Wiping the dribble from my mouth, I looked down at the disgusting mess that I had made. My rug was completely destroyed, now the color of kosher and broccoli.
"Fuck!" I exclaimed, my eyes widening as I digested the sight below me. I panicked slightly, wondering when my mother would come home from work. The taste was wretched in my mouth. I pushed off my bed, avoiding the mess, and ran into my bathroom. Running the faucet, I brought the tap water up to my mouth, swishing it around and cringing. Opening the medicine cabinet, I found the mouthwash and be rid myself of the remaining offender.
I walked back to my room, aware of the vomit still left for me to discard of. Walking over to my destroyed rug, I folded it up as carefully as I could and tramped down the stairs and out the door to wear we kept out garbage buckets. Tossing the rug into the can, I jogged back to the house, freezing form the translation from boiling to freezing.
Once back inside the kitchen, I pondered what to do with myself. No homework to finish, no Cartman to harass, no Kenny entertain me, no Stan to lust after…
It was a split second before I realized how completely and utterly pathetic I was. I needed to do something about my problem.
I'll never know what provoked me to go talk to Ike about Stan. From the beginning, Ike could read me like a book. In fifth grade, he decided to grow his naturally fluffy Canadian hair out, taming it into a straight, silky, soft, sexy, grab-able sex symbol. Every girl was after him, and when they turned him down, they came after me (and believe me, there were some girls with nice asses after Ike). So when all of these girls started camping out in front of our house waiting for either of us to emerge, Ike asked me what I thought. The conversation went as follows:
"So, all of those chicks are after me, Kyle." Ike looked at me, neither proud nor scared.
"I can see that, Ike. Tell them to go home if you're not interested in them. Mom's going to be pissed off." I wasn't jealous of him at all. Stan had been upstairs at the time of this conversation, and he had asked me to go get us snacks before we vegged in front of my new Play Station. This was before I realized that I had… romantic feelings for Stan.
"When are you going to fuck Stan?" Ike asked next, and I was shocked. That's understandable, isn't it? Ike had been cursing since he was in kindergarten, and now that he was in seventh grade, every boy was hormonally crazed. Except for Ike, who had the hormones of a fifth grader and the mentality of a college graduate.
"I'm not going to fuck Stan, Ike. We've talked about this already. I'm not gay." I felt my heart start to pound as years of Cartman's abuse infiltrated my mind, allowing me to keep calm in front of my younger brother. "We're Super Best Friends—"
"Gay," Ike said, flipping his hair in a way that only he could pull off without looking like a total fag.
"What do you mean gay?" I snapped, my face flushing.
"I mean, you call him your 'Super Best Friend.' Still. Seriously. How old are you?" He looked at me with his beady eyes. "Bullshit."
"Whatever, Ike," I said, rolling my eyes. "Go get some friends before you judge me." I slammed the bowl of chips down on the table and left the room. Then I turned around, walked back, contemplated spitting on my younger brother, grabbed the sustenance still located in the bowl, and flipped Ike off.
"I see that you forgot something," he said in response to my gesture. "Go put that hand to good use."
Despite the tension between my brother and me during this time as he reached adolescence and I was just peaking at it, Ike had the kind of understanding that only brothers can, even if we weren't blood related. As things got worse, I gradually started to go to Ike more and more.
As to be expected, he gradually started to get more and more annoying about the whole subject, which was upsetting, because I could write a novel about Stan's good qualities and barely get a page of Ike's. But Ike was a different kind of person with a respectable point of view, and so I followed most of his advice to a T.
When I heard the front door slam, I walked out of the kitchen and into our living room. The television was off, and there was a pair of high heels thrown hastily in a jumble on the floor. Cocking my eyebrow, I heard tell-tale shrieks from my brother's room. My mom hadn't been home after all; Ike would never risk his momma's boy reputation by fucking a girl in our house when our mom was home.
Quietly making my way up the stairs, I stopped at the second door on the right and quietly opened the door. The first thing I saw was a mess of blonde hair and tits. Big, fat, round, bouncy, firm tits. Tits that could only belong to the infamous Bebe Stevens, who was on her back and falling off my brother's bed. Her loud moans increased in volume as Ike continued to pump into her. I felt my eye twitch as looked up and smiled, her face flushed.
"Hello Kyle," she said. "Are you busy tonight?"
"Ike, what the fuck are you doing?" I asked, ignoring Bebe and trying hard to hold myself back from ripping the Canadian off of the blonde.
"I'm doing Bebe," he said, grunting in between words. She screamed again, and he moaned in climax. "Get the fuck out."
I slammed the door behind me as I fled. Outside, I slammed my head against the door frame and crept into my room. Grabbing onto my house phone, I dialed Kenny's number.
"What do you want Ike?" the gruff voice on the other line retorted. "I'm not hooking you up with more weed. Get your own shit." I sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of my nose. "Oh, it' just you, Kyle."
"Ike does weed?" I asked, knowing my voice betrayed the concern that I felt.
"Fuck off, Kyle, what do you want?" Kenny's voice held more diction now as his disguise flicked away. God forbid my mother call and get a word in edgewise before she knew Ike was on weed.
"Kenny, what do you do when you like someone you shouldn't, but they're attached to somebody else?" I asked this in one breath, careful not to betray any emotion whatsoever.
"You're a fag for Stan, dude. You could just use the terms, 'I'm gay for my best friend.' I would totally catch your drift," Kenny said. I could hear him taking a drag off of what was probably a cigarette; Craig had really gotten Kenny fucked up during high school with the black market drugs.
"What do I do, dude?" I repeated. "Wendy told Stan she went to Florida on business but she's not really on business and now he's all mopey—"
"So go to Florida." Silence.
"What did you say, Kenny?" I asked, shock hitting me like ice water.
"Drive to Florida to find her. Satan knows you can't make it down there in one night. Stay in a few hotels. Get in his pants." Kenny sounded so sure and confident in himself; I almost hated to break his buoyancy with his plot. Kenny wasn't one to think logically until the last second.
"Kenny, are you insane? Why do I want to bring Stan to his girlfriend? Where am I going to get the money to get there?" I pulled my free hand through my hair out of frustration. Some part of me irresponsibly wanted me to even consider this plan as a brilliant alternative to festering in my own filthy mind of what I could be doing to Stan if he was tied up…
I shook my head to clear my thoughts. It didn't work.
The line was dead by the time I got back to paying attention to Kenny. When I called him again, he didn't answer, and I figured he must have been trying to explain himself to me while I was getting hard over Stan's greased up body.
Not that I had never seen Stan's greased up body before.
Regardless, I now had a rough idea on what to do about my problem, even if it meant spending a ridiculous amount of money on a ridiculous chase.
Maybe I would take Bebe up on her offer of going out later. Thank God for whores.