Ugh, I still suck at one-shots. But this one kind of spilled out of me today and I'm posting it before I can talk myself out of it.

If you don't have a Sonic where you live, it's a drive-in restaurant where the servers deliver your food to your cars, sometimes on skates. I work at one, and it's really not as bad as I make it sound here. It's actually pretty fun sometimes. Fun enough to inspire me to write this story.

I know, it's been ages since I've update Beside Me in the Morning. I promise I'm not abandoning that fic. I'll try to update it soon. In the meantime...review this story? Even if it sucks I'd appreciate the feedback.

I don't own South Park.

Pop Your Cherry

The Sonic Drive In where I work lies in the hairy armpit of South Park, wedged between a Kentucky Fried Chicken and an empty building that was once a Godfathers. It's a shithole of a restaurant, and the only reason anyone eats here is because they're a bunch of ignorant, fat assholes who don't know any better.

If it sounds like I hate my job, it's because I do. If I didn't desperately need the paycheck, believe me, I'd quit in an instant. But, unfortunately, college costs money, and my jackass of a father refuses to help me out because he doesn't want to "support my lifestyle choices".

That's what he calls being gay. A "lifestyle choice". Like I just thought to myself one day, "I think I'll try liking guys today. That could be fun." How exactly would helping me pay my tuition be supporting my being gay anyways? There's only one guy I'm really interested in, and he doesn't even go to college. He's a fucking cook at the fucking Sonic Drive In. It's not as if I'm in school just to meet guys and have my ass rammed. If that was all I wanted, hell, I know a few street corners where I could be making a hell of a lot more than the minimum wage I'm making at this joint, and I wouldn't have to wear fucking roller skates either.

I guess most of the time, working here isn't so bad. My coworkers are mostly a bunch of whiney bitches on their rags, but there are some people who make the job worthwhile. Well, one in particular.

"Kenny."

My head snaps in the direction of the slightly nasally voice saying my name.

"Huh?"

Craig stares at me like I'm an idiot. "Order's up," he tells me, and from the tone of his voice, I can tell this must be the third or fourth time he's informed me of this.

"Oh," I mutter.

I clock the receipt robotically as Craig raises an eyebrow at me. "Your head was somewhere else for a minute there, McCormick." Then he winks at me, a devilish smirk playing across his lips.

I clutch the tray of food to my chest and skate toward the door, my cheeks burning, because Craig clearly knows what I was thinking about just now. Yes, Craig knows I'm gay. Yes, he knows about my faggy little crush on him. No, he does not return the feelings. And yes, he uses this knowledge against me every chance he gets.

Craig is a cook here, and the only person who's worked here as long as I have. His years of experience behind the grill have landed him the oh-so coveted title of "head cook", which means he gets to boss the other cooks, and occasionally the carhops, around. I had the balls to ask him once if he'd show me exactly why they called him "head" cook. Big mistake. I'm lucky I still have my balls after that incident.

You see, Craig's kind of… Well, he's an asshole. He's big, and he's cocky, and he's hell-bent on making my life as difficult as possible. And this combination of qualities turns me on like you wouldn't believe. The bastard's fucking sexy and he fucking knows it.

"McCormick," my boss says, once I'm back inside. "Wash the fruit trays, then I'll let you count down and go home."

I nod, skating toward the sink, pouring some dish soap in and letting it fill as I dump our trays of fresh fruit into new, clean containers.

"And you'll need to cut more limes," my boss adds, as I begin scrubbing the strawberry tray. I nod, working silently.

This is one of the tasks around here that I'm pretty okay with. I can work in silence and tune everything else out, which is a rare blessing in this place. Although tonight, as I'm shutting out the restaurant and concentrating on cleaning all of the strawberry seeds off of a metal ladle, I'm too preoccupied to notice when my boss takes off, leaving an unsupervised Craig free to wander over in my direction. I don't even notice him standing next to me until I see his hand reach into the cherry container and pick up one of the maraschinos by the stem.

I drop my ladle and look up at him, and he's got one eyebrow quirked beneath the sloppy black fringe on his forehead.

"Mind if I pop your cherry?" he asks with a grin.

Did I mention that Craig's the only person who knows I'm a virgin? Why the fuck do I tell him shit?

I glare up at him. "You're a dick, Tucker."

"I know. It turns you on, doesn't it?"

"Yes," I admit begrudgingly, turning back to the sink.

"It's not my fault you're so into me," Craig tells me, biting the cherry off of the stem. "I can't help it that I'm fucking irresistible."

"Go to hell," I reply, rinsing the last of the fruit trays and leaving it upside-down on the countertop.

"This place is hell," he replies, nabbing a lime wedge and sucking on it eagerly. I try to ignore this, because I know he's doing it just to get to me.

"Help me with the crate of limes," I tell him, skating toward the walk-in fridge.

"You can't lift a box of limes?"

"You try lugging around a heavy box of fruit while wearing roller skates," I reply.

This is utter bullshit, because I've carried that lime crate a million times while in skates. But everyone around here who doesn't have to skate on a regular basis seems to believe it ups the degree of difficulty of any task around the restaurant by about a hundred percent. The truth is I just like to watch the way Craig's back arches when he carries heavy boxes. It's sexy as hell.

"Fine, whatever," Craig mutters, following me to the walk-in.

I shiver once we're both inside, not so much from the cold as from being in such close quarters with Craig. Surprisingly, I don't even mind that he smells like bleach and hamburger. He lifts the crate of limes from the shelf and turns around, dropping the box abruptly on the tiled floor.

I frown. "Craig, what the fuck?"

And the next thing I know, his mouth is on mine, lapping away hungrily, and I'm standing there like a fucking statue, because there is nothing I expected less than for Craig to kiss me in the walk-in fridge at work. His visor is knocking against mine, and his chest is pressed against my own, and I can't even react.

"Kenny, open your mouth," he murmurs irritably, and I comply, because it's Craig, and this could not be hotter or more against the rules.

And then I'm kissing him back, and he tastes like limes and maraschino cherries. I'm sucking a cherry limeade straight out of his mouth. I smile against his lips at my own personal inside joke.

"What's so funny?" he whispers.

"Nothing," I reply, tugging off his visor for better access to his mouth.

My hands find their way under his polyester polo shirt, and Craig lets them roam around as they please. He can't really complain, because he's got his tongue down my throat and he's groping my ass. And I'm not about to complain either, because this feels so fucking good, I might just blow my load right here and now.

And suddenly it dawns on me what's going down inside this refrigerated closet, and I shove him away a little harder than I mean to.

"Fuck, Craig! What are you…?"

"I want your sweet virgin ass," he informs me.

I swallow a mouthful of my saliva. Or his saliva, more likely. "Since when are you gay?"

"I'm not a queer," he replies, pulling me toward him once more.

But I shove him away again, this time angrily. "Don't say 'queer', Craig. That's what my dad calls me."

"You're dad's an asshole," he replies, leaning forward for another kiss.

"So are you," I murmur against his lips.

"That's true," he whispers.

"And you are too gay," I tell him. "This totally proves it."

Craig pulls away from me, frowning. Then he drops to his knees in front of me, and if my heart was racing a few seconds ago, it was nothing compared to what it's doing now.

"C-Craig?"

"You wanna see why they call me 'head cook'?"

I was wrong before, when I thought it couldn't get anymore taboo than our steamy makeout session. This was definitely worse. Or better, depending on how you look at it.

"Y-yes," I breathe.

His hands grip my hips momentarily, before sliding slowly down my legs, clear to my ankles. Then they're no longer on me, but on the box of limes, clutching at the handles. He stands, lifting the crate of limes and shoving it into my arms. He leans over the crate to press his cheek against mine.

"Get back to work," he whispers, his breath hot against my ear. "I've got food to cook."

"But," I gasp, searching pathetically for words. "What about…? Aren't you gonna…?"

Craig laughs. "I'm no queer, Kenny."

He swings open the walk-in door and strolls out, seemingly unaffected by what just went down. I frown, dropping the crate of limes and skating after him. Craig's looking pleased with himself, and I'm sure I'm looking pretty pissed. The other carhops stare at us, puzzled, and the words that are about to spill out of my mouth will probably not help our situation any, but I'm too mad at that fucking cock tease to care.

"Not gay my sweet virgin ass!"

Hehe, Craig's a tease and so am I! Usually it's Kenny teasing Craig in my fics, so consider this one Craig's revenge.

Inspired by real life. I was cleaning fruit trays one night when one of the other carhops who happens to be a lesbian asked if she could pop my cherry. Although I didn't make out with her in the walk-in fridge.

Anyways, review if you liked it. Or if you didn't. Whatever.

Janine