only; unceremonious dumping. He tried to think if he had done anything wrong, or if she'd seemed unhappy, but nothing came to mind. She was sweet and shy most of the time, but opened up and made interesting conversation with him; when they were alone she was... well, she was wild.

It was only after realising he'd spent rather a long time thinking while there was silence on the phone that he tentatively called out, "Rebecca? Are you still there?"

"Y... Yes," she stammered.

"Then, Christ, just tell me what—"

"I n... need you to st... stop, Kyle!" She shouted so loudly that Kyle felt his eardrum tingle.

"Stop what?" he asked, blood pumping loudly in his ears as a sickly feeling flooded him from his stomach outwards.

"What... Whatever it is y... you're d... doing to m... me," she whispered.

"Rebecca, I don't understand," Kyle pleaded, because he really didn't understand. At all.

"It's w... wrong, im... immoral, d... definitely illegal and it's l... leaving massive w... wet patches in my p... panties," she blurted out.

After some deep thought, Kyle figured maybe he did understand; it was all he could do not to burst out laughing in relief. He felt like the king of the fucking world.

"Would it help if I could kiss you right now?" he asked teasingly.

"No! St... Stop it!"

Kyle tried very hard to stop the giggle bubbling up inside from escaping his lips, but he failed. Miserably.

"Oh, don't... don't l... laugh at m... me," she begged and Kyle instantly felt guilty.

"I'm sorry; I'm not laughing at you, I promise," he replied, trying to buy some time while he figured out how to explain this to Rebecca without sounding like an arrogant dick. She was worryingly naïve for a fifteen-year-old girl and Kyle was pretty grateful she'd found him, who was himself pretty inexperienced and didn't want to push her into anything.

Yep, would definitely need to assassinate Cartman when it came to meeting his friends.

"I think about you a whole lot too, Rebecca," he said and awaited her response with baited breath.

"I... I'm not sure I f... follow."

He smiled down the phone, filled with the unutterable urge to jump through the speaker to her dorm room and cuddle her.

"Do you feel like... like..." He struggled to find the words to describe how she made him feel without using phrases he was sure he'd have to explain anyway. "Like you've got an itch somewhere bone-deep that you can't seem to scratch? Like you want to crawl out of your skin with need? Like the thing you're feeling is the only thing in the world that matters?"

"Y... Yes, that's exactly i... it! D... Did you m... make that h... happen?"

Kyle climbed up to the top bunk and sat on the bed, relaxing a little.

"Kind of; not on purpose, just... You make me feel that way, too."

"I'm s... sorry; I d... didn't mean t... to!" Rebecca sounded agitated.

"It's okay, it's not your fault! Umm, I like you, right?"

"Yeah."

"I mean, I really, really like you."

"Okay."

"So, it also means I really, really want you."

There was a moment of awkward silence before Rebecca replied, "You r... really, really w... want me to w... what?"

Kyle smothered a fond chuckle. "No, I mean... I mean you make me horny."

"What's h... horny?"

"Umm, how do I explain this? I guess, well, I feel like I want to have sex with you." Kyle's admission was met with silence, so he continued. "I guess that means you feel like you want to have sex with me, too."

Her silence did not abate. Kyle was close to chewing his fingernails — a habit he'd kicked back when he was eleven — when Rebecca eventually replied, "So you... you think we sh... should have sex... sexual intercourse?"

"No!" Kyle protested. "I mean, not right now."

"W... Why not?"

"Because, it'd be illegal and more importantly, we've only known each other three weeks and two days... I'm just saying these feelings are pretty normal."

"Really?" Rebecca's distress was palpable. "I can't h... handle it; it's dr... dr... driving me crazy. Can't we just have s... sex anyway, if it'll make this st... stop?"

Kyle took a moment; dear Abraham, she was asking him for sex. All he had to do was say, 'Okay', but he knew he wasn't going to. It was too soon — way too soon — but she sounded so distressed. Kyle racked his brains to come up with something that could ease her desire.

"Have you tried jacking off?" he asked, remembering Stan's sound advice — the evening after Shavuot Kyle had locked himself in the bathroom and nearly passed out when he came.

"C... Can girls d... do that?" she asked.

"Sure." He'd seen them do it in pornos loads of times.

"H... How?"

"Well..." Kyle felt himself colour up. "I'm not exactly sure..."

"Wh... What do y... you do?"

Kyle was fairly certain his face couldn't get any hotter. "Umm, me? Well, I guess I, erm, just sort of... Well, I sort of just slide my hand up and down my dick, I suppose." The lack of response prompted further explanation to kill the heavy silence. "I tend to use hand cream, otherwise it kind of hurts when I touch the head... Please, please, tell me you're still there, Rebecca."

"I'm h... here," she replied. "Sorry, I was j... just un... unbuttoning my t... top. I h... have you on sp... sp... speakerphone."

"Wait, what?" Kyle suddenly felt awash with horror.

"Oh, there's n... nobody here — I'm in the sh... showers and it's al... always empty at this t... time of night."

"Oh, right. Okay." Kyle could hear the sound of rustling fabric. "What are you doing now?"

"P... pulling my p... pants down. I'm j... just in my u... underwear now, and my socks. I'm about to take a sh... shower."

"Okay." Kyle suddenly found it impossible to form a single thought that didn't involve Rebecca's near nakedness on the other end of the phone.

"I'm t... taking my s... socks off n... now; I was g... going to t... take a cold shower, but n... now I think maybe I c... could have a g... go at m... masturbating instead. Would you st... stay on the ph... phone and h... help me out?" She said this with such nonchalance that it might as well have been a school project she was discussing.

"Umm, sure?" Kyle replied with complete uncertainty. "Wh... What do you want me to do?"

"I don't kn... know." Her tone was thoughtful. "Urgh, this h... hook is really st... stiff."

"What hook?"

"The one on my br... bra — oh, there we g... go, it's o... off now. I've just got to sl... slip off my p... panties and then—" Kyle heard the rush of a shower faucet; the water gushing onto a hard surface.

"C... Can you st... still hear me?" Rebecca's voice was a little muffled by the rushing water, but not much.

"Yeah, I can still hear you," Kyle replied, his cock straining against his zipper in a desperate bid for freedom.

"Wh... Where are you?" she asked.

"In the bedroom. Top bunk. Alone," he replied.

"I'm un... under the sh... shower now. The w... water's j... just about the right t... temperature, and I'm lathering up my h... hair. Are you st... still w... wearing what you were w... wearing when you s... saw me?"

Kyle looked down at his mint coloured t-shirt and dark blue slim-legged jeans. "Yeah, but I'm sockless."

Rebecca giggled. "Aww, I l... liked your socks. They h... had 'Wednesday' written on them, b... but it's Saturday."

"Yeah, I don't like my clothes telling me when they should be worn," he replied and she laughed again.

"You're s... so funny," she said. "I l... like that."

"I like you, you great sexy geek."

Rebecca giggled at this, too. "You're s... so sm... smooth." He couldn't quite tell if she was being sarcastic or deadly serious. "God, I w... wish you were here."

"What, in the shower?" Kyle smirked as he said this.

"Y... Yeah, in the sh... shower with me."

"What, naked? Or in my jeans and t-shirt getting completely soaked?" His idle comment was met with a roaring silence that worried him. "Rebecca?"

"T... Tell me where to t... touch myself," she begged suddenly, and Kyle wondered if he should just unfasten his jeans before he actually hurt himself.

"Umm, hold on!" Red faced, Kyle jumped down from the bunk bed, switched on Kyle's laptop — it took him two attempts to guess the password — and hastily did a bit of Googling while holding his phone to his ear.

"Kyle! W...What are y... you doing? Y... You can't j... just leave me with the thought of y... your wet clothes st...sticking to you in m... my shower!"

"I'm just checking out a few sites," Kyle said, remembering to clear the history once he had refreshed his memory of the last time he looked this stuff up after Kenny showed them a copy of 'Quim Gymnastics 7' and he'd had an argument with Cartman over whether the wine bottle scene would cause a vacuum and make the uterus explode.

"Okay; there's a bunch of stuff about warm baths and glasses of wine. I guess we should skip that," Kyle said as he clambered back onto his bunk.

"I p... put conditioner on while I was waiting. I'm com... completely ready, Kyle. H... Help me."

Jesus fucking Christ, he was actually in agony now; he needed bigger pants. "Have you washed yet? Do you have, like, soap or something?"

"I've g... got sh... shower gel on a sp... sponge; it makes lots of s... soapy s... suds. Sh... Should I c... cover myself with them?"

"Ah, yeah. Do that," Kyle instructed, convinced he ought to feel deeply embarrassed only his sheer horniness had overridden that particular emotion. "Umm, slide your hands over your body."

"W... Where? I'm p... pretty sl... slippery all over."

Kyle lay back on his bed and dug the fingers of his free hand into his thigh to try and distract from the throbbing in his crotch. "Just try your arms and neck first."

"O... okay." He could hear the wet slopping sounds of flesh against flesh as Rebecca caressed her skin with the lather.

"Umm, slide your hands over your breasts," he suggested, given it seemed the most obvious next step. He wasn't remotely prepared for the heavy breathing he started to hear down the phone.

"Rebecca? You okay?"

"Yes. V... very," she said breathlessly. "It f... feels good. Wh... When can I t... touch myself more?"

"You're asking my permission?" Kyle joked.

"Y... Yes," came the quivering reply and Kyle found the idea disturbingly hot.

"Okay, put your hand between your legs and just touch the... the..."

"The w... what?"

"The labia," he instructed, wondering if he was being a bit too clinical with his vocabulary choice. What else could he call it? There was only really 'lips', which was open to interpretation; anything else just sounded either stupid, gross or both.

The gasp Rebecca emitted threatened to rip his zipper open from the sheer force of his ever-increasing erection.

"Ooh... Th... that feels really n... nice," she moaned. "Should I g... go f... further?"

"Not yet; just run your fingers around them," he replied, her little gasps and surprised moans threatening to send him crazy. "Okay, okay; are you, umm, wet? I mean, down there?" he asked, scrunching his eyes up in shame as the words tumbled out of his mouth in a rush.

"Y... yeah — oh, that feels g... good, too," she gasped.

"Okay. I guess you, kind of, rub your clitoris. Do it gently, though." Kyle felt like an elementary school teacher on the brink of being arrested.

"Is that the sticky-out thing in front of my—"

"Yes, that's it," he said, feeling very silly indeed; until she squeaked as though she had put her foot in a too-hot bath.

"F... Fucking hell! Th... This is in... incredible!" she moaned, and Kyle was amazed he hadn't come in his pants right there and then.

"Gently, gently," he urged. "Don't rush it."

"Oh, God — I... I can't! I n... need it, r... right now!"

"No; do it gently. Do it slowly," he said in soothing tones, gripping his thigh so hard he was convinced he had left indentations of his fingernails in his skin through the thick fabric of his jeans.

"You're s... such a f... fucking t... tease, Kyle," she whimpered.

"Fucking hell, I wish I was right there kissing you," Kyle confessed headily.

"I w... wish you w... were right h... here, too," Rebecca panted.

Kyle could hear little but Rebecca's maddeningly hot moans and groans until she begged, "I want you to t... touch yourself, too. Are y... you h... hard?"

"Like a fucking chess game against Lasker," Kyle groaned, needing little encouragement to unzip his pants. The act alone was immensely freeing, and he quickly found some hand cream and got acquainted with his member.

"Grip it t... tightly," Rebecca gasped. "Be... Because if you were h... here, I'd w... want you to g... give it to me s... so, so hard."

"Fucking hell, Rebecca; do you want me to come right now? Because saying stuff like that is going to make me like Nicholas Cage."

"What?"

"'Gone in Sixty Seconds'," he clarified, between grunts of effort.

"Tell me to stop being gentle," she pleaded.

"But, Rebecca, you are so hot when you beg," he panted, uncertain where that confession had come from or quite why it felt like a newly discovered kink.

"Kyle, you u...utter b... bastard!" She sounded near tears with frustration; there was no way Kyle could be that cruel.

"Okay, beautiful, you go wild," he whispered down the phone and the resulting chaotic near-screams he heard down the phone pretty much took him over the edge. He'd definitely come, with a near-blinding intensity, but he wasn't quite sure where it had ended up. More importantly, he couldn't bring himself to care.

"Wow." Rebecca sounded awestruck, and Kyle could still hear the shower gushing away. A dull thud pulled him out of his post-ejaculation haze.

"Rebecca? Are you alright?"

"Hmm? Oh, I'm fine. I Just l... leant back against the tiles." There was a long pause. "I feel much b... better now."

Kyle couldn't help but smile. "I'm glad," he replied, his dick lying flaccid in his free hand.

"Th... Thanks, by the way. For sh... showing me that," she added.

"Thanks for letting me show you," he replied languidly.

They talked about nothing for a good half an hour while Rebecca rinsed the conditioner out of her hair and dried herself off. For his part, Kyle hadn't moved from his bunk; his dick was still hanging out on display and he thought he had heard someone try to get into the room on at least three occasions. He didn't care.

Once they had hung up on each other after a barrage of phone kisses and promises to meet up tomorrow, Kyle began to wonder about what he had done. He'd never seen an agony column suggest ways to show your girlfriend how to masturbate; he was pretty sure Oprah had never talked about it either. He started to panic; she seemed happy, but had he done something awful? He'd never masturbated in front of anyone before — okay, it wasn't strictly in front of Rebecca, but it was damn close — and did people actually do that? Should he ask his mom? He couldn't ask his mom. She'd have his cock chopped off, surely. Who else could he ask? Kenny seemed to know lots about sex, but Kyle didn't really want advice that would invariably involve how to score a home run while he was panicking about hitting some form of second base. As for Cartman? Well, he was the guy who insisted that men had a clitoris in their rectum, so he'd have to be unbelievably desperate to take his advice on anything.

What about Rebecca? Would she giggle and tell her friends? Would she feel used? Should he try and sneak into her dormitory just to show her he really did care... but then, would she misconstrue that as a desire to fuck her? Then again, is that what she wanted? Was he being a stick in the mud by not rocking up and giving it to her?

His mind fogged with confusion as he tried to sort through the rush of data flooding his head. Stan never seemed to have these sorts of problems; he and Wendy were a perfectly cute and happy couple who never fought or terrified each other. In a way, Kyle was kind of envious of Stan; he was so together in a way Kyle couldn't fathom. Whereas Kyle was stumbling his way into madness trying to figure out the finer points of dating etiquette, Stan just seemed to breeze through it. He understood girls, always has. Kyle understood them as people — they weren't really much different from guys, except they wanted to be adults too soon and didn't find fart jokes very funny — but as romantic entities? He was just fucking lost.

Which is why he found the energy to tuck himself into his pants and dial Stan's number. If anyone could help him sort out this mess, it was Stan.

~

By the time Stan breezed into the party, things were already in full swing. The scent of weed filled his nostrils as soon as he opened the door; hazy smoke was filtering up the stairs from the basement. Stan was pretty certain he knew who would be down there, namely Craig and Tweek.

The music was blaring from the living room — some old nu-metal stuff that probably belonged to Jimmy — and Stan decided to head towards it, passing what looked like Token and Sally making out in the hallway.

"Why hello, Stan. Awful glad you could make it." Butters was standing in front of him with a jug and a set of plastic cups.

"Thanks, Butters. It seems pretty... pretty buzzing," he said, thinking about how he would never in a million years host a party when his parents were out of town. "Umm, you know Craig and Tweek are toking a joint down there, right?" He pointed at the basement and the wafts of bluish-grey smoke.

Butters chuckled. "Oh, those two." His forehead pinched into a worried expression. "I think they, ah, probably smoke a little too much, don't you?"

"Umm, yeah, I guess. Dude, don't you think your parents are going to freak?"

"Oh, well, those two cock suckers can go and ah, well, they can just go and fuck themselves with a cattle prod, can't they?" He smiled pleasantly. "Say, where's Kyle?"

"New York," Stan replied, watching Butters' face fall.

"Well, isn't that an awful shame," he said, patting Stan on the back. "Don't you worry; this'll take your mind off things." He steered Stan into the living room and poured him a cup of something blue and foul-smelling.

"Um, no thanks, Butters. I don't drink." Stan didn't want to go down that road again.

Butters shrugged. "Well, alright; we've got some Coke in the fridge — help yourself." He chugged the cup of blue stuff himself, grimaced and wiped his mouth. "Wow. That sure has quite a kick to it. I think I might need to throw up. Or put my head between Red's breasts and wiggle," he said with a devilish smile that in no way matched the rest of his Mummy's Boy demeanour. Stan doubted Butters' ability to manage his latter plan without having his balls kicked up into his pelvis by Red, but then he saw Wendy talking with her friends and suddenly nothing else mattered.

Stan almost choked on his own air supply as he took in her scandalous backless dress that just begged for his fingers to inch their way over it. The moment he walked up to her, she glanced at him and smiled.

"Hey, Stan," she said, resting her arms lazily around his neck and letting him kiss her. Man, the haughty little way she did that made him so fucking hot.

"Hey, babe," he replied in as sexy a tone as he could muster, pulling her close and capturing her mouth in a long, deep, lingering kiss. She was sex to him, pure sex, and every serious kiss he gave her he tried to make a representation of the slow, languid, worshipful way he'd make love to her the second she gave him the chance.

Wendy pulled away. "Have you got a drink?" she asked.

"Not yet."

"I'll get you one," she said with a smile as she ducked into the kitchen. He watched her retreat, her perfect round butt bouncing just the right amount and her bared, braless back stoking Stan's imagination like a power station. Oh, and her legs; never-ending and shapely, calves taut as she wobbled on dainty heels that definitely made her taller than him, but he'd take that sacrifice for the exquisite view.

"Hey, Stan." Bebe was clearly smothering laughter and it was enough to pull him back to reality.

"Hey, Bebe."

"Where's Kyle?" she asked.

"New York."

"Oh. Well, never mind him; we'll take your mind off things."

"Why would I need to take my mind off Kyle?"

Bebe shrugged. "Have you seen Token at all? Millie was looking for—"

Suddenly, an ear-piercing shriek cut through the strains of some hip-hop track Stan knew Kyle had on his smart phone. A girl — which Stan assumed to be Millie on account of her bobbed curly hair — ran across the hallway and locked herself in the downstairs bathroom.

Bebe and the other girls looked at each other and, as though they were the Borg collective, all moved towards the bathroom.

"Tell Wendy we're with Millie, yeah?" Bebe asked and Stan mutely consented.

As soon as Bebe was half way down the hallway, she called, "and if you see Clyde, tell him where I am!"

"Sure!" Stan replied, thinking Clyde wouldn't be able to miss her if he tried. He had heard the phrase 'She looks like she's been poured into that dress,' from his mom, but this was the first time he understood it. Wow. See, that was the thing about Wendy — she had class as well as being a first rate fox.

~

Wendy poured two glasses full of Coke and stared at the patterned tiles in the kitchen, trying not to shake. She was trying to be cool and disinterested in Stan's advances with her arms' length embrace — in order to counteract the dress she had been forced into by Bebe — but the way he'd kissed her suggested she hadn't been successful.

Maybe she should just leave? Fake a headache or something and just get out of there. Bebe didn't need her help to get Clyde into her underpants and Wendy wanted hers to be left well alone.

"Hey, babe."

Wendy whirled around to find Stan inches from her. He put his arm around her waist. "Bebe and the others had to go and follow Millie into the bathroom. I guess it's a girl thing."

"Why? What happened?" Bathroom consultations only ever happened if there had been a party-related emergency.

Stan shrugged. "I dunno. She ran into the bathroom crying."

"Oh my God; I've got to see if she's okay!" Wendy gasped.

Stan didn't let go. "Come on, half the girls in our school are jammed in there. They can do without you for a bit." He kissed her cheek, then whispered into her ear. "Wanna dance?"

The way he said it make it sound like dancing was the last thing on his mind.

She shrugged him off as gently as she could. "I should at least go and check on her," she said before handing Stan one of the Cokes and rushing to the downstairs bathroom.

Millie was sat on the coral coloured toilet seat, blubbing into a wad of toilet paper. Her make-up was smeared all down her face and her eyes were bloodshot.

"It's okay," Bebe soothed. "You're too good for him."

Millie took a deep, phlegmy breath. "But-I-was-crazy-about-him-and-he-was-just-all-over-that-total-skank-oh-my-god-I-want-to-die!" she blurted out tearfully.

Annie patted her shoulder. "There, there. Sally is a total skank," she agreed in camaraderie.

"And fat, too," Millie sobbed.

"Yeah, and really fat. Her ass is like a rhino's."

"But... But-what-if-he-likes-fat-asses-and-that's-why-he-was-feeling-her-butt-and-not-mine!" Millie wailed, tears still leaking from her eyes. Wendy rushed forward and put her arms around her.

"It's okay, Wendy," she bawled. "You don't have to stay. You go and hang out with your b... boyfriend who totally likes you even though you've got tiny boobs," she sobbed.

"Erm, thanks," Wendy replied, trying not to feel self-conscious.

"It's cool, Wendy. You go," Bebe said. "I'll man the fort."

"But what about, you know, Clyde?"

Bebe grinned and inclined her head towards the hallway, where Wendy could see Clyde staring at slutty, yet maternal, Bebe playing counsellor. He had a look of total devotion in his eyes and a very noticeable erection in his pants.

"I don't think he's going anywhere, do you?" Bebe pointed out.

Reluctantly, Wendy went off to find Stan, and wondered just how long she could put him off his amorous advances.

~

Stan took Wendy's hand as they stood in the living room. "Wow. She seemed pretty upset," he said, inwardly marvelling at Wendy's selfless compassion. He didn't know many people who would offer to give up their evening to tend to a crying friend. Maybe Kyle if he could fix the problem, or Kenny if he could distract you with porn.

"Yeah. She really liked Token," Wendy explained. "I guess it just goes to show how much sex and that sort of thing can kind of get in the way at our age."

Stan shrugged. "I guess; but if you've been together for ages like us, I think it can only bring you closer together." He didn't want her to be scared that anything like that would make him bail. He was completely in love with her; when they made love, it wasn't going to be to get some notch on his bedpost.

He kissed her cheek and let his hand trail over her exquisite bare back. She jumped at the touch, and her excitement fuelled him further.

"I'm so damn lucky." He punctuated each word with a kiss to any part of her face he could reach.

She giggled and blushed; Stan loved it. He pressed his hand to the small of her back and pulled her flush against his pelvis, grinding slowly and out of time to the frenetic music playing.

Suddenly, Wendy jumped away from him as though she'd got a static shock.

"Oh, look; there's Butters. We should go and say hi!" she enthused, grabbing Stan's hand and dragging him over to the kitchen, where Butters was busy chugging straight from a bottle of Jack Daniels. Stan shuddered — he remembered those days.

"Oh, hey there, Stan. Wendy," he slurred chirpily.

"Hi, Butters!" Wendy cooed, reaching over to hug him. Stan tried to ignore the tiny prick of jealousy he felt as Butters' hands fluttered over her back.

"Enjoying the party?" he asked.

"Oh, it's great."

"I mean, it's an awful shame about poor Millie, crying in the bathroom like that."

"I know, but I'm sure she'll be fine."

Butters brandished the bottle of Jack Daniels. "Want some?"

"No thanks," Stan and Wendy said in unison; Stan adored the fact Wendy hadn't taken to drinking either. It was nice not to be the lone sober person in a room of drunkards during these illicit house parties. Kyle had tried it and been unimpressed — and wary of his precious kidney — whereas Kenny and Cartman were definitely partial. Kenny tended to be surprisingly restrained, though, which had always confused Stan given the number of other stimulants the guy would happily ingest.

"Oh, well — more for me." Butters took a deep swig and waved the bottle in the air. "Here's to absent parents," he said. "May they never return. And if they do, and Father takes off his belt... Well, gosh darn it, let me just pick up his shotgun and splatter his fucking brains all over the couch. Mother too, the weak, simpering little whore." He beamed innocently and sipped at the bottle again. Stan stared, aghast; Jesus, Butters was freaky when he'd had a drink.

He noticed Wendy stare at Butters with deep concern; he merely smiled back at her.

"And here's to Stan and Wendy!" he announced. "The cutest couple I ever did see."

Stan smiled as he felt Wendy squeeze his hand.

Butters grinned and shook his head indulgently. "Look at you both. Stan. Why, you're so handsome; and Wendy? Well, golly, you're a real beauty." He nudged her in the ribs. "I sure hope he's sticking it to you every night. You look like a girl who needs a good, hard pounding."

Stan felt Wendy suddenly let go of his hand. She was blushing furiously.

"If you two need somewhere to, uh ha, get acquainted, feel free to use my parents' room. If you leave a used condom in the bed, it'd be a favour to me."

"Um, thanks..." Stan was really beginning to appreciate how awkward having a drunk friend could be.

"It'd sure teach those two cu—"

"We couldn't possibly!" Wendy interjected. It didn't matter; Butters had passed out on the kitchen table.

~

Stan practically dragged her upstairs, his hand encased in hers. To Wendy's relief, the master bedroom was clearly occupied.

"Oh yeah... yeah... yeah! Fuck, Clyde, just take me now!" Bebe was very loud, and it didn't surprise Wendy one bit.

None of this deterred Stan. He smiled at her and turned the handle on Butters' bedroom door.

"One empty bedroom, zero adult supervision, two of us... I like these kinds of math problems."

"Stan, I don't know about this."

"Relax, Wendy. We don't have to, you know, make love or anything. We can just, you know, fool around." Stan's smile was infectious and his desire alluring, but it didn't take away Wendy's anxieties. Still, she remained silent as he guided her into the room, kissing her all the while.

Bebe and Clyde's private show was even less private in here. Soon Wendy could hear the constant thumping of what must have been the headboard against the wall.

"Oh, that's it. Right there, baby, right there!"

"God, you're so tight!"

"You're so big!"

"No, I'm pretty sure you're really tight. I'm only about five and a half, really."

"Just shut up and fuck me, Clyde!"

Wendy stared at the floor; the gleeful sounds of Bebe giving up something Wendy just couldn't seemed to make a mockery of her and Stan's relationship.

"Poor Butters; if his parents ever have sex when he's around, he must hear everything," Stan said, shaking his head. "Still; they seem to be having fun."

"Yeah." Maybe she was frigid. Did people actually get frigid? Wendy had always assumed it was one of those things horrible guys made up to try and bully girls into sleeping with them, but now she was starting to wonder.

"Ooh, oh yes, yes! Touch me there, baby. Touch me!"

"But... but it's all slippery!"

"Urgh, fine. I'll touch it, you keep thrusting like the sexy piston you are."

"Okay... Wow, are you going to keep doing that? It's hot."

"Hey! Less talking, more fucking!"

Wendy jumped as she felt Stan's hand on her shoulder. "You okay, babe?"

"Yeah. Of course," Wendy lied. He smiled and kissed her gently; she let herself respond. He smiled against her lips and slid his arms around her.

"Slow and steady, yeah?" he murmured against her ear. Wendy could only nod as his fingers found the bare skin of her back and traced her spine.

"Oh, I'm coming... I'm coming... Oh, harder, harder, harder! I'm so close, I'm so fucking... Oh." Bebe suddenly sounded rather disappointed.

"Shit. I'm sorry, Bebe. I couldn't stop it."

"It's... It's okay, baby."

Wendy heard crying. "It's not okay. I'm such a loser. It was too much, and I couldn't handle it. I'm not a real man!"

"Oh, hush, darling. Of course you're a real man. Let's just... How about I just show you how I touch myself when I'm thinking about you, and we'll see if you get a second wind, hmm?"

"But it's all floppy and I didn't get you off!" Clyde sounded as though he was going to throw himself out of the nearest window.

Wendy felt Stan shake in her arms. She looked up, and he was silently laughing.

"Stan!" she hissed, smacking him hard on the arm. He winced and at least had the decency to look a little ashamed.

"Sorry, Wendy. But you've got to admit, that's pretty funny."

Wendy rolled her eyes, and was stunned at how quickly Stan's expression became sheepish. He took her hand and led her over to the bed, which was covered with the jackets of almost all the soon to be tenth grade. He found a small area to perch on, then patted his knee. "Come here, babe."

Wendy walked over — acutely aware that her feet were starting to hurt in her ridiculous heels — and sat on his thighs like a child rather than a sex goddess. He put his arms around her and nuzzled her neck.

"You okay, babe?" he asked. "You've been kind of quiet."

"I'm fine," she replied, not wanting to let on. She was trying to be subtly asexual, not a miserable bitch. To try and make up for it, she cupped his face in her hands and kissed him; shifting uncomfortably when she felt something suddenly poke her right thigh. She tried to wriggle away, but Stan just got more enthusiastic and slid his hands over her thighs as they kissed.

"Why don't you, mmh, get a little closer, babe," he whispered into her ear as he gently tried to push her legs apart.

"Stan!" Wendy's skin prickled and she felt a sense of pure horror, until she realised he was only trying to get her to straddle him. Well, only was a relative term when he was cupping her ass and sliding her closer and closer to the bulge in his pants. She felt like the proverbial girl tied to the railway tracks as a cock-shaped train headed closer and closer to her while suspenseful music played.

He stopped and gazed at her for a moment.

"You're amazing," he whispered, his eyes on hers. "I... I love you."

With those words, he flipped her onto the bed and started to unbutton his shirt.

Stan gazed down at Wendy as she lay on the bed; the way she had kept wriggling and kissing him like something possessed dragged him in deeper — he knew it wasn't the booze talking because she didn't drink, and so he couldn't help but be enthusiastic back.

Slipping his shirt off, he joined her so they were both horizontal on the bed. After Stan had unceremoniously shoved the coats onto the floor and pressed Wendy between himself and the mattress, he swiftly decided this was one of his favourite places for Wendy to be. He kissed her again, and Wendy hesitantly reciprocated. Stan wasn't sure why Wendy suddenly seemed so reluctant; did he suck at this? Was him being on top of her an affront to her new-wave feminism?

"Wendy? Is everything okay?" he asked between desperate kisses.

"Sure. Fine," she replied tersely. He dipped his head to kiss her throat and slid the spaghetti strap of her dress down her arm, swiftly pressing his lips to the newly exposed skin.

"This is a pretty dress," he mused between languid kisses. "But I think it'd look even better on the floor." The thought of finally — finally — getting to see her perfect little boobs was almost too much.

He tentatively pushed the hem of her dress up her thighs a little, but just as he'd flicked his tongue out over her collar bone, he realised she wasn't reacting. At all. It kind of scared him. He lifted his head to speak to her, and noticed she was looking away from him, tears glistening in her eyes.

"Wendy? What's wrong?" He sat up, suddenly feeling very small and very helpless. Was he really so awful at this he'd made her cry?

"I don't want to do this," she said in a small voice. Stan edged a little away from her, giving her space to sit back up.

"Okay. That's okay," he said, watching her carefully as she sat up and surreptitiously wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Stan hastily felt in his pockets for a tissue and handed it to her.

"Thanks," she replied, dabbing her eyes.

"Was it me?" he asked, his stomach sinking. "Did I do something wrong?"

"No," Wendy insisted. "It's me. I just... I don't... Not tonight. I don't feel ready."

"Oh."

"I'm sorry."

"No! Don't be sorry! It's okay!" Stan insisted. God, he felt sick. Would she have even said anything if he hadn't asked? He felt like he'd committed some awful sexual assault. Why didn't she just say something? Did she think he was such a pervert that he couldn't hold off?

To his utter shock, Wendy simply burst into tears. She sat on his bed, weeping into her hands and Stan didn't know what the hell to do about it.

"I'm sorry, I'm really sorry," she blurted out between hiccupping sobs. Stan felt his blood grow colder with every tear.

"It's okay. It's okay," he said, rubbing her back in little circles. She leant her head against him and he held her tightly, letting her cry onto his bare chest.

She didn't stop until his phone started to ring. She wiped her eyes with the damp tissue and stared at the cell phone as though it were an unwelcome intruder.

"Ignore it," Stan replied.

"But, it's Kyle." She was looking at his picture on the screen — taken at a recent funfair where he'd stuck a toy stuffed shark on top of his head and bared his mouth full of braces.

"He can wait," Stan insisted, but Wendy had already answered the phone.

"... No, it's Wendy.... Sure, last time I checked... What?" Her eyes widened, and her whole face froze in shock. She thrust the phone into Stan's hand.

"I think... I'm going home. I'll see you tomorrow." With those words, she dashed out of Butters' room, not even giving him the chance to say goodbye.

"Wendy? Wait up!" Stan dashed to the landing, but she was already out of the door. A few people looked up at him from the stairwell; judgement written all over their features.

Having nobody else to take his rage out on, Stan put the phone to his ear.

"Dude, what the fuck did you just say to my girlfriend?" he demanded.

"Whoa, chill! I just asked her a question," Kyle replied. "Is she okay?" his voice had an edge of concern to it.

"Yeah, no. It doesn't matter. What did you say?"

"I just asked if she masturbated," Kyle said with all the nonchalance of asking her what she'd had for dinner.

"The fuck, Kyle? You don't ask girls that! What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"I... I needed some female input on this one!" Kyle stammered out. He sounded so genuinely bewildered that Stan couldn't be too mad at him for long.

"Just... just you make sure you apologise to her, okay?"

"Okay, okay... did you two fall out, or something? You're really tetchy."

"You just asked my girlfriend if she touched herself; I have a right to be fucking tetchy."

"I'm sorry, it's just..." He took a deep breath. "Is it normal to teach your girlfriend how to masturbate?"

Stan stared at his phone in shock. He was really starting to worry about Kyle being left to his own devices in New York.

"What?" Stan asked, more in an effort to buy him some time to figure out what the hell was going on.

"Well, I think I taught Rebecca how to masturbate. Over the phone. Is that normal?"

"No. Emphatically not," Stan replied. He heard Kyle exhale loudly on the other end of the phone.

"I didn't think so... It was fun, though. She makes really sexy little noises—"

"Dude, stop it. Seriously."

"I mean, she wasn't doing it by herself. I was jacking off, too."

Stan sighed. Why did Kyle keep telling him these things? Couldn't he go and look it up on the internet like any normal teenage boy?

"Wait, hold on. You were both jacking off on the phone to each other?"

"Yeah, kind of. Like, I was doing what she told me to do, and she was doing what I told her to do, and we kind of described it—"

"Dude, you had phone sex."

"No we didn't!" Kyle sounded horrified. "We just..."

"Masturbated while talking about sex to each other? That's pretty much the dictionary definition."

Now Stan heard Kyle sigh down the phone.

"Shit, really? I think we're moving too fast. Way too fast," he said.

"No kidding," Stan replied grumpily. Three years of dating and Wendy had just worked herself up into hysterics over the possibility of showing him her underwear. Kyle had been dating Rebecca for about three weeks and they were having phone sex. Stan just figured Kyle had better be really fucking grateful.

"I don't know what we should be doing," Kyle said. "And I know she doesn't. We're just kind of stumbling along, but I'm scared maybe I'm pushing her into stuff. She phoned me and was all..." He trailed off suddenly. "Should I be trying to cool her off a bit? Or is it good that she's so... you know. I mean, I like it. It's fucking scary sometimes, but I like it; I like her, and doing... you know... with her feels really good. But should it?"

"I think maybe you're overthinking things," Stan said. "If you're both happy, then whatever, right?"

"I guess." Kyle sounded unconvinced. "Eww. I think I hit the ceiling."

"You okay?"

"Yeah — I didn't mean my head." Stan heard the sound of desperate wiping on the other end of the phone.

"You repulse me sometimes."

"Sorry. What happened with Wendy, then?"

"Oh, dude. I fucked up is what happened."

"What did you do?"

"Thought she was gagging for it when she was just gagging. We were, you know, making out at the party. I thought everything was going great, but she burst into tears when I tried to take off her dress. I feel like such a dick."

"Didn't you ask first?"

"I implied with my hands."

"That's not really asking, is it?"

"Kyle, you can't just say to a girl, 'Hey, do you mind if I undo your dress?' can you?"

"Why not?" For such a clever, straight A student, Kyle could be staggeringly obtuse sometimes.

"It kills the mood."

"And making the girl cry doesn't?"

Stan felt a little bubble of anger rise in his throat. "Hey, at least I didn't jack off while talking to her!"

"She asked me to! Anyway, I'm only trying to help." Stan wished Kyle sounded grumpier; he was irritatingly cheerful right now.

"I thought you wanted my help."

"And you gave it. You told me not to stress, so I'm not stressing." Stan could tell from the falsely bouncy tone to his voice that Kyle was lying through his teeth. "Have you got Wendy's number, then?"

"What?"

"You said talk to her."

"Oh, yeah — just don't ask her about her pussy, okay? Or you hitting the ceiling."

After Kyle agreed to Stan's not unreasonable demands, he passed on Wendy's cell phone number, snapped his phone shut and sighed. Wendy. He needed to go after her, apologise for his emotionally retarded friend and the general mistranslation of the whole evening. First of all, he needed to find his shirt; in his haste to shift the jackets and make Wendy comfortable, his blue button-down shirt had gone AWOL.

As he searched through the pile of jackets, he could hear shouting.

"Well, you're a dried up old cunt, aren't you?"

"Butters, don't talk to your mother like that!"

"Go fuck yourself, Father." Butters made the epithet sound like an insult. "You, well, you can't do shit to me, by golly, and you know it... Come near me with that again and I will fuck you up, sir!"

Stan scrambled around the room in a desperate search for his shirt, his adrenaline pumping. He had to get out of here, and fast. He was going to give it two minutes and if he had no joy, just fucking abandon it and let the cops stop him on the way home. It'd be way better than — He caught a glimpse of blue poking out from under a grey velvet jacket. He fished it out, then realised the jacket was Wendy's. That gave him a good excuse to go round to hers later. He held it close; it smelt of her, her skin and perfume. Maybe he could keep hold of it for a little while?

He heard the door fly open. He stilled, then glanced around and found himself staring at Stephen Stotch, Butters' father. While he was shirtless and on his knees. Fucking great.

"Alright, kids. Party's ov— Oh. Hello, Stan," he said in a low voice.

Stan quickly scrambled to his feet. "Hi, Mr Stotch," he replied, never certain if the formality doused or stoked him. Mr Stotch smiled, his eyes glassy with alcohol and his expression predatory.

"You lost something?" he asked, his eyes raking over him in a manner that made Stan very, very uncomfortable. "Or are you looking to lose something." Mr Stotch's eyes travelled down to Stan's ass.

Stan held up his shirt. "Found it."

Mr Stotch nodded. "So, where's your little girlfriend?" he asked, leaning against the door frame in a manner Stan assumed he thought was casual and blocking the only sensible escape route. Stan was seriously contemplating climbing out of the window.

"Um, I kind of need to get this jacket to her," he said, which wasn't a lie.

"I'm sure she can wait an hour or so," Mr Stotch said, slowly undoing the top two buttons of his shirt. "It's... It's pretty hot out there." He stared at Stan pointedly. "And in here."

"Yeah, well. It's summer." Stan tried to get past Mr Stotch, but he remained where he was, his eyes staring hungrily at Stan's body.

"You work out?"

"I'm captain of the football team," Stan replied, hoping it didn't answer his question one way or the other.

Mr Stotch reached up and ran an idle finger through Stan's black hair as though he were examining a collectible. "You're a very beautiful boy; anyone tell you that?"

"I really need to get going." Stan tried to just barge past this time, but Mr Stotch shifted so the two of them were pretty much stuck in the doorway.

"Oh, sorry," Mr Stotch said in a tone that implied he was anything but. He glanced down and fixed his gaze on Stan's crotch. "Well, well. I wasn't expecting that."

Stan realised with a shudder that Mr Stotch had noticed his dick hadn't caught onto the fact that he was no longer on top of Wendy.

"Hmm. Your little girlfriend's very lucky. Very lucky indeed."

Stan laughed nervously. "Yeah, well; I need to catch up with my lucky girlfriend, so... umm, later." He tried again to squeeze past Mr Stotch and reach the safety of the hallway, but he put his arm out against the door frame and blocked Stan's path. He could smell the stale beer and sweat.

"Don't play coy with me," Mr Stotch whispered, his face inches from Stan's. "I mean to have you, Stan. I mean to have you and your pert, innocent little ass right on my—"

"Mr Stotch, the police want to talk to you." Clyde handed a cordless phone to Mr Stotch and Stan took the opportunity to sneak out.

"No, Officer Rentokill, I'm afraid I don't know..."

Stan fought the urge to laugh. Okay, so maybe he and Kyle were even now he'd saved Stan's ass. Literally.

~

"Hi, sweetie; how was the girls' night?" Wendy's mother called as she opened the front door. So much for trying to sneak upstairs, but at least she'd bought Wendy's cover for the party.

"Fine," Wendy lied. Her father peered around the sofa; his eyes widened in concern.

"Honey, what's the matter?" he asked.

Wendy inwardly cursed. "Oh, I just... We had a water fight."

"At midnight?"

"Well, it's still warm out."

Her father's eyes narrowed.

"This better not have anything to do with that Marsh boy..."

"No!" Wendy lied, just as her mother smacked her father's arm.

"Behave," she scolded. "Stan's a sweetheart."

"I'm just going to go upstairs," Wendy announced, trudging up the stairs, entering the sanctuary of her room and closing the door before promptly bursting into tears yet again. What was wrong with her? She couldn't even let her boyfriend of three years touch her boobs — or what passed for them.

She looked at herself in the mirror; make-up smeared, stick thin. Not for the first time, she wondered how on earth a guy could ever love her in the way Stan purported to without getting anything in return. Wendy sank onto her bed, hating herself for being so self-pitying and treating her body as though it only existed to make a man happy.

She was surprised when her phone started ringing. Maybe it was Stan, for better or worse. Wiping her eyes, she fished around in her handbag for her cell phone with her free hand. The number was unrecognised.

"Hello?" Wendy answered cautiously, half-expecting it to be some sort of prank from Cartman; Stan had enough time to have spoken to him between her leaving the party and now.

"Hi. Wendy?" The voice on the other end sounded just as wary. "It's Kyle."

"Oh. Hi, Kyle." He sounded different; Wendy was certain it was him, but perhaps his voice had got a little deeper since last semester.

"Hey." There was a long pause. Wendy knew Kyle could be drawn into erudite discussion if you tried to talk about anything where he could get on his soapbox — and Kyle had more soapboxes than the Palmolive factory — but outside of that he was a pretty quiet guy, at least from Wendy's experience.

"I'm sorry about earlier," he said eventually. "Stan said I shouldn't ask that sort of thing." He sounded sceptical and that in itself made Wendy want to laugh. "I mean, I don't have a thing about knowing what my best friend's girlfriend gets up to in her shower time. I was just trying to figure out if it was, you know, something normal girls did."

Wendy felt pathetically grateful at being referred to as a 'normal girl', though she wasn't sure if Kyle would rescind this if she told him what had happened tonight.

"So, who are the not normal girls who you know do it?"

"Wendy, my sole experience of female sexuality comes from pornos, and I'm pretty certain — despite all the evidence they present — that girls don't dream of being spanked and having guys jizz all over their tits," he replied evenly, before adding, "Right?" in a small, nervous voice.

"No, they don't," Wendy clarified.

"So, yeah. Anyway. Totally didn't mean to freak you out. I... I was kind of freaked myself, and you were just there on the phone, which is why I ended up asking and... well, anyway, I'm sorry."

Wendy felt tears sting her eyes. Kyle's constant talk about freaking her out with sex was effectively transporting her back to earlier this evening; the barrage of eager hands and straining cocks wouldn't even leave her alone in her own bedroom.

"Wendy? Oh, please don't cry; I said I was sorry!" Kyle sounded fretful and Wendy tried — and failed — to hold in her sobs.

"It's... It's not you, Kyle," she replied between gasps of breath as her tears flowed. "I'm sorry."

"Huh; well, if we're both sorry, I guess it cancels out. Seriously, what's wrong?"

For some reason Wendy couldn't explain — whether it was the late hour, her vulnerable state, his oddly reassuring voice — she told him everything. She didn't go into specifics, but she certainly shared more than she needed to in order to give Kyle the gist of what had happened.

Kyle sighed heavily. "Oh, Wendy. Why don't you just tell him you're not ready? It's no big deal."

Wendy laughed. "Trust me, it's a big deal. Stan... it's all he thinks about."

"Well, yeah. He's fifteen."

Wendy felt sick. "I can't do it, Kyle. I can't live up to that. I'm... I'm not like Bebe, okay!"

"So?"

"So, I'm not busty, or blonde, or a hot sex kitten. I'm just some frigid beanpole..." she felt her whole face quiver. Then she heard Kyle snort.

"Oh, shut up, Wendy; you're gorgeous. And Stan loves you, not what orifices of yours he can put his cock in. Anyway, so what if he did, huh? If all he wanted from you was sex and he dumped you for not going along with it — well, why the fuck would you care? He'd be a complete fuckface and you'd have had a lucky escape."

Wendy stared at her phone for a few moments in complete shock. He made a damn good point, albeit in the crudest way possible. "You've got such a way with words, Kyle," she commented.

Then she realised he'd called her gorgeous and she felt her blush creep all the way down her neck.

"Look, forget that. Stan loves you, okay? Sure, I know he dreams about making love to you in a way that borders on obsessive, but the key word there is 'you'. When it comes down to it, you're what he dreams of, not... not it. Sex is just the icing on the cake and he's pretty damn happy with the cake as it is."

Wendy tried to focus on this obvious dollop of common sense, but her paranoia still had a firm grip on her thought processes. "It's a pretty flat cake. Tiny little un-iced cupcakes, really. Bebe has a whole big, bouncing three-tier wedding cake..."

"Urgh, fine. Whatever. Those cupcakes may be small, but they're really nice. Ah, they're pert and in proportion and... and they're probably really tasty, too." There was a long pause. "Don't tell Stan I said that. Please."

Wendy couldn't help but smile. "You've been admiring my... my cupcakes?" she teased.

"I just pay attention to the bakeries in my area," Kyle replied flippantly. Then Wendy heard him sigh heavily. "Sometimes I think maybe some of these New York cakes could do with a little less icing." He sounded a little mournful. In all of her worry about her modest cleavage and Stan's not-so-modest libido, she'd kind of forgotten the exact same things appeared to have been gnawing at Kyle too; although she doubted he had concerns about his cleavage not filling out a wrap-around dress.

"Are you okay, Kyle?" she asked timidly, having followed the extended cake metaphor back to its original meaning. He sighed and she heard the creak of a mattress through the speaker.

"Yeah. It's just... I met this girl."

"Oh?" Stan had briefly mentioned Kyle's sudden and unexpected infatuation with a girl in New York; he'd shown Wendy a picture he had been sent by Kyle of a gawky girl with glasses, frizzy hair and braces, who was dressed in an unflattering school uniform. Apparently she'd lived in South Park before, although neither she nor Stan could remember her. Stan still couldn't get his head around what Kyle even saw in this Rebecca girl and, if she was honest, she too was a little intrigued.

"She's beautiful," Kyle continued. "She's got big eyes and a cute smirk and she can trounce anyone at chess." Judging by the tone of his voice, the latter quality seemed to enchant Kyle more than anything. "We've been dating for, like, I don't know." There was another long pause. "Okay, fine; three weeks and two days. I could probably break it down into hours for you. Anyway, she's... umm... Well, the thing is, she's kind of naïve — like, really naïve — about sex, but she's really, really enthusiastic. Like, I don't know, she really goes for it when we kiss and stuff, but I have to explain what we're doing and why she's feeling certain things — which is a pretty weird imbalance of power right there. Well, tonight she phoned me up and she..."

Wendy listened patiently and didn't interrupt. It seemed to take Kyle an age to explain what happened, which could be boiled down to 'we had accidental phone sex'. If he was after advice, Wendy felt staggeringly ill-qualified.

"Don't get me wrong; I enjoyed it. I just keep thinking, you know, that it's all happening way too soon and I seem to be the one in control. That scares me — she should be setting the pace and I should be the pathetically horny boy trying to put my hands down her pants while she slaps me away, or whatever. Now I don't know if we've gone too far and now she's freaking out, or I didn't go far enough and she's freaking out, or if I feel used, or I made her feel like I was going to propose or... It's too much!"

"Kyle, calm down; you're going to give yourself an aneurysm if you keep up all this second — no, wait; fourteenth — guessing ," Wendy replied, wanting to give the poor, sweet, confused boy a hug. "It sounds like she was confused about what she was feeling, you clarified it and told her it was okay, she... umm... broached the idea of... well, yes; and you, umm, did it but you talked afterwards. It's not like you just got off and put the phone down. I can't see how you could have handled it any better."

She heard Kyle laugh a little in relief down the phone. "Thanks, Wendy." He exhaled in apparent relief. "I guess I didn't expect to be worrying about this kind of stuff so soon. I thought... Well, to be honest I thought all girls were like you. By which, I guess, I mean like me."

Wendy couldn't help but giggle at this. The casual way Kyle kept saying how normal her reactions were, how normal his anxiety was made her feel ten times better than she had upon fleeing from Butters' house. "I suppose we're all different," she mused. "Bebe's been trying to get Clyde's pants down for, like, months."

Kyle laughed at this. Wendy smiled and looked out of the window, phone in hand. "She succeeded, by the way," she added, while she absently watched Butters' father enter the house. Butters appeared to be taunting his mother over something while she sobbed in the car. Wendy couldn't help but feel they had brought all of this on themselves — she had heard stories of the things they put him through during elementary school. It was hardly surprising that as he got older, he started to dish out what he had been made to take.

"What, at Butters' party?" Wendy assumed Stan had told him about the party; Stan told Kyle practically everything. This probably contributed to how weirdly comfortable she felt talking to Kyle about tonight; he most likely already knew.

"Yeah. I feel kind of bad now; I left Stan there after I had my freak out. Still, I think the party must be over now; Butters' parents are back."

"Wait, Stan's there alone and Mr. Stotch is back?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"You left Stan alone with the Giant Spider Queen?" Kyle sounded terrified rather than angry.

"The what?"

"Butters' dad. He's predatory and gay and he wants to steal your boyfriend's ass virginity."

"What?" Wendy had never heard about this before, and instantly started to worry for Stan's safety.

"Relax, Wendy; I'll deal with it."

"How?"

"I'll phone the house; let Officer Rentokill have a word with Mr Stotch. That'll give Stan time to escape his web."

"Officer Rentokill?" Sometimes Wendy felt like Stan and Kyle had a secret language only they understood.

"He's surprisingly effective. Normally Cartman does this shit but seeing as he's not here... Anyway, I'll see you when school starts, I guess."

"Yeah." She sat down on the bed. "Thanks, Kyle. I think you really helped."

"I didn't do much, but glad I could help." There was a pause. "Thank you. You know, for listening and not being pissy with me for asking about your masturbatory habits, or lack thereof."

"It's okay. Enjoy New York."

"Thanks. Bye."

Wendy was gripped with a sudden, spontaneous feeling. "I do, by the way," she said down the phone in a rush before reaching for the 'call end' button on her phone. She caught Kyle say, "God damn!" in an awe-struck voice before she terminated the call.

She fell back onto the bed, helpless with giggles.

Chapter Five: Summer Awakening — Summer Nights

While munching on his cereal, Kyle looked down at his text messages, most notably the one he had received a month ago from Rebecca which simply said, 'Thanks' and was followed by a winking face. He blushed to the roots of his hair just thinking about what she was so grateful to him for. They hadn't done anything like that since, but Kyle was fine with that. He enjoyed the fairly sensible pace they had been ambling along at on their countless dates, and he was never going to complain about Rebecca's insistence that he felt up her breasts on a regular basis.

Not that they didn't talk about it — the naughty little secret they shared with a knowing smile and intertwining fingers — she just hadn't made any suggestion to repeat it and Kyle hadn't asked. Of course, the 'Lying in bed, thinking of you — x' text message he'd received a ten past midnight last night had left him wondering — and a little hard — for a good half an hour before falling asleep.

"Kyle, hurry up!" his mother insisted as she put her hair up with one hand and packed Ike's little backpack with the other.

"I am hurrying," Kyle replied, while continuing to eat his cereal. His mother glared at him.

"You're not dressed, you haven't brushed your hair—"

Kyle counted on his fingers. "I am dressed, I don't ever brush my hair because I end up looking like Ronald McDonald if I do, and I've been ready for ages." He looked at his mother coolly. "I was making sandwiches for our picnic basket while you were still in your nightie. If you want to moan at someone, moan at Kyle; he's still in the bathroom trying to stick his hair down in just the right way."

He felt his mother's glare burn a metaphorical hole in the side of his head. Just as he returned to his cereal, he noticed she cast her eye over his board shorts, vest top and white unbuttoned shirt dubiously.

"You're going out in that?" It was more of a statement than a question.

"Yup. It's going to be hot today—"

"Don't talk with your mouth full, Kyle."

He swallowed. "Well, it is."

Their conversation was interrupted by Ike tottering into the room in their mother's too-big high heels. Suddenly, Kyle's alleged sartorial disaster was all but forgotten.

"I want to wear these!" Ike sounded both insistent and genuine.

"Ike, Bubbeleh, those are Mommy's shoes."

Just then, the doorbell rang. It seemed to be the straw that broke the camel's back, judging from his mother's expression.

"Who in Abraham's name could that be?"

"I'll get it." Kyle scraped his chair back and rushed towards the front door. "It's probably Rebecca and Jenny."

"What, what, what!" His mother sounded horrified at the prospect. "But your Aunt Sarah and I are taking Ike to the pool!"

"We're not staying here to have a mad orgy and slaughter a goat," Kyle shot back. "We're going up to Central Park where there will be plenty of police and passers-by to ensure we don't get anybody pregnant."

"Kyle, don't be flippant. Ike, for the love of... go and put your sneakers on!"

Kyle opened the door just as a giggling Ike minced past.

"Hey," he said casually as Rebecca and Jenny stood in the doorway, arms folded and their bodies angled away from each other. It couldn't have been any more obvious that the two weren't friends. Kyle stepped back to let them in, noticing Rebecca's pretty yellow sundress.

"You look nice," he said, kissing her hand and ignoring the way Jenny rolled her eyes. Yes, he was a little old-fashioned at times. So what?

"Th... thanks," she replied, a pink blush creeping over her cheeks.

Ike waved at Rebecca. "Hi Rebecca; I'm a lady!" he announced in a falsetto voice as he twirled in front of her.

"A... And a very n... nice one you make, t... too," she replied indulgently. Ike beamed and stood on his tip toes in an attempt to kiss her cheek. She bent down and received the offer, giving him a small hug in return.

Kyle steered him away with a hand to his back. "Come on, Ru Paul, get your sneakers on before Mom really does try and make you a lady by removing your testicles," he remarked. Ike shrieked and ran upstairs barefoot, carrying their mother's shoes.

Kyle grinned and nudged Rebecca. "I think he likes you."

Rebecca smiled and took his hand. "Well, th... that's g... good, r... right?"

"Not in ten years' time when you want to trade me in for a younger model."

Rebecca looked a little saddened by this; Kyle hastily kissed her to make them both forget. He'd be going back to South Park in a few weeks, and the prospect of being without her every day was daunting to him.

"Where's Kyle?" Jenny asked, her expression as snooty as ever.

"Getting ready," Kyle replied, slipping his hand around Rebecca's waist. At the precise moment he chose to give a playful little nip to Rebecca's ear, his mother stepped into the hallway, hand on her hips.

"So, this is the Rebecca I've been hearing about," she announced and Kyle cringed more than Dick Cheney when his shotgun went off but the stag kept moving. If his life were a Jane Austen novel, his mother would be Mrs. Bennett.

"H... Hello, M... Mrs Br... Brof... Broflovski," Kyle could feel poor Rebecca's anxiety before she had even opened her mouth. He squeezed her hand in a manner he hoped was reassuring as his mother gawped in amazement. He was close to glaring at her but she seemed to come around and start to act normally.

"It's so very nice to meet you," she said, squashing Rebecca against her bosom as she embraced her.

"Erm. Th... Thank y... you, Mrs..."

"Oh, please; call me Sheila."

"Thank y... you, Sh... Sheila," Rebecca stammered out, clearly shaken by the sudden outpouring of affection.

"Ma, this is Jenny; Kyle's girlfriend." Kyle offered the introduction partly as a distraction for Rebecca, partly so Jenny wasn't left to stare at the menorah on the mantelpiece and the picture of Kyle when he was a chubby three year old trying to eat a goldfish.

"Shalom," Jenny said nervously, having clearly been coached on what to say to the family. His mother took one look at Jenny and shook her head.

"How about you kids go into the kitchen and I'll get your Aunt Sarah out without meeting Jenny here." She smiled kindly and patted Jenny's shoulder. "She won't be fooled by this shiksa for a second."

"Ma!"

"What did she call me?" Jenny asked warily as they sloped off to the kitchen.

"It doesn't mat—"

"Shiksa. Y... Yiddish, r... referring to s... someone not of J... Jewish heritage; often d... derogatory b... but c... can b... be used as an en... endear—"

"Yeah, thanks for that, Rebecca. You got any more dictionaries you want to swallow?"

Kyle glared at Jenny, and an innate need to protect his girlfriend from any who dare try and harm her kicked in suddenly and sharply. When Jenny cowed under his gaze he felt very guilty, though, but fortunately Kyle waltzed in at this point and all tension evaporated.

"Hey! You made it!" He kissed Jenny tentatively and she seemed oddly dispassionate. Then she caught Kyle's eye and suddenly seemed utterly enthusiastic, messing up his carefully arranged hair in the process. He didn't seem to mind, despite having spent a good hour in the bathroom clearly arranging his hair just so.

"Are you ready to go?" Jenny asked, looking around nervously. Kyle imagined she was actively avoiding any chance of meeting Aunt Sarah after his own mother's impressive display of fear-mongering.

"Sure, sweetheart; I just need to sort out the picnic basket. I doubt Kyle would have—"

"It's done," Kyle interrupted nonchalantly. His cousin appeared positively furious.

"What? You've spent the past hour dicking about in the bathroom! I had to do something to pass the time," Kyle protested.

Jenny was already peeking in the wicker basket they had borrowed from Aunt Sarah.

"Wow — this looks good." She grinned at Kyle. "Is there no end to your talents, Mr Broflovski?"

Kyle glared at him; Rebecca grabbed his hand so tightly he thought it might snap off.

"Thanks," he replied, thoroughly confused by everyone's reactions. He pointed towards the stairwell. "I just need to grab my bag—"

"I'll come with you!" Rebecca insisted, and proceeded to follow him up the stairs.

As soon as they were in the relative sanctuary of his and Kyle's room, Rebecca pinned him to the wall and kissed him frantically. He couldn't help but return her affections; she was magnetic North to his magnetic South. Or perhaps it was the other way around; he hadn't quite decided yet.

She broke off their kiss. Her expression was suffused in panic and she was biting her lip so hard, Kyle was worried she would draw blood.

"Y... You like me, r... right?"

"Of course!" Kyle could scarcely imagine a more ridiculous question.

"I m... mean, like like me. M... More th... than anyone?"

He cupped her face in both his hands. "Yes. Totally," he replied, wondering where on Earth this had suddenly come from. "Seriously; you're the only girl I've ever liked. You know, in a tingly way."

She smiled and glanced bashfully up at him. He kissed her forehead. "What's up?"

"I d... don't w... want you to g... go back to S... South Park," she blurted out. "I w... want y... you to st... stay here!"

He held her in his arms and pressed his cheek against hers. "I don't want to be anywhere where you're not," he replied firmly. "But I have to go back." He pulled away from her a little and rested his hands on her arms. "We can make it work. We can email and IM each other. Plus, there's always the phone." He raised his eyebrows at her in a manner he hoped was suggestive with a hint of irony. She blushed.

He noticed her avoid his gaze as she rested her head against his chest. When she squeezed his waist, Kyle reflexively wrapped his arms around her and kissed her hairline.

"We'll... We'll work it out," he said, uncertain as to how but knowing he wasn't going to just give her up when he had to leave in a few weeks.

~

"I don't know about this..."

Cartman sat on bed and heard it creak under his weight. "It'll be fine. I'll take care of you," he insisted, holding out his hand to the suddenly nervous girl biting her fingernails in front of him.

He was being as calm and reassuring as possible, the way he had with several women he had encountered on this dumb tour of Colorado, but this was different.

Cartman wanted this one intensely.

He couldn't pinpoint what it was about her that got his motor running like a fucking NASCAR racer. Sure, she was skinny and bendy — two important features in Cartman's ideal woman — but there was more. She might be a little shy now, but she had been a firecracker from the moment they met; a core of iron like that would be difficult to break. Difficult, but not impossible.

She took his hand; her dark curls tumbled over her shoulder as she bent her head forward. "You know I'm still a... You know," she said whilst staring at the floor as though ashamed of it.

"It's okay; so am I." Cartman realised with a detached amusement that it was the first true thing he had said to her beyond his name.

"Really?" she looked relieved.

"Really." He steadied his hands on her hips and pulled her onto his lap. She smiled, slid her arms around him as she puckered up for a kiss he was all too willing to give. She felt good — bony and slight — and it made her dangerous to him. Worse still, she smelt amazing; the first whiff he got of her scented skin and he had been ready to bang her right there and then in the square outside some national park.

She'd worn tight jeans and held a bottle of cheap looking wine, flaunting both the age and location restrictions in one go.

"Hey, Tubby," she drawled, and he'd felt pin pricks of rage.

"What the fuck do you want, you anorexic bitch?" he snapped back. The insult seemed to roll off her; he figured he'd need to try harder.

She waved the bottle at him. "Want a drink?"

He shrugged. "Whatever," he replied and reached for the bottle. She pulled away and wagged her finger at him.

"Oi! Either give it or don't, you fucking tease!"

She unscrewed the bottle top and beckoned him over. For some reason he didn't understand, he did as she asked; he even stooped down when silently instructed him with her finger. She swigged from the bottle, pressed her lips to his and poured the wine straight from her open mouth into his own. Cartman was left pretty Goddamn speechless.

She broke the kiss and slung her arms around him.

"Later," she said, gently pressing her finger to his nose.

That was around the time he noticed — without consciously noticing — just how Goddamn fucking good she smelled.

As she walked away with a swish of her bony hips, he knew he had to make her stay; so he hastily grabbed her belt loops and yanked her back.

"Where the fuck do you think you're going?" he drawled in his best sexy voice; the kind that could make a girl cream her panties from ten yards.

The girl appeared uncertain for a moment, but then smiled wickedly. "I dunno; where do you think I should go?"

Goddamn it, this chick seemed to know exactly what did it for him.

So after three hours of fabricated stories and spit-swapping, here they were. Angelica was a college student at the university in Boulder and a cheerleader for their football team; Cartman figured the least she could do was put those horny moves she'd demonstrated earlier that night in Green Mountain memorial park to practical use in his hotel room.

She broke away from their kiss, her ass wiggling infuriatingly against him. "Do you have... you know, protection?"

"Relax, Angelica. I've got it covered," he said, pressing her ass as tightly against him as he could. He definitely had something in his wallet... not that he should do this. She was trouble with a capital everything, and she was a raging slut, and she was... and she was doing something rather nice with her tongue against his ear, so what the hell?

Riding high on a heady cocktail of rage, hate and horniness, Cartman bit down on the tender flesh between Angelica's neck and shoulder; when she gasped in the sluttiest manner possible, he bit down harder until she actually winced. Now that went straight to his dick.

"Calm down, Cullen," she teased, only Cartman didn't know what the fuck she was talking about.

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

He instantly wished he hadn't asked; she rattled off some massive gay-assed speech about some vampire douche in some gay books when all he wanted to do was peel off her sinfully tight jeans.

Half-way through her animated explanation about some vampire and some werewolf fighting over some chick, he decided to get the ball rolling by unbuttoning her flies.

She froze. "What are you doing?"

"What does it look like?" he replied breezily. "I don't give a fuck about gay-ass vampire books. I want to rub your clit like a fucking magic lamp!"

Angelica smirked at this. "You think a genie is going to come out of there?"

"If a genie looks like panty juice," he shot back. "You're going to be so fucking wet, you'll think you've pissed yourself." Cartman was beginning to wish he'd read some of his mother's old Harlequin novels, they'd have been useful for this sort of talk.

She stared at him, he pounced and kissed her. Soon, she was attacking him with equal fervour.

"Come on then; make me jizz, you fat bastard," she hissed, grinding away underneath him.

He roughly tweaked her nipples through her clothes. "I'm not fat. I'm big boned," he growled, pushing her harder into the bed.

She gripped his middle with her thighs. "Whatever; you're fucking fat and it makes me really horny," she panted.

Cartman stopped, his lips against her throat, and pulled himself up to stare at her incredulously.

"Really?" Never in his life had he heard such a statement.

"For sure." She smiled. "Are you going to bite me again? That was so fucking hot."

She arched her back and tilted her head back far enough to expose her skinny neck and send another waft of her damnable scent over him.

How could he refuse?

~

Kyle was lying on his stomach, the midday sunlight warming his very bones, as he pondered his next move. The black and white of the chessboard seemed to spread across his entire vision.

"Oh, come on, K... Kyle. Th... There's only l... like seven m... moves you c... can take," Rebecca teased.

"Alright, Little Miss Grandmaster; I'm thinking!"

Rebecca had been teaching him the finer points of chess for the past two months now and she clearly felt he had excelled enough under his tutelage to show him no mercy.

"I've g... got th... three chapters of 'The G... Girl With the D... Dragon T... Tattoo' left; sh... shall I j... just go ahead and f... finish them? B... Betsy w...wanted it back f...for her t... trip to B... Boulder."

Staring at the knight, bishop and rook — a sacrificial move was starting to look like the best tactic — he became dimly aware of Jenny's eyes on him as she dangled her feet in the water nearby. Where else but New York would someone build an artificial pond over urban sprawl, as opposed to trying to build urban sprawl over a real pond?

He glanced across at her where she was perched on the edge of the pond next to his cousin, the greenish tinge of the water making her pale legs seem almost radioactive. As he met her eyes, she looked away suddenly. Instead, she took a sandwich from his anxious-looking cousin with a smile.

He felt Rebecca's hand touch his. "It's st... still y... your m... move."

"Sorry." Kyle turned his attention to the chessboard on the grass once again.

"Sh... she's v... very pr... pretty, isn't she?" Rebecca commented.

"Who is?"

"J... Jenny. D... Don't you th... think?"

Kyle glanced back up at the girl in question, his cousin leaning his head on her shoulders as she stared off into the distance.

"I guess." He moved his knight. "Your move."

Rebecca frowned at the board, legs kicking languidly in the air and her breasts squashed between her arms as she lay propped up in her elbows. She moved her pawn; Kyle took it.

"D... Do you... She's pr... prettier th... than m.. me." Rebecca sounded oddly melancholic.

Kyle shook his head. "No, she's not."

Rebecca moved the queen forward one space, taking Kyle's last pawn, and said nothing. Kyle moved his bishop, knowing Rebecca could steal it and banking on that fact. He then leant forward and whispered into her ear.

"Bei mir bist du shayn," he murmured, before kissing her somewhere between her cheek and her lips.

She smiled against him; he could feel her lips at his jawline. Without looking, she reached between the two of them and moved her pawn to the end of the board on his side, five spaces away from his king. She declared it a queen and whispered, "Ch... checkmate."

"Goddamn it," Kyle uttered in frustration, much to Rebecca's amusement.

Kyle and Jenny's friends — who seemed to swap partners every day — laughed at them.

"You're doing better than me," Aaron pointed out. "Rebecca always annihilates me in about four minutes."

Kyle glared as Nathan attempted to disguise the word 'losers!' in a cough. Asshole.

"He's v... very good," Rebecca said with a cheeky smile. "I'm j... just b... better."

Kyle decided the only reasonable retaliation was to pin her to the ground and tickle her into submission.

"St... Stop it!" she giggled in a tone that definitely meant 'proceed', although he ceased just to be sure. That gave her opportunity to tickle him back, which she did with wild abandon.

"Hey, no fair!" Kyle managed to get out between bouts of painful laughter. She was practically on top of him and soon the two of them were rolling about trying to gain dominance while laughing hysterically.

Suddenly, Kyle felt himself roll into something hard. Something hard with a pant leg. He looked up, shielding his eyes from the sun, and saw an angry looking young man stare back at him. He coughed quietly, his dark eyes never leaving Kyle. Just as Kyle realised the angry boy bore more than a passing resemblance to Rebecca, she swiftly let go of him and pulled herself up into a kneeling position.

"M... Mark. H... hi," she said meekly.

"Mark?" Kyle asked.

"M... My b... brother," Rebecca replied, staring at the ground and tugging the grass beneath her fingers.

Mark stared at Rebecca pointedly. "Are you alright? This boy isn't bothering you, is he?"

"N.. No. He's my... my... Th... This is Kyle," she said. Kyle stood up and brushed the grass from his ass before looking Mark in the eye. Well, as best he could when he was a good head taller than the furious sibling.

"Hey," he said, offering his hand. Mark didn't take it. Instead he turned to Rebecca.

"Mother and Father think you're practising chess."

"W... Well, I... I... I a... a... am," Rebecca replied meekly.

"What's it to you what she does; you're not her keeper!" Kyle spat back, feeling rage bubble up at Rebecca's sudden sibling-induced anxiety. Mark fixed him with a furious glare. Rebecca quickly interposed herself between Mark and Kyle.

"W... We.... We were p... playing ch... chess."

"Yeah; Rebecca's been teaching me." Kyle forced himself to calm down for Rebecca's sake.

"Really? That's certainly an interesting tactic," Mark drawled, stepping forward and utterly invading Kyle's personal space. "Have you been teaching my sister a few things yourself?"

"That's really none of your business," Kyle snapped back coolly. If there was one thing he hated — really hated — it was people invading his privacy. In fact it was the only thing he and Ike ever got into fights over; nine year old boys didn't seem to have any concept of personal space.

Mark seemed to intensely dislike this response; his lip curled into a snarl, but Kyle figured he could take him on if he needed to. One look at Rebecca's pained expression made it apparent it would be his very last resort.

"She's my sister, I'm making it my—"

"St... St... Stop it! Kyle's m... my b... boyfr—"

Mark folded his arms. "So, I take it you don't have a chess club tournament tonight? No doubt there's some other reason you need to be left alone in the house overnight while Mother, Father and I go to Long Beach?" He glared at Kyle, who had no idea what was going on and so had no rebuttal. He saw Rebecca flush scarlet.

Suddenly, a wiry girl with a long plait tapped Mark roughly on the shoulder.

"Beat it, Cotswold," she said.

Mark rolled his eyes. "Make me, Betsy."

Betsy frowned dramatically as though in thought. "I could show your mother the pictures I have of you and Ben at that house party," she suggested.

Mark went pale. "Fine." He turned on his heel, then whirled back around to face Kyle. "But if you let your penis so much as touch her, I will hunt you down, kill you and make it look like an accident."

Kyle was pretty certain Mark would at least attempt to carry out his threat, so he merely nodded in submissive response until Mark walked away.

Rebecca looked rather distressed, so Kyle held her tightly; the way she pressed her body against him told him he'd made the right call.

"What was all that about?" he asked.

"H... He's o... overpr... overprotective," Rebecca whispered.

"He's a dick," Betsy offered.

"Kyle, this is Betsy. She's m... my b... best friend." Rebecca did an impressive job of introductions despite still keeping her head firmly pressed against Kyle's chest.

"Hey. I've heard a lot about you." Kyle offered his hand; Betsy eyed him warily before shaking it.

"Well, Rebecca won't shut up about you. Plus, if Mark hates you then you must be cool."

"Betsy!"

"Rebecca, I know he's your brother and you love him, but he's a closeted little killjoy determined to make you as fucked up as he is."

Rebecca didn't seem convinced by this assessment — and if Kyle was honest, he wasn't sure he saw it either — but Betsy seemed adamant.

"What was all that about the chess club ruse?" Kyle asked. "Is it so we can still go to Cunningham Park tomorrow?"

Rebecca blushed ever darker; Betsy laughed and patted Kyle's arm.

"Wow — you two are just adorable." She looked across at Rebecca. "You didn't tell him? Have I come all this way to offer my talents and they're not even required?"

Kyle felt panic claw at his nerves. Rebecca wanted a night alone and needed not only him, but her best friend's talents? "What... What exactly would you be doing with me, Rebecca and your talents? Because I really don't think I'm ready for—"

"I... I w... wanted to a... ask if... if y... you w... would like t... to st... stay over. T... Tonight. W... With m... me," Rebecca suggested nervously.

"Just you?" Kyle asked; it was better to be safe than sorry.

"Yeah. I mean, w... we could h... have o... other people o... over, I gu... guess."

"I think that would complicate matters," Betsy pointed out, as she turned to Kyle. "Rebecca's just talking about dinner and a DVD, you know." The way she said 'you know' suggested she thought dinner and a DVD was code for a drug fuelled orgy.

"I... I just th... thought it w... would be n... nice to sp... spend some t... time t...together, alone," Rebecca added and suddenly, the possibilities flooded Kyle's mind; possibilities that were both exciting and terrifying.

"I don't think my mom would allow me and if I snuck out, she'd know; I don't have the alibies I'd have back home," he pointed out sadly, the possibilities popping like soap bubbles.

"Oh, leave that to me," Betsy said confidently.

"Umm, what? You're going to convince my mom that it's totally okay for me to spend the night at a girl's house — a girl she knows I'm crazy about — unsupervised? Good luck."

Betsy grinned. "Hardly. I'm going to convince your mom that she's talking to Rebecca's mom on the phone, who will guilt her into letting you stay over. Does that sound okay to you?"

Kyle could find no other answer save for a resounding 'yes'.

"Oh, one thing I should mention, you might be better off making her think you don't trust me — she's easier to work if you insult me," Kyle advised as Betsy reached for her phone.

Betsy grinned. "You are sly, aren't you?"

"Years of practise," Kyle replied.

"Good — with Rebecca's family, you're going to need it," Betsy pointed out. Rebecca's expression suggested to Kyle that Betsy wasn't exaggerating.

~

Cartman walked briskly down the corridor to the interview room, or at least attempted to; their suspect strolled languidly along as though the allegation of murder was just another normal fucking day to him. He hadn't even bothered to dress up for the occasion; he was still wearing tennis whites - too tight shorts and a polo shirt with all of the buttons undone.

He pushed open the door and guided the suspect in. A tall man with jet black hair smiled courteously at them.

"I'm Craig Tucker; assistant D.A," he said in a nasally, disinterested voice. "Can we get you anything, Mr Broflovski?"

The damnable suspect smiled genially. "No, thank you."

Lieutenant Black looked up from his desk. "Are your attorneys on their way?"

"Mr Broflovski has waived his right to an attorney," Cartman explained with a wry smile. Broflovski looked at him with an irritatingly amused smirk on his face that Cartman longed to wipe off for good.

"Did I miss something?"

"I told them you wouldn't want an attorney present."

"Mr Broflovski, why have you waived your right to an attorney?" Lieutenant Black asked.

The suspect merely smiled. "Why did you think I wouldn't want one?" he asked, fixing Cartman with a mischievous stare.

"I told them you wouldn't want to hide."

"I have nothing to hide," Broflovski replied, his eyes never leaving Cartman's. The unswerving gaze unnerved him; he sat down between Lieutenant Black and D.A. Tucker. Broflovski sat down casually, pulled out a cigarette case and took one of the cigarettes between his soft lips before lighting it and inhaling.

"There's no smoking in this building, Mr Broflovski," Lieutenant Black pointed out.

He shrugged. "What are you going to do? Arrest me for smoking?" He made it sound like a challenge.

Broflovski fixed his eyes on Cartman and blew a steady stream of blue-grey smoke towards him. Cartman avoided breathing in the scent of tobacco and musk; instead he fixed a steely glare on the suspect. "Would you tell us the nature of your relationship with Mr. Marsh?"

The suspect smiled fondly, and met Cartman's eyes. "I had sex with him for about eighteen months. I liked having sex with him. He wasn't afraid to experiment, he liked to please me. I like men like that."

Cartman tried to swallow away a dry throat. He had to ask his questions; had to do his job. It didn't matter how uncomfortable this seductive asshole made it.

"Experiment, hmm? Did you engage in sado-maschocistic behaviour?"

Broflovski pressed his lips together in thought; Cartman was acutely aware of the way they reddened as they slid against each other. "Well, well. Whatever did you have in mind, Eric?"

Cartman felt suddenly flustered at this unexpected use of his first name. "Did you... did you tie him up?"

"Oh, no. Stanley liked to use his hands too much; and I like hands. And fingers." Broflovski nonchalantly trailed his hand along the collar of his polo shirt; Cartman felt a sudden urge to loosen his tie.

"It sounds a lot like one of your novels, Mr Broflovski," Lieutenant Black chipped in. "Retired rock star murdered in his own home, only a white silk scarf to be found..." He let the accusation hang in the air, but the suspect merely sighed in pleasure at some unknown memory.

"Oh, I do like the feel of a silk scarf against my naked wrists," he mused. "Or against someone else's."

Cartman pounced on this. "You said you didn't tie men up!"

Broflovski actually had the nerve to waggle his finger solely at Cartman. "Now. Now, Eric. I said I didn't tie Stanley up. You need to stop getting so... distracted." He let his finger trail over his lip before raising an eyebrow at Cartman and smiling. "I'm almost insulted you think I would write about a murder in my novel and the commit the exact same murder. It offends both my intelligence and my creativity. And I'm terribly creative, Eric." He sucked deeply on his index finger, his eyes never leaving Cartman's.

Cartman thumped the table, his temper — and libido — getting the better of him. "Oh, so writing a novel about the murder gives you the perfect alibi, doesn't it?"

"Why yes, I suppose it does." His expression turned mournful for a moment. "But no. I didn't kill him. I loved Stanley, in my way."

"In your way?"

"I loved fucking him. I loved the way he felt inside my tight little ass. I loved the way he used to spank me while he was pounding my ass like a pneumatic drill; my ass was the concrete, he wielded that cock-shaped drill like a pro. He used to butt fuck me so hard I'd hurt my hands trying to keep steady on the couch."

Cartman shifted position and tried to cover up the erection that was currently threatening to pitch a tent inside his pants.

"Did you ever do drugs with Mr Marsh?" D.A. Tucker asked.

"Sure." Broflovski was so fucking nonchalant, Cartman wanted to teach him a good lesson in manners. A lesson that heavily involved the use of his cock.

"What kind?" Tucker continued dispassionately.

"Cocaine." Broflovski looked across at Cartman again. "Have you ever ass-rammed a man on cocaine, Eric?" He smiled, and uncrossed his long limbs, displaying a healthy set of firm, smooth balls through the legs of his tight white shorts before crossing them with maddening slowness again. "It's nice."

Cartman stormed across the room and slammed his hands on the arms either side of the suspect's chair. "You like playing games, don't you," he sneered.

"Cartman, back off," Lieutenant Black said firmly, but Broflovski merely smirked.

"It's fine, Lieutenant." He met Cartman's eyes defiantly. "I majored in psychology, Eric. It goes with the territory." He smiled again. "Would you like a cigarette, Eric?"

"No."

"Would you like something else tubular in that hungry little mouth of yours?"

"Do you two know each other?" D.A. Tucker enquired.

"No. I've never met Eric before in my life," Broflovski replied with a dangerous level of sarcasm in his voice.

"Right, that does it. Everyone out," Cartman demanded. "I need to interrogate the suspect personally." He glared down at Broflovski, but something in the suspect's eyes told Cartman he hadn't won.

D.A. Tucker and Lieutenant Black looked at each other, shrugged, and left. The door was barely slammed shut before Cartman had grabbed the suspect's shirt with a single hand and dragged him towards him, crashing his lips against his and thrusting his tongue as far and deep as he could get it.

"You evil fucking slut," he ground out once he had ceased their violent kiss. Broflovski laughed right at him.

"You're so easy, Eric. So embarrassingly easy."

With a grunt of effort, Cartman pulled him to his feet and stared tearing his clothes off with a combination of his hands and teeth. He bit down on his shoulder just as he had wrenched Broflovski free of his underpants, leaving him naked except for his tennis shoes and socks.

"I'd say you were pretty fucking easy yourself," he spat back after being rewarded by ripping a guttural moan from Broflovski. Silently, he picked him up and shoved him onto the desk, Broflovski wrapping his legs around his waist eagerly.

"Oh, Eric; you make me so fucking hot!" he gasped, frantically unfastening his belt as Cartman grabbed a handful of ice cubes from the icebox on the desk — where it had come from he neither knew nor cared — and rubbed them over Broflovski's nipples.

"Oh, yeah? Then you need to cool down. Yeah, you like that, don't you?" he growled into Broflovski's ear as he writhed against him.

"Yes, oh yes. I love it," he whimpered, just as he tugged Cartman's pants and underpants down in one fell swoop. He started to unbutton his shirt.

"I love a man in uniform," he murmured, and Cartman shut him up with a hard kiss on the lips. Their dicks slapped together as they wrestled against each other, tongues dancing a fucking Paso Doble. He grabbed more ice-cubes and threw them between the two of them, feeling them slowly melt as they ground against each other. Broflovski took a handful and popped them into his mouth with a shuddering moan.

"You like having your mouth full, don't you, my little Jew whore?" Cartman panted, his sweaty forehead pressed against Broflovski's. He merely nodded, and spat the ice cubs out over their chests. They settled between their pelvises; the cold burn of the ice nestled somewhere between excruciating pain and mind-blowing pleasure.

"Bend over, you dirty little slut," he instructed. The suspect eagerly obeyed, steadying his hands on the side of the desk as Cartman slapped his hard cock against Brofloski's pert ass.

"Do you know who I am?" he urged. Kyle shook his head wildly.

"I'm the butt-pirate, and you're about to be boarded!" he hissed, gripping Kyle's thighs and savouring the shuddering moan that escaped his lips as Cartman entered him.

"Yo ho... oh!" Broflovski gasped, as Cartman slammed into him. "Pound that clit, Cartman! Pound it hard!"

"I'll be the one who decides what gets pounded," Cartman snarled. "It's a good day to take over your cabin and blow your amidships, my little Jewish princess," Cartman growled, his lips at the suspect's ear while he thrust harder against him. He whimpered; he knew exactly what was coming — Cartman. In his ass.

"I'm going to blast your hull apart." He grabbed Broflovski's mass of ginger hair and yanked his head back. "In fact, I'm not going to stop until I've sunk you." He trailed tiny little bites along the back of his neck, marking him.

"Oh, fuck," he moaned, legs trembling against Cartman. "Plunder my booty, you sexy beast!"

Cartman woke up in a bundle of sweat-soaked sheets. He pulled himself free and noticed they were drenched with fluids other than sweat, despite the fact he was still rock-hard. Wiping his sweaty forehead with his hand, he glanced at the clock — six A.M. What the fuck was wrong with him? Why couldn't he dream about dumb blonde girls with big, soft titties like in the magazines he worshipped?

He was distracted from his thoughts by the sounds of heavy breathing coming from the room next door; a delicate rhythm of "Oh, Ken!" followed by "Mmm, Maria!" like some sample in a rap song.

Cartman felt something move next to him. Looking down, to his surprise he saw Angelica shift in her sleep beside him.

Hastily, he pieced together the events of the evening and through the muffled 'Oohs', 'Ahhs', 'Yeses' and a weirdly gasped 'Yummy' that filtered through the plaster, it all started to fall into place.

Cartman stared at Angelica's peaceful, vulnerable figure; the notion that he could do anything to her right now increased his erection even more. He gingerly lifted up the duvet — not wanting to wake her and ruin his fantasy — and saw her naked body was covered in nasty, bruised bite marks. She looked as though she had been pummelled to within an inch of her life and, for a brief moment, Cartman felt his stomach sink a little; which made no sense, because seeing some scrawny chick damaged by his own hand was one of the best things ever.

He pressed a gentle kiss to the most prominent one just above her chest bone, and then carefully got up out of bed. As he stood up on the synthetic shag pile of the hotel room, he wondered what on Earth had made him do something so gay.

Not that any of it mattered; there was really only one thing on his mind as he grabbed his cell phone from his jacket pocket.

Kyle.

~

Rebecca's room was full of pastels and science posters; Kyle was trying to memorise her periodic table in order to distract from his fluttering stomach. Perched on the end of her bed — big enough for two if you were skin-to-skin close — he waited for Rebecca to emerge from the bathroom.

Betsy had managed to convince his mother that staying over at Rebecca's would be under strict parental supervision and in separate rooms, and Kyle had arrived to a harangued-looking Rebecca attempting to cook dinner.

"I... I j... just w... wanted it t... to b... be nice," she said with a quiver in her voice.

Kyle took her hands in his and said, "It will be. Here, let me help."

Two hours and a charred saucepan later, Kyle had stroked the soot from Rebecca's face and ordered pizza.

"I s... suck at c... cooking," Rebecca cried.

Kyle hugged her. "Hey, you didn't destroy a pan."

"I suppose," she sniffled. "B... But the w... way you t... took the p...pizza boxes and p... pulled the slices apart w... was a w... work of g... genius."

They had started watching a movie, lost track a quarter of the way through due to making out, then during the end credits, Rebecca had stared at him shyly and said, "Let's go to bed."

Picking at a stray thread on Rebecca's quilt, Kyle wasn't entirely sure he was ready for this. He felt self-conscious in just his boxer briefs —the support of a Y-front without the dork factor — and worried about what Rebecca would make of his pasty, matchstick form that could guide ships through the night with his luminous skin.

"I... I don't really h... have anything s... sexy," Rebecca called form the doorway.

"Neither do I, unless you want to lend me a bra," he replied. He heard Rebecca giggle; then the door creaked open.

Rebecca entered the room in a pink plaid pyjama shirt, her legs bare and her expression shy.

"Well?" she asked, staring at the floor. "Is t... this okay?"

Kyle thought it was more than okay and crossed into the realms of damn sexy, but he figured that might be a weird thing to think, so he settled with, "You look great."

She blushed and continued to stare at the floor as she fiddled with a curl of her hair; for a brief moment all of Kyle's anxiety left him and he wanted nothing more than to unbutton her pyjama top and guide her into his arms — and guide other bits of him into other bits of her. The moment she eyed his crotch and smiled, all of his nervousness came rushing back.

"Y... You lo... look h... hot," she whispered, walking towards the bed until their knees touched. Kyle felt his cheeks glow. She cupped his face in her hands and kissed him deeply; his hands rested on her hips as he kissed her back, his cock unabashedly trying to break free from the restraints of his boxers.

She pulled away and carefully undid the top two buttons of her shirt, her eyes on his. He watched and gently removed her glasses, exposing her brilliant almond shaped eyes. When she moved her hands away from her shirt, her throat and décolletage were exposed to his hungry gaze. Twitching fingers found their way to the rest of the buttons, his other hand pressed to her hip as though it was keeping her from leaving, his fingers tracing the cotton of her panties. She kissed him again and suddenly straddled his lap. Kyle had never felt a vagina anywhere near his penis before, so feeling it between only two sets of underpants nearly drove him out of his mind. She was so warm, so desirable.

So terrifying.

He grabbed her hips before she tried to move.

"I'm sorry, Rebecca. I don't think I'm ready," he blurted out. The look of disappointment on her face crushed him like an abandoned car at the junkyard.

"Oh. Is... Is it m... me?" she asked, her eyes full of sadness. "D... Did I d... do something w... wrong?"

"No! No way! You did everything right." He hung his head. "It's me."

Rebecca's bottom lip started to tremble. "It's y... you. D... Do you m...mean...? Don't y... you l... like m... me any... anymore?"

"I still like you!" he insisted. "I really, really, totally like you! I'm... I guess I'm just not ready to have sex yet."

A look of horror flashed across Rebecca's face. "What?"

"I said I'm not ready for sex." Kyle felt a little more confident in his assertion as he said it out loud — he just wasn't ready and that was okay.

Rebecca leapt off him and backed into her closet door, wrapping her arms around herself protectively.

"Sex? Did we just have sex?" Her eyes widened. "Were you w... wearing a condom? Oh, f... fuck! What if I'm p... pregnant? I'll get th... thrown out of t... the h... house and h... have to dr... drop out of sc... school to r... raise the baby all a... alone on f... food st... stamps—"

Kyle got up and grabbed Rebecca's arms, holding her still. "Rebecca, relax. We weren't having sex, and I'm pretty confident you can't get pregnant through two layers of underwear." He frowned at her. "And I would totally stick by you if I got you pregnant, okay?" He felt a little insulted her panicked future hadn't included him.

She pulled away from his grip and sat on the bed, sinking her head into her hands.

"I'm s... such an id... idiot!" she moaned. "I didn't m... mean; I j... just w... wanted; I just m... meant I'd c... cook and you c... could st... stay over; we'd sleep in m... my bed and k... kiss a little and... I'm such a moron."

Kyle sat beside her and put his arm around her trembling shoulders. "You're not a moron," he replied, kissing her. "Okay, so there was a bit of a misunderstanding... but trust me, your idea of what tonight would involve appeals far more than mine."

"Really?"

"Really." Kyle felt immeasurable relief, yet he also felt a twinge of disappointment. God damn, sexual feelings were confusing.

Rebecca smiled and patted her quilt. "Shall we?" she asked, slipping between the covers. Kyle smiled in agreement, and followed her into her bed.

Rebecca's bed was cosy and they were pretty much flush against each other, making the quilt pretty unnecessary between their own combined body heat. Collectively they kicked it away and remained under the sheets.

"This is nice," Kyle mused, trailing his fingers down her cheek and over the soft fabric of her pyjama shirt. "I've not shared a bed with a Rebecca before."

She smiled and slipped her arm around his waist; Kyle could feel her hand fluttering against the small of his back. "I've n... never sh... shared my bed w... with a Kyle, either." She rested her head against his chest, and he rolled over onto his back to accommodate her.

"What's your verdict?" he asked, his breath hitching just slightly as Rebecca slipped a soft, smooth leg over his.

"Well, I th... think I would r... rather l... like one h... here every n... night," she replied, sighing as Kyle's hand reached over and caressed her thigh as though it were programmed to. She nuzzled closer to him; Kyle could feel her breasts squash against his rib cage through her night shirt.

"That's a coincidence; I think this Kyle would like to be here every night, too," he murmured, pressing a kiss against her hairline. "I really need to thank Betsy."

Rebecca nodded. "Sh... She's a g... good f... friend." Her expression darkened momentarily. "I d... don't un... understand how her s... sister t... turned out s... so differently."

"Her sister?"

"Y... Yeah. She's a h... hateful b... bitch."

Kyle laughed. "Wow; don't sit on the fence there, Rebecca."

"Well, s... she is!" she protested. "S... She's a.... anti-semetic, r... racist, d... deceitful..."

"Wow; how old is she? I'm thinking I know someone who might just love her." He shuddered involuntarily at the thought of Cartman and this unknown girl ever meeting in later life and breeding.

"Th... Thirteen, I th... think," she replied. Kyle shrugged; close enough.

They talked for a long time, and the next thing Kyle knew, his cell phone was blaring and it was eight o'clock in the morning.

"Wh... What is th... that?" Rebecca slurred, pulling herself away from Kyle's chest; the sudden cold he felt from her absence was truly horrible and he longed to pull her back into his arms.

"My stupid fucking phone," he grumbled, feeling around for the offending item in the jeans he had slung near his side of the bed. When he retrieved the phone and saw who was calling, he wanted to dash it against the wall.

Cartman.

"W... Who is it?" Rebecca asked blearily.

"One of my asshole friends," he replied.

"Aren't y... you going to a... answer it?" she asked and it was this that prompted him to actually speak to the fat fucker who had interrupted his blissful sleep with his beautiful girlfriend.

"What?" he pretty much growled down the phone.

"Why, Kyle! You sound so grouchy! What's up, bro?" Cartman sounded irritatingly joyful on the end of the phone, which could only mean he was going to brag about something.

"What do you want, Fatass?" he spat back, knowing already that he was going to spend most of the morning explaining to Rebecca why he was calling his supposed friend names.

"You know what? It sounds like you need to get laid. Yeah, you need to plunge that clipped cock of yours into some juicy poon—"

Kyle rolled his eyes. "If you don't get to the point in the next seven seconds, I'm cutting you off."

He heard Cartman sigh heavily. "Kyle, Kyle, Kyle. I guess I should expect that kind of impetuousness from someone so... so naïve in the ways of the world—"

"Cartman!"

"Okay, okay! Jesus... I guess that someday, when Hell has actually frozen over, you too will know what it feels like to have sexual intercourse with a woman. Just like I did last night — oh yeah!"

"Wait, you phoned me up at eight o'clock on a Sunday morning just to tell me you had sex? Like I'd ever believe you."

"It's okay to feel a little jealous, Kyle. It's normal for a little virgin like you to feel embarrassed — ashamed, even — that your more mature, handsome friend has got some serious action before you did, and so pretend that I'm making it up. Just accept that you lost this one, Kyle."

"Since when did sex become a competitive sport?" Kyle asked.

"Since I banged a college cheerleader and you're still banging your hand!"

Kyle felt Rebecca's arms slip around his waist. "W... What d... does he w...want?" she whispered into his ear as she rested her chin on his shoulder.

Kyle kissed her on the nose. "He's just being a dick," he replied.

"Who the fuck is that?" Cartman's voice sounded suddenly sour.

"Rebecca," he replied. "My girlfriend."

"H... Hello, K... Kyle's f... friend," Rebecca said cheerfully down the phone.

Kyle was met with silence on the end of the phone. Then, just as he was going to end the call, Cartman's hateful belly laugh assaulted his ears.

"Oh my God, that is fucking priceless! Please, please, please; let me t... t... talk to Rebec... c... ca!"

Kyle felt his very veins burn with fury. "You shut your fucking mouth, you fat fucking lump of toxic waste!" he roared, feeling Rebecca jump in shock against him.

"Oh, come on! I only want to say 'Hello'. Let's face it, anything more and I'd need to free up my whole day for her t... t... to g... g... get her w... w... words out!"

Before Kyle could retort any further, Rebecca grabbed the phone from his hand. "L... Look. I d... didn't h... have t... this st... stutter before K.... Kyle—"

Kyle figured that either Cartman's laughter was getting increasingly loud or his mouth was getting increasingly close to the receiver. Nevertheless, Rebecca carried on.

"B... Before Kyle m... made love t... to m... me all n... night."

Suddenly, Cartman's laughter stopped as though it had been switched off by remote control.

"I h... had s... so many or... orgasms that I c... can't sp... speak p... p... properly. So, sh... shut the f... fuck up!" With those words, Rebecca firmly pressed the 'call end' button and switched his phone off.

"You're amazing," Kyle declared as he gazed into her big soulful eyes. Then he promptly burst out laughing.

"H... He w... won't be m... mad at y... you, w... will he?"

"Oh, I really, really hope he is," Kyle replied, kissing her cheek. Then she started giggling, clearly proud of her own joke.

"I'm sorry. About my asshole friend," Kyle said once they had calmed down.

"P... please. L... Like I haven't h... heard that s... seven th... thousand times," Rebecca replied airily, before straddling his lap and kissing him languidly on the lips. He was powerless against her desire, so kissed her right back, savouring the softness of her mouth and the slightly rancid taste of her morning breath; a reminder that he had spent all night with her.

She pulled away and looked at him curiously. "W... Why are y... you f... friends w... with him?" she asked.

"I really don't know. Force of habit, maybe?" It was a question that had continued to stump Kyle ever since fourth grade.

She stood up, taking his hand in hers. "Come on. I'll m... make b... breakfast," she promised. Kyle got up and followed her, only for her to stop dead in the doorway and turn to face him with a thoughtful frown etched into her features.

"What is it?"

"You're t... the only p... person w.... who l... lets m... m.... me f... finish my s... sentences," she said, flashing a soft smile. "N... Not even m... my p... parents c... can d... do that." She kissed his cheek and turned around, pulling him gently towards the landing.

Kyle silently followed. It wasn't often he was left speechless.

~

Cartman stared at his phone in shock. Not only had that little slut taken Kyle's innocence, but she'd had the fucking nerve to switch his phone off. What a bitch.

He left Kyle a short, angry voice mail warning him of the dangers of letting some slut get a vice-grip on his balls before putting the phone back in his jacket pocket. Just as he was about to crawl back into bed, he saw Angelica stir into consciousness.

"Good morning, lover," he said. Kyle could have glued that bitch's vocal cords together with his cum for all he cared; he couldn't take Angelica's broken hymen away from him.

"What time is it?" she mumbled, pushing her hand through her mop of unruly curls.

"About half six," Cartman replied, stretching languidly. "So, how does it feel to have been banged for the first time, hmm?"

She looked up at him and smirked. "We didn't have sex, Eric."

"I think you'll find we did," he replied.

"No; you jizzed over my stomach and fell asleep," she pointed out breezily.

"Oh." Cartman wasn't sure if he felt more ashamed or disappointed. God damn it, Kyle got laid last night. Fucking Kyle! This wasn't fair! Out of all of their friends, Kyle was the one he was certain he'd beat.

He felt a gentle touch on his arm. "It's okay," she replied with a shy smile. "I... I had fun."

Cartman couldn't help but glance at her hideous bruises. "Are they... does it hurt?" he asked, a little afraid of what her answer might be. This confused him; why did he even give a shit?

She poked at one of her bruises and winced. "You're a nasty little bastard," she said, in a tone of voice that suggested she was thrilled about it. "Is there anywhere you didn't sink your teeth into?"

"I left anywhere below the elbow and below the knee," he replied nonchalantly. "It's not my fault you're so fucking tasty." He was pretty certain he'd spent a good half an hour leaving his mark over as much of her pert little ass as possible; this was confirmed the moment she got up and he could see the patchwork of red and purple over her buttocks. He had a sudden sharp memory of putting her across his knee and spanking her; why she hadn't just run the fuck away he had no idea.

Angelica started to pick up her clothes; Cartman watched helplessly as she wiggled into her panties.

"Do you want a coffee, or something? I think I've got some Pop-Tarts." He didn't really know the procedure for the morning after the night before you leave some college cheerleader black and blue, but he really didn't want her to leave without some kind of breakfast.

What the fuck was wrong with him?

She smiled. "Actually, a Pop-Tart sounds great; I don't care what flavour."

He got up and dug around for the box of Pop-Tarts, then switched on the two irons he had managed to find and sandwiched the wrapped Pop-Tarts between them; it was his preferred method for cooking them in this toaster-less hotel room.

Angelica was now dressed, and peering in dismay at the bruises across her neck and chest not hidden by her clothes.

"I'm so fucked," she moaned.

"If you've got some make-up, I could maybe help cover them," Cartman suggested.

Angelica raised an eyebrow incredulously. "You know how to apply make-up?"

"There's a lot you don't know about me," he replied, suddenly wishing he'd been honest with her from the get go. He pushed that silly thought away.

She shrugged and handed him a compact from her little clutch bag. "Okay. Go wild."

Cartman sat her down on the bed and dabbed the cover-up over her bruises with a sponge. She hissed in pain.

"Sorry," he mumbled, taking greater care as he hid the garish purple marks with steady layers of foundation. Once he was finished he could see it wasn't a perfect job, but they were barely noticeable.

"Thanks," she said, standing up. "I couldn't have covered them that well." She smiled. "I'd hug you, but I kind of don't want to smudge this before I see my dad."

"Your dad?"

She blushed furiously. "Umm, yeah. He's coming to visit me on campus today."

"Oh. Well, that'll be nice."

"Yeah... Listen, I really enjoyed last night. Would you, I dunno, maybe want to meet up again later this evening?"

"Yeah! That'd be great!" Cartman replied enthusiastically, breaking every rule he had ever set himself on this trip about never seeing the same girl twice.

"Cool. I know where to find you, right?"

"I'm here for the week." He dashed over to the irons, pulled them apart and retrieved the Pop-Tart. "It's done." He did his best to ignore the white-hot burning sensation as he peeled the foil wrapping away.

Angelica giggled. "Who knew those things were so... so versatile?"

"Yeah." Cartman handed it to her. "Careful. It's hot."

"Well, duh." She smiled and glanced briefly at the floor, pulling the corner of her toaster tart off and popping it in her mouth. "Well, thanks for the toaster tart. And the brutal foreplay." She kissed him on the cheek and left the room.

Cartman felt strangely bereft, and wondered just what he should do with the rest of his day. Perhaps he could get those gay-assed vampire books and start reading them so he would have something to talk to her about... Just to keep the illusion going, obviously. Seeing her twice was a dangerous game. He really should find a way to get out of it, only the smell of her perfume and sweat lingered in the air.

He was seeing her tonight, come hell or high water.

Chapter Six: Summer Awakening — Bringing on the Heartbreak

"We have c... cereal, or th... there's f... fruit, or th... there's — I'll just g... get everything."

Rebecca was busying about in the kitchen, radio humming away quietly, with presumably no idea how Kyle wanted to squeeze her magnificent ass every time she bent down to look in a cupboard. He was glad he'd had the foresight to pop his jeans back on before following Rebecca downstairs; not that she hadn't already seen exactly what his erect penis looked like under a pair of boxers, but Kyle felt it was probably polite not to shove it in your girlfriend's face — metaphorically speaking.

"I'll give you a hand," he said, getting to his feet. Rebecca firmly pushed him back down into the wooden country kitchen style chair.

"Th... This is m... my h... house, I'm m... making b... breakfast," she insisted.

Kyle raised his hands in surrender. "Okay, okay! Your rules, Mistress."

Suddenly, Rebecca kissed him hard on the lips.

"What was that for?" Kyle asked once she'd let him go and put some slices of bread in the toaster.

"I th... think I l... like it w... when you c... call me that," she said with a wicked grin that went straight to his cock. They looked at each other in anticipatory silence for a short while, until the toaster popped and Rebecca took the slices and put them in a toast rack.

"Are you sure I can't butter them, or something?"

"J... Just sit th... there and l... look s... sexy," Rebecca insisted.

"Can't I stand and look at you being sexy instead?" he asked, feeling his whole face become consumed by the darkest blush he'd ever experienced. He couldn't wrap his head around why she could possibly think he was sexy. Maybe it was the lack of comparison; except her all girls' school clearly had access to boys out of classes.

She stood looking up at him, one hand holding the full toaster rack and her expression one of deep amusement. "You r... really d... don't see h... how g... good-looking you are, d... do you?"

Kyle couldn't help but laugh. "You're adorable."

"Y... You've s... seen my p... panties. I'd l... like to th... think we're p... past 'adorable'," she replied with a smirk. He couldn't resist; he snatched the toaster rack off her and put it back on the kitchen work surface before grabbing her by the waist and sitting her next to it. She slid her impossibly soft thighs around his waist and he proceeded to kiss her smirk clean off her face.

Just as her fingers wound their way into his bomb-site of bed-hair, and she'd arched her back in a way that pushed them even closer together, the doorbell rang.

They both froze like statues.

"Is that your folks?" Kyle asked.

"I... It c... can't be. Why w... would th... they r... ring the d... doorbell?"

"Good point," he replied as Rebecca slid off the work surface and dashed towards the front door, peering carefully through the letterbox. Her shoulders suddenly relaxed, and she opened the door to a tearful looking Betsy, who walked into the kitchen sobbing.

"Erm, are you okay?" Kyle asked redundantly.

"Oh, God! It's terrible!" Betsy wailed, ignoring Kyle and sitting down on one of the chairs at the table. Rebecca stood by her and put her arms around her.

"I... It can't b... be th... that—"

"It is! It's awful! My little sister... Oh God!" She sobbed onto the table hysterically.

Kyle hovered uselessly next to the kitchen table. "What's happened?"

Betsy tossed her smart phone onto the kitchen table. "This!" Her hands trembled; Kyle recognised the look on her face as equal parts upset and furious.

Rebecca picked up the phone and peered at it curiously. "C... Confessions of a F... F... Fat Fetishist?" she enquired.

"Apparently my sister has had this blog for months... She's not even fourteen!"

"Oh d... dear," Rebecca murmured as her eyes clearly scanned the screen. She didn't seem too shocked given the accusations put forward.

"So, what's in this blog that's so terrible?" Kyle asked, although the title alone gave him some rather revolting food for thought.

"Well, it seems she goes out and screws fat guys, then writes about it on her blog," Betsy spat out, apparently having done with crying and moving swiftly into rage mode.

"Wait, how does she even manage to do that at thirteen?" he asked, thinking back to his own tween years. "Surely she's studying or spending time with her friends doing wholesome stuff like slashing car tyres or taunting cows?"

"Oh, she just lies to people. Tells them she's a nurse, a college cheerleader; anything that'll convince them she's whoever she wants to be in that moment. I'd say it's a combination of her being tall for her age and living with Dad." She shook her head. "He's a professor at Boulder and he just lets her run riot — I think he feels kind of guilty because she was the one that walked in on him being sucked off by his TA."

"Betsy's p... parents are d... divorced," Rebecca explained unnecessarily.

"Yeah, so now Dad's got custody of Angelica and he gives into every stupid demand she makes. Brad tries to get him to put his foot down—"

"Who's Brad?"

"The TA," Betsy replied. "But Dad doesn't listen and so now Angelica's been able to write some blog about her sexual conquests!"

Kyle peered over Rebecca's shoulder at the blog page, which bore the sub-heading 'Once you have fat, you never go back!' and contained a rather horrifying picture of a girl — her face blacked out — with black curly hair and masses of what looked like bite marks all over her body. She was poking her ass out and pointing at it; not only was it covered in bite marks, but it was red raw. Kyle shuddered involuntarily, but he read today's entry — 'Boulder's Flabulous College Boys!' — regardless.

"Umm, Betsy? I don't think you need to worry about your sister having sex with these guys," he offered.

Betsy's head popped up like a meerkat hearing a predator. "What? Are you insane?"

"Have you actually read it?"

"Of course not; I don't want to know what my sister's been doing — or who, for that matter."

Kyle cleared his throat. "Well, she writes, 'After spanking my ass for a good half an hour, 'EC' ordered me onto all fours on the bed. His balls were rubbing against my clit and I could feel his belly flab wobbling against my ass as he fucked me; his cock was so big it kept sliding into my womb because it wouldn't fit in my snatch. My pussy got so wet I sprayed my juice all over his stomach and drenched him and the hotel bed. He loved it and rubbed my litres of cum into his fat folds ...' I think that sounds a little unrealistic, don't you?"

The relief on Betsy's face was palpable, for a brief moment. "But that asshole definitely left her looking like... like that!"

Rebecca nodded. "There's d... definitely no ph... photoshopping h... here. B... Besides the o... obvious."

"Anyway, what about all of her followers? You don't think I should be worried about them?"

Kyle looked down the list: CherryPopper15, HymenBreaker34, HeavyAndHorny13, ILikeLittleGirlsTheyMakeMeFeelSoGood583

"Well, yes. I think you should be really worried about them."

Betsy sighed and flopped her head down on the table again. Rebecca rubbed her back gently. "What can we do?" she asked, and Kyle felt immensely pleased that Rebecca figured he was a good source of advice.

"I guess you want to scare them into leaving your sister alone; perverts are quite easy to frighten off with the threat of exposure," Kyle mused, remembering his own experiences as a young boy — if you could make a paedophile kill themselves just from being faced by Chris Hansen, it can't be too hard to scare off a bunch of perverts on the internet.

"W... Well, I s... suppose you c... could make an e... example of o... one of them," Rebecca suggested.

"Good idea," Kyle said. He loved it when his girlfriend was devious. "The guy in her latest post can't be too hard to track down." He pointed at the photo. "See the wrappings on those soaps? I'm pretty sure I've only ever seen them in the Best Westerns." He tapped on her smart phone and did a quick search. "See? There's only one in Boulder. So that must be where they were whenever they were... you know. So, make nice with the cleaning staff — they see everything — and find out which room your sister came out of. Then you'll know where the asshole was staying. If he isn't still there, you can probably find out where he's moved onto."

A sudden smile spread over Betsy's face. "You're right! Thanks, Kyle." She got up suddenly and grabbed a slice of toast.

"W... Where are you going?" Rebecca asked.

"To Dad's — I've got a honey trap to bait," she said in dark triumph. "Oh, Kyle?"

"Yeah?"

"Can I borrow your deodorant?"

"Umm, sure. Why?"

"Oh, Angelica wears exactly the same stuff — I'd recognise the smell a mile off." She rolled her eyes. "She saw some program about how married men don't want to come home reeking of perfume and reckoned using men's stuff was the perfect solution to finding a sugar daddy."

"Okay." He went upstairs to Rebecca's room and grabbed his backpack. As he came down the stairs, he could see Rebecca hurrying Betsy out of the door.

"Th... They'll b... be b... back this afternoon," Rebecca hissed, her cheeks flushed.

"Relax, Bex," Betsy said, giggling. "You'll have plenty of time to—" They both stopped upon seeing Kyle.

"Everything okay?"

"Fine!" they both said in unison; Rebecca nervously, Betsy deviously.

"Here," Kyle said, rooting through his bag and handing his deodorant spray to Betsy.

"Thanks, Kyle. I'll certainly put this to good use." Her expression was deeply menacing; Kyle was thankful he hadn't incurred her wrath.

"Well, g... good luck, B... Betsy," Rebecca said pointedly.

"Later, Kyle," Betsy said with a wink as she took a bite of her toast and waltzed out of the door, Rebecca slamming it shut behind her and locking it.

"Everything ok—" Kyle was interrupted by Rebecca's lips crashing against his own; he had to grab onto the balustrade to stop himself from toppling over. Rebecca pulled away and bit her lip.

"S... Sorry," she whispered. "W... When you get all d... deductive, I c... can't help m... myself."

Her night shirt had slipped to one side, exposing her shoulder, and she was giving him the most smouldering look he had ever seen. She stepped closer to him and pressed her hands against his chest, leaning in for another kiss.

Kyle picked her up and she instantly wrapped her legs around his waist, hungrily kissing him in a way that fogged his brain and had him half-worried he would drop her.

"Kitchen?" he asked breathlessly. Rebecca merely nodded, her arms around his neck and her left hand playing with his hair in a way that had him straining against his pants yet again. He carried her over to the kitchen as she kissed him deeply and sat down on the nearest chair before he could drop her — he wasn't as strong as he'd like to be. She straddled him as though it were the most natural thing to do, her legs sliding over his as though they were perfectly fitting pieces of a jigsaw. He let his eager hands caress her thighs before moving up her body and slipping under her shirt, her gasp of desire breaking their deepening kiss. He barely registered the Righteous Brothers' 'Unchained Melody' playing on the radio.

"K... Kyle. P... Please," she begged huskily; Kyle was so distracted by this new and incredibly hot intonation that he didn't think to ask what she wanted and so was a little surprised to find her hands tugging at his zipper.

"Rebecca?" he asked, breathlessly.

"I just... I j... just want t... to t... touch it," she pleaded. Kyle was a little surprised that anybody could want to be anywhere near his dick so much. He stopped her and pressed a hand to her cheek.

"You don't have to do this," he said, hoping against hope that she'd pull her hands free from his and got to town on his too-hard cock. "I... I love you anyway."

She looked at him in surprise; it closely mirrored the surprise he'd felt at having uttered the words. It was one of those strange moments where he only realised how much he meant what he had said once the words were out. Wow. He was in love with Rebecca Cotswold. He wanted to run through the streets shouting it, challenging anyone to doubt the voracity of his feelings.

Then she pulled her hands free from his and tugged his underpants down a little, her right hand gently gripping his exposed cock. Running down the streets could wait.

"It's... It's k... kind of s... swollen," she said, handling it as though it were a dangerous animal.

"It's not going to bite," he assured her with a smile. She giggled and met his gaze.

"Y... Yes, b... but it c... could s... spit at me," she retorted.

"I'll give you fair warning. Promise."

"O... Okay. H... Here goes." Rebecca started sliding her hand lightly up and down; Kyle could barely feel anything. Should he tell her? What was the accepted behaviour in these circumstances? He glanced up and the intense concentration on her face; the look of frustration she wore as nothing seemed to be happening.

"Umm, you can grip it harder," he offered.

"Oh. O... Okay."

Suddenly Kyle felt as though Rebecca was trying to pull the thing right off. He hastily grabbed her hand and prised her fingers loose.

"Maybe not quite that hard," he said gently. She let go and pouted; Kyle would have found it utterly adorable were it not heralding her refusal to continue playing with his dick and deeming it an unsolvable puzzle.

He leant forward and kissed her lips. "Maybe if I showed you?" he suggested tentatively, already feeling a little guilty for being so picky when he figured he should just be grateful her hands were anywhere near his genitals to begin with. She seemed to brighten at this, but got up off his lap anyway.

"Rebecca?" he called mournfully as she stepped over to the other end of the kitchen table.

"I r... remember y... you said y... you used h... hand c... cream," she said. "W... Would butter w... work? It's s... slippery."

Kyle smiled. "Let's find out."

She grinned back at him and padded back over to him with the butter dish, which she placed on the table next to them. She straddled his lap again, then reached over and pinched a knob of butter between her fingers before rubbing her hands together.

"I'm r... ready," she said, holding her hands out to him as though for inspection. Feeling unbelievably weird, Kyle wrapped his hand around hers and guided it over his shaft, almost dying on the spot as he easily found a pressure which suited him.

"O... Oh. I s... see," Rebecca said, flicking his hand away with her free one and staring in intense concentration as she gripped, slid, tickled and did all sorts of strange and very pleasurable things to his erect penis as she became enslaved to her own unique brand of scientific exploration; he could see it in her eyes when she wondered what happened if she squeezed this, or slicked her thumb over that, or did both at the same time... Kyle felt as though he was dying, and he was happy to let God take him. He made to grip her pillowy thighs, and could find no purchase on account of literally having butter fingers. Instead he slid his hands up her thighs, under her shirt and up her belly, then cupped her breasts as best he could. She gasped and broke her rhythm momentarily; he bucked his hips against her before he could even stop himself.

"Y... You're e... eager, aren't y... you," she gasped, and it was about this moment that he realised he was very close to making something of a mess.

"Rebecca, I think I'm going to..." Unable to form the words, he instead desperately poked her shoulder and moaned, "Towel!" until she got the message.

With a guttural moan he scarcely recognised as coming from his own throat, he came, and noticed Rebecca grab her half-empty coffee cup and catch his emissions with surprising efficiency.

"Wow," he said, dazed and immensely satisfied. "Nice catch."

"Hy... Hyperb... Hyperbolic curves are s... something of a sp... speciality of m... mine." She peered in the coffee cup. "Wow; I didn't r... realise t... there w... would b... be that m... much."

"Mmm; put my cup of jizz down and let me kiss you," he murmured. With a dramatic sigh, Rebecca put the cup down on the table and scooted further up his body so he could kiss her lips, cheek, temple — anywhere he could reach — and savour the sensation of warm wetness against his cock.

A wetness he soon realised didn't belong to him.

She was wet. She was straddling him and wet. Did he have a wet patch on his jeans? He hoped so; he'd wear it like a badge of honour emblazoned across his crotch, the mark of a guy whose girlfriend got excited just from jerking him off.

Fuck, he wanted to touch her. Sadly, she was climbing off his lap rather than staying within stroking distance. He tried to implore her to stay and let him return the favour; let him stoke the sultry fires of her need and take her to paradise, but it kind of came out as a whine of, "Rebecca, come back!" which only just cut across the radio announcer stating he was about to play a song by Cindi Lauper.

"I... I'm j... just going t... to w... wash my h... hands," she said, walking over to the sink and bending down to reach into the cupboard below.

Now he could see her panties were damp.

Despite his body feeling as though it shouldn't have to move until at least next week, Kyle got up, tucked himself into his boxers and walked purposefully over to Rebecca. She smiled and squirted soap into his hands as well. They giggled and flicked water at each other as they cleaned the butter off their hands, but Kyle had barely dried his hand before they were on the waistband of her panties.

"Let me," he whispered against her ear, feeling bolder with each word. "Let me make you come as hard as you made me."

She sighed against him, which he took as a yes and slowly pulled them down to her ankles.

"Y... You c... can't say th... things l... like that!" she whimpered as she stepped out of her underpants. "Do y... you h... have any i... idea how h... hot it m... makes me?"

Just as she picked up the white cotton panties, Kyle grabbed her around the waist, emboldened by her scandalised excitement.

"Rebecca; I've not even started," he growled against her neck, before kissing her hard as he walked them both back over to the chair, delighting in the way she clambered back onto his lap again once he sat down.

"The things I want to do to you," he said, flashing a friendly smile when he realised he was beginning to sound like Butters' dad after a night at the bar when faced with Stan reaching for a cable at the back of the TV.

"T... Tell m... me!" Rebecca moaned, and Jesus Christ he was hard already. Did his dick ever stop?

He slowly unbuttoned her shirt, primarily so he could see what he was trying to fondle. "I'm going to show you instead." Dear Abraham and all that was holy, he hoped he could back up his promise with action.

She gasped headily; he wasn't sure if it was to do with his hands, the shirt slipping down to her elbows or the cool air reaching her bare body. Frankly, he was too busy admiring her wondrously soft curves to really work it out. She had a mass of pubic hair; something he wasn't readily used to in pornos, so his plan to make her intimate areas more visible had already backfired a little. He presumed it was an age thing; guys lost hair on their head as they got older, so maybe women lost hair around their pussy with age? Most of the women he'd seen getting banged in Kenny's favourite films had to be in their thirties at the very least.

"W... What's th... the m... matter?" Rebecca was staring at him, wide-eyed and frantic. He kissed her lips.

"I was admiring the view," he assured her. He didn't know where to begin; it all begged to be explored. He figured he'd already touched her breasts, but it seemed rude to just delve into her pussy like his fingers were heat-seeking missiles. Instead, he cupped her right breast with one hand, and settled his other on the small of her back to keep her steady. Tentatively, he brought his mouth closer to her breasts and placed a few delicate kisses in the region to see what kind of reaction that got.

Rebecca moaned in a manner that was definitely appreciative; she arched her back and Kyle felt her breasts squash closer against his face. He kept up his kisses, and ran a tongue over her nipple. At this point, he realised she was bucking her hips in need of contact. He stopped cupping her breast and let his fingers walk down her belly and towards her pubic hair, while trying to slide his other hand down over her ass. Christ, it was complicated — like patting your head and rubbing your tummy, only with wobbly, sexy girl bits that ground your competence into mush before you could even get started.

Now his fingers were sliding through the pubic hair between her thighs; Rebecca was gasping in delight as he felt his way through hair, hair, hair, wet hair. Ah; he was here. Carefully, he ran his fingers around what seemed to be her labia — it wasn't as though he'd thought to print a diagram off the internet and check.

"O... Oh, K... Kyle, p... please. P... Please!" Rebecca gasped over and over as though it were a mantra, her hips bucking wildly. Kyle could have watched her do that all day; he was pretty certain he'd come in his pants if he so much as coughed too hard. He was clearly an evil bastard, but teasing her was just so exciting.

He slid two fingers between her lips in order to feel his way around her inner area. He lightly touched what he assumed must be her vaginal entrance and a swollen bit that must be her clitoris; he parted his fingers and skirted it gingerly, then moved back. Lather, rinse, repeat.

"O... Oh! O... Oh! O... Oh!" Rebecca's moaning was music to his ears, but the way she kept writhing against him made it really difficult to keep doing what he was doing; he was essentially trying to tenderly caress a moving target.

Suddenly, she ground against him and he felt his fingers slip and sink into something. For a brief, panicked moment, he thought he'd ripped her open. The he realised he was inside her.

He looked up into her startled eyes; she had clearly noticed too.

"Sorry," he whispered, and began to pull his fingers out, but she gasped and grabbed his wrist sharply.

"St... Stay," she begged, and he wondered if this was what Heaven was like.

"Sure. I'll stay," he said, and began to slide his two fingers in and out, because it was kind of like sex so it seemed to make sense. Then he realised his thumb was fairly close to what he thought must be her clitoris, so he stroked that as best he could. He seemed to have a fairly decent rhythm going, and when Rebecca dug her fingers into his shoulders and started crying out in obvious pleasure, he dreamily wished he could spend all day doing this to her.

Five minutes in and he was starting to get cramp in his fingers, so he wiggled them a bit to try and restore the blood flow. Rebecca practically hit the ceiling.

"Oh, God! Y... Yes! Yes!" she shrieked, and it was this that pushed him through the pain of his sore wrist and cramping fingers. He felt like a marathon runner smashing through the wall, only with marginally less sweating and a lot less pissing in the street.

"You like that, huh?" he whispered, cupping her breast with his free hand and noticing for the first time that they were reflected in the over door and it gave him a perfect view of her ass, partially obscured by her night shirt, as it slapped against his thighs.

He didn't exactly expect a coherent response, and the mingle of groans, grunts and moans he got was proof enough that yes, she liked that. He kept it up, noticing she was grinding faster and faster and he didn't want to mess it up by trying anything too wild or experimental when she seemed to be steamrollering towards something pretty damn good.

"Ooh... Coming... Coming!" She was gasping as though struggling for air and Kyle was half concerned she was going to have some kind of asthma attack. He looked up and saw her beautiful face in the throes of ecstasy, her lips parted and her eyes half-closed. He tilted his head to kiss her, just at the moment she dropped her head forward. There was a dull thud as her forehead collided with the bridge of his nose.

"Oh, God! I'm sorry!" Rebecca gasped in a funny mixture of concern and arousal.

"It's cool, don't worry," Kyle insisted. "You keep coming, Rebecca. Just keep coming." He was certain he couldn't even feel pain while watching her unravel the way she was, plus he was beginning to lose feeling in his right hand and wanted her to come before he'd have to admit defeat and try to use his less coordinated left hand.

Suddenly, Rebecca came. She came in quivers, violent shakes, loud desperate cries of his name and wetness. She came like it was an Olympic event. She came, and came and Kyle was beginning to wonder if she'd ever stop. He didn't know if he should feel smug or worried.

Finally, she slumped against him, panting wildly.

"Wow," she sighed.

"Wow," Kyle agreed, feeling her pulse intensely around his fingers. Wow indeed.

She lifted her head from his shoulder momentarily to inspect his face. "You're bleeding," she said dreamily.

Kyle put his fingers to his nose. Sure enough, he was.

"Yeah. That's probably bad," he replied.

"Do you want me to get you a wet towel?"

"Yeah. Maybe. Later. Right now, I just want you to stay right there looking thoroughly ravished, if it's all the same to you."

Rebecca shrugged. "Okay." She sat up a little, and Kyle could see the flush that had spread right down to her chest; pale in comparison to her deeply red lips and her darkened, half-lidded eyes.

"Fuck me, you're beautiful when you come," he remarked, fascinated.

She giggled and kissed him; he slipped his free hand around her waist, holding her close to him. She sighed in contentment, and Kyle was certain that this moment right here was utter, blissful perfection and nothing could touch them.

Suddenly, the back door opened and before they could even blink, two adults and the boy Kyle knew to be Rebecca's brother Mark entered the kitchen carrying travel bags; which they swiftly dropped — along with their jaws — as they saw Kyle and Rebecca.

"Umm, you're back," Rebecca acknowledged brightly, her face locked into an expression of fear.

They continued to stare wildly at them.

"What.... Who... What..." Rebecca's father seemed to have lost all capacity for speech. Her mother started to shake. Mark folded his arms and glared at them.

"This... This is Kyle," Rebecca said in a voice far too calm to be completely sane. "He's my boyfriend. We were just having breakfast; there's still some toast left if you want it. There's some coffee brewed, too."

"Breakfast?" Her mother looked as though she was about to cry.

Kyle stared at Rebecca's horrified father, distraught mother and furious brother.

"Erm, hi," he said awkwardly, Rebecca straddling his lap and his fingers still inside her pulsing vagina. "I could try and say that this isn't what it looks like, but let's face it; it's exactly what it looks like. I have two of my fingers inside your daughter — who I deeply respect and care for — but I'm just expressing my love and affection for—"

"Kyle; please stop talking," Rebecca insisted. "And could you just pull your fingers out, please?"

"Oh, sorry." Kyle pulled his hand from between Rebecca's warm, inviting thighs and tried his best to disguise the trail of clear vaginal fluid that followed his fingers. Rebecca clambered to her feet — Kyle couldn't help but notice her legs were trembling a little — and hastily buttoned up her pyjama top.

"Mother, Father. How was your vacation?" she asked, feeling around for something. Kyle twigged and surreptitiously snuck her panties from the chair next to him and into her hands.

Her mother looked fit to burst. "Don't you 'How was your vacation' me! You were... You've been..." To Kyle's astonishment, she actually burst into tears.

"Mother, please don't cry." Rebecca was stepping into her underpants as she spoke. "It's really no big deal."

"No big deal? No big deal? You've been.... Been violated by this... this devil!" her father roared, pointing at Kyle who stood up defensively.

"Oh come on, I only fingered her!" he protested, pulling his pants up and attempting to zip himself with one hand.

"You poked her delicate flower!" he retorted hotly. Despite the situation, it took Kyle a Herculean effort not to burst out laughing. He felt Rebecca kick him in the shin with her heel.

"Father, Kyle Broflovski is the kindest guy I've ever known—"

"Oh, Broflovski, is it? I should have known." He glared at Kyle. "You've been nothing but trouble, sniffing around my daughter." He raised his hands in despair. "Now we're going to have to move again to keep her away from your filthy clutches..."

"Seriously? You left South Park because of... of me?" Kyle couldn't bring himself to feel guilty in the face of such retardation. "I was eight? What did you think I was going to do? I wouldn't have been able to maintain an erection at eight years old, much less know what to do with one."

He heard Rebecca's mother wail in horror.

"Kyle, you really can't talk about erections; it makes my mother cry," she said quietly.

"What the hell happened to your stutter?" Mark blurted out. His knuckles were white with rage, but he wore an expression of bewilderment.

"I... Wow. I don't know," Rebecca replied calmly. "I'm sure I had it this morning..."

"Oh, good Lord; it's just like 'Brimstone and Treacle'!" Rebecca's mother sobbed hysterically.

"Now, now; we can sort this out." Rebecca's father reached over and grabbed the half-full coffee cup near them — the very one Rebecca had expertly caught Kyle's ejaculate in — and took a large gulp. Kyle looked at Rebecca; her eyes registered the same horror he felt.

Her father winced and swallowed. "We need to get more milk; this stuff's gone off. It's all clumpy."

Mark looked at his father in horror. "Father we have to do something!" He glared at Kyle and strode towards him. "You have defiled my sister for the last time, Broflovski!" he snarled. "I challenge you to a duel!"

Kyle rolled his eyes. "You can't be serious—"

"What's the matter, Broflovski? Scared?"

"Of you? Dream on," Kyle scoffed. "I accept; if only so you'll quit treating Rebecca like she's incapable of making her own choices!"

"Fine. Tonight at nine o'clock, in front of the Sphere in Battery Park. I trust you know where that is."

Kyle stepped up and met Mark head on. "Oh, I can Google it," he spat back.

"Fine, be there. I promise you, Kyle Broflovski, I shall have satisfaction." With those words, Mark slapped him hard across the face. Ignoring the shock, Kyle met Mark's eyes with an equally steely glare.

"Fine, and I shall defend my lady's honour," he promised, slapping Mark back.

It was only when the wet, slopping sound resonated and Mark grabbed at his cheek in horror that Kyle remembered he hadn't washed his hands.

"Oh. Sorry. Right-handed, can't help it."

Mark's whole mouth slipped as though he had suddenly developed Bells' Palsy. He choked back a sob and rushed to the sink, vomiting copiously.

Rebecca glanced at Kyle. "You don't have to do this."

Kyle took her hands in his. "I do," he replied, before pressing a chaste kiss to her lips. He heard her mother start to cry again.

"For the love of God, make him stop this debauchery!" she wailed.

Rebecca sighed. "Maybe you should go."

"Yeah." He took his belongings from Rebecca.

"I'm sorry." Rebecca looked at the floor with sadness in her eyes. Kyle cupped her face with his free hand, and saw Rebecca's father reach for a kitchen knife.

"I'm not," he replied before dashing out of the door. "It was totally worth it!"

~

Cartman held out two t-shirts — he had narrowed his choice down in the last hour — and tried to pick one. Obviously, it wasn't because he gave a damn what Angelica thought; he just needed to make sure he struck the right chord. With weary resignation, he left his hotel room and knocked on the door next to him. It swung open.

"Kenny?" Cartman called. "You in here?"

He could hear faint sounds of vomiting. He pushed at the bathroom door. "I don't give a fuck if you're dying of alcohol poisoning, I just need you to point at a shirt. Think you can manage that, you poor piece of—" He stopped as he saw a very pale Maria hunched over the toilet bowl while Kenny rubbed her back tenderly. Kenny looked up; his expression appeared oddly frightened.

"The left one," he said, turning his attention back to Maria. The little bitch hadn't even looked.

"Fine. Thanks, Kenny. You're really fucking helpful," Cartman shouted back as he stomped to his hotel room. That Maria was getting really fucking needy of late — he needed to have a talk with Kenny before he lost his balls completely.

Putting on his shirt, he glanced at his watch — 6:55pm. Angelica's note said to meet her in the lobby at 7pm. Cartman fingered the scrap of paper, infused with her perfume like a real pro, and began to pace. He hated having to wait for things.

Eventually, he could stand it no more and at 6:57pm he was in the hotel lobby. The clerk kept eyeing him and he was about to have words with him about fucking manners and knowing his place as staff, except he cleared his throat and enquired, "Mr Cartman?"

"What's it to you?"

"This arrived a few minutes ago. The young lady told me to give it to you." The clerk handed Cartman an envelope with sweaty hands; he opened it and saw yet another note from Angelica.

'Surprise! In your room. Meet me there. P.S. I left a little something good on the table for you —x'

Well, that was weird. Not that Cartman cared; he was too busy rushing to his room. Then he realised he needed to play it cool, so waited outside his hotel room until he caught his breath. He wondered what she had left on the coffee table for him — he hoped it was her ass, ready for another spanking. God damn, he hadn't been able to stop thinking about it all day; the more he remembered, the better it was. She had writhed in his lap and begged for his punishment.

No doubt about it, his natural charm astounded even him at times.

The door was unlocked and he pushed it open, hoping to catch her unawares. She was nowhere to be seen. He heard water sloshing against tiles — she was in the bathroom, taking a shower. Taking a hot, wet, slippery shower in no clothes. He tried the handle; it didn't budge.

"Hey!" He banged on the door. "Let me in, you little slut! I'm going to give you a shower that'll make you really fucking dirty."

"Be patient, Eric. You go and entertain yourself; it took me a hell of a job to get that stuff." Her voice sounded a little weird; Cartman figured it must be the echo of the bathroom. He glanced down at the coffee table and saw a bottle of wine with two small greenish coloured tablets beside it.

"What the hell's this shit?" he queried.

"It's called, umm, Garection," she called from the bathroom. "It makes you so horny and hard for hours!"

Cartman felt a sting of humiliation. "I don't need some pill to help my pussy-seeking missile of spunk, bitch."

There was no answer; Cartman was almost worried he'd upset her. Then he heard, "But just think how long I could suck you off? I could be on my knees for hours, worshipping your huge, monstrous cock all night long."

Cartman hadn't thought of that; he could feel his balls tighten at the very idea.

"Okay, okay; I'll fucking take them!" he promised, grabbing the bottle of wine and downing both little tablets.

It didn't take long for them to kick in — he had to unzip his pants to relieve the pressure.

"Hurry up in there," he growled. "There's a hard fat cock out here with your name on it."

There was no reply.

"Oi! Do what Daddy tells you, bitch! Get out here and spread 'em wide!" Even he was starting to feel a little silly shouting all this crap at her, but he knew it got her going and getting Angelica's pussy wet was in danger of becoming one of his favourite pastimes.

Still no reply. Little slut wanted to play games, huh? Cartman was ready to just wrench the door down and show her who was boss, when he felt suddenly woozy. He staggered over to the bed, his head pounding. When his vision started to blur, he got really freaked out.

"What the fuck is this shit, Angelica?" he called out as the room started to spin.

The bathroom door swung open; a bone dry, fully dressed girl with a long plait — who wasn't Angelica — stormed out. Cartman noticed the shower hadn't stopped running.

"Hello there, lover," she spat, gripping her rucksack and looking like one of those butch lesbians who ruined Cartman's jacking off fantasies about hot lesbian orgies by storming in and chopping his dick off before he came into his tissues.

"Who the hell are you?" he slurred, struggling to keep his head up. The mystery dyke dropped the bag and staked over to him, gripping plastic wrist ties in her bony hands.

"I'm the sister of the little girl you did the nasty to last night," she sneered, brandishing the wrist ties menacingly. "You know that thing about payback?"

"T... The fuck?" he asked, despite being fully aware he had got his wish and been well and truly fucked tonight.

She hit him hard across the fact with the wrist ties. "It's a bitch; and guess who I am?"

"Part of a threesome?" He couldn't just roll over and give up.

"The bitch. And how!"

The last thing Cartman saw was the mystery frigid lesbian pin his wrist to the bedpost before everything went black.

~

Kyle raced around his cousin's room. He didn't know exactly what you needed to bring to a duel, so he was going for anything that could be used as a weapon. So far, he had a piece of lead piping from the back of the airing cupboard, a carving knife from the kitchen and Kyle's Mathlete trophy.

"Kyle, this is insane!" his cousin implored.

"Yeah!" Ike was watching him from the top bunk with worry in his eyes.

"I will not stand by and let him besmirch my girlfriend's good name!" Kyle glared in the mirror to test the effect, and saw the dangerous air to his own reflection. "I am going to fuck him up."

"Kyle, you know I like Rebecca, but she's just some girl. Let it go." Ike stared at the ceiling as he said this. "What am I saying? Asking you to let something go is like asking Imelda Marcos to stop buying shoes."

They were all distracted by a sudden tap at the window. Kyle looked across the room and saw Rebecca hanging onto the window ledge for dear life.

"Rebecca!" He rushed to the sash window and pulled it up, helping Rebecca through. Her arms were shaking and she had tear tracks down her face.

"Kyle!" She hugged him tightly. "Oh, Kyle; don't go out there tonight!"

Kyle stroked her face with his hand. "Rebecca, I'm not going to stand by and let your brother treat you like some kind of sex worker just for dating me."

"No, I mean don't go because it's a trap," she begged.

"What?"

"I heard Father on the phone; he's hired some assassins to kill you!"

Kyle held her at arm's length for a moment. "Wait, what?"

"Assassins. To kill you. I don't know who; I think maybe they're Russians." She bit her lip in worry; Kyle kissed her cheek.

"Relax, Rebecca. It's nothing I can't handle."

"Kyle, are you even listening to me? Russian assassins are trying to kill you!"

He shrugged. "It's hardly the first time."

They all fell silent when a pin-prick of red flickered against Kyle's chest.

"Aww sh—"

He pushed Rebecca to the ground as a shot ripped through his cousin's Jaime Bergman poster — right between the eyes.

Ike sighed heavily. "And I thought this summer might be different."

Kyle kissed Rebecca hard on the lips. "I have to go, beautiful," he whispered. "Look after Kyle and Ike for me."

"Hold on, where are you going?"

"I have to get those assholes away from my family," Kyle insisted, grabbing the lead piping and Kyle's Mathlete trophy before leaping out of the window and rolling on the grass.

"Alright, you cocksuckers! Be men and show yourselves!"

Three burly men with heavy stubble and scarred faces stepped out of the gloom and raised Kalashnikovs at him. Kyle began to wish he'd brought a spare pair of pants.

"Yup. You're definitely men," he backpedalled. "Glad we've established that." With those words, he turned on his heel and fled. Heavy footsteps and thick accents told him they were in hot pursuit.

He felt something whistle past his ear; the shop window behind him shattered, sending several sets of handcuffs tumbling to the floor.

"Jesus fucking Christ!" he yelled, and picked up his pace. In a moment of inspiration, he doubled back and grabbed one of the sets of handcuffs before sloping off to the nearby subway station. He didn't know if Mark would actually show up, but it was all he had right now.

It turned out he didn't even have to get to Battery Park — Mark was sitting calmly in a carriage, talking on his cellphone.

"So you lost him; he'll be at Battery Park, trust me... I don't care, just tell me when the job's—" He stopped as he saw Kyle's sweaty face next to him.

"Hello, Mark." Kyle leant over him and slid the lead piping nonchalantly into his hand so Mark could see; he was pretty such he at least looked like a bad assed MoFo, which would be enough.

Mark at least had the good grace to appear scared. They tried to stare each other out for a while, but Mark quickly broke the moody silence.

"I thought maybe you wouldn't show," he said quietly.

"Really," Kyle deadpanned. "Well, I'm here now; why don't we get started?"

Mark closed his eyes and sighed heavily. "The whole point of a duel is that you do so at a designated time and place; not brawl all over the street like a bachelor party."

"Or set Russian assassins on your opponent," Kyle added.

Mark stared at him, aghast. "How did you know they were Russian?"

"They usually are."

"I presume she told you." Mark's eyes narrowed. "She's besotted with you. I'm sure you were counting on that."

"I'm crazy about her too; quit acting like there's some master scheme going on here. I just love her."

"So why are you here, given she risked punishment to let slip our plan?" He smirked. "Come to face an honourable death? Conscience get to you, did it?"

"Nah," Kyle replied, deftly handcuffing his and Mark's wrists together. "I came to share."

He raised his eyebrows and grinned maniacally — if he was going down, then he was taking that asshole with him.

~

Cartman groggily opened his eyes; the pitch black slowly formed into recognisable shapes that reassured him he was still in his hotel room. He swallowed away a dry throat and tried to stretch — then he was decidedly not reassured by the fact he was still in his hotel room and apparently chained to his bed.

He glanced at the LCD display on his little alarm clock — three AM — then tried to move his legs. No luck; he was stuck fast. His wrists and ankles were fucking sore, even more than his head. What the fuck was going on?

As he lay there in the dark, fragments started to come back to him — being slapped into consciousness only to find that lesbian bitch straddling him like some cock-hungry skeleton; panicking that he'd been slipped Viagra and was about to be raped to within an inch of his life; the fear when he realised he'd been gagged...

"You're awake? At last; I was getting bored." She held a thick black marker pen aloft. "You're the sick fuck who's been messing with my sister, right?"

Cartman tried to say, "How the fuck do I know who your fucking sister is, you anorexic whore," but it came out as strangled screaming.

She held something else in her hand — it looked like his travel ID.

"Eric Theodore Cartman. Date of Birth, July 1^st... Wow; you're fifteen." She glared at him and tossed the card to one side. "You're not just a sick fuck, you're a lying sick fuck."

She grabbed his jaw hard. "I'd hate to think of you going back to school and pulling this crap on your female classmates—"Cartman watched as she pulled the lid off the marker pen with her teeth and spat out the cap— "So, I think it's my duty to let them know what they're dealing with."

The stench of market pen fumes flooded his nostrils as she scribbled all over his chest and finally on his forehead...

Things went a bit blank after that. Cartman tried to wrench his hands free of the restraints and failed. They weren't just starting to hurt, they even itched a bit. He tried to curl his hands towards his wrists, and once he felt the ridged plastic, he remembered the wrist cuffs. Amongst other things...

"You think it's funny to do that to a little girl? You think it's cool to beat her black and blue?"

"I spanked her, bitch; she fucking came all over herself when I did it!" he tried to protest but, again, the gag prevented his voice from being heard.

She smirked at him. "Okay. I'll give you something to scream about."

To his horror, Cartman felt her shove his ass cheeks apart with an uncapped deodorant can. At first, he figured she was being a little kinky, but then it started to fucking burn.

"You come anywhere near her again — you even try to contact her — and I'll do that again. Nod if you understand."

Cartman nodded; his ass felt as though it was on fire.

She leant over him cruelly and kicked the deodorant can hard into his rectum. He screamed for real this time, but it was muffled by the gag.

"Just a reminder. Stay the fuck away." With those words, she left the room and shut the door behind her...

That had been hours ago, and it felt as though it was still embedded up there. As he shifted his weight and felt a sharp pain in his ass, it dawned on him that he was probably right.

What the fuck was wrong with that frigid bitch? Just because she was a dyke who couldn't get any cock wasn't his fault. If she hadn't been such a bitch about it, he might even have given it to her — providing she begged and swallowed or something.

As he lay spread-eagle on the bed and stared up at the ceiling, he realised he needed to break out of his bonds before he died of starvation in this shitty hotel room — or worse, was found by someone with a camera.

A couple of hours later, his nightmare came true as he heard the door open and winced against the bright light as the light switch snapped on.

Kenny was staring at him, pale and trembling. The little fucker was clearly trying not to laugh.

"Don't say a fucking word, you poor piece of—" God damn it; for a moment he'd forgotten he was still gagged.

Kenny silently pulled out a flick knife and released him from his bonds before untying his gag. Cartman was amazed; which was the fucking retard doing cutting him down without taking a bunch of photos he could plaster over the school lockers? Cartman knew everyone thought he was really fucking cool, but he didn't realise Kenny figured he was so awesome he should be protected from such humiliation.

"Get dressed, the cops are on their way," Kenny said numbly, his shoulders hunched like some bad lady.

Cartman glared at him. "What the fuck have you done now, Kenny?" Unless of course they'd caught that skinny dyke... only that would mean he'd have to admit what she'd done to him.

"Nothing." Kenny sighed deeply and stared at the ceiling with his hands in his pockets. "Maria's dead."

~

"Are you going to call them off yet?" Kyle asked as red laser beams landed smoothly on his jacket and he changed direction to dodge them.

"I... I can't!" Mark insisted, panting wildly.

They continued to run through Battery Park, having seemingly exhausted every other hiding spot in Manhattan. It had swiftly dawned on Kyle that he was much fitter than Mark, who had started holding him back as far away as Greenwich Village. Still, Rebecca would be pissed if he got her brother killed — even if he was a douche — and now the grizzly assassin dudes had figured they'd make more money from despatching the two of them, he was kind of stuck.

"Can't, or won't?" Kyle asked, pulling Mark up when he stumbled over a thick branch and lost his footing.

"Can't," he insisted. "They're assassins; you can't exactly appeal to their better nature."

"Gah, why the hell do your folks have contacts who are Russian killers?"

"How the hell should I know?"

The laser beams kept tracking them. Kyle could feel his t-shirt cling to him with sweat, and a quick glance at Mark told him he was exhausted.

"Let's go... go up there," Mark panted, pointing to a street beyond the closed park gate. "You... you climb, right?"

"How do you think I've been kissing Rebecca goodnight for the past two months?"

"You... asshole!" Mark panted as they raced across the grass towards the locked gate.

Suddenly, Kyle heard a dull metal clunk. He stopped dead; Mark crashed into him.

"What—"

"Grenade," Kyle whispered.

Mark gawped at him. "How do you know what a grenade sounds like?"

Kyle rolled his eyes. "You thought this was the first time I'd had to flee from Russian assassins?"

"You know what, Kyle? Yes, I really did." Mark shook his head in despair.

A small hand grenade rolled towards them; the pin bounced metres away. Kyle and Mark both screamed in terror.

"Jesus—"

"Just fucking run!" Kyle yelled, dragging Mark along as he fled for his life. The grenade exploded behind them with a deafening roar. Kyle pulled them both to the ground and reflexively shielded Mark from the sudden heat; God damn fraternal instinct — he'd smack Ike if he ever got out of this alive.

Before the sensation of intense heat could subside, Kyle became suddenly aware of a sharp thud near his shoulder blade which was quickly followed by searing pain. He screamed loudly. Gingerly, he felt the area with his unchained hand and found something jagged and hot; when he pulled his hand away, he saw it was covered with blood. Shit.

"Are you okay?" Mark asked as he staggered to his feet, yanking Kyle's arm up as he did so.

"I've been better," Kyle said as he felt the blood drain from his face.

"Shit!" Mark hissed. "You've been hit!"

"Oh really? Gee, I hadn't noticed!" Kyle spat.

Mark looked at him and swiftly tucked his arm around Kyle's waist. "Come on," he said solemnly. "Let's get out of here."

Kyle felt his legs tremble as he tried to move. "No, I... I'm done for. Tell Rebecca... Tell her I love her."

"Tell her yourself," Mark spat back, dragging Kyle along the grass.

"You go on, save yourself," Kyle insisted. "I'll only slow you down."

"I can't..."

"Damn it; quit being a martyr, Cotswold!"

"No; I mean I can't. I'm handcuffed to you, remember?"

"Oh, yeah." Kyle shrugged. "Well, sucks to be you."

"What? Just unlock them, asshole!"

"I don't know where the key is!"

Mark glared at him, wide eyed with panic. "What? What kind of crazy bastard handcuffs himself to someone and doesn't know where the key is?"

"One that's just found out he's being hunted by hit men and isn't thinking that far ahead?" Kyle offered sardonically. He was pretty sure Mark was about to retort, but the grizzled assassins had already surrounded them. One of them — taller, boarded and apparently the leader — brought the barrel of his gun to Kyle's forehead.

"Look; Just... Just listen for a second, o... okay?" Kyle pleaded, raising his hands in surrender and dragging Mark up with the movement. "I know you've been hired to kill me; probably for a lot of money—"

"Enough," one of the assassins agreed.

"Not to kill me, though," Mark insisted. "You won't get paid if you kill me as well. So... I... Well, you'll have to separate us, which won't be easy." He nudged Kyle and smiled knowingly.

"Or we could just shoot your friend and not you," another of the assassins suggested.

Mark went pale. "But... but that would traumatise me, and I... I think that would affect your pay out," he babbled.

The other assassin frowned in thought. "What if we chopped his hand off? Then you'd be separated—"

"Mark, stop helping!" Kyle insisted, before mustering all of his courage and looking the main assassin in the eye. "This isn't about revenge, or honour. This is about love. See, this summer I met the most wonderful girl in the whole world. I... Well, I gave her my heart—"

"Amongst other things," Mark muttered.

"And I'm here because I'd do anything for her — I'd even risk death — because what's the point of even existing on this tiny, unforgiving planet if not for love?" He stood up as straight as he could, ignoring the searing pain between his shoulder blades. "Do what you want to me; I don't care because if I'm not free to love Rebecca, then I might as well be dead. My heart might still beat and my blood might still pump through my veins, but it'll be a mere existence, a mockery of life." He let his head droop towards his chest. "She's the only person who has the power to truly hurt me now, and I wouldn't have it any other way."

The assassin's hand shook and he lowered his gun; Kyle saw a tear trickle from his eye.

"We can't take this job," he said, wiping his eyes. "Who hasn't felt love the way this boy does?" He put his gun on the floor. His comrade started to sob loudly.

Mark stared at Kyle, his mouth agape. "Seriously?" he whispered. "Seriously?"

The last remaining assassin glared at them.

"You fools, with the kind of money they're paying us we can buy love. Lots and lots of love with hot blyads." He grabbed his gun and Kyle had no choice but to close his eyes and try to stop himself from trembling wildly as he waited for the moment.

Suddenly, the gates burst open and a flash of light forced Kyle to shield his eyes with his free hand. He heard the blaring horn and revving engine of an estate car, and as he looked up he saw a familiar Lincoln estate plough into his would-be killer. The sickening sound of bones crushed against metal filled his ears.

His mother clambered out of the driver's seat, closely followed by an anxious Rebecca who shoved open the passenger door and jumped out.

"Kyle!" Rebecca screamed, dashing towards him and flinging her arms around him. "Thank God you're..." She pulled her hand from his shoulder and gasped. "You're bleeding!"

"I don't think it's that bad," Kyle assured her, squeezing her with his free hand and hoping Mark wouldn't give too much away just how much he'd squealed at the time.

As he rested his chin on Rebecca's head and felt her warm hands caress the base of his spine, he could see his mother giving the assassins a good talking to.

"Oh, I'll pay, will I? My husband's a lawyer — you'll be paying for the damage to my car when he's through with you! Don't you run away from me, you fershtinkiner! I'm not done with you — that's my boy you were pointing a gun at!"

Mark stared in horror. "Shouldn't we call the police?"

Kyle shrugged. "Ma seems to be doing just fine on her own," he said, holding Rebecca tightly with his free hand.

Mark continued to stare at the surrounding chaos. "And none of this phases you? Are you sure you're not, I don't know, batshit insane?"

"We should call an ambulance," Rebecca said, although her voice was muffled by Kyle's shirt. "You're losing a lot of blood." She lifted her head and showed her hand to Kyle, which was dripping with his blood. He suddenly felt very woozy indeed.

~

Cartman stared at the polystyrene cup of coffee in his hand. He used to hate the stuff, but now he'd developed a taste for it. This meant he could determine just how fucking rancid the stuff from the police station vending machine was. He looked up at the clock; it was nearly midday, and Kenny was still in that interview room. Cartman couldn't really tell what was going on from the tiny window in the door; Kenny had spent most of the past six hours with his head slumped in his hands, while the two bloated, balding detectives had made notes and phone calls.

A policewoman stopped in front of him— not bad looking, definitely had nice titties — and sat down in the plastic chair next to him.

"How are you doing?" she asked kindly.

"Fine," Cartman replied warily, instantly distrusting her gentle face and soft blue eyes. They totally used this broad for honey traps, and he wasn't about to fall into this one.

"I'm sorry we've had to keep your friend for so long. He's not in any trouble, I promise. We're just trying to find out who Maria's family are, so we can let them know what's happened to her. Do you know anything about them? Did she say anything to you?"

"Nope."

She gently patted his shoulder. "What about you? Have you got a mom or dad we can call for—"

"Listen, bitch, I don't know anything, okay?" Cartman said in a low voice he knew said 'don't fuck with me'. The woman raised her eyebrows, but merely rested her hand on his arm.

"When you're ready," she said in that saccharine voice, before getting up and walking to the interview room. Damn, she looked even better from behind.

Cartman watched as she entered the interview room and sat with Kenny. The policemen left the room and went out to the vending machine, which meant they were within earshot of Cartman.

"Poor kid; he's devastated."

"Think it's an act?"

"No; his story checks out. Girl had a syringe of diamorphine and a pack of oral hydromorphone. The coroner got hold of the doctor who signed off her prescription; she was suffering from metastatic breast cancer and she'd been given three months to live about five months ago. She did well, all things considered. She never gave her a next of kin to contact, so we're still stuck."

"Maybe Martha can get some details out of him, the girl must have family." The policeman with thinning blonde hair and a big moustache pressed some buttons on the machine and sipped at the drink that was spat out on front of him.

"He might not know anything." The greying man shook his head sadly. "He won't even tell us how to get hold of his folks. Think he's a runaway?"

The blonde drained his cup. "I think he's in shock. We should speak to his fat friend next."

Fucking assholes. At least Kenny wasn't in trouble. Cartman was relieved — the last thing he wanted was to be implicated in whatever sick shit Kenny had been up to.

He glanced up and saw Kenny wrapped in the arms of that honey trap bitch, his head buried against her chest. Cartman couldn't help but smirk; typical fucking Kenny. Any excuse to get a feel of some titties; Cartman should have thought of the old 'sobbing for mother' technique when he'd had the chance.

Soon enough, he was surrounded by the two coppers. The sat either side of him and leant their elbows on their thighs, clasping their hands together as though in prayer.

"How are you holding up, big man?" the greying officer asked. God fucking damn, he was not fat!

"Fine."

"Sally's just finishing up with your friend," the blonde said quietly. "There's nothing to worry about. We were just hoping to contact her next of kin."

"Like I told that other bitch; we don't know. We just hitched a ride with her a couple of months ago and didn't stop. I don't know shit about her, except that she had cancer, she was an annoying do-gooder and that she's dead."

The officers appeared taken aback.

"Umm. Okay." The blonde scratched his arm nervously.

The greying officer glanced up and the interview room and smiled. "Well, looks like he's got a great consolation prize."

The blonde looked up as well. "God damn, that's one lucky boy."

They smirked at each other, then seemed to remember Cartman was sitting between them and instantly sobered up.

"We'd better get back in there," the greying officer said quietly, just as the door to the interview room opened and Kenny walked out with the honey trap bitch. She had wet patches all down her shirt and Kenny's eyes were bloodshot. Damn, he really went the whole hog with his plots.

"Ken here suggested we take a look in the glove box; apparently Maria kept her title in there. They really don't know anything else," she said sadly. "I think we should take them home."

"Can... Can I see her?" Kenny asked, his voice thick with phlegm.

The honey trap officer placed her hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry, Ken. We have to keep her body here until we find out who to release it to. We can't let you go down there."

This seemed to horrify Kenny. "Wait, she's just going to lie in some drawer until you can figure out where her family are? No! We've got to cremate her! She wanted to be cremated, and she wanted the ashes scattered... Well, she didn't say where, but somewhere nice!"

"Ken, it'll be okay..."

To Cartman's amazement, Kenny simply sat himself on the floor and folded his arms. "I'm not going anywhere until she's safe. You can just lock me up in the morgue, because there's no fucking way I'm leaving her all alone here!"

"Jesus, Kenny; she's dead. What the fuck else do you think will happen to her?"

"I don't know! Anything! She'll be all alone! You hear stories; there could be some sick fuck who's going to rape her corpse!"

"Ken, we keep the morgue very secure. Nobody will be able to touch her, I promise you." The honey trap officer had tears in her eyes. Fucking hell, was there anybody who wasn't going to start blubbing over this fucking Maria chick?

"Kenny, relax. Nobody's going to rape that ugly skank's corpse if there's any alternative," Cartman reassured him. He looked up at the three officers. "You must have some prettier dead chicks locked up in there, right?"

Cartman didn't hear if there was any reply, because Kenny leapt to his feet and dragged him to the floor in a flurry of kicks, punches and bites.

~

"Kyle? Are you okay?"

Kyle woke up to find himself in a hospital bed — which was bad — and with Rebecca gently mopping his brow — which was good. He figured it evened out.

"I think so." He winced as he sat up, taking care not to knock her off the bed. "My shoulder's kind of sore, though. And how did they get the handcuffs off?"

"That was your mom. She used a hairpin."

"Oh."

Rebecca put down the damp sponge she had been using and kissed him tenderly on the lips.

"I love you," she said quietly, and suddenly the pain seemed to vanish. He reached out and stroked her cheek with his thumb, cupping her face with his hand.

"Love you too," he replied, unable to wipe the smile from his face.

Loud yells suddenly pierced his ear drums; he saw shadowy figures moving outside the frosted glass on the door to his ward.

"My daughter's in there alone with your rascal son?" That was definitely Rebecca's father. Kyle felt Rebecca grip his hand tightly at the mere sound.

"Don't you even dare; he's in that hospital because of you, and don't think I'll ever forget that!"

"I wouldn't have had to take any action to protect my daughter if I hadn't walked into my kitchen to find—" There was a sudden crash and a cry of horror. When the door eventually opened, Kyle saw Rebecca's father step into the room, soaking wet and with a dented bedpan on his head. His mother was boring a hole through the back of his head with her icy glare.

"You don't have to speak to him, bubbeleh," she insisted. "I can have him removed. Personally," she spat.

"It's okay," Kyle replied, still holding Rebecca's hand in an act of defiance. "Go ahead, Mr Cotswold."

"Well, I probably should apologise for the events of last night. I perhaps overreacted slightly—"

"Slightly!"

"Ma, let him talk." Kyle kept eye contact with Rebecca's father and noticed with grim delight that he appeared to be squirming.

"The situation was... regrettable; but please understand I was only trying to protect my daughter."

"Dad, the last person I need protecting from is Kyle," Rebecca insisted, squeezing his hand; Kyle noticed Mr Cotswold blanch at the sight.

He sighed. "In my desperate attempts to protect my daughter, I realise I'm made a terrible mistake. Sending her to an all-girls boarding school to protect her from boys was foolish—"

Kyle glanced at Rebecca; they shared a smile.

"—because boys are lurking just outside the school gates! All the pupils have to do is go to the shops, and boys are all around! Even if I don't give her permission to leave the grounds, there are window cleaners and gardeners all waiting to steal her virtue." He sighed heavily. "Rebecca, go home and pack your things, we're sending you to a convent school."

"What? Dad—"

"No arguments, Rebecca. It's for your own good. We found one that assured us there will be no contact with boys, leaving you free to concentrate on your studies."

"Dad, that's absurd! How has Kyle interfered with my studies? It's been summer break!"

Rebecca's father folded his arms. "He interfered with your vagina, that's close enough."

"What, what, what?" his mother looked as though she was about to have an aneurysm.

"Ma, I only touched it. With fingers," Kyle mumbled, feeling his cheeks colour up just from having to explain it. When Rebecca kissed his cheek tenderly, he saw his mother struggle to hide a smile and Rebecca's father glare at them both.

"Rebecca," he said in a warning tone.

"Of course. Your innocent daughter was clearly traumatised." His mother's voice dripped with sarcasm — she even made finger quotes when she said the word 'innocent'.

"You're going and that's final," Rebecca's father said firmly. "You are not seeing this boy again!"

"Mr Cotswold, please! I love her!" Kyle implored.

Rebecca's father glared at him through his half-moon glasses. "Don't make me laugh. You're an irresponsible cad who thinks nothing of... of swapping bodily fluids in... in meaningless encounters."

Rebecca looked as though she was about to cry; Kyle held her tightly and tried to quell his sudden, burning desire to get up and punch her father in the face. It would solve nothing. Instead he watched as Rebecca's father turned and opened the ward door.

"Oh, Mr Cotswold?" Kyle called sweetly, watching as he glanced over his shoulder and raised an eyebrow as though he didn't deserve to be spoken to.

"That's rich, coming from the guy who swallowed my cum this morning without a care." He was gratified when Rebecca's asshole father appeared confused, then suddenly queasy. He slammed the door shut behind him.

Just as Kyle's mother stormed out of the room, rolling up her sleeves as she went, Rebecca pulled away from Kyle. He cupped her face with his hands and kissed her gently on the lips.

"It doesn't matter what school you're sent to," he said firmly. "We can still be together."

"Kyle..." She looked heartbroken.

"We can! We can write, and email, and use IM— I'll call myself Kylie, they'll never know! I can break into the place to see you; my Black Ops gear doesn't fit anymore, but I can get new—"

"Kyle! Stop." Tears were streaming down Rebecca's face. "We can't."

"We can!"

"This is insane!" she blurted out, before wiping her eyes. "There's no way we can keep our relationship going when everyone is making it so difficult."

"Hey, come on. We're not exactly the first people who've been in love against the odds; Romeo and Juliet, Catherine and Heathcliffe, Hester and Dimmingsdale..."

"Kyle, all of those people ended up dead! And I'd argue that the first two don't count due to Romeo being in love with the idea of love and Heathcliffe being destructive and... that isn't the point."

Kyle felt the very air around him had suddenly left the room. "You... You're saying you don't love me?"

"Of course I love you, you idiot! That's precisely why I won't stand by and let you waste your life trying to keep our relationship going." This time, she cupped his face in her warm, delicate hands. "I couldn't stand it, I just couldn't. The past two and a half months have been wonderful, and I don't want to see it end in stolen moments and bitter recriminations because we simply don't have the freedom to be together." She sighed. "You had a life before me, a very full one. Please, go back to it and remember what we had fondly."

She leant forward to kiss him; Kyle turned away. Instead, she took his hand and kissed it.

"I'm... I'm sorry, Kyle."

She ran towards the door, and Kyle instantly felt like a jackass. He ran after her and grabbed her arm.

"Rebecca, wait," he said, turning her around and kissing her hard on the lips. She responded eagerly, threading her fingers through his hair.

"If you want me to remember the good times, I want you to remember this, and not me being all pissed about it ending." he insisted, pressing kisses over any bare flesh he could find. "I want you to remember our first date, all the chess games, the sneaky moments we spent outside your school, the way we beat 'Time Crisis II' in the arcades and were idolised by all those ten year olds." He looked up and raised an eyebrow, staring deep into her tear-filled eyes while trying to stop his from flowing. "And every night, when you're alone, I want you to remember how you screamed my name in your kitchen." He whispered the last part against her ear and felt desire and pain in equal measure when she sighed against him. She blinked, and her tears splashed between her lashes and spilled across her face.

"I'll miss you," she whispered, before turning on her heel and fleeing the room, letting go of his hand at the last possible moment. He heard her sob loudly as she ran along the corridor; if someone had gone up to him and stabbed him in the gut right then, he'd have barely felt it in comparison to the agony that had made him feel.

Suddenly, he heard loud crashes and yells.

"Ow! You crazy... I think it's broken!"

"That's nothing; if my son isn't well enough to be discharged today, there won't be enough of you left to fill a crock pot!"

Kyle stepped over to the door and closed it quietly. Then he climbed onto the bed, hugged his knees to his chest and cried as though his very organs had been ripped out of his body and liquefied.

~

Stan stared under the hood of Kenny's dad's old pick-up truck, wrench in hand, but could see nothing but rust, metal and plastic. He didn't know how cars worked any more than he understood ballet.

"It's cool, Stan. Just do what I tell you." Kenny seemed very solemn since he'd come back from his and Cartman's road trip. Stan was expecting stories of big titted women and crazy adventures, but Kenny hadn't so much as quipped about Cartman's weight. He hadn't seen Cartman at all.

In all honesty, Stan was more worried about Kyle. He and his family had returned from New York last week, but Stan hadn't heard anything from him; he only knew they were back because Kyle's mom was drinking coffee in his mother's kitchen that day when he got back from playing football.

"I just don't know what to do, Sharon. I've never seen him like this."

"Oh, Sheila, he'll be fine. Boys are surprisingly resilient when it comes to this sort of thing."

"Really? Because you didn't see him when it happened. He looked like he'd been shot. He wouldn't eat for two days — and I know that pancreatic transplant has done wonders for his diabetes, but I was so terrified I nearly called the hospital to get him an IV."

Stan had hovered near the kitchen door on the pretext of getting a soda, but all they had talked about afterwards was how Kyle's aunt was putting on weight and bossing his cousin about again. He waited to hear from Kyle, but there was radio silence. He even tried to phone him, but the phone just rang out for ages until it finally prompted him to leave a voicemail.

"Relax, Stan. Your boyfriend's coming over in a bit," Kenny teased, though his expression suggested it had taken him great effort to even manage that. "Now, just undo that bolt there."

Stan did as he was told; it took him two hands and several grunts of effort before the thing even loosened.

"Okay, now pull that out and replace it with this." Kenny handed him a tubular piece of rubber that looked much like the one under the hood, only cleaner and less oily.

"Sure." He looked at how far he was going to have to reach under the hood, and peeled his t-shirt off before he began. Delving into the bowels of the truck, Stan felt for the tubing and managed to replace it, covering himself with grease and rust particles in the process. He sloppily wiped himself off with a nearby rag as best he could, but was pretty sure he'd only succeeded in spreading the grease around.

They worked in relative silence — punctuated only with Kenny's instructions — until Stan heard the patter of feet behind him. He turned around and saw Karen, Kenny's undeniably adorable little sister. He'd have happily picked her up and cuddled her, even at twelve, but she only let two guys beside her father do that. Besides, Stan could see she was starting to show signs of hitting puberty; budding breasts were beginning to show through her dress and she was starting to get a little clumsy. It wouldn't be long before she was chasing after boys and finding her brother's indulgent attention embarrassing; Stan shuddered to think how Kenny would deal with that. He was so overprotective that he made Kyle look relaxed as a big brother.

She stared shyly at them. "What are you doing?" she asked, making a beeline for Kenny and feeling for his hand. He stopped what he was doing and gave her a bear hug.

"We're fixing up the truck," he said. "We're going for a ride."

"Can I come?"

Kenny scratched the back of his head. "Umm, it's kind of a guy thing."

Karen looked disappointed.

"But we'll do something when I get back, okay?" Kenny insisted, and she seemed to brighten at this.

"Hey, Karen," Stan offered, and saw her glance briefly up at him, then turn bright red and stare at the floor.

"Hi, Stan," she whispered, looking up occasionally as though daring herself to. Every time, she turned even redder than Stan thought possible. He was stunned; she couldn't possibly have a crush on him. Then she bit her lip and he felt her eyes lingering over his bare chest. By the time Kenny had muttered, "Put a fucking shirt on, dude," he'd got the memo loud and clear.

Just as he was about to argue to Kenny that he wasn't going to ruin his new 'Colostomy Explosion' band t-shirt just to cool Karen's ardour, Kyle turned up and Karen seemingly abandoned both of them.

"Kyle! You're back! How was New York?"

Stan glanced across at Kyle; fucking hell, what had happened to him? He looked gay, or European; Stan couldn't quite decide. He also appeared even taller than when he'd left and his hair was... well, it appeared to have a semblance of a style. He looked pretty good, actually; which was a relative term for Kyle. Poor guy didn't exactly have that much to work with, looks wise.

Kyle picked up Karen and twirled her around. "Karen! Wow; you've got even taller! You're going to be catching up with me soon."

She jabbed him in the stomach when he put her down. "Yeah, right. Tell me all about New York!"

"It was cool," he said thoughtfully as Karen flung her arms around his waist and clung on as though for dear life. "They've got tons of museums, and subway trains, and I stood in the Statue of Liberty..." He smiled mischievously. "And they've got some place called 'Topshop'?"

"Wow; did you see it? Did you step into it?" Karen appeared awestruck.

"I might have." Kyle pulled something out of his back pack and handed it to her; Stan watched her eyes grow round with excitement.

"Wow! A Topshop bag!"

"Yeah; there's something inside it," Kyle replied, apparently just as baffled as Stan about her excitement over a paper carrier bag. When she finally pulled out some charm bracelets and little nail polishes, she squeezed Kyle even tighter.

"Thank you," she said against his stomach.

"Hey, you'd better have got us two something," Kenny said, walking over and clapping Kyle on the back, only for Kyle to wince. Karen was already waving the bracelets in his face; they dangled off her tiny wrists and rested around her knuckles.

"Very nice," Kenny said indulgently. "Why don't you show Stan?"

This seemed to terrify Karen, and instead she buried her head against Kyle's stomach. Stan could see Kenny was trying not to laugh.

Eventually Karen let go of Kyle and followed Kenny back to the truck, giving Stan a chance to give his best friend a big welcome back hug.

"Hey, dude," he said. "How are you?"

"Hey," Kyle replied, hugging him back. Stan noticed he didn't answer his question.

"What happened to you?" Stan asked, gesturing for the top of Kyle's head to his feet.

Kyle shrugged. "Girls shopped for me." He adjusted his pants. "They felt a bit weird at first, but I'm kind of used to it now."

"I like your hair," Karen pointed out. "It's all curly on top."

"Thanks."

"So, come on, dude. What did you get up to? I mean, that I don't already know."

Kyle seemed to pale at this. "Look, Stan. I'm still kind of raw about it all. Me and Rebecca—"

He stopped suddenly; Stan glanced around and saw Cartman reach them, wearing an uncharacteristic baseball cap.

"Sup, bitches." He stopped and stared at Kyle. Then he burst into hysterical laughter.

Kyle folded his arms. "Come on, lardass. Get it out of your system."

"You look so fucking gay! I didn't realise that spending three months in Queens was going to make you one!" He started rolling on the floor, tears of laughter streaking his face. Kyle rolled his eyes.

Eventually he calmed down and glanced at Karen. "Hey there... Ooh; you've got some mossies — took you long enough." He patted his chest to make his point even clearer. Karen appeared mortified, and hastily wrapped her arms over her chest.

"Cartman." Kenny's tone was dangerous.

Kyle knelt down and looked Karen in the eye. "Just ignore him," he said, gently prising Karen's arms away from her chest. "He just thinks he's all that because he's got the second biggest pair of tits in our grade."

"Oi! Fuck you, you fucking Jew!" Cartman retorted, while Karen giggled hysterically.

"Like you know anything about tits," Cartman grumbled. "Just because R... R... eb.. b... b... bec... c... ca was dumb enough to let you anywhere near—"

The switch in Kyle's temperament was dizzying; Stan barely had time to react before Kyle had wrestled Cartman to the floor and punched him twice in the gut.

"Dude, calm down!" It took all of Stan's strength to pull Kyle off Cartman before he smashed his face in. Kenny was swiftly trying to drag Cartman out of harm's way.

"Go Kyle!" Karen cheered.

"Karen, don't encourage them," Kenny begged.

"Come on, man. It's okay," Stan soothed, wrapping his arms around a seething Kyle and holding him until he could feel his heart rate drop.

"So, where are we going, Kenny?" Kyle asked eventually, his rage at Cartman apparently forgotten.

"Down to San Isabel," he said. "There's a place round there I want to put it."

Kyle and Stan went over to the back of the truck. Kenny removed the tarpaulin and showed them a small sapling in a plastic pot.

"It's all I could afford," he said quietly. Stan patted him on the back.

"She'll love it, dude."

"Yeah," Kyle agreed sombrely.

"Can I see?" Karen asked, standing on her tiptoes and trying to peer over their shoulders. Stan turned around, put his hands on her waist and hoisted her up.

"Better?" he asked.

"Thanks," she croaked. He held her up until she grabbed his arm with trembling hands and motioned to the floor. Awkwardly, he tried to put her down without dropping her; she clung to him for support. Once she was down, Stan could see her beetroot red face as she backed away.

"I... I need to go to the bathroom," she stammered, dashing away.

Cartman smirked. "Sure that's what you're feeling?" he called after her.

"Cartman!" Kyle was glaring at him.

"What? It's not my fault she's got her little panties all drenched over St—"

Kenny responded by slamming a monkey wrench hard into Cartman's balls. He dropped to the floor like a ton of bricks and screamed.

"Fuck you, Kenny!" he gasped out, tears of agony pouring down his cheeks. For the first time since he'd seen him, Kyle was actually smiling. Then Cartman's baseball hat fell off, and Kyle erupted into laughter.

Stan soon saw why; on Cartman's forehead, the words 'I'm a fat fucking pervert!' were printed across his forehead in what looked like black marker pen.

"Dude! What the hell happened?" Stan asked. Cartman glared at him.

"Some jealous bitch in Boulder, what of it?" he replied sullenly.

"Won't it wash off?" Kyle asked innocently, biting his lip in an obvious — and poor — attempt to cover up his giggles.

"Of course, Kyle; I've just kept it as a fond reminder of my travels, you idiot Jew!"

Kenny slammed the hood of the truck down. "Ready?" he asked.

Soon enough, they had all clambered into the car — Cartman had called shotgun; Kyle and Stan sat in the back seat — and were on their way to... well, wherever Kenny was taking them; San Isabel wasn't exactly a small national park.

"Jesus fucking Christ; haven't we seen enough trees, Kenny?" Cartman complained.

"Shut up," Kenny replied tersely as he gripped the steering wheel tightly.

"Cartman! Just shut the hell up and let Kenny do his thing. He lost someone really important to him; he needs to say goodbye," Kyle snapped, staring out of the window as he spoke. Stan soon realised from the tone of his voice that Kyle seemed to empathise.

"Dude," he whispered over the rattle of the engine. "Talk to me. What happ—"

Kyle shook his head and raised his palm. Stan understood; it wasn't a refusal to talk, it was a refusal to talk now. He'd go home with him later and let Kyle pour his heart out; Stan could see it must be aching trapped inside his ribcage. For the moment, Stan squeezed Kyle's hand in a gesture of comfort; he felt Kyle squeeze it right back.

"Christ, you two can go and make out later; quit being faggy back there and listen! Kenny might have spent our entire trip helping homeless people or some shit, but some of us actually have some pretty sweet stories. Like, there was this one time I met this girl in a diner with really jiggly titties..."

Three and a half clearly embellished stories about Cartman going back to girls' houses later, and Kenny parked the truck near some waterfall. They got out and carried the sapling and a shovel down to a clearing nearby. Stan looked around at the smooth pale rocks, the trickling water and the lush green forest, and decided Kenny had picked a pretty good spot.

They watched as Kenny quietly dug a hole and dropped the sapling in it, tenderly patting the soil around it as though he were burying a sacred artefact. He poured a little water on it, then stepped back and admired his handiwork.

"Kenny, are you nearly done? I'm sweating my balls off here!" Cartman moaned.

Kenny gestured for them to join him.

"Now, we sing," he said.

Cartman looked horrified. "Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no, no! No way am I singing that shitty song."

"Cartman! Kenny's looking for closure. Be a fucking friend and sing!" Kyle yelled at him.

"Why can't he be a fucking friend and stop asking me to sing drivel?"

Kenny glared murderously at Cartman and grabbed the collar of his t-shirt. "You will sing the song and you will fucking like it!" he ground out.

"Okay, okay, calm the fuck down, Kenny." Cartman looked genuinely terrified.

They all looked at each other and waiting for Kenny to start them off; Stan couldn't help but feel a little stupid standing in a clearing off Route 291 ready to serenade a tree, but it was what Kenny needed.

"I sit and wait,

Does an angel contemplate my fate,

And do they know,

The places where we go

When we're grey and old,

'Cause I have been told

That salvation lets their wings unfold," Kenny sang.

They all joined in uncertainly. "So when I'm lying in my bed,

Thoughts running through my head,

And I feel the love is dead,

I'm loving angels instead.

And through it all she offers me protection,

A lot of love and affection,

Whether I'm right or wrong.

And down the waterfall

Where—"

Suddenly, Stan heard a rumble; before he knew it, a pile of rocks crashed through the forest and crushed Kenny before he could even shout 'landslip!'

"Oh my God, they killed Kenny!"

"You bastards! He was trying to grieve!" Kyle yelled up into the sky. "He was just trying to grieve!"

Cartman sighed, stepped over the blood spattered rocks and grabbed the shovel.

"You guys might want to think up some more songs," he said as he dug a hole next to the sapling. "This could take me some time."

Chapter Seven: The Broflovski Effect — The Slow-Emerging Buttefly

Stan closed his eyes in annoyance as the bed shook once again. Kyle had a habit of fidgeting in his sleep and on this rickety bunk, Stan was feeling every twitch.

He sat up a little and was about to shake him awake, when he noticed that Cartman was gazing up in Kyle's direction from the other bunk. Stan stared in amazement at the sight. Clearly Cartman had no idea Stan had noticed, but it wasn't the fact that he was watching him so intently that had caught Stan's attention — Cartman had been like that with Kyle since they were kids — but the... well, the softness in his expression. Stan had never seen Cartman like this before; it was almost as though... Stan shook the thought away, for it was utterly absurd.

A creaking sound emanated from Cartman's direction; he had clambered out of the bottom bunk and slipped his dinner jacket off. Stan laid back and pretended to be asleep, but watched as Cartman crept over to his bunk, reached up and carefully laid his jacket over the top bunk — presumably over Kyle.

As Cartman moved away, he caught Stan's eye and froze. Stan watched as Cartman stared at him guiltily, his hands still resting on Kyle's bunk. Stan stared back, wondering who would be the first to crack and speak.

Turned out it was Cartman.

"He's freezing. Only way I'm going to stop that goddamn racket," he grumbled.

Stan continued to stare at him, still uncertain as to whether he bought Cartman's explanation or not.

"Stupid fucking Jew," Cartman added dispassionately, before sloping off back to his bunk.

Stan stared at the mattress above his head. Just when he thought nothing else could ever shock him.

Then Cartman got up and sat on the edge of Stan's bed.

"Cartman?" Stan whispered.

"Hey." He fiddled with the coarse blanket beneath his fingers.

"You okay?" Stan asked tentatively, really not knowing what sort of reaction he'd get. Melancholic Cartman was generally a powder keg of emotions, as prone to bursts of aggression as tears of sadness. Rather like Kyle in that respect.

"You hate him, don't you?" Cartman asked and Stan was shocked by the thought.

"I... I don't know," he said eventually. He'd thought he did; an abstract idea hovering somewhere in the dark spaces of this brain, but when forced to confront the idea head on he just couldn't bring himself to say it and confirm the notion.

Cartman smirked sadly at him. "Oh, he does that, huh? It doesn't matter what he does to you, you can't quite bring yourself to outright hate him. You just keep coming back like some fucking battered wife." He sighed heavily. "So, what did he do?"

Stan wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "I... He... I... nothing. Everything. I don't want to talk about it."

For some reason, Cartman found this highly amusing. "Yep," he said between chuckles. "That sounds about right."

Stan watched as he leant forward, hands clasped tightly, and stared at the concrete below. "You love him, right? I mean in a friend way, not in a gay way," Cartman clarified.

"I... I guess. He's my best friend." Stan was surprised how easily the platitude still rolled off his tongue.

Cartman smiled coldly at this. "So, not that close, then. He never really gets under your skin, does he? I mean, except maybe tonight. Whatever happened."

Stan was amazed Cartman didn't push the issue, but was more amazed by his accusation.

"Hey, we've been best friends since kindergarten!"

Cartman got up. "Best friends, best friends..." He looked Stan straight in the eye. "Whatever it is he's done, do you really think he's hurt you?"

"Yes! He really fucking has!" The truth in his blurted statement stung.

"It's nothing on what he's done to me," Cartman replied with uncharacteristic softness. Stan had to shove away every instinctive thought he had on the matter, because it was dumb and made no sense.

Didn't it?

~

"So, where's Kyle?" Kenny asked, sitting on a chair in the waiting area of the barbers while Mario — the moustachioed barber — trimmed Stan's hair.

Cartman snickered. "He's at the hair salon like the raging queen he's become."

Stan hit Cartman on the arm. "Dude, shut up!"

Mario clutched at his heart in exaggerated sadness. "Oh no! Have I lost little Kyle to 'Scissor Sisters' across the street?"

"Chill, Mario; he's just being a little gaymo," Cartman said as he played with his seat settings and sent himself half a foot further up into the air.

Mario sighed. "How many times do I have to say? My name, is no Mario!"

"What? You're Italian and you've got a moustache — you're frickin' Mario, dude," Cartman replied breezily.

"I no understand; I'm not Italian, I'm Turkish! What is this 'Mario' you keep talking about?"

Stan sighed. "It's nothing personal — about Kyle, I mean. He just wanted to see if they could do whatever they did in New York to his hair again," he said, while Cartman started to hum the theme from Super Mario Brothers.

Mario sighed. "That boy's hair..." He shook his head. "It was my — how you say — my impossible conquest." He brushed away at the back of Stan's neck and held a mirror behind him. "You like?"

"Yeah, I like. Thanks," Stan replied. Mario smiled, and then whipped his head around to glare at Cartman.

"You sing the music from that game? That's what you mean?" He seemed deeply offended. "Do I look like plumber?" He snipped the air aggressively with the scissors in his hands. "You think this plumbing?"

He wandered off to wash his hands. "You think I have brother called Luigi?" he shouted from the sink.

"Have you seen his wife?" Kenny whispered, leaning conspiratorially towards them. "She is a bit of a peach."

Stan couldn't help it and burst out laughing. Cartman was snickering as well. When Mario returned muttering to himself, they were in hysterics.

"You ready, Eric?" Mario asked through gritted teeth.

Cartman wiped his eyes. "Oh, sorry, sorry. I'm ready. Just, you know, whenever you're finished jumping in pipes or whatever."

Mario glared at him. "I no plumber? See, a plumber, he cut hair like this!" With a swift flick of his scissors, Cartman's bangs were gone, revealing the greying — but still very prominent — legend 'I'm a fat fucking pervert!'.

"God fucking damn it!" Cartman raged. "I'd just grown that enough in time for school, you asshole wop!"

Mario looked pretty damn pleased with himself, but Cartman threw a fit at him and refused to pay. Stan and Kenny cobbled together Mario's fee on account of his scissor-happy behaviour being so funny.

"Well, now you've had your fun, are we going to find your little boyfriend, Stan?" Cartman jeered, pulling a baseball cap out of his pocket and shoving it as far over his forehead as he could.

Stan rolled his eyes. "We're going to meet Kyle, if that's what you mean."

Cartman laughed. "Fucking gaywad Jew."

They wandered across the street to 'Scissor Sisters'.

"Can't we just wait outside?" Cartman suggested. "I think it might be catching."

Kenny peered through the window like a kid at a candy shop. "Can we go inside? It's crawling with hot chicks," he urged, although Stan detected less enthusiasm than he would have expected. Wow. Whoever this Maria had been, she'd done a number on him.

Stan pushed the door open; a wind chime above him tinkled with the action and a girl with perfectly coiffed hair, dyed only at the tips, popped up from behind the counter like a Jack-in-the-box.

"Can I help you, gentlemen? We've got a special on highlights—"

"No, thank you," Stan insisted. "We're—"

"We're just waiting for his boyfriend," Cartman finished.

"Shut up, Cartman!"

"What? He's your friend, he's a boy, you pound his ass..." He trailed off, clearly for dramatic effect.

Kenny started giggling hysterically. "No, Eric. I think Stan's the one who takes it up the—"

They all suddenly stopped talking. Stan could see Kyle at the back of the salon, and some very pretty girl was giving him a head massage.

Cartman glared at the receptionist. "What the hell is this, some kind of knocking shop?"

The girl stared in horror, and then laughed. "Oh, no — that's standard treatment here."

"Dude!" Stan figured maybe he should start getting his hair cut at a ladies salon.

"I think I might start coming here," Kenny commented; Stan was sure the double entendre was intentional.

"Does Kyle look different to you?"

"I don't know; maybe he's got taller?"

"She's been flirting with him all morning."

"Yeah. Slut."

Stan glanced over his shoulder and saw Mille sitting under some kind of heat lamp, whispering to Sally. Clearly they had patched things up after Butters' house party; apparently Token wasn't worth wrecking their friendship over. At first Stan thought they were so wrapped up in their conversation that they hadn't noticed him, but then their voices dropped to whispers that even surveillance equipment would struggle to pick up.

It didn't take much longer for Kyle to emerge — all tight messy curls rather than wild frizz — with the pretty hairdresser girl by his side.

"Well, good luck with your assessment."

"Thanks; it'll be my first cut, so I'm kind of nervous."

Kyle gently touched her arm. "You'll be fine. You've got really steady hands; I can vouch for that."

Stan spotted a very noticeable blush creep across the girl's cheeks. "Thanks. Umm... Okay, I'm just going to ask; are you doing anything tonight?"

"Probably hanging out, maybe playing some video games. Definitely lamenting the start of school," he replied.

She smiled, and appeared to stifle a giggle. "I meant, well, are you free any night?"

Kyle looked puzzled. "Sorry, I don't follow."

The girl fiddled nervously with the hem of her sleeve. "I just thought, I dunno, maybe we could go out sometime? Like, on a date?" she clarified. Stan felt sorry for her as she tried to penetrate Kyle's emotional awareness; subtext seemed to slide off him as though he was Teflon-coated against it. Yet he could find you every subtle example of thematic representation in a Shakespeare play; sometimes Stan just didn't understand him.

"Oh! Oh." Kyle suddenly appeared even more awkward. "Look, you seem really nice—"

"Oh. I see..."

"No! It's not..." He exhaled in a purse of his lips and fiddled with the hair in the nape of his neck. "I just came out of a pretty serious relationship. I guess I'm not really ready for..."

She smiled shyly at him and reached into his pocket, pulling out his cell phone. She tapped a few times with both thumbs, and then handed it back to him.

"My number, in case you change your mind," she said with a smile, before looking him up and down. "She was a lucky girl," she mused, before kissing him on the cheek. She walked off to the back of the salon, where her giggling colleagues had been watching.

Kyle looked embarrassed, flattered, confused and suspicious all at once. Stan hadn't even known that was possible. He glanced over immediately to see Millie and Sally's reactions, but they were texting on their phones and had paid no attention.

Cartman burst out laughing. "Look guys, it's Clark Gay-ble. How much did you pay her, Butt-love-ski? This has to be the only place I've ever been where they cut your hair but give you a beard..."

Kyle responded to Cartman's taunts by simply ripping his baseball cap off, exposing his grafittied forehead.

"Oi! Give that back, you fucking Kyke!"

The receptionist appeared truly horrified; Kyle just stuck Cartman's cap down his pants and paid for his hair cut.

"Oh, yeah; you'd like me to go in there after it, wouldn't you? You'd like my big manly hands rubbing all over your junk, huh?"

Kyle merely shrugged as the receptionist tried not to laugh.

Eventually, Cartman tackled Kyle to the floor and unzipped his pants. He grabbed his hat back and stuck it firmly on his head.

"Urgh; your sweaty balls have been all over this. I can smell them."

"Wow, and now his balls are vicariously resting on your head," Kenny pointed out with a smirk.

Kyle flashed a big toothy grin, and Stan suddenly noticed there were no train tracks to be seen. "Dude, your braces are off!" he said. "They look good."

"Thanks; I going to celebrate by eating a burger without cutlery," he deadpanned. Stan watched as his tongue glided over his teeth, seemingly subconsciously.

"Awesome! Let's go to Denny's to celebrate," Cartman said in a sickly sweet voice. "Then Stan can congratulate you by picking the bits of food out of your teeth with his tongue."

"One more word, and I'm torching your cap," Kyle warned, his patience clearly wearing thin.

~

"Gah; it sucks that we have to go back to school on Monday," Bebe said with a sigh. "We've got less than thirty-six hours of freedom left!" She returned to eating her baguette in a mind bogglingly erotic fashion; Wendy wondered how she managed it.

"It's not that bad," Wendy soothed, sipping on her ice-cream float. She felt very retro, sitting in the Fifties' style food court of the mall drinking her Fifties' style drink — which she spurted out through her nose in a distinctly non-retro way when Bebe nonchalantly said, "I was hoping I'd have taught Clyde to be a better fuck before tenth grade began."

"What?"

"Oh, you know I love him, like, tons." She out her baguette down and sighed heavily. "We just don't seem to connect sexually. I've tried everything!"

Wendy wanted to be horrified and disgusted with the way Bebe put so much emphasis on sex, but the pained expression she wore actually made her sympathise a little.

"It's, like, every time I almost get there, but not quite. I have to wait for him to have his little post-orgasm snooze so I can finish up — it hurt his feelings the last time I did it in front of him," Bebe said, rolling her eyes. "Like my feelings don't matter. You know what? I should just blow him and stop just before he's close to shooting his load. Then he'd know what it's like to have hurt feelings!" She stabbed her fork into her baguette; Wendy watched as it wobbled, but remained proudly upright in the bread.

"I'm sure it'll work out," Wendy said, in lieu of being able to dole out any proper advice.

Bebe touched her hand. "Sorry; I've been moaning all morning about my relationship — how's yours?"

"Fine," Wendy replied, not really wanting to go into the past month's awkward dates and Stan's eager, but often disappointed, advances; always followed by a guilty expression as though he was wrong to want what he did. The whole situation made Wendy feel lots of things, and none of them were good. She didn't mean to make him feel the way she did, but everything she tried to do to stop teasing him — from the way she dressed to the way she ate — had no effect.

"That's all you have to say?" Bebe teased, and Wendy realised that 'fine' wasn't going to cut it — she needed to have problems that would put a soap opera to shame, or wild sex that would make a pornographic film look limited.

"Umm... Stan gave me a poem," she offered meekly.

Bebe looked intrigued. "Ooh, is that one in the 'Kama Sutra'?"

Wendy blinked in confusion. "No, it's a poem. You know, with occasional rhymes and nice little phrases about how lovely I am."

"Oh. Okay. That's sweet," Bebe agreed.

"Yeah; Kyle's really good with words," Wendy mused.

Bebe dropped her fork in shock. "Wait, what? Kyle? You're dating Kyle now? When did this happen?" She looked disgusted.

"I'm not," Wendy replied. "He clearly wrote the poem on Stan's behalf. I recognised his writing voice." She became acutely aware that Bebe was gawping at her. She shrugged. "The thing with dating Stan is... well, you kind of end up dating Kyle, too. They're sort of a package deal."

Once Wendy had stopped fighting this idea and accepted it, she felt far less like she was competing with Stan's best friend and far more like he'd become her friend, too. For a long time she had Kyle pinned as an asshole with a short fuse and an arrogant streak a mile wide; now she realised he was a nice guy with a short fuse who fought hard for his beliefs and was a beacon of intelligence surrounded by a sea of stupidity. She could relate.

Bebe beamed with pride. "Wow. That's my girl. Maybe they'll both screw you, too?"

Wendy stared in horror. "I don't mean... It's not like that!"

Bebe sipped at her coffee and eyed her wickedly. "Have you asked? I mean, they do everything together, right?"

"I think even they have limits," Wendy replied.

Bebe grinned. "So, you've thought about it."

"What? No!" Wendy protested hotly, feeling both embarrassed and kind of grossed out. Before she could argue further, she was distracted by a loud buzzing in her purse; there was a message on her cell phone.

Simultaneously, she and Bebe reached for their purses and inspected their phones. Wendy read the message 'MURG mt. Bebe hse. Cdwd — SPARKLES'.

"My house?" Bebe appears confused, then shocked.

"What is it?" Wendy asked, not really knowing how to speak text — it could have meant anything.

Bebe grabbed her hand. "We have to go. Now." Her expression was grave. "It's the list."

~

By the time Wendy and Bebe reached her house, every girl in their class was loitering along the street, trying to make it appear as though their close proximity was sheer coincidence.

Bebe unlocked her door and gave the signal — nothing more than a wave of her hand — and the girls slowly made their way into the house, as though a pincer movement of almost-tenth grade girls was somehow less conspicuous if it dawdled.

Bebe directed them into the basement; they each took a chair and arranged them in an open crescent with Bebe at the helm. Despite her elementary school transgressions — or perhaps because of them — she had become the most unswerving, upright and brutally truthful Keeper.

She banged a gavel hard against her computer desk and everyone fell silent.

"Ladies, we are here because one of our number wishes to challenge an existing motion. Please make yourself known."

The girls all looked around excitedly; it was always worth watching someone try to make Bebe reconsider a list. Millie and Sally stood up and nervously made their way to the Jensen Ackles poster.

Millie cleared her throat. "I... We have reason to believe the BHI needs to be re-evaluated," she said.

"Who had caused the need for re-evaluation?" Bebe asked wearily. It had been pretty common these past two years; puberty had ravaged all of them at one point or another, making the BHI — Boy Hotness Index — more volatile than the NYSE after an IMF bailout.

"Kyle," Sally said. "Kyle Broflovski."

There was a ripple of murmuring that spread through the group.

"Silence!" Bebe roared, banging her gavel. A fearful hush descended. Bebe looked at Mille and Sally. "Present your case," she said, gesturing to the My Little Pony flipchart —Wendy had been meaning to get Bebe something a little more sophisticated for years.

Millie looked down at a crib-sheet she had surreptitiously slipped out of her sleeve. "Myself and my witness Sally observed Mr Broflovski in 'Scissor Sisters' at approximately ten AM, while undergoing a deep conditioning treatment. Mr Broflovski appeared, to all intents and purposes, to be looking rather hot."

Bebe raised an eyebrow in indulgent amusement. "Do you have proof?"

"Yes," Sally said. "We submit my camera phone for the benefit of the group." She handed over a pink glittery phone with a charm dangling from it shaped like a high heel; Wendy made a mental note to ask her where she got it from.

"There are photographs of Mr Broflovski in a very fetching jean and jacket combo—"

"No leading the panel, Sally," Bebe warned.

Sally hung her head. "Sorry, Bebe. There are photos of Mr Broflovski in new clothes, and video footage of Jessica Sloane flirting with him."

This seemed to send everyone muttering excitedly; Bebe had to give up on her gavel and instead scratched her fingernails down the Fisher Price blackboard — which Wendy knew had been bundled up ready to hand down to her young cousin — before everyone squealed and fell silent.

"We are all aware of Jessica Sloane's reputation — a snooty bitch who turns her nose up at any of the boys at Middle Park High, let alone South Park High." She steepled her fingers. "I accept your request. Unless anybody objects, I shall call a motion to reopen the BHI after careful perusal of the evidence brought forward." She slammed the gavel against her desk. "You have half an hour to examine the evidence, then we shall take a vote."

The half an hour whistled past very quickly; Wendy felt very weird having to give an opinion on the hotness of her boyfriend's best friend, but she couldn't shirk her duty. Once the votes were being collected, the atmosphere lightened a little.

"He didn't even realise she was hitting on him," Millie said, sighing. "It was so adorable!"

Wendy rolled her eyes. "Yeah, because no girl has ever hit on him before," she reasoned, although in the back of her mind she wondered who exactly had made the move on whom in New York.

"Well, let's be fair; who would have?" Bebe pointed out. "He's a nice guy, but..."

"And you didn't exactly help," Wendy pointed out. "You single-handedly destroyed his self-esteem for shoes!"

Bebe glared at her. "That was a long time ago, Wendy. I did my time."

"It doesn't change the fact it would have had an impact on him, especially at such a young age."

"Then I did him a favour," she shot back. "The fact he doesn't realise he's hot seems to have made him even hotter. Maybe that's part of it? That enigmatic combination of beauty and low self-esteem... Are the votes in yet?"

Red and Powder handed Bebe a box of ballot papers, each lovingly decorated with pink glitter and heart stickers.

"Right," Bebe announced, setting up a new tab on their spreadsheet. "Let's get to work."

Fifteen hours and a trip to the supermarket to stock up on essentials later, and Bebe was still staring dumbstruck at the screen of her laptop.

"Well?" Wendy asked, curiosity getting the better of her as she perused the selection box of chocolates currently in her possession. Bebe looked up at Wendy with dread in her eyes.

"I can't make it make sense," she moaned, reaching for the chocolates.

"Why, what's happened?" Millie asked.

"There must be a mistake..."

"We've counted the votes three hundred times, there can't be any fucking mistakes!" Red growled, clearly bored of the whole committee meeting.

"Three hundred and seven," Bebe corrected gloomily. "And still the same."

"Show us," Patty encouraged. With a heavy sigh, Bebe turned her laptop around and expanded some graphs. Wendy craned in for a closer look, and saw they were titled 'Best Hair', 'Best Eyes', 'Best Ass' and 'Best Upper Arms'.

"Right; these graphs show the results based on our new votes. There's no difference to last time; Kyle is still in the bottom five for everything, except for 'Best Ass' which, naturally, he has topped consistently for the past seven years." She scrolled through another set of graphs for 'Best Torso', 'Best Jaw Line', 'Best Hands,' 'Best Nose', 'Best Face' and 'Best Body Hair Distribution'. Wendy could see Kyle was still in the bottom five, and actually came bottom for half of them. She felt secretly pleased Kyle had no knowledge of this; she'd never even confided any of this stuff to Stan. Partly because it violated sacred girl law, but also because she didn't want him to get too smug at the prospect of being in the top five for almost every category — Kyle's dominance on the 'Best Ass' list pushed him into seventh place.

"So?" Red asked caustically.

"So, here's the revised 'Best-Looking Boy' list, as per today's vote." Bebe clicked on another graph, and Wendy nearly choked on her own air supply. She glanced around the room and saw even Red staring in utter bewilderment.

"No. Way," Millie breathed.

"This... this can't be," Patty said, practically pressing her nose to the laptop screen.

Red steadied herself on the back of a chair. "There's got to be a—"

"Three hundred and seven times, remember?" Bebe shot back coolly.

Wendy didn't know what to say. Despite being in the bottom five for all but one category of the Boy-Hotness Index, Kyle was apparently the fifth hottest boy in tenth grade. Stan, who was in the top five for all but one category, was the fourth hottest by two votes.

"It... It just doesn't make sense," she commented.

Powder walked over to the window and stared dejectedly at the Stevens' back garden. "Now I don't believe in nothing no more."

~

Stan kicked up flurries of snow as he ran for the bus, only to find it was late. Sadly, this just allowed extra time for it to sink in that summer break was over, rather than providing a blessed respite from the start of school. Kyle, Cartman and Kenny were waiting sombrely next to the bus stop; they shared nods in greeting.

"I wonder if we've got Math today?" Stan mused.

"Probably," Kenny replied. "Just like butt-fucking, they figure it's best to ease you in gently," he joked.

"Well, our scrawny little Jew queen will be happy. He loves Math. He gets off on it. Bet he can't wait for school so he can take it up the ass from Mr Spencer!" Cartman started to mime humping an invisible bent-over partner. "Yeah, that's right. You love my cosine, bitch. Oh yeah, Mr Spencer, spank my associative operation; I've been a bad little Math dork."

Kenny fell about laughing while Stan sighed and braced himself for the first Cartman versus Kyle smackdown of the school year. In many ways, he was impressed it had taken them so long; it must be a new record.

Kyle, however, didn't react. Stan studied his face, deep in thought and miles away from Cartman's mime — which had now been exaggerated into some kind of wheelbarrow manoeuvre, where Cartman held the imaginary legs of his imaginary partner up around his shoulders.

"Kyle? You okay?" Stan asked gently as Cartman glared in their direction.

"Goddamn it, Kyle! Pay attention!"

"Yeah, Cartman was busy fucking your ass, the least you can do is show him you care," Kenny replied, sniggering.

Cartman glared at him. "Shut the hell up, you poor piece of crap!"

"Ooh, someone's a little sensitive," Kenny teased.

"Kyle?"

Kyle seemed to snap out of whatever had occupied him. "Huh? Is the bus here?"

"Not yet; are you okay, buddy?"

"Yeah, fine," Kyle said in that too-bright tone that told Stan he was lying. He put a hand on Kyle's arm.

"I'm here, you know? If you need anything." Stan had spoken to him about the Rebecca incident; it didn't take a rocket scientist to tell him Kyle was pretty cut up about it.

Kyle patted his hand. "Thanks," he said, just as the school bus pulled up in front of them.

"Oi! It's here, you pair of fags!" Cartman growled.

They clambered onto the bus, Cartman muttering under his breath. Stan noticed the bus driver did a double-take when she saw Kyle.

"Hi, Kyle," Millie said as they sat in the seat opposite her.

"Hey," he replied.

"Hi, Kyle," Sally said, in a sweet voice.

Soon a barrage of girls were greeting Kyle in that same slightly saccharine tone.

"What's up with them?" Kyle asked, looking rather perturbed.

Stan shrugged. "No idea, dude." He craned his neck to look over the seats. "Can you see Wendy?"

"Nope. Maybe she drove? As soon as my dad gets his new car, I know I will."

"Huh?"

Kyle grinned. "Dad said I can have his old one. Reckons it's not worth selling. Depreciation and all that, you know?"

"Sweet, dude! I call shotgun!" Stan replied quickly.

Kyle smiled. "Naturally."

When they finally got to school and dumped their bags in their new lockers, Stan had noticed practically every girl in the class had been checking them out.

"Wow," Cartman said. "Word must have got around about me bringing sexy back."

"Dude, they aren't even looking at you," Kenny replied evenly. "Or us."

"Huh?"

Kenny pointed surreptitiously at Kyle, and Stan suddenly got it; every girl hadn't been checking them out — they'd been checking Kyle out.

Kyle, for his part, clearly hadn't noticed. "What?" he asked after Stan realised he'd been staring a little too long.

"Nothing. What's up with the girls?"

Kyle raised an eyebrow. "Fucked if I know; they're acting really weird." He slammed his locker door shout. "Ready?"

"Umm, yeah." Stan exchanged glances with a sniggering Kenny and an irritated Cartman.

"Fucking retard," Cartman grumbled.

~

Wendy arrived at her first class of the day — Geography — to find Bebe staring at Kyle as though he were a fascinating new species.

"Why?" she muttered to herself. "What is it about you, Kyle Broflovski?"

"Bebe?" Wendy asked, and Bebe jumped a mile in her seat.

"Sorry. I was just thinking."

"About Kyle?" Wendy whispered as she slid into her desk next to her.

"Yeah. There has to be a reason..."

Wendy touched her arm. "Just let it go."

"I can't!" The force with which Bebe slammed her fist against her desk alarmed Wendy. "I can't just let a discrepancy like this go unexamined!" She looked at Wendy; her expression was deadly serious. "I learned my lesson when I tampered with the list all those years ago; I'll be damned if I'm just going to brush this under the carpet." She chewed on her pen thoughtfully as Wendy got out her new stationery set. She cast her glance at Kyle, who was hunched over his desk and scribbling into a notebook. Wendy didn't really understand what the fuss was about; he'd just grown into himself. He'd also sorted his hair out, and lost his braces, and now wore clothes that actually fitted him. It seemed quite straight forward to Wendy; Kyle had emerged through the ravages of puberty a stronger individual for his trials.

She saw Kyle turn around, glare at Bebe suspiciously, then turn back to his notes. Not a whit of realisation showed in his expression; Wendy could pretty much guarantee that when he looked in the mirror, he still saw the small, zit covered thirteen year old who from the age of eight had been convinced he was ugly and accepted it graciously.

"Can I help you?" Kyle said with a bite of irritation in his voice; Wendy swiftly realised she had been staring in his direction.

"I... I just wondered if you had any AP classes?" she asked to cover herself.

Kyle seemed to relax at this. "Yeah." He pulled his timetable out of his pocket — already creased and stained as though he'd had it stowed away in there for a month. "I've got English—"

"Naturally," Wendy commented, and Kyle blushed — he must have realised that she knew Stan contracted out the task of writing his love letters to him.

"And Calculus. Figured I'd see how I got on with those this year before doing more in eleventh grade," he explained. "What about you?"

"The same," Wendy conceded, not having to check the colour-coded timetables she had carefully glued into her binder. She knew he was doing some AP classes; they'd been in the same meeting about them. It was nice to know they were doing the same ones; Wendy had a sneaking suspicion they'd have to join the eleventh graders for their classes due to lack of uptake.

"Huh, what a coincidence," Kyle commented airily.

"Oh, please," Bebe interrupted. "You two are, like, top of every class. It's hardly a surprise. You'll probably end up being co-opted by Harrison Life Sciences to do some special research before you reach eleventh grade. They always need smart-asses to perform experiments..." She trailed off and sucked on the end of her pen; Wendy knew this meant she'd just had a brainwave.

Regardless, it coincided with the appearance of their Geography teacher, Mr. Powell. The moment he shut the door, the class fell silent; he was one of the very few teachers who could instil that curious mix of fear and respect.

He elegantly slipped his dark jacket off his back and onto his chair before stroking his scratchy dark beard — Cartman had frequently described him as looking like a terrorist seemingly for this feature alone — and looked around at the class.

"Ah, my darlings. I've missed you so much," he announced grandly before perching on the end of his desk. Nobody could fail to hear the sarcasm in his voice.

"Well, we've missed you too, sir," Butters said with a warm smile, and Wendy amended her previous thought. Apparently anybody except Butters couldn't miss the sarcasm.

"As it's our first day back, doubtless we will have to go over everything we did in the last semester — I had better things to do with my summer and I'm sure you did, too."

Kyle seemed to blanch at this; Wendy couldn't help but feel a little pang of sympathy.

"So, who can tell me about spatial diffusion?"

Nobody volunteered. As Wendy was trying to remember, Kyle looked around him and uttered, "It describes the spread of largely non-tangible effects such as ideas, languages and cultural influences throughout communities or countries."

Mr. Powell looked amazed. "Kol HaKavod, Kyle," he said uncertainly.

As Mr. Powell and Kyle continued to volley questions and answers, Wendy felt Bebe jab her in the arm with a pen.

"What?" Wendy hissed.

"I know what I have to do," Bebe said. "An experiment!"

"Huh?"

"An experiment to see what makes Kyle so... so whatever he's become. I need to go out with him."

Wendy didn't really know what to say to think, besides, "But you're dating Clyde."

"I know. I only mean once," Bebe insisted, with a cheeky grin. "One date. Think you can pull a few strings for me?"

"What, me?"

"You're friendly with him," Bebe pointed out, and Wendy prayed she didn't blush; she had certainly confessed at least one thing to him she'd have never told Bebe about.

"He won't go out with you," Wendy said finally.

"Why not? He's not holding a grudge about our seventh grade dance, is he?"

"What? No. You're dating Clyde," Wendy replied and the two of them glanced over just as Clyde had apparently raised his hand.

"Ah, Goedemorgen, Clyde," Mr Powell said. Clyde looked at him uncomfortably.

"Umm, yeah. The Holocaust was an example, I guess."

Wendy turned and smiled at Bebe. "He'd never; bros before hos, and all that."

"Damn it!" Bebe hissed.

Mr. Powell sighed. "The holocaust. Can anybody give me any examples of how the holocaust affected migration patterns in the 1940s — Eric, one word out of you and I shall leave this room, lock the door for a minute and let Kyle do whatever he deems necessary."

"What if I break up with Clyde?" Bebe suggested.

"Nope — Clyde would be nursing a broken heart and Kyle wouldn't step on it. Doubly so after this summer."

"Why? What happened this summer?"

"Girls?"

Wendy looked up and saw Mr. Powell staring at her and Bebe, his eyebrows raised querulously.

"If you want to have a mother's meeting, I can arrange one for you after school where you can write 1000 lines on why you think it'll help your GPA score," he said testily.

"Sorry, sir," Wendy said, staring intently at the board and trying to ignore the many inventively disgusting fellatio mimes Cartman aimed at Kyle the moment Mr. Powell's back was turned.

~

As soon as they got out of class, Kyle knew Cartman was going to start. He'd been itching to all day.

"Wow, Kyle; you're really planning to take every single one of our teachers' dicks in your hungry little Jew mouth, huh?"

"Shut up, Cartman!" Kyle snapped; fed up with having to keep silent for the past three classes while Cartman kicked his chair, threw spit balls at his hair, mimed sucking on cock and basically did anything he could to wind him up.

"Dude, what is going on?" Stan asked, his expression somewhat fearful. "You never speak up this much in class."

Kenny shrugged. "It beats listening to embarrassing silence," he commented.

Kyle sighed. "I dunno," he said defensively. How could he tell them that he'd spent the past week feverishly studying? It had been the only thing that had stopped him thinking about... about her. Damn it; he couldn't even bear to think of her name.

"Hope Mr Taylor's cock tastes good, Kyle," Cartman mocked as he slammed his locker door shut.

Suddenly, Kyle became painfully aware of angry shouting coming from the other end of the corridor.

"Well, if that's how you feel, maybe we should just split up!"

"Fine, you stroppy bitch!"

"Fine! Consider us broken up, you lousy faggot!" Bebe whirled past him at such a speed that Kyle was nearly knocked into his locker door by the resultant force. He noticed with sadness that the eyes of every single boy in the vicinity followed the gentle bouncing movement of her impressive bosom as though they were watching a volley at a tennis match. She looked pretty upset, and Kyle was fairly sure scores of boys peering at her boobs wasn't going to cheer her up.

"Whoa, dude. What happened?" Stan asked Clyde as he calmly closed his locker door.

"It had just run its course," he said nonchalantly. "These things happen."

"Wow. I'm sorry," Stan said quietly. He looked deeply perturbed; Kyle couldn't help but wonder whether it had anything to do with the fact Clyde and Bebe had been going out around the same amount of time as Stan and Wendy.

Clyde shrugged. "I'm not," he said heartlessly.

Token and Butters, who had been standing nearby and no doubt heard all the commotion, looked at each other.

"Does that mean Bebe's, you know, on the market again?" Token asked hopefully.

"Yep," Clyde replied nonchalantly.

"And... Umm... So if some other guy asked her out, you'd — ah — be fine about that?" Butters asked nervously.

"Sure," Clyde replied airily. "We're done. Any guy who wants to go out with her totally has my blessing," he said with a smile, before strolling down the corridor whistling a jaunty tune.

"Man, that was weird," Stan said.

Cartman shrugged. "Oh well. It's a free-for-all on Bebe's tits now, at long last."

"Yeah," Kenny agreed. "They're beautiful. Like huge, ripe, mouth-watering peaches; begging for you to taste their juicy goodness."

Kyle walked away, suddenly feeling really pissed off at his friends. He heard Stan call after him, but he just had to see if Bebe was okay. He knew how much it sucked to just suddenly get cast aside when everything seemed so perfect.

He found Bebe at the foot of the stairs leading up to the language lab, politely brushing off a couple of boys from the grade above; apparently news travelled really fucking fast in their high school.

He gently tapped her on the shoulder. "Hey, Bebe."

She turned around and flashed him a rather lovely smile. "Oh. Hey, Kyle. What's up?"

Kyle looked at her; she seemed really chirpy for someone who'd just split up with her boyfriend. "I just wanted to see if you were okay; I kind of heard what went down with you and Clyde..."

She nodded and glanced at the floor. "Oh, I'm fine. Thanks." She looked around, and then sat on the stairs. "I guess it was kind of expected, really."

Kyle sat down next to her and put his arm around her shoulders. "Well, I kind of went through a similar thing a few weeks ago, so if you want to talk... I'm here. Okay?"

She looked up at him, her expression one of surprise. "You... you did?"

"Yeah. It fucking hurt. Like..." He mimed an explosion against his rib cage, and then realised it was a pretty decent analogy. "I'm still pulling out bits of shrapnel. I mean, metaphorical shrapnel, obviously. She didn't actually sling a grenade at me. Her father, on the other hand..." He stopped at her horrified expression and shook his head in dismissal. "That's another story."

Bebe looked down at her hands. "Well, I'm fine. I promise you." She sighed. "The worst thing is that I bought two tickets for us to see 'Li'l Bare Bait and the Hootchie Slut Bombs' on Saturday."

"Hey, I love them!" Kyle enthused. "Okay, so they kind of sold out after their second album — 'PussyTown' was pretty mainstream."

"I know, right?"

"Well, I could always buy the other ticket off you," Kyle suggested. "I mean, as a friend thing," he insisted. "I'm not trying to ask you out when you've literally just broken up with... Unless you want to make him think we're on a date."

"Huh?"

"Clyde was being an asshole, telling everyone how they were free to ask you out." He smirked. "I'll happily bet you ten bucks he changes his tune the moment you do; it's not as though you're short of admirers."

He was surprised to see Bebe blush at this; he figured she must have known that practically every boy in their class would crawl on their stomachs across broken glass with their flies unzipped just for a chance of feeling her up.

"Cool, let's go as friends, then," she said, before frowning. "Wait, do you have a car?"

"If I don't by Saturday, I'll definitely have access to one."

"Then I'll buy the tickets, you buy the gas. Deal?"

"Deal."

They shook hands on it, and Kyle couldn't help but find Bebe's dazzling smile charmingly infectious.

~

Wendy waited in the school parking lot after her first AP Calculus class ready to smack Bebe in the face. Kyle had mentioned during the wait for their math teacher that he and Bebe were off to Denver to see some awful misogynistic rock and hip-hop fusion band that they both inexplicably loved, and he seemed pretty pleased about it.

"We're just going as friends, though," he had insisted, and Wendy was convinced she could detect a trace of hope in his voice.

"Hey, Wendy," Clyde said amiably. Wendy ignored him.

He sighed and sat on the hood of her car — a third-hand Volkswagen Beetle her parents had bought from Clyde's mom as an early birthday present for her. "You know I haven't really broken up with Bebe, right?"

"Get off my car, Clyde," she spat, folding her arms.

"What's up with you?" he asked, clearly astounded. "Anyway, it's sort of my car. It was my mom's."

"Not anymore."

At that moment, Bebe arrived. She smirked at Clyde. "You're an asshole."

"Did I do well?"

"You were perfect, honey," she replied. "What's up, Wendy?"

Wendy glared at Bebe, then Clyde, then back to Bebe. "You really think this is okay?"

They stared at her blankly. Wendy rolled her eyes.

"You have just conspired to make poor Kyle think you're on some sweet little heart-healing date on Saturday—"

"Hey, I said it was just as friends!" Bebe protested.

Clyde stared at her. "Wait, what? Then what the hell was the point of all that 'breaking up' bullshit if you were going to tell him you were going as friends? You could have just told him I didn't want to see 'Li'l Bare Bait' and, frankly, you'd have been right."

Bebe glared right back at Wendy. "You didn't tell me he'd had his heart broken by some mystery girl; what was I supposed to do?" She turned to face Clyde. "And what do you mean, you didn't want to see 'L'il Bare Bait'? I thought you loved them?"

"No, you love them. I just tag along because nobody else will go with you. I wish I'd known about Kyle sooner — he can go and see them with you every tour instead of me."

"Did you know about this girl?" Bebe asked Clyde, somewhat accusatorily.

He shrugged. "Didn't even know he'd had a girlfriend. I was hoping you ladies would fill me in."

Wendy sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. "Just get in the car," she said, "and if Kyle gets hurt through all of this, I am seriously going to hurt you both back!"

Clyde sniggered. "What, are you his mom now, or something?"

Bebe shook her head and playfully shoved Clyde into the back seat. "Didn't you hear? Wendy's dating both Stan and Kyle."

"Really? I mean, I knew they were close—"

"Metaphorically," Wendy mumbled. "If I'm dating Stan, Kyle's in my life. That's just how it works."

Clyde shrugged. "Kyle's okay. You kind of remind me of him, Wendy. I mean, he's smart, feisty, kind of bitchy..."

"Shut up, Clyde!" Wendy and Bebe shouted simultaneously.

He grinned. "I guess that means I don't get to date both of you metaphorically?"

"Clyde, honey, we're not getting back together until Monday. You really need to be on your best behaviour in case I change my mind," Bebe teased.

Chapter Eight: The Broflovski Effect — How to Have A Successful Not-Date

Kyle noticed his father eye him suspiciously as he bounded down the stairs.

"And where are you going all dressed up like that? I didn't even know you owned a jacket," he teased from behind his newspaper.

Kyle looked down at himself — jeans, t-shirt, weird blazer jacket thing he'd been forced into during his stay in New York — and shrugged.

"Oh, Kyle's going on a date with a little school friend," his mother said in possibly the most patronising tone this side of a daytime chat show.

"It's not a date, Ma," he insisted as he laced up his Converse sneakers. "We're just going as friends."

"They're going to Denver to see a band — who did you say they were again, bubbeleh?"

"Umm... Where did you put the keys, Dad?" Kyle asked, avoiding answering the question altogether. With his mother, sometimes it was best to keep her in the dark.

"On the table, Kyle. Where you left them."

Kyle grabbed his — his! — car keys and shoved them into his pocket. Just as he had checked his wallet to see if he needed to take his pre-paid card with him, the doorbell rang.

"I'll get it," Kyle insisted, but it was too late; his father had already opened the door.

He heard a dazed, "Sure. Come in," and then Bebe entered the living room holding a puffed jacket and wearing a dress with a strap across only one arm that might as well have been sprayed on. God damn; he might not see Bebe that way — not even during seventh grade — but there was no denying she was hot. Then Kyle noticed the ankle-high sneakers she was wearing, and he actually figured the overall effect was kind of cute.

"Hey, Bebe. You look nice," he said as he put his wallet in the back pocket of his pants.

"Thanks," she said with a smile. "So do you."

"Ma, Dad, this is Bebe," Kyle said by way of an introduction.

Bebe waved demurely. "Hi, Mr and Mrs Broflovski."

"Nice to meet you, Bebe." Kyle could see his mother look her up and down, and judge her instantly. He could practically see the word 'nafka' forming on her breath.

His father, on the other hand, had a large smile plastered to his face. "Hello, Bebe. Kyle, why did you leave this lovely young lady to arrive here all alone?" he remonstrated.

"I was just about to go and pick you up, Bebe," Kyle promised.

"Oh, it's okay. I got ready at Wendy's. She's only, like, ten minutes away." She smiled at Kyle. "You ready?"

"Sure." He pulled the car keys back out of his pocket. "The show finishes at eleven; we'll be back by one in the morning," he promised. The entire week had been spent in tense, careful negotiations to his curfew to allow for this drive; he planned to make the most of it — he was pretty certain he could do the drive in less than an hour and a half.

"You take care, bubbeleh," she said. "Call me if there's any hold up on the roads! And make sure you've got a blanket in case you break down; and be careful of the schmucks on the road; and—"

"Mom, we're prepared. We'll be fine," he insisted, kissing her on the cheek and feeling rather embarrassed that he had to do so in front of a girl.

"Nice to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Broflovski," Bebe said, before turning to Kyle as they entered the hallway. "I found this little diner near the venue I figured we could go to. They're Kosher; I checked."

"Okay. Cool, thanks," he replied as he held the door open for her. He was surprised by her thoughtfulness.

She slipped her jacket on as they stepped outside; Kyle pressed the unlock button on his keypad and the lights of his new-second-hand Lincoln flashed.

"Wow, that's your car?" Bebe queried.

"Yeah; it's my dad's, but he gave it me when they bought a new one."

"Cool."

As Bebe buckled up and Kyle started the engine, he suddenly became aware that he had no clue what to talk to her about. He literally knew nothing about her, except that she was Wendy's best friend, she had been dating Clyde seriously since last year and that she apparently loved 'Li'l Bare Bait and the Hootchie Slut-Bombs'.

"So, how were your first week's AP classes?" she asked politely, and Kyle realised she didn't have a clue what to talk to him about either.

"Oh, okay; it's only the first week so it's kind of hard to tell. You? I mean, how are you finding classes?"

"Yeah, fine. Like you said, the first week back's always a bit of an easy ride."

An awkward lull in the conversation followed; Bebe took her phone out of her purse and started texting. Kyle absently wondered both how far they had travelled towards Denver and how long they'd have to wait for the band.

~

As Stan frantically tried to choose which colour shirt would give the best impression of a caring boyfriend who isn't interested in fooling around with his girlfriend in the back seat of her car, he could hear his dad and Mr. Broflovski watching the game on TV and drinking.

"Do you think you can tell if your child is gay?" Mr. Broflovski asked suddenly; Stan thought he could have stopped wondering about three months ago.

"Dunno. Why?"

"I... I just don't get Kyle."

"Well, he's... Wait, is he sixteen yet?"

"Not until May."

"Well, still. I don't think we're meant to get teenagers; be grateful you don't have girls to worry about. Why the curiosity, anyway?"

"He's gone to see some band in Denver with a girlfriend."

"So? Stan goes up there with Wendy on some Saturdays. I'm pretty sure that's hetero teenage behaviour."

"No, not a girlfriend, but a friend who's a girl."

Stan decided the best shirt sadly needed to be ironed and proceeded to find the ironing board; given his mom was out with Mrs. Broflovski doing... well, whatever old women do when they hang out together, he was going to have to attempt this alone.

"Oh, boys that age do have female friends nowadays. I don't know how they do it; I never had female friends."

"Yeah, me neither. There were girls I wanted to feel up and girls I didn't."

Stan noticed out of the corner of his eye that his dad looked at Mr. Broflovski incredulously. "There were girls you didn't?"

"Anyway, this girl comes over to meet him; it's the Stevens' girl. Bebe. She's his 'friend'."

Stan's dad swigged on his beer and appeared deep in thought. "Is that the one with the ass like two peaches wrapped in Clingfilm?" he asked, and Stan nearly dropped the iron in horror.

"No, that's Sally."

At this point, Stan tried to ignore the conversation while attempting to decrease his shirt without burning a hole in it. Instead, he ended up listening in increasing disgust at their discussion.

"The one with the hot full lips who likes lollipops?"

"That's Red. Bebe's the one who looks like a high-class porn star."

"Oh, Bebe? The blonde?" His father took another swig on his beer. "Gerald, he's flaming. No straight guy would go out with her just as friends; any normal boy would be trying to have sex with her. Hell, I'd be trying to have sex with her."

"Randy, I don't think she's even sixteen yet."

"It'd be worth the jail time."

Stan slipped his freshly ironed shirt on and angrily did up the buttons. God damn, parents were fricking gross sometimes.

Just when he had started to notice there was silence in the room, Mr Broflovski loudly proclaimed, "and Wendy? Wow, she's really pretty!"

"Oh, yeah. She's a hottie."

"Super hot."

Stan slammed the iron down. "Not cool, Dad. Not cool, Mr. Broflovski." He shook his head in disgust. "Not cool."

"Neither is eavesdropping, Stanley," his father replied with a little twitch of his lips.

As he stormed upstairs to retrieve his wallet, his jacket and the flowers he'd bought for Wendy, he could still hear them giggling like eight year olds over a loud fart.

"You're an asshole, Gerald."

"You loved it."

"Whatever, at least my kid's not queer." The tone of his dad's voice suggested he wasn't remotely serious.

"Hey, if my son's gay, then yours totally is. Give it a few years, and we'll be buying them an espresso machine for their new apartment."

"Mine's got a girlfriend; he's not the one being 'just friends' with a... a fucking junior playboy pinup!"

"B, E, A, R, D..." Mr Broflovski was barely making the letters heard over his dad's braying.

Stan sighed heavily and walked into the living room, ready to face the tipsy man-children.

"I'm going out now, Dad," he announced.

"Wow, Stan. You look very dapper," Mr. Broflovksi commented with a raised eyebrow.

"In a totally manly way, of course," his father added huffily.

"Right. Whatever. I'll be back by half eleven." He glanced at Mr. Broflovski's face, pink cheeked with amusement. "Will Kyle be back by then?" He figured he ought to see how his 'friend-date' went; poor guy could do with some fun after what went down in New York.

His dad burst out laughing as Mr. Broflovski's face apparently contorted into a giggle at this. "He said one, Stan. You don't need to wait by the phone for him."

The two of them looked at each other and burst into hopeless laughter.

Stan sighed, "You're an asshole, and you're an asshole," he said, gesturing with his bunch of flowers for emphasis, although it only seemed to make them laugh more.

"I'm going out," he said through gritted teeth, grabbing his bouquet tightly and storming out of the door.

~

"I can't fucking believe it!" Cartman grumbled as Kenny flicked through the channels on his TV. "Kyle's got a date with Bebe? I know she's just been dumped, but she can't be that desperate!"

Kenny shrugged and changed the channel once again — poor piece of crap didn't get to see much cable, and you have to give the less unfortunate a bit of charity now and then.

Eventually, he looked at Cartman. "Lucky boy, I say. Hope he gets a blow job out of it."

Cartman felt his stomach sink; that would be the worst. Kyle had already beaten him to the punch with that Rebecca chick — although Cartman didn't think it really counted due to her stutter — if he beat him to getting the first blow job too.... Well, it was inconceivable.

Cartman grabbed the remote off Kenny and switched the TV onto standby. "That does it; c'mon, Kenny."

Kenny made no effort to move — it was a fine balance between offering compassion and being taken for a ride with his kind — so Cartman poked him hard in the ribs with the TV remote.

"C'mon you scummy welfare whore; get your lazy ass off the couch!"

"What the fuck for?" Kenny demanded. Cartman sighed; fifteen years and he still didn't know his place.

"We're going to Denver."

"What? Why?"

"Because Kyle's going there with that slut and we have to follow them!"

Kenny eyed him wearily again; no wonder he was poor with that lack of energy. "And then what?"

"And then... then we're going to totally humiliate him, of course. God damn, Kenny — have you got fucking water on the brain or something? With your folks it's probably liquor." He sniggered. God damn, he was so funny he even amazed himself.

Kenny eventually got up. He looked Cartman in the eye and sighed heavily. "I don't want any part of this," he said. "I'm going home, you do what you fucking want, man."

With these words, he just upped and left. Cartman couldn't believe the ingrate!

"Fine, Kenny. You just bail, you fucking turncoat! I'll take care of it, like I always do!" he shouted at the door as Kenny shut it behind him. Mother fucking drain on society.

Cartman went upstairs and packed the essentials: water pistol, camcorder, rope and bull pheromone spray — he'd always though if he could get Kyle raped by a bull it would be so fricking funny.

He lugged the heavy backpack downstairs, grabbed his mom's car keys and yelled, "I'm just taking the car for a bit, Mom."

"Oh, sweetie, you can't. I need it to fetch grandma from the hosp—"

"Awesome; love you too, Mom," he shouted as he shut the door and clambered into the car, tossing his bag under the passenger seat. His mom didn't really need the car to deal with grandma — that's what ambulances were for.

~

"Okay, I see your point, and it's sweet, I guess—" Bebe leant across the table and grabbed a few fries from the basket in front of them — "but I just don't think it's a valid lifestyle choice anymore. Divorce is easier to come by, co-habiting is pretty common; people don't have to put up and shut up the way they used to." She dipped her fries in the ketchup on Kyle's plate and slowly ate them. "It's probably better to have had a few sexual partners, and to have had sex with your future husband or wife, before you get married. Then you're never wondering if there's something better out there, because you've tried it out. What happens if you're both there in the honeymoon suite and you just don't click sexually? How much would that suck?"

-Friggingodess-

Kyle raised his palms in mild rebuke. "Hey, I'm not saying I've decided on that. I'm just saying that I don't think it should be thrown away on the first person you lay eyes on."

"Sex, Kyle. You're old enough to say the word."

He couldn't help but smile. "Fine; I think sex is something special that should be kept for... well—"

Bebe looked amazed and amused in equal measure. "Really? You're really planning to stay a virgin until your wedding night?"

"I don't know. I haven't decided. I'm not even sure I know what counts as virginity anymore. I just know I want to wait for someone I think I'd like to marry."

Bebe raised an eyebrow. "But logically — as far as logic can be applied here — every person you date for a reasonable amount of time falls into that category." She smirked. "Or is that your point?"

Kyle stared at her in vague amazement as she sipped at her root beer. He'd always had Bebe down as a bit of a tchotchkala; you learn something new every day. She wasn't book smart like Wendy, but he was beginning to think she was one of the wisest people he'd ever conversed with.

She suddenly appeared a little melancholic. "Besides, sex is an important part of a relationship. If you're compatible."

"Surely that can be learned, though. It's something you figure out between the two of you."

She sighed. "Yeah. That's what I thought."

Kyle couldn't help himself, and gently touched her arm. "There are other guys out there; you'll find someone who you fit with even better. Every pot has a lid; that's what my mom says." He wasn't convinced by his mother's trite phrases, but it was all he had. He wished he truly believed there were other girls like... like her out here. Having said that... No. Friend-date. Forget it.

Bebe slid her hand over his and he felt a surprisingly familiar tingle. "I guess." She looked up at him. "What would you do? If your hypothetical bride wasn't doing it for you in the bedroom department?"

"Well, I wouldn't say that to her, for starters," he replied and they both laughed; Kyle was vaguely aware she still had her hand resting over his own. "I... I guess you could show them; nicely, casually," he suggested.

She smiled thinly. "Yeah, that's what I thought too."

Kyle used the resulting lull in their conversation to take a bite of his burger, feeling incredibly self-conscious as Bebe watched him; her chicken wings had long since been devoured in a heady, joyful mess of teeth ripping through flesh and sticky fingers being sucked clean in a shameless display of food-related eroticism. He could have watched her all day; it was part of the reason he had ground to make up, and he doubted that the way he was chomping through his burger had quite the same allure.

Just as he swallowed, he noticed Bebe stare at him oddly. Then she leant across the table — her amazing figure a perfect sight from where he sat and no doubt from every other possible angle — and tenderly wiped her thumb along his bottom lip.

"Burger sauce," she said by apparent way of explanation. When she sucked her thumb clean without breaking her gaze, Kyle briefly wondered whether he should re-evaluate his stance on casual sex.

~

Stan loosened his collar and checked for the hundredth time that the flowers in his bouquet hadn't wilted or been crushed. Gingerly, he knocked on the door as though he expected it to break his hand off. He was so nervous; he and Wendy hadn't been out on a proper date since 'dress-gate' back at Butters' party, and he simply had to show her that he wasn't sex obsessed.

The door opened and he was face to face with Wendy's father, who folded his arms and glared at him as though he'd just taken a crap on his doorstep.

"Hello, Stan," he said eventually. The tone of his voice was so cold, he might as well have said, 'fuck off'.

"Erm, hi, Mr. Testaburger. Is Wendy home?"

Mr. Testaburger shut the door in his face. Stan was momentarily shocked, but they he heard Wendy's father call, "Wendy! Your little boyfriend is here!"

Stan bristled at the term — there was barely any height difference!

The door opened again and Wendy stared anxiously back at him. She was dressed far more demurely than her usual style in a high-necked top, cardigan and long skirt.

"Hi, Wendy," he said, proffering the flowers and trying not to think about what she might look like if he got all those layers off her. Damn it! One night, that was all he asked. One night to prove to Wendy that he wasn't desperate for her pussy and he'd gone about fifteen seconds before every single thought he'd ever had about its look, feel and size filled his mind.

"Thanks. I'll just... just put them in water," she said shyly.

As she slipped away, Stan silently cursed himself. He just couldn't stop; now he was wondering how hairy it was. He was such a dick; Wendy deserved a boyfriend who didn't turn into a mess of arousal at the mere sight of her.

"You ready?" Wendy was at the door again, her arms folded protectively around herself. Stan suddenly realised she'd probably picked her outfit to be as non-arousing as possible; he could have told her it wasn't working. He ought to just write her an email: 'Dear Wendy. You could wear a sack. It will make no difference. I will still want to rip it off you and make sweet love to you down by the fire. Or anywhere. Sorry. Love, Stan'.

"Sure." He was about to offer his hand, then stopped. Hand holding could be misconstrued — it was only a few more steps into heavy petting; Stan figured you could make it as little as two steps. He wanted to show her how respectful he could be of the fact she didn't want things to get sexual.

They walked in silence to her car; on the drive to the restaurant, Stan counted at least six billboards advertising lingerie and their route passed some sex shop Stan didn't realise existed in South Park.

"So, how're AP classes?" he asked, desperate to make conversation and distract him from his sexy thoughts.

"Fine," she replied. "I'm glad Kyle's there, too — we're the only tenth graders there."

"That's good — but it just proves you're both doing these classes too young," Stan pointed out.

"There's no such thing," Wendy replied airily, and flashed him a cheeky smile. Stan stuffed his hands into his pockets to try and pre-emptively hide the erection he felt sure was about to appear. When Wendy took one hand off the steering wheel to touch his hand, but apparently missed and grabbed his thigh, he was grateful for his efforts.

"Sorry," she whispered; her cheeks flushed and her eyes were fixed on the road.

"It's cool," Stan replied casually, but he couldn't help but feel a flicker of hope. He pushed it away; this was his whole problem. She couldn't do anything without him thinking about how it could lead to sex. He was an asshole, and he couldn't understand why she was even with him.

Kyle instinctively grabbed Bebe's hand as they squeezed their way through the crowds while trying not to drop their drinks. As they found a suitable place on the balcony, Kyle took the opportunity to comment on something that had been bothering him all evening.

"Root beer? Who drinks root beer anymore?"

She shrugged. "I do," she replied before sucking languidly on the straw of her drink. Kyle tried not to let his mind go to dark, sexy places. She deserved better than that; Bebe happened to be surprisingly good company.

"Try some," she said, offering her lipstick-stained straw towards him in a rather inviting way. "You might just change your mind."

"Thanks, but I don't think I will."

The support band came out on stage and started to play — some weird band that dressed in kilts and sang about the economic crisis — and Bebe was in stitches.

"Oh my God; could they be any more niche?"

Kyle shrugged. "Maybe if they added some bagpipes."

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, the lead singer whipped out a set of bagpipes and started to play. It was all Kyle and Bebe could do to remain upright as Kyle felt his stomach start to ache from laughter.

For the rest of their set, he and Bebe traded new and crazier gimmicks they could display; between them they had a thirty per cent hit rate.

"I'm sure the Venn diagram of people who like all that stuff had precisely seven people in its centre," Kyle mused; Bebe seemed to find this most amusing. He did his best to ignore the blush that he could feel creeping over his face.

"Do you want another drink?" he asked.

"Sure, thanks." Bebe started rifling through her purse — which in a poorly lit stadium, seemed pretty fruitless.

He rolled his eyes. "You get the next one," he said, gently grabbing her hand and pulling it out of her purse.

"Ooh, I love it when you're masterful," she said, offering up a big — and very sexy — wink. Kyle rushed away so she couldn't see how red he'd turned; even in the poor light, he was sure she would have noticed. Hell, some man-made satellites would have picked it up.

By the time he'd queued, bought drinks, glared at the two jerks who were staring at Bebe with a hunger that boarded on starvation and found her on the balcony, the band had just taken to the stage.

"This is going to be so awesome," Bebe said as she took her drink from Kyle. "Have you seen them before?" She had to yell her last enquiry into his ear as the crowd erupted into loud cheers.

"No."

At this point conversation was impossible; Bebe merely smiled and touched his elbow. Kyle inferred this to be a 'You'll love it!' assurance.

Not long into the set, Kyle firmly decided that Bebe was right. The band played a few songs off their latest album — 'Sugar Tits' and 'Gang Bang Baby' — but mercifully most of it was their back catalogue; Kyle was particularly pleased to hear 'Black Bitch in the Ghetto', their heartfelt tale of interracial love in a dying town.

When they got to their most famous track — 'I Want (Your Pussy on my Face)' — the brash lead singer insisted everyone needed, "to dance with your bitches, or I'll fucking stab you!"

The audience laughed, but Kyle wasn't entirely sure he was joking.

He felt Bebe's hand rest on his chest. "Well, whaddya say?" she asked, looking up at him with a knowing expression. "Do you want what I want?" she sang along as the whole audience completed the rejoinder, "your pussy on my face."

As Bebe winked at him yet again, Kyle began to wonder if she was perhaps flirting with him a little.

"Dance with me," she urged and Kyle instantly felt awkward and uncoordinated.

"I can't dance," he said meekly.

Bebe grabbed his hand and placed it on her ass. "I'll show you."

Once she'd positioned his hands exactly where she wanted them — which was apparently one on each ass cheek — she slung her arms loosely around his neck.

"Just follow my hips," she whispered into his ear. "They never lie."

Kyle tried to gulp away a suddenly dry throat. "Umm, okay. Truthful hips, got it."

Following Bebe's honest — and flexible — hips proved an exercise in contortion. She ground up and down, left and right and everything in between. She was like a roller-coaster; you just had to hold on and enjoy the ride.

Bebe grinned at him, he grinned back and then the unthinkable — yet inevitable — happened; he started to feel his cock stir into life. There was no way he could stay like this; the risk of it popping up and poking Bebe in the thigh was increasingly exponential. Plus, Bebe would know — she knew about cocks; she'd actually had sex. Several times, if Clyde's subtle boasting was even half-way accurate. If Kyle was honest, that had always kind of pissed him off. Sex was supposed to be intimate, private; not something to brag about in the locker room.

With the speed of Usain Bolt, Kyle grabbed Bebe's hand, twirled her around and held her in a more traditional dance position. She joined in happily and soon they were dancing an exuberant and inept mash-up of the twist and ballroom style.

By the end of the gig, they were both a little sweaty and a little worn out. Bebe laughed and put one arm around his waist and the other on his shoulder. "I just need to go to the bathroom, meet you downstairs?" she suggested against his ear.

"Sure," he replied as she made her way to the ladies and he to the gents.

As he stood over the urinal and aimed at the little cube of disinfectant they always seemed to have in these places, he felt kind of pleased. Mostly because he had definitely thought about... about Rebecca way less than he did last Saturday, but a little part of him was also impressed that he'd managed to hit the disinfectant block dead-on for almost ninety percent of his piss.

He shook any potential dribbles from his cock, surreptitiously wiped it with a wet wipe — he always got funny looks when he did this at a public urinal — and washed his hands thoroughly before exiting the bathroom and heading downstairs.

That was when he found Bebe cornered by the two jerks he'd seen staring at her earlier.

"No, thank you," he heard her say politely, but firmly.

"Oh, come on, baby," the one goon said, who was all tattoos and so much muscle his head and neck were indistinguishable.

"Yeah," his crony added. He was even taller and bigger than his friend — and apparently was even sleazier. "Come back to ours; we'll show you a real fun way to work up a sweat." He ran a finger down Bebe's throat and towards the neckline of her dress; Bebe slapped his hand away angrily. Kyle felt the old red mist start to descend.

"You didn't mind being all slutty with your little fag friend; what's wrong with us?" the tattooed douche put his arm around Bebe's shoulder.

Kyle shoved his way through to them, grabbed the guy's hand and roughly pulled it off Bebe's shoulder. "Because I'm her boyfriend, asshole, that's why!" He knew he looked angry and he did his best to exaggerate it, giving them both one last glare before her turned to Bebe.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

She smiled sweetly at him. "I am now, honey," she replied, keeping up the façade as they made to leave.

The two jerk-offs wouldn't let them.

"See, this is my problem," the tattooed one said, shoving Kyle into the wall.

"You've only got the one problem? I find that hard to believe," Kyle sniped.

"Shut up, fag. My problem is, a little slut like you clearly ain't getting no satisfaction from a queer like this and that just ain't right." The dickhead's leer suddenly became malicious as he grabbed Bebe around the neck. "Between the two of us, little lady, you'll be screaming our names tonight. One way or another..." He heard the sound of a fly being unzipped; if their behaviour itself hadn't sickened Kyle enough, one glance at Bebe's clearly petrified face was ample fuel to make him do what he knew had to be one of the stupidest things he would ever do in his whole life.

"Oh, I'm the fag, but you two want to get your sad little dicks out in front of each other? Wanna know what I think? She's just an excuse for you pair of ass-munchers to suck each other off," Kyle said loudly.

Suddenly — and predictably — all thoughts of raping Bebe seemed to fall by the wayside as they turned on him and cracked their knuckles menacingly, the one hastily zipped himself back up.

Kyle took his car keys out of his pocket and pressed them into Bebe's hand. "Honey, go and get in the car."

"Kyle!"

"Just do it!" Kyle snapped. Irritatingly, she stayed put.

"I'm not leaving you here to—"

Kyle felt the first punch land square on his jaw. His whole head seemed to rattle. He anxiously felt around his newly-straightened teeth with his tongue for any signs of damage. Then he glared at them and bunched his fists.

"Mind the teeth, cock-suckers," he snarled, before throwing caution to the wind and hurling himself at them. He figured he might be able to get a couple of good punches in before he was totally creamed by the two no-neck assholes.

His fist ached and he heard the snap of cartilage — he'd drawn blood from the one with the tattoo, at least. Sadly, the other goon kicked him right in the balls and he was left curled up in the foetal position trying to protect his ribs from a flurry of drop kicks. The pain spread out like an ink blot; he managed to desperately breathe out and tense his stomach muscles enough to spare himself from being completely winded. All he had to do now was remain conscious; it looked like a seemingly impossible goal as the blows continued to rain down on him.

Suddenly, the kicks stopped and Kyle heard scuffles and yells.

"Get your hand off me, fucking pigs!"

"Yeah; oink oi—" There was a dull thud followed by sniffling. Kyle looked up to see two police officers cuffing the two dick wads; both of whom had busted noses now. One of the officers slipped his dripping nightstick back into its holster, and the other helped Kyle to his feet. Kyle saw that Bebe was standing by.

"They just went for him, officer!" she said, her voice quivering theatrically. "I was so scared."

The officer looked at Bebe. "It's okay, miss. It's over now." He looked at Kyle and shook his head. "We'll get you to first-aid — maybe now you'll think twice before trying to be a have-a-go hero."

"Yes, officer," Kyle replied, knowing if that was a lesson he was ever going to learn, he'd have learned it years ago.

By the time they'd got to the first-aid department and a nice, matronly paramedic was tending to his black eye, bloody — but not broken — nose and checking him for a fractured rib cage, Bebe snapped.

"What the hell were you thinking?" she yelled. "You could have got yourself killed!"

"Wow, sorry Mom. I was only trying to look out for you."

"Me?" She sounded surprised for a moment, but it soon gave way to anger. "How exactly was you getting your ass kicked going to help me? You think they'd have just left me alone once you were choking on your own blood?"

"No, Bebe; I thought you'd have just left when I told you and locked yourself in the car by the time they'd got bored!"

"Very funny."

"I'm not joking!" He sighed. "I mean, I was kind of expecting you'd call the police before I died, but yeah. That was my plan. Not the best one I've ever had, but it worked."

"You... you..." Bebe didn't finish her sentence, and instead dragged her hands through her hair. "You're unbelievable."

The paramedic smiled. "You can relax. Your boyfriend hasn't sustained any serious injuries — although his pride's probably been a bit dented."

"Did you see those two guys? I wasn't expecting to win," Kyle pointed out.

Bebe sighed heavily. "You're a fucking idiot, Kyle," she said before turning away.

~

In Buca de Fagghecini, the waiter pulled out Wendy's chair and sat her down before Stan had the chance. Maybe it was just as well; Stan thought the back of Wendy's neck was exquisite.

"Would you'a like'a to see the menu?" their plump, cheery waiter asked in an accent Stan was pretty sure sounded Nebraskan.

"Erm, sure. Thanks."

They were swiftly handed a menu which took up a single sheet of laminated card, only the card was almost as big as they were.

Once the waiter had vanished, Wendy leaned over to Stan.

"I think he's more from Nebraska than Naples," she joked.

"Huh?"

"Naples. In Italy," Wendy confirmed. Stan laughed too loudly to compensate. Not only was he failing in his attempts not to drool over Wendy, but he was failing to match her level of knowledge. Kyle might not get it when a girl flirts outrageously with him, but Stan was sure he'd have known where Naples was.

"Stan? Are you okay?" Wendy asked hesitantly.

"Hmm? I'm fine," he insisted. She shrank back a little, and they both looked at each other. Stan dropped his gaze a little, realised he was staring at Wendy's boobs, so then concentrated on the plastic flower in a tiny vase on the table and tried to come up with something to say.

Suddenly, Wendy's phone chirruped into life — the whooshing sound told him she'd got a message.

She smiled at him. "It's just a text."

Then it went off again. And again. Other diners started to glare at them.

"Maybe you should just switch it off?" Stan suggested gently.

"Right, of course." Wendy scrabbled around in her purse — why was it that no matter how small a chick's purse was, they could never find anything in it? — and switched it off.

"Done," she said, looking a little flustered. "I'm all yours."

Stan suddenly felt a little flustered, too. God damn it, he had to stop thinking about Wendy and sexy acts.

They shared dough-balls with a buttery dip — which Stan desperately and shamefully wanted to suck off Wendy's greasy fingers — and they both had pasta for their main. Stan had spaghetti and meatballs, which proved to be a stupid idea as he got flecks of tomato sauce all over his shirt with embarrassingly regularity. Wendy had spaghetti carbonara and wasn't having the same problem at all. What she was doing, however, was sucking up spaghetti coated in a creamy sauce in a ridiculously erotic way. God damn it, his job was hard enough as it was; why did she have to pick something that made him think of her licking up his jizz?

Wendy stared at him coolly. "What?" she queried tersely and Stan realised that he must have vocalised at least a proportion of his thoughts.

The fact that the other diners in the vicinity were staring at him with utter contempt merely confirmed his suspicions.

"I... I... Sorry!" he stammered, throwing down his napkin and dashing for the bathroom.

Once he was inside the monochrome bathroom with its chrome urinals, he stared into the hyper-polished mirror above the sink and tried to compose himself. When that didn't work, he took his phone out of his pocket to phone Kyle, just as he remembered he was currently jumping about to some shitty band he could only assume Kyle and Bebe enjoyed ironically. He didn't know who else to phone who could help him with — Kenny! Kenny knew about girls!

No answer. Damn it!

This was insane; the more he tried not thinking about Wendy in a variety of exciting and probably freaky sexual ways, the more he couldn't think about anything else. He wondered if he should just go to town and imagine everything, but he was sure it affected the way he came across; she'd probably be able to tell. God, this was a nightmare — how was he supposed to make her feel comfortable by not placing any emphasis on his horniness when it overtook his brain every chance it got?

~

As Kyle drove the Lincoln back towards South Park with only the headlights to guide his way, he did his best to concentrate on the road and not the silent, brooding Bebe sat in the passenger seat, texting furiously on her phone. He felt pretty deflated; as though he'd blown it, even though there was nothing to actually blow because it was a friend-date. Perhaps part of him thought he had a chance with Bebe. Perhaps part of him wanted a chance? It was purely academic now; she hadn't said a word to him since he'd been patched up by that nice paramedic and given a relatively clean bill of health. How he was going to explain this to his mother, he had no idea.

"Stop the car," Bebe said suddenly.

"Are you serious?"

"I want you to pull over and turn off the engine," Bebe said firmly. Kyle sighed, but obeyed her instructions and drove the car into the nearest lay-by. He was clearly going to have to talk her out of leaving the car and walking home; she had a death-wish if that was her plan, regardless of her feelings towards him.

"Bebe, I'm sorry I—"

Bebe grabbed the front of his shirt and dragged him towards her, frantically kissing him. To say he was surprised would be a bigger understatement that saying Elton John was a little flamboyant.

She pulled away. "Nobody has ever taken a beating for me before," she panted, before kissing him roughly again. Any sense of trying to stop and deconstruct what was going on evaporated when she threaded her fingers through his hair, although he winced when she pressed hard against a portion of his lip which had split.

"Sorry," she whispered, cradling his head in her hands. Kyle took the opportunity to bring things down to his more relaxed pace, and gently leant in to suck her bottom lip between his. She shuddered and caressed the nape of his neck, silently encouraging him to continue. They unbuckled their seatbelts to gain better reach, and Kyle slid his hands over her back, but under her jacket. He felt a surge of pleasure as he placed gentle kisses down her throat and he felt her back arch under his grasp. Her moan of appreciation went straight to his little head.

His stomach lurched in a very pleasurable way as she teased at the shell of his ear with her tongue, then they were back to exploring each other's mouths; he felt Bebe giggle as she ran her tongue over his permanent retainers. When she pulled away suddenly it was like being doused with cold water. He watched helplessly as she peeled off her jacket, her cheeks flushed and her smile wicked. He heated up all over again as she shifted closer to him and rested a hand on his thigh.

"Bebe," he whispered, ready to say that they didn't have to do this, but he thought better of it after their discussion at the diner. Bebe had waxed lyrical about knowing what she wanted; it would be kind of patronising for him to now suggest she didn't.

Her fingers with their pink-painted nails slid up and unbuttoned his jeans, then swiftly unzipped his fly. Kyle didn't know whether he should stop her or not; a classic case of one head saying 'We should give this some thought' while the other screamed 'Just shut up and let her get on with it!'. He wondered if he should warn her about his dick; he was pretty certain Clyde wasn't circumcised and he wasn't sure whether a) she'd freak out or b) what she did to him in the hand job department would actually be comfortable.

Within five seconds, he realised it was immaterial, because she'd ducked down and taken about a third of his penis in her mouth.

"Jesus fucking Christ!" he gasped. Bebe stopped and lifted her head up.

"Relax, Kyle. I know what I'm doing," she said, her voice dripping with sensual promise.

Not for the first time in the hands of a gorgeous girl, Kyle had literally nothing to say. His entire vocabulary had utterly deserted him except for the words, 'fuck', 'ah' and 'Bebe'. He ran his fingers through her hair and tenderly caressed her head and neck while she found new and amazing ways to scramble his brains with a combination of wetness, suction and friction.

He leant his head back against the car seat and watched her head bob up and down; her pretty, plump lips in places he could never have imagined and her body awkwardly prone with one leg knelt on the passenger seat, the other stretched out onto the floor of the car and jammed against the handbrake. Part of him wanted this to last forever, but part of him was vaguely aware that the sooner he came, the sooner she could get herself into a more comfortable position.

When he felt he was about to spurt he tried to pull her away, but she slapped his hand away and kept going. Unable to stop himself, he let out a loud, hoarse cry of release and realised she'd let him come in her mouth. When she swallowed, crawled onto his lap and whispered, "You know, as far as jizz goes, yours tastes pretty good," he suddenly felt as though everything he'd ever known about the world had turned to dust.

What did he say? 'Thank you' was on the tip of his tongue, but that sounded kind of dickish, so he instead went back to kissing her neck — he wasn't too fond of the idea of tasting himself in her mouth, as hypocritical as he knew it was — and her bare shoulder where her previously exposed bra strap had slipped.

"Did you like that, huh?" she asked, in a weird babying way that was completely incongruous to the act she had just performed. He could only nod and mumble incoherently; preferring instead to lavish attention on her exposed skin. She sighed happily and sank against him, her thighs gripping his tightly.

"Don't be afraid to touch me," she urged, taking his hands and sliding them up her thighs. On her cue, he let his fingers tease the hem of her dress up and up, sliding it over her butt and exposing her panties to the recycled air in his car. He displayed his fearlessness by tucking his fingers under the lace and cupping her bare ass cheeks, ready to do more as she arched her back sharply and left his face perilously close to her cleavage.

Suddenly, she stopped. "Shit," she moaned.

"What?"

"It's half twelve. How far are we from town?"

"About half an hour," Kyle admitted.

"Well, fuck," Bebe said, climbing off Kyle and sitting down in the passenger seat in a huff. She buckled her seat belt as Kyle zipped himself back up and clicked his seatbelt into place.

Once they were on the move again, he saw Bebe reach for her phone and text, yet again. Then she started to make a phonecall.

"Hello? Mrs. Broflovski? Yes, it's Bebe... No, we're fine. It's just that I had a bit of a scare at the gig, some thugs were hassling me and... No, no, I'm fine. Kyle really looked after me; he was a real knight in shining armour... It's just, well, I'm a bit shaken up and I was hoping you'd be okay with Kyle staying with me until my folks get back from their dinner party... Oh, no! No! They'll be back in an hour or two... They're seeing my aunt, she lives out in Colorado Springs, so it's quite a drive; I've got their number if you want to check they're okay with it... Sure, it's—"

Kyle listened as Bebe gave out what appeared to be her mother's actual cell phone number. When she'd finally finished talking to his mother, she ended the call and grinned at Kyle.

"You're coming home with me," she insisted.

~

As he set off for Denver, Cartman passed Kenny's house and heard a shot ring out; what else could you expect in that part of town? Soon after that he was on the road to Denver.

The drive was pretty boring; he wished Kenny was there to rip on. Cartman began to wonder if he should have asked Butters — his favourite patsy — along. Granted, he wasn't a challenge, but he was reliable. Yeah, Butters was the prostitute of victims — he just did what you wanted in return for the fee of having to hang out with him. Cartman saw it as an agreeable arrangement. Now Kyle? Kyle was your frosty prom-queen of a victim — unobtainable, rarely puts out but when she does? Oh, mama! The rare occasions Cartman actually full on beat Kyle were worth a hundred sessions of ripping on Butters.

By the time he'd parked up, Cartman saw Kyle and Bebe wander into the stadium. They weren't holding hands, which was something; Kyle clearly hadn't got very far in charming her. Not that Cartman was surprised; he was sure if he'd been in Kyle's shoes, he'd have had Bebe's panties off already.

Three hours and seven party bags of Cheesy Poofs later, and people were flooding out of the stadium doors; Cartman scrambled for his binoculars and studied them carefully. As the roads became jammed with cars, he started to panic; if Kyle and Bebe came out now, how was he going to follow them?

Fifteen minutes later; the traffic had mercifully thinned out, but still no Kyle. Cartman felt his stomach double up in knots — what if he'd missed them? Then he realised he could see Kyle's parked Lincoln in the distance, but the knot didn't go away. Where were they?

Just when Cartman was considering getting out and looking for them — if Kyle was being laughed at in the stadium he didn't want to miss it — they emerged. Holy fuck, Kyle was messed up! His face was all busted up; Cartman could see blood stains on his t-shirt. Bebe followed next to him, biting her lip and looking bewildered. In a desperate rush, Cartman grabbed his camcorder and started filming — he had to capture the blood and bruises on Kyle's ugly Jew face.

They clambered into the car and drove off. Cartman followed at a distance. Once they got onto the freeway, Cartman hastily switched his lights off and kept his distance — he didn't want to have to explain himself to the skinny fucking Jew if he got caught.

After half an hour of careful, near-blind driving, Cartman saw Kyle suddenly pull over into a lay-by. Cartman slowed down and pulled up nearby, then got out and set his camcorder to maximum zoom. Was Kyle seriously going to make a move on Bebe after she busted his face? This ought to be worth seeing.

When Bebe grabbed Kyle's shirt and stuck her tongue down his throat, Cartman nearly dropped his camcorder in shock. What the fuck was wrong with her? He continued to film as Kyle gently kissed and caressed her like some fucking gay-wad; his fingers danced over her skin and she writhed in delight. Asshole; a few whispers and she was lost in him — he was like the fucking Pied Piper for sluts.

Cartman actually gasped, "Jesus fucking Christ!" when he saw Bebe unzip Kyle's flies and start sucking him off. God damn, she really was a slut! She bobbed up and down like she was trying to grab an apple; her perky ass wiggled just in view behind the windscreen. Kyle's expression was priceless. Cartman tried to control his laughter as he watched Kyle's head tilt back in apparent ecstasy; his big eyes darkening and half-lidded in desire, his long fingers exploring Bebe's blonde curls. The moment he came, Cartman swore he could literally see him unravel. His eyes squeezed shut, his lips parted in what must have been an ear-shattering moan. Cartman couldn't help but burst out laughing.

Soon after, they groped each other for a bit before suddenly pulling away and driving off. Cartman got back into the car and switched his camcorder off; that had been better than anything he could have imagined. Bebe was a hot little whore, and Kyle looked like a fucking stroke patient when he jizzed. Fucking classic!

He considered making a move, but his pants were painfully tight. God damn, Bebe and her slut ways had clearly got him going. Not that leaving right now would have been the best idea anyway; he needed to put a bit of distance between him and Kyle's car on this empty road.

With nothing else to do to pass the time, he looked around furtively and unbuttoned his fly, thinking hard about what he'd just witnessed as he delved inside his pants.

~

Kyle found himself dragged into Bebe's dark house as she continually kissed him. Well, dragged was an unfair term; he could no longer have walked away from her loving embrace any more than he could have plucked his own eyeballs out from their sockets. His fingers were making their way through her mountain of tousled curls while her fingers were spreading out over his ass. He let one hand slide down her back and pulled her flush against him as they stepped carefully into her kitchen. At some point during their frantic moving make-out session, Bebe had clearly managed to hit a light switch, so now Kyle could see just how modern and sleek the Stevens' liked their décor. The thought soon left his mind, because Bebe had pulled away from him a little and slid her impressive body onto the kitchen counter.

"Can I get you anything?" she asked. "Coffee? Tea?" She wrapped her legs around his waist. "Me?"

Her hands were splayed upon the counter and the way she had arched her back put her breasts on tantalising display. Despite all of this, Kyle found himself gripping her thighs gently in his hands and replying, "I would actually really like a coffee, if that's okay."

She smiled. "You'll have to unhand me first."

Kyle let go as though she were contagious. "Right. Sorry."

She giggled. "What are you apologising for? I liked your hands there."

"Oh. Well, that's good." He watched as Bebe kicked off her sneakers and wiggled her pantyhose covered toes before sliding elegantly back onto her feet and tiptoeing around the kitchen. She stretched up towards a cupboard; Kyle opened it for her.

"What are you after? I mean, besides the coffee," he asked, feeling his cheeks burn a little when she slid her arms around his waist.

"Just the instant in the corner; that's okay, right? I don't really know how to work the machine Dad's got."

"Instant's fine; I just need to stay awake long enough to drive back," he replied.

"You could always stay here," Bebe offered in a sultry tone that suggested he'd get no sleep whatsoever. "I'm sure your mom wouldn't begrudge my knight in shining armour looking after me for just a little longer."

"Umm... I guess not." Kyle didn't really know how to politely tell Bebe he had no intention of sleeping with her. Especially when her fingers started to dance lightly along his back. Okay, okay — he had every desire to sleep with Bebe, but no intention. They were different things, and he wasn't a slave to the former. Besides, they'd both come out of serious relationships; it was hardly the best idea.

"Kiss me," she urged as she switched the kettle on. She batted her eyelashes and reached up to stroke his jaw with her soft hand. "I need you, Kyle. I need to..." She fell silent as she stretched up on tiptoe to reach him. Her lips were soft and pliant as they pressed against his yet again.

Still, what was a bit of making out between friends?

Her fingers wound through his hair as she kissed the very air out of him, and before he knew it, she was unbuttoning his shirt. His first instinct was to pull her away, but she pressed herself flush against him and it was too much for him to resist. He held her tightly to him and ducked away from her lips to trail kisses down her neck. When he grazed her pulse point very delicately with his teeth, the gasp she made against his ear had him standing to attention in no time.

She glanced down at his crotch and smiled playfully. "I think that's your cue to take me upstairs," she purred. When he simply stared at her, unable to quite take in how she had reacted to feeling his erection poke her like a particularly insistent Facebook friend, she grabbed his hand and dragged him up the stairs.

"You are so fucking hot," she whispered, shoving him into her bedroom and onto her bed. Kyle took a moment to look around this inner sanctum of creams and baby-blues. Bebe even had some kind of princess canopy over her bed, making it look part fairy-tale bed chamber and part Bedouin camp.

The lights dimmed; clearly Bebe had a dimmer switch. Kyle looked across the room and judging by her sultry expression and the way she had tousled her hair with her hand, she not only had plans but knew exactly how to execute them.

"I'm going to make you just as horny as you're making me," she promised, unzipping her dress and sliding it off her impressive figure. Kyle could do little but gawp as he took in her lacy bra that merely provided a decorative frame for a pair of breasts that were at least a third bigger in the flesh than they appeared under clothes, her odd lacy panties that let half her pert ass-cheeks hang out, her stockings — they weren't pantyhose after all — and the staggeringly high heels she had somehow found time to put on when he was busy wondering about the netting above his head.

"What do you like, Kyle?" she said huskily. "Do you want to take me from behind?" She turned to face her closet and pressed her palms against the MDF, arching her back as though she was getting off on the very act. She glanced over her shoulder and fixed him with a hungry gaze. "Do you like it face to face?" Swiftly, she turned around and leant against the closet, her fingers almost clawing at the surface as she slid one leg against the other.

"Umm..." Kyle suddenly felt incredibly out of his depth.

"Do you want me to beg?" At this statement, she stalked up to the bed and crawled on her hands and knees until she was straddling him, her thighs gripping his, and her breasts were heaving with every deep breath she took. She leant forward and rested her hands on his shoulders, letting her hair cascade over him.

"Don't you think we're taking things a bit—" Kyle was unable to finish as Bebe silenced him with another ever-deepening kiss. His hands wandered over her back, flesh against flesh as their tongues explored each other.

She broke their kiss, took one of Kyle's hands and placed it over the clasp on the back of her bra. "Take it off," she instructed.

"Bebe, I'm really not sure about this..." He trailed off at the hurt look in her eyes.

"Wh... What's the matter? I thought you, you know—"

"I do!" Kyle insisted. "Really. You're hot; you're super-hot. I just... I'm not ready, you know, for sex."

Bebe actually pouted at him in dismay. "Please tell me you're joking."

"We've been on one date. I'm not joking," Kyle replied awkwardly.

She looked disheartened for a moment, then playfully nipped his ear. "Ooh, you're such a tease—"

"I'm not teasing!"

"You are. You let me get a hold of your big, hard cock and now you're taking it away from me."

"Bebe, were you paying any attention to me in the diner?"

"Of course I did, sweetie, and I totally get that you want to 'save yourself' for the right girl. I'm just suggesting that maybe I can be a practise run?" She rained kisses down his chest between every other word.

"The whole point of saving yourself is... ah, that you don't... mmm, have practise runs," Kyle stammered out, his nerves on fire as Bebe seemed dead set on making him burn for her. He felt her unzip his fly; the heat from her body mingling with his own as she sat back and rocked slowly against him.

"Kyle, baby. Don't be shy," she urged, ceasing her movements and reaching behind her back. He watched helplessly as her bra slackened against her skin; she peeled the garment off in a single movement and freed her ample breasts. Kyle was kind of impressed they stayed up of their own accord; he'd imagined her bra had been fighting the forces of gravity far more than it was.

"Do you have any idea what you do to me?" she drawled as she arched her back and pushed her hair up. "It's downright criminal. I'm only asking for a little release."

As horny as Bebe was making him feel right now, he couldn't help but spare a thought for poor Wendy. If Stan was just a fraction as insistent with her as Bebe was with him, he was going to smack him one. While he had been taught at a relatively young age that pressuring a girl into sex was a no-no because it made her feel uncomfortable, nobody had ever thought to tell him that it probably fucking annoyed the girl as well, if his current experience was anything to go by. There was something rather irritating about Bebe's coaxing behaviour, and Kyle was almost ready to give in just to make her shut the fuck up. The push-pull he felt over the whole situation was mind-boggling; she was as achingly sexy as she was maddeningly exasperating.

Then he remembered an incident from when he was just ten years old that made him think there might be a perfect compromise...

"Dad," Kyle asked as he plonked himself on the sofa next to his father.

"Yes, Kyle?" his father's eyes didn't waver from the news broadcast.

"What do women want more than anything in the world?" he asked, clutching his copy of Chaucer's 'The Canterbury Tales' in one hand, his pencil poised in the other.

"Cunnilingus," his father replied flippantly.

"Is that one 'n' or two?" Kyle asked, scribbling down the response. His father swiftly stopped staring at the television and turned to his son.

"Don't write that down - why do you want to know, anyway?"

"For my book report," Kyle replied. "There's a story in here about a knight who has to find out what women want more than anything else in the world otherwise he'll get killed, because he ravished her, you see."

"And they teach you this stuff in fifth grade?"

Kyle shrugged. "We had to pick a book, but I was off sick so this was the only thing left on the reading list apart from Fitzgerald..."

"And you find F. Scott Fitzgerald's social commentary tries to disguise cowardice and failure as nihilism," his father finished.

"Exactly. So, what's cunnilingus?"

"Umm, you don't need to know about that. Just don't put it in your book report."

"But what does it mean?"

"Chocolate. Women love chocolate a whole lot, Son. Why don't you write about that?"

"Is cunnilingus a kind of chocolate, then? Is it European?"

"Just forget about cunnilingus, Kyle, okay?" His father's voice had a bite of impatience to it.

At that moment, Kyle's mother entered the room, with his younger brother Ike clinging to her skirt.

"Dinner's ready, boys," she called.

As they sat down at the table to eat, Kyle figured that maybe his mom would know. She was a woman, and Dad had said women wanted it more than anything in the world...

"Mom?"

"Yes, Bubbeleh?"

"What's cunnilingus?"

His mother dropped her fork in horror.

"What, what, what?" she exclaimed. "Who taught you such naughty words, Kyle? Was it that Eric Cartman?"

"No, it was Dad," Kyle replied. "So, what does it mean?"

"Cunnilingus, cunnilingus, cunnilingus!" Ike sang cheerfully as his mother glared at his father so coldly, it could have frozen nitrogen. He merely shrugged sheepishly.

"Well, Kyle," his mother said uncertainly. "It's something only grown-ups who love each other very much have to worry about."

"Yeah, but what does it mean?"

"You don't need to know, Kyle."

"But this morning when I didn't want to go to school you said education is really important, so you can't just turn around and refuse to teach me something. That's hypocritical."

"He's got a point," his father replied, as Ike continued to sing his newly penned opus consisting solely of the word 'cunnilingus'. His mother practically scowled at his father while he continued to eat.

"You're too young, now eat your dinner!" his mother said firmly, making it clear the conversation was over.

Later that night, Kyle put the word into Google. It autocorrected his spelling and led him to a video that he stared at for three full hours, equally repulsed and fascinated by what he saw...

With a grin he could feel was downright wicked, Kyle sat up and grabbed Bebe roughly around the waist.

"I'm not going to fuck you," he insisted before pressing a hot and heavy kiss to her lips. At the look of confusion and disappointment on her face, he flipped her onto her bed; her soft curves rippled slightly as she hit the soft quilt and hard mattress. With one hand on the waistband of her impractical panties he added, "but I am going to make you come."

The thrill of anticipation showed on her features; her lips parted in a gasp of surprise and when he ducked his head to plant kisses along her throat and over her breasts, her hands flew to his hair.

"Oh, Kyle!" Her moans were sinful, and merely encouraged his attentions. He felt one hand grasp his hair and draw him closer, and through his peripheral vision he saw her grip the headboard with the other. He placed kisses down her soft belly until he reached the waistband of her weird half-panties.

As he rocked back onto his knees, she looked up at him with trepidation and disappointment.

"Kyle?"

Silently, he curled his fingers around her panties and slowly slid them a little way down her hips, seeing if she wanted to stop him. He felt equal parts disappointment and relief when her hands rushed to his, but then she started helping him yank them down as far as she could reach. He helped with the remainder of the journey, sliding the lace along her nylon stockings and unhooking them from her high heels.

Kyle surveyed her as she lay on the crumpled comforter, her hair fanned around her like the most crooked halo and her incredible body — naked save for stocking and high heels — in such close proximity.

He slid his hands along her knees and up to her pillowy thighs. "Spread your legs," he instructed, sounding far more confident than he felt. Her eyes never left his as she silently complied, seemingly holding her breath in expectation. He slid onto his belly to get a closer look and figure out just what he expected to be doing.

It looked weirdly sore. That was something they never really made clear in pornos. It was swollen, pinkish-red and slippery — a bit like giblets, Kyle supposed, although more appealing. Had Rebecca's looked like this? He'd really only felt his way around hers. One thing he did notice was that Bebe definitely had less hair, which kind of threw his theory about it being an age thing out of the window. Also, despite Cartman's often horrible references to fishmongers, it didn't really smell of much.

Suddenly, he became aware of Bebe's eyes boring a metaphorical hole into his head, and it crossed his mind that maybe it was considered rude to stare at a girl's pussy as though it were a modern art sculpture on display at the local gallery. Uncertain of where to start, he adopted the 'ants finding their way home' technique of kissing around the edges with a plan of spiralling around until he got to the centre.

One tentative kiss somewhere on her inner thigh, and he heard her gasp with longing. Another closer to the goal, and she was almost climbing the walls.

"Oh, God!" she cried out. "Oh, please don't stop!"

Stopping hadn't been part of his plan, so he carried on. Each kiss or lick brought a new and wholly surprising sound from Bebe's lips, as though she were the world's most complicated recorder. Finally, after spending a reasonable amount of time acquainting himself with Bebe's pussy and hearing about seventeen variations on the theme of, "Stop fucking teasing me," Kyle took a deep breath and probed her lips with his tongue for the first time.

He felt her practically hit the ceiling and had to hold her steady to stop her crushing his face with the force of her hips.

"Oh... Oh, Kyle!"

That sounded reasonably encouraging, so he continued with more boldness, using her verbal cues and body language to gauge what she liked and what didn't get her going so much. After a short while of spelling out poetry on her clitoris, a sudden shock of pain as her metal heel scraped along his back and a few strangled sobs of, "Fill me, fill me; fuck, please fill me!" he went in with his fingers and tried the old 'come hither' wiggling that had sent Rebecca over the edge while keeping up his tongue action.

"Oh God, that's so good... Ooh, right there, Kyle, right there... Fuck, yes; that's the spot, that's my sweet spot... Ooh, you're a bad boy, such a bad, bad boy... Fuck, I swear every time we study Robert Frost in class I'm going to orgasm... Oh, lick it, lick it... Harder, harder — pound it... Oh, there we are, there we are... Oh, you're so good, so good; keep it up, baby, keep it up..."

Bebe was very chatty when she was getting intimate; it was like someone had switched on the DVD commentary of his oral sex technique. This meant there was no uncertainty as to when she'd come; if the fluttering of her muscles around his fingers hadn't given it away, the screams of, "I'm coming, I'm coming; Ooh, yes, yes, yes, I'm there, I'm fucking there!" that nearly pierced his eardrums before melting away into fraught little whimpers made it fairly clear.

He lifted his head up and gazed at her sweat-sheened figure and the dark flush to her face, neck and breasts. To his surprise, she suddenly stifled a sob.

"Bebe? Are you okay?" he asked warily. To his horror, she started to cry.

"Bebe? I'm sorry! Are you... shit," he settled on, scooting around to her side and gently resting his hands on her shoulders. She turned into him and sobbed against his chest.

"Whoa, Bebe. What's the matter?" he asked, pulling her into an embrace. She shook her head against him and he felt her giggle.

"Nothing. I promise. Nothing," she mumbled. Eventually, she lifted her head and pressed her hand to his cheek.

"Thank you," she said, kissing him deeply. "Thank you so much."

"Umm, you're welcome?" Kyle legitimately had no idea what to say in response, and decided instead to wrap the comforter around them both, cocooning her against his chest.

As Kyle awoke, he felt absently for Bebe by his side, only to find a crumpled but abandoned quilt. Before he'd even had chance to wonder where she'd gone, he felt the mattress sink a little as someone sat next to him on the edge of the bed. As he fully opened his eyes, he really, really hoped it was Bebe.

"Hey." She was clad in his shirt and holding a cup which she handed to him once he sat up. "I never did get you that coffee," she said shyly.

"Oh, yeah. Thanks." He felt a little self-conscious as she watched him sip at his freshly-brewed coffee.

"Sleep well?" she asked.

"Yeah. Like a log," he insisted, feeling suddenly awkward around her. Given he'd spent a good proportion of last night nose-deep in her pussy, he found his shyness a little ridiculous.

He set the cup down on her dresser. "What about you? Are you, you know, okay?"

She smiled and touched his hand. "Never been better," she replied, leaning forward and capturing his lips in a soft, sweet kiss. He slipped his hand underneath his shirt and around her waist.

"It looks good on you," he murmured between ever deepening kisses. As he kissed her neck, he felt her swallow; when he pulled away, she appeared dazed.

"You okay?"

Bebe nodded silently, her eyes half-closed and her expression dazed. Kyle took it as a silent cue for him to continue, so he kept kissing further and further down. When her fingers tangled in his hair as he was lavishing attention on her breasts, he allowed her to guide him along her belly and felt her gently tug him towards her thighs.

He pulled away and lay back down flat on the bed. "My, you're insatiable," he said with a smirk and was rewarded by seeing her blush prettily. Emboldened by her reaction, he merely waggled his finger and gestured for her to come closer. She obeyed until she was practically sitting on his shoulders. Languidly, he grasped her thighs and pushed her legs apart, ready to go another round; the coffee had gone some way to reviving his weary tongue.

The angle of her ascent into climax was a new one; the view of her breasts hovering above him and her head tilting back unashamedly kept him distracted from the slightly uncomfortable position he was now in; he had to grab her ass hard to stop her from wriggling too much and potentially suffocating him.

Still, he could live with it. Sure, it was all kind of backwards with her moaning his name like it was a prayer before their second date, but if he'd learnt anything from his time with Rebecca it was that sometimes things don't always happen in the order you expect.

"Bebe! Would Kyle like some toast?"

Kyle froze. Bebe rolled her eyes and shouted, "I'll do it, Mom."

"Oh. Okay, sweetie."

"Wait, how does she know I'm here?" Kyle asked. "I haven't been downstairs yet."

Bebe shrugged. "Apparently she heard me screaming your name for half an hour last night," she replied. Kyle must have looked horrified, for she stroked his hair lovingly. "Relax; she said you seemed a very nice boy."

"Umm, okay." Kyle was pretty certain he couldn't have felt less relaxed if he were with Cartman and the documentary 'The Nazis — A Warning from History' started playing on the TV. Then Bebe started sighing and wriggling in his grip and he felt the urge to finish what he'd started.

Continued here.

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