GregoryxTammy.

Slag basically means whore. c:

Gregory, some say he was the ultimate ladies man.

For the people who didn't know him, they were greeted by a perfect smile and stunning looks with words smooth as butter. That accent and slicked back blonde hair, I mean, he was fetching. All the girls fanned over him...

As for the people who knew him personally, well, they were weighed down by the ego that hovered over him like a toxic cloud. The words that dripped off his tongue were usually venomous and his posh behavior was a way to show others how much better he was then you.

In short, Gregory was a prick.

It wasn't that long ago when he had moved to South Park with his mother. It wasn't a step in the right direction by any means and it wasn't exactly what he expected either. Britain was much more posh and… at least decent than America.

Although, he was told of stories of the women in the states and he was very intrigued.

All shapes, all flavors... They were mythical! Some bookworms and others were slags with legs spread wide open. But surely, not all women were like that. Sure, it was a shithole and the Queen would sneer at it but… surely, not every woman was a shameless slag.

Yes, Gregory was going to prove those stereotypes wrong.

...And then Tammy came along to fuck up that assumption.

Tammy, what a fucking woman. Gregory could say a lot about the hick. The annoying slut was convinced condoms were used to make fun balloons animals and that crayons tasted like food of the same color. No, seriously, Gregory watched as her friends dared her to try an orange crayon. She swore on her mother's life that it was, 'refreshing and juicy' as the wax crunched under her teeth.

Tammy would often say that brains didn't matter and her good looks and seductive charm made up for it. So, the woman was obviously retarded. Gregory was certain she had a concentrated IQ of negative four.

Christophe and the poodle girl had set the two together on 'double dates'. Lots of them. When the Rebecca and the Mole would spend time talking about rocks, dirt and God being a 'beetch', Gregory was stuck with the brunette and their riveting conversations revolved around sex. Most of them uncomfortable questions that made him pull at his collar distastefully.

Gregory didn't know what to make of the 'all-American girl'.

Where ever she went or even the season, it didn't dictate what she wore. It was always the same. Shirts where her knockers were on the verge of spilling over and her posterior practically hanging out of her shorts. How very attractive. Attractive like a possum decaying in a red light district during a heat wave.

Indeed, she was a shameless slag.

But maybe it was because she was out of the ordinary and foreign to him… maybe that's why he let her hang around him.

Or maybe the states and its stupidity had rubbed off on him.

After cavorting in a nearby 'honky-tonk' or whatever the fuck she called it, the brunette stumbled into the living room with a drunken smile, dragging Gregory along with her. She was in the middle of one of her stories that had no relevance. Tammy loved tangents. "…And that's when I told Kevin, you know Stoley right? I told him to get a tattoo above his dick that said, 'made in china'. Get it? Because he's Chinese!"

Gregory grunted, "Are you daft? Stoley was born here."

Being the two beer queer she was, she was already plastered. Tammy was into that really shitty plonk. The red wine that seemed like someone chewed up the grapes and spat it into their glass. Fucking shit really.

"Oh-my-gosh!" Tammy tugged the man along, her high-pitched voice starting to make his ears bleed. "Sit on my couch, Greggy-poo! It's really comfy. You're going to love it."

Now, this was a moment where Gregory merely observed the strange woman. Her eyes hooded with a strange glint. It seemed that he could hold his spirits but the woman however, could not.

Sit? On a couch? Why would the woman propose to come to her house just to sit? Was she cultured? Could she be smart? Would they discuss politics?

"Oh, hm, is it real leather? Or is it faux?" Gregory examined piece of furniture that made IKEA look like the wealthy-man's store before taking a seat. "Yes, hm, yes… It's quite comfy and delightful. It's definitely faux."

All the while, Tammy stood proudly, looking down at the man with a fire in her eyes. "Wanna see something faux real?" The brunette slid out of her shirt and threw it aside, revealing a tacky leopard print bra.

Gregory was thought of as a ladies' man.

Thought of.

The man would often seduce women with his charm and good looks but he was... how you say, inexperienced. Not naïve, nor shy just inexperienced.

Women were very mythical in his world.

Not to say he was a pussy either, no, just inexperienced.

Gregory glanced at the robust woman then to the discarded shirt. It wasn't even a shirt, it was a rag that barely covered anything. It was still something to hide the shameless slag's shame, so he bent down and plucked it up. "Oh, um… your shirt has slipped right off your body. Here let me help you place it back on."

"I like it off," she spat defiantly, running her hands over her curves. "Don't you Greggy-poo?"

The man snorted, his true colors coming out to shine as he started snidely, "I would rather this so-called shirt be on. Your knockers are ready to flop out. How appealing is that? I'm trying to have a polite conversation and you tit is ready to drag down to the floor-"

Tammy leaned uncomfortably close to the man, her face mere inches from his. "Gregory, do you even know why invited you over here?" she said with a wicked smile.

The lecherous pervert.

"…to sit on this wonderful couch?"

And the oblivious Brit.

Tammy didn't say anything at first, she stared down her prey, looking right into the Brit's soul. Whores can smell fear, you know? "Want me to do something really special?"

Special? Now what in the world would that mean?

"Ok-Okay." was all Gregory's brain could come up with. The next thing he knew, she's slipping onto her knees.

What was she trying to do? She was getting on her knees to pray... yes! That had to be it. Pray for her tainted slag soul. Or perhaps she was going to place her shirt back on and cover her shame? One could only hope.

While he was busy hoping, Gregory felt something strange between his legs. The blonde peered down to Tammy's hand running over his crotch sensually.

…She wasn't trying to do what it looked like at all… Maybe she was just rubbing a stain away? Or maybe she was… uh-

"Oh was my fly down?" Gregory spoke, clearing his throat loudly.

"It's going to be."

He grabbed the hand that was agitating him, shaking it forcefully. "Did I mention my name is Gregory? I'm from Yardale."

Tammy wiggled out of his grasp and in a quick movement his pants were unbuttoned. "Gregory, why don't you introduce me to your flesh whistle?"

"…What? What the fuck does that mean? Are you trying to make me vomit? Flesh whistle? Really?"

Gregory didn't want the woman touching him... If it wasn't already obvious.

Not that he didn't like the strange American girl, she was very interesting but it was because of how forward she was. Back in Yardale, the young men would often talk about the fabled loose women in America but here he was with a true loose woman… Acting like a complete pussy.

"We don't even know each other's middle names yet." Gregory protested.

Tammy continued fiddling with his pants, unzipping them and brushing them out of the way of her prize. "What does that matter?"

"All I'm saying is that we shouldn't just fuck to fuck. Emotional bonds mean something, you know? We should get to know each other a little better."

Tammy reached into his jeans, fiddling with the buttons on his boxers. "Again, you can introduce me to your dick… I think my throat and it can get very well acquainted."

Gregory grabbed the woman's hands, straightening himself out. Tammy sat there, her bottom lip puckered, puppy dog eyes shining up at him. Now, if it was any other man in South Park like Clyde or Kenny, they would have already had their fun. But Gregory wasn't any other man in South Park.

Tammy was struggling and Gregory saw that. As if he was leading her on and she liked it.

But she didn't.

"What do you want from me?" Tammy sat up, "Sloppy drunk? Ditzy? Stupid? Bubbly?! I'm pulling off all my good shit and you're still complaining. What kind of girl do you like? British?" she ended with a bad English accent, slaughtering it to all hell.

This caught Gregory off guard. He peered down to see that the woman's hazy expression was gone and an angry one took its place. "What the devil…?"

Tammy Warner, was that still her? Was she still there or did someone competent enter the room?

"I'm trying to find what you like and you've fought me back this whole time! I've tried out all the quirks guys like and you've managed to shoot down each one." She braced her hands on his knees, leaning upward before shouting at him. "Do you not like me? You came home with me. It was obvious I wanted to fool around. Are you stupid or something?"

Gregory was amazed. The girl was speaking quite strappingly and intelligently. Not like her normal self at all. She wasn't trying to suck at his fingers or using that annoyingly high-pitched voice to seem cute or even feasting on crayons.

Tammy was competent.

"Well? What kind of girl do you like so I can be it."

Something about that sentence echoed with him. He was sure Tammy had some self-esteem issues or some shit that the female species inherited. But, acting on a man's fantasy and pretending to be someone else... it was strange. Women back in Britain didn't do that. Scratch that, nobody did that.

"Why don't you be yourself? I like that Tammy the best."

Gregory resisted the urge to punch himself in the face. It came out way too fast and too nice of him.

Tammy was quiet for a long while, sinking back on her ankles. She spoke seriously, "I-I think... It's kinda hard to be myself when I barely know how to be it. Nobody likes plain ol' Tammy… Everyone likes a girl who acts cute."

Gregory had to hold back sneers such as, 'are you always this dense?' or 'do you have the mental capacity to think for yourself or do you just let others do it for you?' The blonde, British man had to swallow those comments back. He couldn't scare away a mythical woman… What kind of tales would he tell his friends in Yardale?

Instead, he decided to pity the shameless slag. Not because he liked her! Heavens no, he couldn't love anyone that stupid. That dense…

That… intriguing.

"I do."

As soon as the words left his lips, Tammy looked like she was glowing. She was smiling widely and chattering happily about God-knows-what. Gregory rolled his eyes. What the fuck did he just do? Now this slag would be clinging to him all the time now.

But, maybe that would be okay. But maybe it was because she was out of the ordinary and foreign to him… maybe that's why he let her hang around him.

She rested her head on his knee, "Sorry to be such a downer. I just wanted to go down on you."

Or maybe Tammy had rubbed off on him… by trying to rub him off. Goddamn it! Even the puns were infectious.

"Are you trying to be humorous? Your humor is bleak and idiotic."

The brunette crawled into his lap, lathering Gregory's cheek with kisses… which he disliked and swatted her away with a frown. But nonetheless, she buried herself in his side, curling up into embrace. "Aren't you just a wanker?"

His gaze flickered to her as he held back the urge to toss her. How dare she! He muttered under his breath, tugging the woman closer.

"Shameless slag."