Disclaimer: Don't ask, don't tell, don't own, don't sue.
Then again, after "Trapped in the Closet," I doubt Matt and Trey will be suing anyone in the near future.
Genetics
Author's Notes: Hey kids. I swear I'm working on "Rules to Live By," but I decided to take a break to knock out this little oneshot.
Warnings: Silliness, older kids, and a little bit of slash. Enjoy! And please review!
-----
Modern psychologists often argue over the relative influence of genetics and environment on one's behavior – the old "nature versus nature" debate.
Stan Marsh wasn't sure where the scientific community was leaning, but he was personally coming down on the side of those arguing for genetics. From his perspective, it seemed his DNA determined most aspect of his life. At least, those aspects that weren't influenced by alien visitors, ecological crises, and incursions by moderately insane celebrities.
For instance, his looks. Sure, just about everyone looked a good deal like their parents, but even Stan was taken aback by the similarities in his development. As it turned out, both the Kerns and the Marshes had notoriously awkward early adolescent years – Stan was doomed.
When Stan was twelve, he started to regret all the fun he had poked at Shelly at the same age; he ended up needing braces, and, while he hadn't gotten the accompanying headgear, it was embarrassing all the same.
Cartman, of course, had an absolute field day when this happened. Besides taunting him with gum, popcorn, and caramel, he seemed to take great delight in such names as "metal mouth," "train tracks," et cetera.
Unfortunately, Cartman had forgotten that Stan was in far better shape than he was, and keeled over when Stan punched him in the gut after making terrible insinuations regarding Stan's braces and their impact on his ability to perform oral sex.
Shelly was no help either. Sympathy was, in general, not her strong suit; besides, she was sixteen by that point, and had moved out of her own awkward phase. In fact, she was – in Kenny's words – "fuckin' smokin'."
"Clearly," he'd said, "she inherited your mom's phenomenal rack."
It had taken weeks for Stan to erase that mental image, which was disturbing on more levels than he could count. He felt marginally better when Kenny was struck by lightning mere moments after saying that, but even the smell of charred flesh wasn't enough to take Stan's mind off the fact that other guys fantasized about his mother's and sister's breasts.
Granted, Stan couldn't hold too much resentment toward his genes. After all, once he was in high school, the braces were gone and his voice – once it stopped cracking – was beginning to evolve into a smooth baritone. His DNA finally decided to work with him, rather than against him.
Wendy Testaburger – with whom he'd actually managed to become friends some time in sixth grade – was the first person to point out that he'd gotten pretty cute (in a completely platonic way, of course).
"You actually look a lot like your dad," she'd said, "except the eyes and nose." She went on to explain, yes, that was a compliment, because Randy Marsh was "a prime piece of mature man meat."
Once Stan had processed the fact that one of his best friends had just stated that she found his father sexually attractive – in a rather crude way, no less – he dropped his head into his hands and grumbled that Wendy really needed to spend less time around Bebe.
When you're as blissfully unaware as Stan Marsh, however, being the offspring of two very attractive parents could sometimes prove problematic. Many of the girls in his class – most of whom, at 14, were far more mature than their male counterparts – attempted various methods of flirting, only to be brought to a halt by Stan's brick wall of obliviousness.
Bebe, for example, tried sitting on Stan's lap at a pool party at Clyde's one day, wearing nothing but a strappy red bikini. Stan, being the gentleman he was, offered to stand up and give Bebe his lawn chair, because really, he was planning on getting back in the pool soon anyway.
He blinked in shock when Bebe dumped her smoothie on his head and stomped off in a huff. He figured it was some crazy feminist thing – which was strange, because it was usually Wendy who acted as the resident femme-Nazi – before shrugging it off and seeking out a hose to clean himself off.
Things seemed to go relatively according to protocol over the next couple of years, which was just fine with Stan. After all, he was quite accustomed to fighting giant robots and thwarting massive cult conspiracies.
Of course, things couldn't stay normal – even South Park's definition of normal – for long. When Stan was sixteen, DNA struck again. And this time, it was taking no prisoners.
Stan, for all his cluelessness, was fully aware of his father's bisexual tendencies. He never worried too much about it, mostly because he knew Randy was not the unfaithful type.
Well, except for that brief divorce incident.
…and that get-rid-of-the-"goobacks" mass orgy.
…and there were those rumors about the hot tub on the night of the historic meteor shower back in third grade.
Ahem. Moving on. On Stan's sixteenth birthday, Kenny, employing a surprisingly convincing fake ID, arranged for a stripper to come over and give the birthday boy a show.
The guys – consisting of Kyle, Cartman, Craig, Tweek, Token, Clyde, and most of Stan's football teammates – were all let in on the surprise, but told to keep quiet about it. Kyle helped Stan secure the house to himself, all without revealing the master plan (which, to a sixteen-year old, seemed like the end-all be-all of human existence).
Stan, who had no idea what was in store come the big day, opened the door when the bell rang only to find an enormous birthday cake, which two employees of the Tease-for-Two Entertainment Company promptly wheeled in. Stan's friends, who had been anxiously waiting, whistled and jeered as Stan rolled his eyes and grinned before reclaiming his spot on the couch.
He couldn't help but laugh as one of the assistants plugged in a CD player and "Sin City" began blaring through the speakers. The boys continued to catcall as the top of the cake flipped open and out stepped…
A very blonde, very ripped, twenty-something man.
Silence filled the room, aside from the AC/DC lyrics which continued to play. The stripper seemed as taken aback as the audience. Everyone – aside from the men that had wheeled in the cake, who were snickering in the corner of the room – stood perfectly still, as though afraid to move.
It was Cartman who eventually broke the silence. "Kenny, you poor piece of crap! You hired a guy?" The shouting, however, was no use – Kenny had already had a massive, trauma-induced seizure, and let out a final twitch before passing on, yet again.
Stan, however, wasn't concerned with the fact that one of his closest friends had died once more. Rather, he was preoccupied with the fact that, shocked as he was, he wasn't disgusted…or even averse to watching the poor, confused stripper continue on his merry way.
His right eye twitched as he forced his rebellious brain to shut up. He then promptly ran into the bathroom and threw up the better part of the pizza he had been munching just before.
To this day, if you asked Stan what he was doing in the bathroom for the next fifteen minutes or so, he would insist that he was just getting his bearings and washing up.
After that, it was only a matter of time. The summer before senior year, Token threw an open party for all the upperclassmen – which, when you considered that the entire population of South Park High ran less than 150, wasn't really all that large. Stan had spent the better part of the past six months attempting to convince himself that, sure, it was perfectly normal to have wet dreams that half the time involved the cast of Queer as Folk (which Wendy had forced him to watch on DVD for some unexplained reason), and it was certainly no indication that he was gay or anything.
And it certainly wasn't odd that the other half of the time, his best friend made an appearance in said dreams. Because, really, you couldn't spend that much time around anyone and not have some trippy thoughts about them.
(He conveniently ignored the fact that he spent nearly as much time around Wendy, whom he'd been madly in love with for the better part of two years, and hadn't had a romantic or sexual thought about her since he was nine. Surely she didn't count.)
Stan's first mistake was opening a can of beer and joining in the festivities. His second mistake was opening another can and imbibing in the delight of diluted ethanol. His third mistake…and so on.
By the time Stan fully realized that he was half-naked and his fingers were tangled in a mass of bright red jewfro, it was far too late. Considering that they were on Token's couch, in plain sight of the partygoers, it wasn't nearly as awkward as it could have been. Kyle just asked him what took him so damn long to figure it out. Cartman looked dejected, realizing that calling them "fags" wouldn't be nearly as fun if they weren't trying to deny it. Bebe handed Wendy a crisp new twenty dollar bill, mumbling something about using HBO videos to cheat. Kenny, sadly, missed the fun, as he had been crushed to death by the Blacks' crystal chandelier mere minutes before.
Stan was cursed by his DNA – that much was sure.
But if there was no way out, he figured, he might as well get the maximum enjoyment out of it. He shrugged and dragged the lanky redhead to Token's unoccupied den – exhibitionism never really was Stan's style.
The "nature versus nurture" debate still rages on. But, in the small Colorado town of South Park, one more young man has decided that ultimately, it doesn't matter.