The music was still blasting throughout the house, but he wasn't hearing it; he couldn't even hear the fireworks as they exploded somewhere outside. He could just hear—he could just hear—
Giggles. Lots and lots of giggles.
And someone—Stan?—telling him to go on; their hands were on his back, shoving lightly, pushing him in the direction of—oh hamburgers. He was being pushed into the closet, and someone else was coming in after him, closing the door once she was fully inside.
Bebe Stevens. It was the Fourth of July, and he was in a closet at a party, and they had been chosen by fate—a spinning bottle—to be partners for. . . for. . . he gulped.
They were playing Seven Minutes In Heaven.
It was dark, but he could hear Bebe fumbling for the light switch; a small 'click' could be heard, and then there was light. He wished there wasn't; his face had to be red, and the fact that his embarrassment was evident was making him even more embarrassed.
"C-could we, um, please turn the light back off?"
He was twiddling his thumbs, a habit he only put into use when he was nervous anymore. He had every right to be nervous though—Bebe Stevens, one of the prettiest girls in school, was about to kiss him. He hadn't been kissed by a girl in years, and even then, his last girlfriend hadn't been as pretty—or experienced—as Bebe. He could feel the back of his neck and ears heat up as well, and he had to wonder if she was used to this type of reaction. Probably, he figured; she really was a knock-out.
He was having trouble keeping his gaze on her face instead of the floor, another habit he had when nervous, but when he glanced-up, making eye-contact in the process, he found he no longer had to worry about it; without saying a word to him, she moved closer, her lips meeting his, and he let his eyes close.
It was different than he had imagined. Her mouth was soft; her lipstick didn't taste very pleasant, but he was trying hard to ignore it. She was pressing her body against his, their chests touching, her's soft against his own, though he was by no means muscled; she had heels on and he was never "tall" compared to the other boys, so they were close to the same height. One of her hands had made its way to the back of his neck—surely she felt the heat there?—while the other one was resting on the upper part of his arm. Her skin was soft, the kind of soft he imagined only girls having.
But then things changed.
She became more forceful. She nipped at his bottom lip a little too hard, her own lips parting. Her nails dug into his skin and didn't let up despite his whimper; she used it as a way to slip her tongue into his mouth.
He should be kissing her back, he realized, his hands moving to her lower back. He should be enjoying this while he lasted. But something felt wrong; it seemed rushed, and though they only had a handful of minutes to do it in, he didn't think that was it. Something seemed wrong; she seemed wrong.
Though he worried it might hurt her feelings—he wouldn't want to hurt anyone's feelings, especially not a girl's—he tried pushing her away, his hands moving to her shoulders to lightly shove, mindful not to hurt her—though he doubted he even could. She was adamant though, and he could only get a small gap between them. He managed to break the kiss, at least, and though it didn't slow her down, it was something.
"Please, Bebe, stop."
She gave up on trying to kiss him—she pulled back, even—and he had a feeling she was angry or, at least, insulted. She certainly looked it, her eyes narrowed, her arms crossed; he wished once more that they could turn off the light. He didn't make a move to try it though, not wanting to make her already soured mood worse.
"Why, are you gay?"
He wasn't, though most of the guys at school thought otherwise. He was just sensitive, that's all. And maybe a little bi-curious, but that was irrelevant.
"Of course not; I'd be grounded for life if I was. It's just, you seem awful sad tonight."
She had. Something had seemed off about her during the whole party, and he hadn't been the only one to notice; some of the other girls had tried asking her what was wrong, and she had only snapped at them to leave her alone about it, she was fine. He had been watching her, but it was only natural considering how pretty he thought she was. He wasn't the only one, either, but he was one of the few boys who would choose asking her about it over kissing her. He would be proud about that if he wasn't so concerned at the moment.
Her shoulders stiffened, and for a moment, he thought he was going to get yelled at. But then something in her changed, and it wasn't into something more aggressive, like it had been before. She relaxed. Her arms dropped to her sides. And though she wasn't smiling, she didn't seem as angry either.
She opened up to him then, the fireworks still going off somewhere over their heads. She told him all of the things that had been bothering her—Wendy being angry with her over something, her parents, her grades, everything from the superficial to the hard stuff he didn't have an answer for. It took so long that people were banging on the door, telling them that it was long-passed their turn, that other people wanted to make out too—and such a stupid thing making out seemed like at that moment when so many other things were going on in the world.
But they did exit their closet after one final biting kiss—to make it look like they had actually done something other than talk, she had said, but he liked to think that she had just wanted to kiss him again—and a promise from him that he would never tell anything she had said in that tiny room. And he meant his promise, too; later, when the fellas clapped him on the back and asked him how it was, he told him that a gentleman never tells, and that was the end of it. Kyle was proud of him for it, he thought.
When the girls of the school asked Bebe how it had been, she told them that Butters was a great kisser, that he was actually pretty dateable, that she might ask him to the movies sometime.
She had meant it.