Black Tie

By AllzStar

Chapter Three: The Heights of Shame

A soldier on my own, I don't know the way
I'm riding up the heights of shame
I'm waiting for the call, the hand on the chest
I'm ready for the fight and fate

(Iron, Woodkid)

In the end, I agree to go to New York.

Stan's stupid eyes are what did it. He kept giving me this sad puppy-dog look for about a week until finally, after a long ass day and a ridiculously difficult midterm that I most likely failed, I yelled at him across the dinner table: "FUCKING FINE! I'LL GO TO NEW YORK WITH YOU!"

A huge smile broke out across Stan's face. Kenny's Cheshire cat grin was growing full force. "Will you see the show, too?" Stan asked delightedly. "We have to buy tickets ASAP."

I narrowed my eyes at him. "Don't push it, Marsh."

It was enough for Stan, anyway. He reached across the table for a high-five. "You're making the right decision, bro."

"Yeah," I said, slapping his open palm with mine. "Now don't make me regret it."

I now have little under a month to prepare myself for the possibility that I might see Kyle while we're there. Considering the fact that I will definitely be partying, and Stan and Kenny are sneaky fucks, the chances of bumping into him are higher than I would like them to be. At least I can take this time to mentally prepare myself; although I know that really, I'm kidding myself by thinking any sort of preparation could benefit me in the event that my eyes do find Kyle's. At that moment, I know I will be permanently done for.

And that's enough goddamn Kyle for today.

I grab my gym bag out of my room and head to the kitchen to fill up my four-litre water bottle (really just an empty milk jug, lesbihonest). The Assholes are nowhere in sight and Kenny is still at school doing god knows what. Craig is lounging in the living room, smoking a dubie, his dank-ass blue toque sitting sloppily on top of his head. He recently got a buzzcut and it makes him look like a goddamn Nazi. I'd never tell him that, of course. I do value my balls being in fact attached to my body, after all.

Anyway.

I grab my keys, kick on my sneaks and head out the door.

Ever heard of the freshman fifteen? It's this saying that college freshmen put on fifteen pounds during their first year as a result of poor nutrition and poorer bank accounts. During our first year, the residents at House of Douche all took this tradition in stride in different ways. Craig simply packed on the fifteen pounds, right to his gut. He has slowly been working it off since then; we are into our third year of college and he's lost about ten of those pounds. Mostly through rigorous buttsex with Kenny and god knows who else. But hey, exercise is exercise.

Kenny himself has added about fifteen notches to his belt since starting freshman year, and I don't mean that he's loosened his pants none. I don't know how he does it, him being a mere five-foot-eight and nothing but a bag of bones with some pasty skin and thick blond hair slapped on top, but the dude gets around. Guys, girls, anyone, really. I once asked him if he thinks he's bi. His response: "A hole is a hole, bro." Nice.

Stan and I, however, have gained probably around ten pounds of muscle each. I carry most of it in my chest and shoulders, as leg day sucks balls, especially when your legs are kinda stumpy like mine. Stan's muscle distribution is a little more proportionate; the fucker could model Calvin Kline, I'm telling you, with his smoky blue eyes, sharp jaw and toned body. Anyway, he and I have been hitting the gym together four times a week since the first week of first year, and we haven't missed a session since.

It's weird how much being out of high school can change a person. When you're in high school, you're basically in an administrated bubble, a tiny little piece of a completely fabricated world. You are the way you were when you first started, as a tiny little fuck toddling off to kindergarten wearing gay shoes that light up. From then on you are typecast as whatever makes you the greatest target for the rest of them. High school is so not the real world. The real world is way more fun. Not to mention nobody gives a fuck about trivial little dramas that happened years ago. High school is like a past life. There was a time when I fucking hated Stan Marsh's guts. We've swung more punches at each-other throughout the years than hockey players. Where my hate was more due to the fact that Stan was the apple of Kyle's gay eye, Stan's beef with me was simply…well, that I was a fucking asshole, really. Do I blame him? Hell, no. I'd have beat my ass up, too, if I met me on the street.

Now that I mention it, there was a time when I would have gladly socked every person that I now live with. Stan, Kenny, Craig—the Assholes we didn't know before this, but I still would have beat the shit out of them had I known them before—I have a history of hate with all three of them. But it's all in the past now. The best thing about the real world? The past stays in the past.

Now, these fuckers are probably my best friends.

I walk by Stan's door later that evening, on my way to my room to probably jerk off and watch an episode of Game of Thrones, not necessarily in that order, and overhear a conversation I will unfortunately never forget.

"I don't know what you want me to do, Kyle," Stan is saying, his voice hard and very un-Stan-like. "I convinced him to come to New York. That's all I can really do." A long pause. I am frozen against the wall. I know I shouldn't eavesdrop, but the sound of Kyle's name has seemingly possessed me. "Look, he has every right to not want to see you. You haven't seen him these past two years. I have. I know what he's like. Trust me, dude, seeing you will only make it worse."

Fuck. I don't need Stan defending me like this. He's making me sound like a complete pussy. Okay, maybe I am a little. But I definitely don't need Kyle knowing that.

Stan sighs, then. Come on, Stan. Don't let him win. "Kenny and I bought enough tickets for all of us. But if Cartman doesn't wanna come, you gotta respect that. We'll scalp his ticket or something, I don't know! He's my friend, Kyle. I'm not gonna mess with him like that." Stan then makes an exasperated noise. "Don't give me that. Of course you're still my best friend."

Barf.

"Yeah, well, it's kinda hard when one of us takes off to fucking New York for two years and never comes back! You're doing your thing, I'm doing mine. It doesn't mean I don't like you anymore. But I respect Eric's wishes, dude."

I can't hear anymore. Silently, I slink away.

Moving the fuck on…

I'm just gonna skip to the next day, because the jerking off/Game of Thrones plan was pretty much the extent of my evening.

So I guess I've kind of been seeing this chick. I haven't mentioned her yet because, well, to be honest, I don't know what she really is to me. I met her in one of my horrid English classes, we've hung out a few times, fucked a few times more, and I guess I just sort of enjoy her company. Anyway, her name is Mallory Chang. Yes, she is like, a quarter Asian. No, I don't really give a fuck. And plus, she's gorgeous. And not in a Maxim way, either—in a regular, down-to-earth, round-glasses-and-choppy-haircut kind of way.

Anyway, we've just fucked for a good forty minutes. I'm trying not to show how fucking exhausted I now am. She, meanwhile, bounces up and grabs her bra, placing the straps over her milky shoulders and hoisting her perfectly perky tits up into the cups. Her dark hair is sticking out every which way. It's adorable.

"I'm going to New York," I tell her. I don't know why I say that in that particular moment in time, but oh well.

She pulls her sweater over her head. Her hair gets all staticky. "Oh? When?"

"Christmas."

"Okay." She pulls her panties on and sits in my desk chair, chewing on her bottom lip. "Eric?"

"Yeah." All I wanna do is shower. The sticky, post-sex sweat is not a good look.

Mallory is thinking hard. I can tell by how furiously she is gnawing on her lip. "Look. I know we haven't—talked. About us. And. I just wanted you to know: I'm seeing someone else, too."

I'm not really surprised. The girl is a fucking bunny. "Okay."

"Okay, cuz like. I hope that's cool?"

"Do what you want," I say casually. "It's not like we set, like, rules or anything."

"Um." She runs her fingers through her hair. "Are you gay?"

Fucking what? That has my attention. I sit up and pull my covers over my lower half, suddenly feeling very exposed. Draw me like one of your French girls. Wait, what now? "Why would you ask that?"

"You like just seem...gay."

"Seem gay?" I demand, genuinely offended. I don't know why I'm offended—obviously there's nothing wrong with being gay, especially seeing as for the longest time I thought I myself was exclusively gay. I guess I just don't like being called out on that shit by someone who doesn't know dick about me. "How does one seem gay? And why are you fucking me if I seem gay? Better yet, why would I wanna fuck you?"

"Jesus Christ. I'm sorry. I'm not judging you. We're in college." Mallory offers a sweet smile. "The time for experimenting. I just thought you might be, and I thought we could, like, talk about anything."

Shaking my head, I get up and pull on my boxers. "You should probably go."

"Eric, I'm sorry."

"Don't worry about it. I gotta shower and stuff. Homework. You can see yourself out?"

She looks like she wants to say more, but I guess she knows me better than I thought she did, because she pulls on her pants and leaves. Instantly, I feel bad. Hoping that a shower will wash away these feelings, I eagerly jump in, shivering in the coolish water. I crank the heat as soon as I have washed off the thin sheen of sweat still on me, letting the devilish water pound onto my back. I'm just starting to relax when Kenny bursts into the room.

"Dude!" I shriek, my hands instantly covering my goods. Kenny smirks at me through the glass door as he tosses a used condom into the toilet. "Dude!" I yell again.

He blinks at me innocently. "What?"

"That's why the fucking toilet has been so backed up! You're not supposed to flush those, asshole! And, also, whatthefuck you can't just barge in on me when I'm showering!"

"You didn't lock the door." Kenny puts the toilet seat down and fucking takes a seat, crossing his fucking bird legs and perching his pointy ass elbow on his knee. He sighs, his chin on his fist. "I'm getting kind of bored of Craig."

Realizing Kenny isn't going to leave any time soon, I turn my body towards the wall to shampoo. Better he sees my ass than my dick. "You guys are fucking weird."

I can tell by Kenny's tone of voice that his nose is wrinkled. "He just like...wants a relationship. Like, dude no. He doesn't get me."

"I don't think anyone has or ever will get you," I point out sardonically as I massage foamy white shit into my scalp. "You're like the epitome of scum and confusion."

"Aw, Cartman learned a new word today!"

"Eat pussy, dickbag."

"Saw your girlf leaving in a huff," Kenny says as a lovely change of scenery. "What'd you do? Call out a guy's name when you came?"

"None of your business," I growl. Shampoo gets in my eye and it stings like a motherfucker. "Fucking fuck fuck fuck!"

Kenny sighs and makes a content little hmm noise before standing up. "Well, nice chatting with ya, roomie." With that, he reaches out and promptly flushes the toilet. I scream as the devil himself reaches out of the shower head to rape me, and Kenny promptly scampers out of the bathroom cackling like fucking Miss Almira Gulch.

Fucking connected water tanks.

A/N: I know, I know, another fucking expositional chapter. At this point my updates are so sporadic, I don't think it really matters anymore. Review anyway? Thanks, babes.