It doesn't mean that they like each other, or anything.
When Wendy's pushed up in a closet with the closest thing she has to a nemesis, she has to rationalize it. It doesn't mean that they like each other, or even that, in normal circumstances, they would ever want to be in the same room together. It's just body chemistry.
That's it, she thinks, as Eric Cartman's mouth presses against hers. It's just pheromones. Because there is no way that she could ever be attracted to such a repugnant waste of space (and he was wasting a lot of space, the fat ass), unless there were some factors which she didn't entirely understand at work.
"It's just physical," she says out loud, as Cartman presses at her shirt, his big hand running over her belly and breasts.
"Shut up, ho."
She complies, not because he's the boss of her, or that she wants to listen to what he says, but simply because not shutting up is getting in the way of making out, and that is the point of this exercise.
Wendy wants to rationalize it further. She wants to figure out why she enjoys this so much, why she can't do this with just any guy, why it has to be the evil sexist bastard who pushes her into a corner and makes her moan. Why she's losing control.
But she can't.
Yet.
She pushes him away. He looks confused in the darkness, and his eyes narrow. They're a nice color, actually – a deep chocolate brown. Wendy shakes her head.
"I'll see you at school tomorrow," she says.
"Whatever," Cartman says, like he doesn't care. And maybe he doesn't.
Wendy straightens her skirt and goes out into the party. She spends the rest of the night telling herself of all of the reasons why she can't let herself make out with Eric any more.
None of them are very convincing. Especially not in the face of chemistry like that.
A/N: Wow, it has been a long time since I've written for South Park. Anyway, constructive criticism loved!