Quinn's dating that dopey giant Finn Hudson now. He's the quarterback, which is the kind of status candy Quinn will stoop to anything for. Still, she's way too smart for him and she must know it. Puck's not the sharpest tool in the shed either, but he's mean, and cruelty passes for wit in a pinch. You can understand how Quinn can stand being in the celibacy club when the other option is lying underneath that doughy, cow-eyed mouth-breather, closing her eyes and thinking of England. Not that she'd have to wait long.
No wonder she's eyeing Puck on the side.
You can't have that. You don't love him; he's a warm body to you. Still, he's status candy. Better than Finn. Finn's got a better title, but Puck's got an army. Quinn can have Finn, but you want the one thing she can't have—that she can't take from you.
Although you must admit that she's growing on you. With Britt, you always know who's boss: you. With Quinn, you're not so sure. It's like chess. You've always been good at those strategic mindfuck games: now you have a worthy opponent. Watching her work the halls, you can't help but admire her. Coach even calls you in together to her office. Like it or not, you're a unit now, you and Quinn. Like you and Britt—but different. Like two dictators of neighboring countries in an alliance that could snap at any minute.
But when Quinn wants to drag you along, in the name of friendship and girl solidarity and mutual hatred of that sad hobbit Rachel Berry, to audition for that stupid Glee Club—that's the fucking limit.
We should totally do it, says Brittany, to your complete shock, as you sit listening to music on her bed.
What are you talking about, Britt?
I'll come with you. We'll do it together. Might be fun. We sing all the time when we're alone.
You raise your eyebrow.
Besides, she adds, you know how we have fun talking about those guys. You saw the assembly. It's a total freak show.
Exactly. Why would I want to join a freak show? Joining Glee would destroy everything we've worked our asses off to build here.
San, what if she really is asking you as a friend? What would you do if I asked you?
But you're different, Britt.
Maybe. But she'll owe you big time if you go along with this.
You think about it. Brittany has a point.
It's like fate. Once you're in Glee, Coach Sylvester decides to use the three of you as her secret moles. All you have to do is wait for Finn to crack under the pressure, or succeed in bringing down the club. Then you will be the confirmed dictators of this school.
The trouble is that after a while, you're starting to like Glee. Turns out you're a good singer. It feels so good it's almost embarrassing, the way you're still embarrassed every time Brittany touches you and feels how much you've been wanting her. Feels almost better than acting like you don't give a shit.
In practice, you don't have to pretend you don't give a shit. Sometimes you let go and let yourself be, the way you do with Britt. You forget you're supposed to keep her at arm's length and let your affection show: touching her, holding hands, smiling, the way you would if so many pairs of eyes weren't studying you in the halls for chinks. Sometimes it feels like those dreams you have where you're naked with only a washcloth to cover you, and you move it from your breasts to your crotch to your ass and you can't decide what you need to hide most. Either the washcloth is getting smaller or you're getting bigger, because it feels like there's more and more to hide.
Not in Glee, where everyone's naked and weirdly happy about it. Even Quinn.
It's not long before Puck's in, and a couple of the other football guys. They seem to like it too. There's an unwritten rule that what happens in Glee stays in Glee. It feels good to take the Queen Bitch robe off for a while. It gets heavy.
Then things start happening too fast. Quinn gets knocked up. That dwarf Berry starts dating Puck. And then it turns out it was Puck who knocked up Quinn, and that the whole time, that fucker wanted her. Wanted her, when he had you anytime he wanted. Suddenly, Glee is a minefield too.
Not to mention that you're still spying for Coach Sylvester. You love being picked out as special, but the hypocrisy is starting to make you a little queasy.
Thank god for Britt. You almost cried for joy when you picked her out of Schue's hat for a ballad assignment. It's so easy to sing to her about everything you feel. It's just like talking. It's like she's the only one who hears you, the only one who cares. She talks to you in that soft, not-really-hesitant Brittany way, nudging you toward your better instincts: that maybe you should give Quinn a break for a while, that it must be shitty to be the captain of the Cheerios knowing you're going to get kicked off as soon as you start showing, to be president of the celibacy club looking like a whore in a convent.
You didn't really want Puck anyway. Not that that makes you back off completely, especially not when Quinn starts moving in. How would it look if you just let that go? Still—your heart isn't in it anymore.
Being with Britt is the easiest thing in the world. Easier than school. Easier than Glee. Easier than being with yourself, where you think about everything too much and doubt yourself too hard. Brittany never doubts you.
You're talking about your other man candy options one day on her bed, scrolling through your mental contact list, when Britt quiets you with a finger on your lips.
Sweet lady kisses, she says, less a question than an order.
It's only two or so on a Saturday; the sun's still out. You could pull all of her gauzy curtains shut and it still wouldn't douse the light.
My mom won't be home for hours, she pushes, as though that's what's holding you back. What can you say? The cover of darkness was never one of your official rules.
You're wet before her lips touch yours. What you do with Britt almost doesn't feel like sex. She knows all of you know, by touch; you know her too—it's like you're touching yourself. You close your eyes before reaching for the hem of her shirt.
Brittany takes your hands in hers and places them back on the duvet. Her mouth moves from your lips to your cheekbones. She pulls away and waits for you to open your eyes.
Britt-Britt? You search her eyes, which are regarding you with that hard clarity she gets in those moments when she absolutely knows what she wants.
San, I don't want to do it like we always do.
You're aching and frustrated. All you want is to grab her hand and slide it under your jeans. Instead, you nod and wait for her to go on.
I want to—she blushes—to try some new things.
Like what?
For answer, she smiles and touches your cheek. Can I just undress you?
You normally undress yourself, if you undress at all. But today you sit up and lift your arms. She is careful and slow, allowing her fingers to slide up your skin after the cloth. You shiver as you watch her eyes, traveling up the path of newly exposed skin. You realize she's never actually seen you entirely naked before. The thought makes you strangely nervous.
She has no problem with your bra—just snaps it fluidly, naturally, the way you do hers or your own. Everything is mirror image, and in rare form, Britt is learning quickly. She sheds her shirt and skirt between unfastening your bra and unzipping your jeans. Soon the two of you are in bra and panties and—after she slides off first your bra, then hers—just in panties. Britt's breasts, which you've felt but never seen, are very white, particularly against your own skin. She's got small pink nipples that are already sharp when they brush against yours.
It sure feels like sex now.
Britt leans you back on the bed and parts your legs with her knees. She settles between them with her hard belly pressed between your legs. You know your panties are soaked. You're sure she can feel it against her skin.
Then she leans down and takes one of your nipples into her mouth.
You gasp. She's never done this before. All you've ever kissed are mouths, faces, necks. You have kissed under her arms and in the crooks of her elbows, the way she likes so much, but you've stopped her every time she kisses below your collarbone. Now, her mouth on your breast makes you feel so naked. Her hair falls all over your chest, and as she sucks your nipple into a point and makes your hips push against her belly, you stroke her hair again and again behind her ears and over her shoulders. When she switches to the other, you feel the first get cold, still stiff, and her mouth on the other seems even warmer and wetter. You close your eyes and pretend it's dark in the room.
She pulls away and slides her whole body up, fitting it over yours. Did that feel good? she asks.
Yeah, you say. Your eyes are still shut.
I like it when boys do that to me, she says, and you push down the twinge of jealousy that rises in your throat. Doing it to you is better. I like how you move.
You're embarrassed by your obvious and unconscious display of pleasure, and you kiss her to stop her from talking about it. She tastes like your skin.
Just let me try one more thing, she coaxes, her finger playing under a hip string of your panties. You nod.
Peeling her body from yours, she rolls your underwear from your hips and off your feet. Rather than placing herself back on top of you, though, she pushes your knees higher and settles down to look at the place between your legs. Whenever boys try to look at you there, or call it something gross, like pussy, you pull them up or roll them onto their backs. Sometimes you hit them, to teach them a lesson. But you let Brittany look at you, wet and sticky and vulnerable and humiliated.
Going to stay there all day? you demand, after a minute. Your voice sounds too hard, not casual enough, but Britt gets the picture.
Sorry, San, she says, and you expect her to move back up so you can touch each other. But she doesn't. She dips her head down and before you can stop her, she's licking the stickiness from you the way she licks dripped ice cream from her hands: un-self-consciously and firm. You cry out before you can stop yourself when she grazes your clit. She hesitates, then returns to the spot, worrying it with her tongue and lips. You refuse to touch her as she goes down on you, the way you do when Puck or some other guy does: grabbing their hair as though you're in charge. You're not in charge here. You're melting into the bed; you're gathering again and rising like steam into her warm wet mouth. And when you come you're everywhere and nowhere, and it lasts forever and it doesn't last long enough. You cry out her name.
Once you settle back, sweaty, and let the rest of the air out of your lungs, she finishes with a few clammy kisses and lays on top of you, head resting on your chest. You stroke her hair absently.
You came, right?
Really, Britt?
I knew you came, she admits. You said my name. She seems almost smug—as smug as Britt can be, which is closer to delight. You still can't believe you said her name. It's the first time you've said anyone's name in bed. And you're getting dangerously close to breaking your rule against talking about this. Your hand in her hair stills.
Should I have said someone else's?
It sounds mean, though you didn't intend it to. Britt swallows, looks away, and looks back at you.
I really like you, Santana. Not like boys. Like…
As she trails off, waiting for you to help her finish her sentence the way you often do, your heart freezes. Not this. Not now. Keep it simple.
Like best friends, you push.
Well… okay.
She looks troubled, so you kiss her. You roll her onto her back so you're in control again. She moans as your tongue plunges into her mouth, which tastes like you.
Touch me, she whispers, pulling away. I need you.
This you can do. On top of everything else, you can still handle this. You kiss Britt's cheek, fix your eyes on her shoulder, and begin to touch her, softly, perfectly, the way only you know how.