Authors Note: Wow, thanks for all the nice reviews! I really appreciate all the encouragement. To be safe, I had to change the rating. Don't worry, they don't fight like this through the whole thing. :)

Chapter 2- Baby Oil;

Stan sneaks back in around four-thirty in the morning.

I had dozed off some time around one, but kept waking up, wondering if Stan had come home. Each time, I had found the spot next to me empty. In my head, I had planned what I was going to say to him. I was going to be calm, but firm, and let him know what an incredible ass wipe he's being to me.

Instead, I feel my spine freeze when I hear his door creek open. The familiar silhouette of his lanky body and poof-ball hat sneaks close to me and leans into my face. Closing my eyes, I pretend to be asleep, only to gain the knowledge of what he'd do in my unconscious state.

"Kyle?" He whispers, his warm, fragrant breath hitting against my eyelids.

He smells like Stan. Clean and masculine and good. I had expected Wendy's scent to have rubbed off on him. I'm glad it didn't. My favorite smell in the whole world is his. It makes me feel safe and loved, gay as that might sound. Pretending to stir in my "sleep" I breathe in deep, letting it fill my senses.

When his figure moves away from me, I crack an eyelid open and peek at him. He pulls off his hat, tossing it aside and cursing when it knocks a framed photo off his desk. I smile, but it fades slowly as both my eyes open up to watch him. Through the darkness, I can see him pull off his sweater, sailing it in the general direction he had chucked his hat.

I love that sweater. I had bought it for him a few months ago just because I knew he'd look good in it. And he does. The deep blue color sets off his eyes and compliments his dark hair. Part of me wonders why I'm not jealous of how handsome he is. Instead, I love to look at him for that very reason. It's the strangest damn thing, but I guess it's because I'm amazed at how admirable everything about him really is. He's almost too perfect to be human.

"Damnit." His soft curse breaks me out of my thoughts, and I have to bite back my laughter when I take notice of his situation. While trying to pull the white T-shirt he had worn under his sweater off, he had somehow managed to get it stuck over his head with one arm caught in the collar. Twisting in circles, he jerks his arm around, trying desperately to free himself.

"Get off me, asshole!" I hear the seam rip, and then he flings the constraining garment across the room. "Piece of shit." Biting my lip, I again hold back my amusement. So this is how his room gets so messy.

The sound of a zipper cuts through the room, bringing my heart to a dead stop.

…He's taking off his pants.

No big deal. I shower with him everyday in Gym. It's not like I've never seen him naked before. Hell, I've been naked with him before.

Oh, who the hell do I think I'm kidding?

I can't ignore the way my heart has jumpstarted to hard, quick pulses, pumping my blood south of my belt line. Twisting my fingers into the sheets, I squeeze as hard as I can, trying to contain myself. Contain what exactly, I'm not really sure. All I know is that if I don't, I'm going to explode in some way, shape, or form. My wide-eyed stare magnetizes on him, and I watch his pants fall to the floor, creating a pool of material around his ankles. I swallow hard and realize my mouth's gone dry.

Maybe I have seen him naked a million times before. But, call me a full-fledged retard, there's something about laying in his bed, nothing on but boxers and a t-shirt, and watching him strip in the dark privacy of his room that seems incredibly intimate. It takes me back to night I think about so often, and wonder if he's forgotten all about; The night he gave me my first orgasm.

We were twelve, and I can't say I hadn't thought about sex before. In fact, it had been entering my mind quite often. That was how it all got started in the first place. Two curious boys with two dirty minds, and you do the math. Didn't take us long to raid Mr. Marsh's porn collection. Giggling, (in a total non-girl way, may I add) we took the box of goods back to Stan's room, locked his door, and closed the blinds. Selecting one of the three video's marked 'XXX' at random, I popped it in while Stan strewn a half dozen dirty magazines across his bed.

Taking a few backward steps from the TV, the first thing I noticed was the incredibly crappy film quality. The second thing was the cheesy music that filled the room. It made me laugh.

"What?"

I looked at Stan, who had made himself comfy on the bed, lying on his belly with his feet in the air behind him.

"The music." His eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "Dude, it's so fucking corny."

"Oh." I observed him, casually watching the opening credits. He pushed a stray piece of hair from his eyes. "What?"

"You've done this before." I accused.

"Huh?"

My eyebrow arched as I shot him a look that said he knew damn well what I meant. A slow smile curved his lips.

"Once."

My face relaxed into a soft grin. "You horny bastard." His smile widened and brightened another degree, obviously taking this label as a compliment to its fullest.

Joining him on his bed, I laid next to him in an identical position. At first, we both ignored the video because it was too busy trying to have a plot, and began thumbing through magazines. I remember wanting to laugh again, or gag maybe, because all the girls were so fake it wasn't doing anything for me. Fake hair color, fake tans, fake boobs. It would be like having sex with a life sized Barbie doll.

"I wonder if they taste like plastic, or just look it." Stan wondered aloud, seemingly reading my thoughts.

Laughter bubbled out of my throat, making him smile up at me. "How does Kenny get off on this?"

"Boobs are boobs, I guess." He decided, flipping the magazine closed.

Soft moans began emitting from the TV, drawing our attention back to the screen. We watched for endless minutes, saying nothing, our eyes wide and round with shocked excitement at the images playing out.

"Fuck," Stan hissed, pushing himself into a sitting position.

I glanced at him, gaining an eyeful of the huge bulge in his pants. His hand moved down to it, squeezing through the material, somehow making my own hardness pulse.

I found myself more interested in Stan's masturbating techniques than I was in the hard-core movie running for my viewing pleasure. Whether or not he didn't notice me watching or didn't really care, he kept at it, immersing himself in the pleasures so deeply he was closing his eyes and arching his neck, no longer watching the video himself.

He fell back against a mountain of pillows, and I sat up to see him better. His breathing was audible, filling and exiting his lungs in deep, rhythmic patterns as his fingers worked open his pants.

"Kyle," He breathed, and I almost came right there. "there's baby oil in the drawer."

Blink.

"… You can use some, too." Blue eyes opened to look up at me, ablaze with a kind of fire I'd never seen before.

Too fascinated to ask questions, I complied to his request, reaching into the side drawer next to the bed and producing the bottle of oil. He snatched it from my hand, nearly breaking the cap open and then pouring a generous amount into his palm. It didn't take long for his heavy breathing to develop into soft moans and purrs. The sound had my senses reeling, my ecstasy building higher and higher until I ripped my own pants open and began mimicking him.

I focused on every part of him; his toes curling into the sheets, back arching off the bed, the movements of his hands on his body, pleasure radiating from his expression, and the groans of satisfaction.

His eyes rolled into the back of his head and his eyelashes fluttered to a close when release hit him. My own hands stilled, fingers compelled to touch him. The urge was so strong, to this day I don't know how I managed to keep them to myself. His body relaxed, hands falling to his sides, and he looked at me. In his sexual afterglow, he stared up at me unabashedly, then down at my shy hands.

Sitting up, he faced toward me and spoke softly. "Lay back. It's better when you're comfortable." I obeyed, feeling excited and scared as hell all at once. "It's cool, dude," he continued. "we're both guys here. Try some of this."

Outstretching my hand, I let him pour a dollop of baby oil into my palm. He watched as I applied it shyly, my movements subtle and uncoordinated.

With a small snort of laughter, he smiled down at me. "Don't have much of a technique going, do you?" He teased affectionately.

I half-smiled back. "I haven't ever- done this before."

"What?" His eyes practically bulged from his head. "Are you shitting me?" I shook my head. His gaze traveled down my body, and then he took my wrist, pulling my hands away from my nether regions. "Try it like this."

Both of his hands wrapped around me, making my jaw drop open in shock and a moan escape my throat.

"Dude, I haven't even done anything yet." He laughed, but before I had a chance to respond in any way, his expression turned serious and his hands began sliding against the oiled skin. Both fists clenched tight around me, he began twisting them in opposite directions, and then up and down, making a corkscrew motion.

I threw my head back, pressing it hard into the pillows, baring and grinding my teeth while moans rushed through them. His hands felt way damn better than mine. And not just the incredibly hot way he was touching me, either. Just the fact that it was his hands was orgasmic.

It took all but twenty seconds of Stan's magical motions before my body quickened, making me shiver as an eruption hit. My senses all blacked out. All except touch, because nothing existed but wave after shockwave of pleasure, coursing my entire body and then dying out slowly.

That's how Stan gave me my first orgasm. He was so casual about it afterward. I think he was honestly just showing me how to work it more effectively, but the action has had a lasting effect on me. Stan and sex are now one and the same. Not saying that he's nothing but a piece of ass in my mind, but rather that I've associated the very act of sex with him. I've spanked the monkey regularly since, but I always have the best release when I think of that night and the way his hands felt on me. I admit that I've wished it would happen again, but it hasn't, and I don't think it ever will.

So can you really blame my initial reaction to him undressing? Me lying in the very spot it happened?

Shivering, I pull the sheet up to my chin and ignore the growing mound in my boxers. Stan slips into bed, snuggling deep in the covers, his scent slowly coiling around me, enveloping me in blanket of comfort. I sigh deeply, then pause…

Because he does smell like Wendy.

Jealousy spears my heart, and in its wake, anger. Turning, I "accidentally" whack him across the face with my arm.

"Ow, dude!" He howls, springing up and clicking on his lamp. "What the hell was that?"

No use in feigning sleep now. Sitting up, I turn on him, releasing every ounce of anger I feel. "What have you been doing all night long?"

"What do you think?" He shoots back.

"Wendy!" I scream. "You've been doing Wendy all night long! Stan, how could you?"

"Kyle, I wasn't "doing" Wendy, alright?" He's clearly irritated with me, but I can't help myself. I'm pissed at him for it. I thought he had better sense than that. "Even if I was, what do you care? Guys are suppose to congratulate crap like that, high five them, and take them out for a beer… or something."

"That's not the point!" I scream. "…A beer, what?" Shaking my head, I dismiss the confusion.

"What is the point, that you're a jealous Dickhole?"

"Whoa, whoa, wait. Jealous?" I verify, continuing at his nod. "What would I have to be jealous of?"

He rolls his eyes. "Oh, please, Kyle. You've been trying to impress Wendy ever since she broke up with me in the fourth grade!"

"Impress Wendy?" I honestly can not believe he still thinks that. "Stan, you have it all wrong."

"Do I? Somehow I don't think so."

"God, just forget it! You're too much of a selfish bastard to care that you're a selfish bastard!"

"What? That doesn't make any sense!"

Throwing myself back, I cover up and turn away from him. "Just shut up and go to sleep. This is the last time I stay over with you."

I hear the light click off, and then silent as he makes himself comfortable again. "We're getting too old for this, anyway."

"Huh?" I face him again. Acid starts accumulating in my stomach, warning me.

"It's just," he looks around, an uncomfortable expression on his face. "Kenny and Cartman stopped sleeping over years ago."

I consider this for a moment, realizing he's right. "So?"

"So… maybe it's just kinda gay that we still are." Staring at him, I wonder if this is all a nightmare. "I mean, people might start to wonder about us, you know?"

My face screws up in anger. "No, I don't know, Stan. Unless you're worried I'm gonna reach over and molest you like you did to me."

"What!"

Something about his gawking, paranoid expression satisfies me in the most sickening way. At least I know now that he remembers it.

"Dude, we were twelve!" He wails. I cross my arms. "I was only showing you what to do because obviously you were bad at it!"

"I was doing just fine on my own!"

"Yeah, watching me." The way he says it sends a deep sense of dread into the air. "If I remember correctly, you started your pathetic little wank job while you were watching me, and then couldn't even control yourself when I tried to show you a better way to do it, so I got screwed into getting you off instead of you doing it yourself."

My mouth hangs open, cheeks flushed with heat. "That is the most bullshit logic I have ever heard!"

"There's no other logic to it." He informs me.

"What are you saying?"

I can tell he's mad, not only by his expression and hurtful words, but also in the way he won't look at me. "I'm saying, maybe Cartman's right. Maybe you are a fag."

I never knew you could actually ever feel your heart break, but Stan brings me to whole new levels of pleasure and pain, that's for damn sure. "You were the one touching me! Maybe you're the fag!"

"Yeah, well I didn't hear any objections! It sounded more like 'Ooooh, God, Stan yeeeesss!' to me!"

The covers fly off of me, landing over his head, and I roll out of bed with all the energy of a four month old monkey.

"What are you doing?" He demands, watching from his bed, looking torn and outraged.

"I'm running for congress, what does it look like I'm doing?" I hiss, sarcasm dripping from my fangs. One leg is shoved into my pants, then the other. I grab my hat.

Stan throws the covers to the side and joins me in the middle of the room. "You can't just leave!" He spreads his arms wide, looking helpless and pleading.

"I can do whatever the hell I want!"

"But it's cold and dark." He nags.

"Not as cold and dark as you." I pull on my hat and stuff my hands into my gloves. "Screw you, Stan. I'm going home."

-BratChild3