CREEPS ME OUT – IMA Robot
A/N: Keep in mind as you read; it's just for fun.
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My name is Kenny McCormick. I'm nineteen years old, a high school drop out, bisexual, and head-over-heels in gooey, reciprocated love with Butters Stotch.
Which may be a little hard to tell, considering I'm currently ramming Bebe Stevens like I'm going to hit treasure.
I know, I know, way to fulfill expectations. Even with the love of my life, I'm a horny cheating asshole. But, c'mon. you can't put a nineteen year old in a tiny apartment with possibly the cutest, most unintentionally sexual boy in the world, and then deprive him of even the most basic incarnations of team sex. Seriously, if I pulled my dick right out and shouted, "I WANNA PUT THIS IN YOUR POOPER," he'd probably point me to the toilet. It's like he's totally oblivious to the concept of sex.
And maybe it's not so nice of me to cheat on him with his best friend since fourth grade. (Who has retained a creepy habit of calling him "Marjorine" and convincing him to let her do his make-up, by the way.)
I bet you'd do the same, though. Let me explain…
I don't deserve Butters, I know. I don't deserve to be within fifteen feet of the little non-cocksucker. And he has no idea. You'd think I was doing him a favor, the way he spends all his time coddling me—cleaning the apartment, cooking, and Christ, the hugs—you try hugging the fluffball three thousand times a day and see how long masturbation holds you off! So here I am, this poor, filthy redneck slut with an angel sharing a twin with him, and how do I thank him? Going out all hours of the night, prank calling him drunk at like four in the morning, forgetting his birthday—God, am I the antagonist here, or what?
And I love him to pieces, but a Kenny can only go without sex for so long. If anyone had suggested going a year without so much as a hand job before me and Butters became exclusive, I would've thought they were joking.
So anyway, Bebe comes over, and Butters is out grocery shopping or something, so I tell her to pop a squat and watch America's Best Dance Crew with me 'til he gets back. I'm not comparing the two, but to be perfectly honest, Bebe is hot. And the bitch knows it. She was wearing this pair of shorts that might as well have been denim underwear, and working 'em…
And next thing I know, she's yelling at me to get off her hair, and I'm glaring at the headboard, grunting.
So now I roll off her, which is a little hard, considering there's not much room on either side of the tiny mattress, and instantly feel the euphoria withdraw and the guilt, shame, and horror wash up in its place.
How horrible am I?
After we catch our breathe, she asks me for a piece of bubble gum—I'm serious, she says she likes to chew it after sex. How porno Barbie can you get?
We agree that this is to remain buried like the family infanticide, and she finds her tiny clothes, and we start walking to the door…
And wouldn't you know it, wouldn't you just fucking know it—Butters got home like twenty minutes ago.
And is baking cookies.
He turns around and—get this—smiles, and says, "Hi Kenny, hi Bebe! Cookies are almost done!"
Bebe and I are dumbfounded. She makes a run for it—well, she kisses him on the cheek and says she has to get going, but she might as well have sprinted, from where I was standing.
I don't know what's going on. So I hug him from behind, and start apologizing as fast as I can.
"For what?"
Seriously.
"…For…for me and Bebe…"
"What's wrong with that?" The cookie timer dings, and he wiggles free to get them out.
Now if it wasn't Butters, I would've said, "Nothing at all!" and gotten a cookie. But…it's Butters.
"You don't care that I just banged Bebe?" Tact is not one of my key attributes.
"No…why would I?" He sets down the cookie tray on a hot pad and turns to face me. His eyes are so. Blue.
"Because I'm your boyfriend."
His lower lip trembles, and my heart shatters. "You're…you're not leaving me for Bebe, are you!?"
"What!? No, of course not!"
Now HE'S the one who's nonplussed. "Then what's the problem?"
I study his face—his round, huge-eyed, pouty face—before pulling him into another hug.
"I guess there isn't one?"
"Okay, then. I made sugar cookies!" Which he knows are my favorite.
So how lucky am I? And how much do I NOT deserve it? And how wonderful, and adorable, and perfect is he?
It's like, after eighteen years of bullshit, I'm being paid back ten-fold.
I rock him from side to side a little and bury my face in his hair. "So, what do you think the odds of true love are?"
"Pretty high, I bet."
I have my doubts.
"Butters, you creep me out."
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A/N: I'M SERIOUS, YOUTUBE THIS SONG. Oh my God. SO CUTE. I tried to catch Kenny's voice, but it kept sounding like mine…meh.