Author's Note: Well, what do we have here? Ah, it looks like the cat's been shitting on the carpet again. Well, it's decent, I guess... I'm clearly procrastinating on something; that's the only time I write South Park slash. Problem is... I don't know what I'm procrastinating on! Well, enjoy!

I learned many important things in third grade, but the most important thing I learned wasn't taught to me by Mr. Garrison. Well, actually, I take that back. In class, he would always randomly drop life lessons on us that he'd pulled out of his ass. Sometimes they were just pointless. For instance, I can officially name all of Jennifer Aniston's boyfriends to date and tell you exactly how long they were dating (in days) and why they broke up. This includes the people her characters dated on TV and in the movies.

But sometimes his random comments on everything we weren't studying proved useful. Like the comment he made about women; "I just don't trust anything that bleeds for seven days and doesn't die." Wendy wasn't too pleased with that statement, which leads me to my point: The most important thing I learned in third grade was taught to me by Wendy, of all people. And what was that lesson, one may ask? Simple.

Don't fuck with a woman.

That's it. Don't do it. Fuck with them, and you'll be lucky to wind up in the ER with your testicles in a jar. Luckily, I haven't learned that lesson through personal experience. Ms. Ellen wasn't as lucky, though. Wendy made an example of her for all guys who would ever think of leaving their girlfriends the moment something better came along, and for all girls who had the remote idea of going within a 10-mile radius of Stan.

Kenny and I could tell they would be a dramatic couple immediately after Wendy dumped him for the first time. In middle school, they must've broken up at least 50 times in sixth grade, 45 in seventh, and a record of 66 in eighth. Not that I was counting or anything, of course.

I got stuck dating Bebe in seventh grade after her friends screamed at me all through lunch for "leading her on and breaking her heart, you bastard!" If being best friends with a girl's best friend's boyfriend is leading someone on, I'm guilty. But is it honestly my fault that my best friend was dating Wendy? Right, I didn't think so.

Kenny and Cartman had it easy. Kenny was the one-night-stand type (yes, even in sixth grade), and girls seemed to understand that. But did they ever make it easy for me? Uh, let's think. No! I had to play third wheel with Stan and Wendy on the day I broke up with Bebe for the first time. I thought the girls would jump me after school and try to claw my eyes out with those stupid fake fingernails of theirs. Boy, Stan got a laugh out of that one. I must've looked pretty pathetic, though, because Wendy, bless her soul, promised to tell the girls to leave me alone.

Long story short, they left me alone for about a month. Bebe would always start crying whenever she saw me, and was quickly surrounded by a group of her girlfriends who would hug her and pat her shoulder and other girly things. Whenever this happened, I high-tailed it out of whatever room I was in. Wendy said she'd talk to them, and whatever she did saved my ass, but I didn't think it wise to tempt fate. I could practically feel their eyes burning into me whenever Bebe turned on the waterworks. We ended up dating again at the end of eighth grade, and I only avoided seeing her over the summer by claiming to be in summer school.

Cartman didn't have any girlfriends that I know of. Probably because he just never grew up until he hit freshman year, and even then I thought he belonged in fifth grade. Not to say he was stupid… well, actually, I'm not sure how smart he was. He mastered the art of plagiarism very quickly and has yet to be caught, so that could point in either direction.

By the time we were juniors, I was honestly ready to kill Bebe. When I broke up with her, she pulled the same tearful shit from middle school until I agreed to date her again. It just kept going on and on and on, until I had to hide out at Stan's house for the weekend. She wouldn't stop calling, and whenever I asked my mom to say that I wasn't home, she would shout at me to get my ass downstairs. She found the whole relationship "adorable".

It turned out that Stan's relationship with Wendy wasn't any better. "Dude, if you want to punch me or something for the way I acted when Wendy first dumped me, go right ahead," was the first thing he said after I knocked on the door.

"Uh, no. What brought that up?"

Stan sighed as he invited me in and plopped down on the couch. "Wendy, what else?" he said sullenly. Sensing a kindred spirit, I sat next to him and tossed my bag on the floor. "She's so… clingy. I was talking to what's-her-face the other day... you know, that blonde chick who sits behind me in Physics? The one who tried to boycott Cheesy Poofs last year?"

"Melanie?" I offered.

"Yeah, her. I was asking her if we had any homework in our next class, and Wendy got all jealous and shit."

I arched an eyebrow as I kicked my feet onto Stan's lap. "How so?"

He shoved my feet off and whacked me with a pillow. "I'm not your footrest, jackass," he said with a small smile.

"Yeah, yeah."

"But anyways," he continued. "She wouldn't even look at me, so I asked her what was wrong, and she ran off in tears. A bit later, that one chick—I don't remember her name—slapped me and said Wendy would break up with me if I was going to hit on other girls like that."

"Dude! Wha'd you do?" I laughed.

Stan winced. "Not the smartest thing. She went to slap me again, so I grabbed her wrist and said that if she did that again, I'd slap her right back..." He grinned feebly. "...to which she replied 'go fuck yourself' and kicked me in the nuts. Oh, shut up, asshole! It's not that funny!" He added the last part once he saw me rolling on the floor, laughing my ass off.

He tried to kick me a few times and managed to get me on the last try. I stopped laughing abruptly; not because of the pain (it did hurt—I thought the bastard broke a few of my ribs), but because he knocked all the air out of my lungs. "Alright, alright, I'm sorry," I gasped finally, climbing back onto the sofa.

"Yeah... so..." he said after a few minutes. "What brings you here?"

"Bebe."

"Ah." Stan nodded. "Is she still holding you hostage?"

"Not exactly," I said slowly. "For once, she dumped me, but now she's pissed that I'm not upset."

Stan tossed a pillow in my general direction, meaning that if I had been standing about 20 feet to the left, I might have been hit. "Dude, seriously, just tell her that you don't like her."

"I already did that, and I've been doing that since seventh grade!" I exclaimed finally, pulling the last couch pillow over my face. "She just starts crying, and all her friends threaten to get their boyfriends to kick my ass if I don't get back together with her!"

I couldn't see anything, but I just knew Stan was grinning like a maniac. "Look, just stay here. I'll be back with some snacks... and a couple beers, if I can find any."

"Stan, you are God," I said through the pillow.

"Yeah, that's what your mom called me last night," came the reply. My pillow caught him square in the face, causing him to stumble and fall onto the trash can. "Hey, I'm just kidding!"

"Yeah, I know," I sighed. Stan finally emerged from the kitchen with two of his dad's beers and a bag of Cheesy Poofs. "I don't get it, dude. Why're Wendy and Bebe such bitches to us?"

"Wendy's actually not that bad," replied Stan, tossing me one of the beers. "I think she's just PMSing."

"Lucky," I muttered, taking a gulp of beer. "Bebe acts like she's surgically attached to me."

Stan chewed on a mouthful of Cheesy Poofs for a minute then asked, "Have you slept with her?"

I choked and, after a brief coughing fit, glared at him. "No!" I exclaimed, blushing. "Why would you think that?" That was the last question I was expecting.

"Well, it was just an idea, but if you slept with her, that would've explained why she's so obsessed with you."

I drained the rest of my beer and dropped the can on the floor. "What do I do, dude? I know she's gonna want to get back together on Monday! If I turn her down, it's that same shit all over again!"

Stan frowned; not the way he did when he was angry, but the way he did when he was deep in thought. "What if you date someone else?"

"No way that'll work, man. She's friends with every girl I know."

Stan shifted uncomfortably. "Well..." he began quietly. "You don't, um, you know... have to date a girl..."

My eyes widened as I took in what he was saying. "You mean... I pretend to be gay?" I shook my head. "Who'd do that?"

"Look, I know it's a bit weird, but—"

"No, that's not what I meant. I mean, who'd help me do that? Cartman's gonna have a field day with this, and Kenny... Bebe'll be all over me again once he gets gunned down."

"I'll do it."

My mouth went dry, probably because it was hanging open for awhile. "You…?" I asked slowly, feeling my heart race. "I... well... What about Wendy?"

He blushed as he popped the tab of his beer can and finished it in a few swallows. "Dude, we've been best friends since, what? Preschool? That's gotta count for something. Besides," His face was entirely flooded with red when he added in a whisper, "I like you a lot more than her, anyways."

I practically felt my jaw hit the floor. "Waitwaitwaitwait! Are you saying that you're... y'know... gay?"

"No, not exactly. It's just... oh God, nevermind. I dunno why I said that. Sorry." He tossed his empty beer can next to mine, then pulled his hat down over his eyes and rested his forehead on his knees.

"Was that your first beer?" I asked suspiciously.

"Third." His voice was slightly muffled as he spoke. "Sorry," he said again.

I wasn't sure what to do at this point, so I put my arm around his shoulder. "You okay, dude?" The result was immediate. His back stiffened, and he pulled away as if he'd been zapped with a tazer. "Stan? What's up?"

"I can't believe I just said that," he muttered. "I must be losing my mind." Or his wits, I guessed, glancing at the beer cans on the floor. Then an idea hit me.

"Here, I'll grab us a couple more beers, okay?" I suggested, walking into the kitchen and opening the fridge. There were about four twelve-packs in there, a sure sign that the Super Bowl party was going to be at Stan's house. I grabbed a few cans from a pre-opened box and brought them out to Stan.

"Thanks," he muttered, opening another can. "Look, can we just forget what I said?" I watched as he took another deep swig of beer, the muscles in his throat moving as he swallowed. Once the can was empty, he glanced at me. "Alright?"

"I don't see what the big deal is," I replied, replacing his empty can with my full one. I felt kinda guilty about tricking my friend when he was drunk, but it wasn't like I was going to do anything to hurt or humiliate him. No; that was Cartman's job. "It was a pretty good idea, y'know. Bebe couldn't get offended if she thought I was gay."

"That's not what I meant," he whispered, glaring at his beer can. "I meant the part where I said I like you."

"Do you?" I asked softly. I knew there was no way he'd say any of this while sober, so either he was too drunk and didn't know what he was saying, or he was just saying the first things that came to his head—things he didn't want me to know.

Okay, I know that this was totally betraying our friendship, or something like that, but you know what they say: Curiosity killed the cat.

Stan didn't reply. Not in words, anyways. Before I could move, I felt his lips pressed clumsily against mine and his arms twining themselves around my waist. "Stan?" I pulled back slightly. "Dude, I think you're drunk."

He rested his cheek on my shoulder for a moment, then sat up. He didn't say anything at first, but then he nodded slowly. "Kyle?" he said softly.

"Y-yeah?"

He blinked heavily for a few moments. "I think I'm gonna puke."

"Guh!" I jumped up just in time.