At 11:30 last night, a thought popped into my head. Me thinking is such a rare occurrence that I figured I should write it down, just to prove that, occasionally, miracles happen. This is what resulted. Honestly, it's just me having a bit of fun with Blaine's mind. Please don't take any of it seriously. Doing so could cause a stroke or a heart attack or a tsunami or something.
[Insert witty, intelligent disclaimer here. If you can't think of one, just leave this. It's witty and intelligent enough. Trust me. I'm a disclaimer.]
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WARNING: The word 'sex' is used excessively in this piece. Nothing is described in any sort of graphic detail, and in my opinion anything mildly inappropriate is used in good humour. But if you're a bit uncomfortable with sex or slash or statistics, then err on the side of caution and stay away.
Deep down, Blaine knows that billions of people have been in more or less this exact same situation trillions of times before. So it shouldn't seem so important. So life-changing. So insanely, overwhelmingly, spectacularly right.
The very fact that there are currently more than 6 billion people just hanging around on the planet is a testament to the fact that this activity, if it were anything else with those kinds of statistics, would be almost crushing in its mediocrity. Its normality.
Because each one of those 6 billion people was made by two people in a situation not really all that different from the one Blaine is in now. And then there's that idea that a new person is born every three seconds, yet maybe only a sixth of sexual encounters actually lead to babies (at a generous estimate) so, putting aside the slight skewing of results on account of twins or triplets or however many kids women are producing these days, it seems fair to estimate that someone, somewhere in the world, must be having sex more or less every half second. Which, really, makes Blaine and Kurt's current situation completely unexceptional.
Except that Blaine, poised above his boyfriend, cannot help but think that it is kind of exceptional.
Because, despite the 12 billion sexual acts that were required just to populate the globe and the fact that, statistically speaking, about a thousand people have been going at it just in the time it's taken Blaine to mull over these numbers - despite all of that, this is Kurt. Kurt. And perhaps, even if sex itself proves to be a relatively unexceptional thing (but Blaine doesn't think it will) and even if according to his calculations having sex is even more common than being born or dying or being in a car accident (and why on earth is he thinking about that right now, of all times?), the fact that it is him and Kurt and here and now and together does somehow make it different. Different from the hundreds of other sexual experiences going on around the world in these very same moments.
Better than them, though?
Given the ache that Blaine already feels – the pressure, the closeness, the absolute longing for release – he honestly doubts it. But, hey, they're teenage boys. What else did they expect when they started going into this?
'Hours' is a term as incomprehensible to them as 'salad' or 'book' or 'homework'. It's a distant sort of dream, a fuzzy concept jotted on the list of Things To Do After Finishing High School. Blaine can almost picture the list (not that he's actually gotten around to making one yet), with Kurt's neat writing spelling out Item #1: Make sex last longer. It sounds like one of those impossibly embarrassing ads on the radio that always manage to come on whenever Blaine's anywhere near Burt Hummel, and he resists the urge to laugh or blush or both, judging that neither would be entirely appropriate right now. Not that he isn't kind of blushing already because, well... that's Kurt's ass. Right. Freaking. There.
Still, Blaine reasons, trying to distract himself from staring (which, he will realise later, is completely pointless, because he is allowed to stare now), there's the future to look forward to. There's the vague, mischievous thought that maybe, over the next few years, they'll be able to cross Item #1 off that hypothetical list, finally figuring out how to do this right. And then they can be real contributors to all those statistics, all that data. Maybe their combined efforts will even amp up the average a little, so some sexual act occurs every quarter of a second. Blaine would like that.
After all, Blaine is, above all else, a teenage boy. And, according to the Teenage Boy Code (which Blaine makes a mental note that he should probably find a time to write up: Item #2: Write the Teenage Boy Code), teenage boys are allowed to dream stupid, and allowed to dream big. It's going to be in the fine print. Right under the heading Being Kind of Exceptional (Even If You're Really Not).