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The party, like every party, is at Token’s house. His parents travel a lot, the bar is always fully stocked, and he’s been a very generous host ever since Wendy broke up with him last year. She usually doesn’t attend these parties, the general smell of Token’s house reminding her too strongly of the peaceful afternoon when they lost their virginity to each other, but she’s got to go to this one, because it’s New Year’s Eve, Stan is depressed, and she knows too well what it’s like to suffer after a bad breakup, even if the breakup was your idea, which, in Stan’s case, it wasn’t.
“Kyle probably won’t come,” Stan says as they’re walking together up Token’s long driveway, bundled into coats and scarves on this particularly frigid night. “I mean. He’s really insecure about showing up to parties alone, and who would come with him? You know? Because Kenny’s got that girlfriend now-“
“Ugh,” Wendy says. Like Kenny, Token has some new girlfriend who doesn’t go to their school; where are they finding these girls? Who are they, and why do they look so strung out?
“And Bebe has that guy,” Stan says. “Steve, or whatever his name is. And Kyle hates being the third wheel.”
“Do you ever wonder where they meet these people?” Wendy asks, though in Bebe’s case she knows: Bebe met Steve at the movie theater where she works. He’s older, like twenty or something, and he runs a projector. “These non-Park County people, I mean?”
“Kenny met his girlfriend at a party in Denver,” Stan says. He stops walking and looks at Wendy despondently. “He goes to parties in Denver now.”
“Well, good for him,” Wendy says. “I guess we’ll all be scattered around next year, anyway. Dating randoms.”
“Token’s girlfriend isn’t as pretty as you,” Stan says.
“I wasn’t even talking about her,” Wendy says, though she’s lost the ability to convincingly lie to Stan.
Everyone is there, even the Goth kids, who are smoking in the foyer. Token’s family’s elaborate Christmas decorations are still up, lights blazing, and will be until tomorrow morning, as is the custom of pretty much everyone in South Park, rich or poor. Wendy immediately spots Kyle in the den, his hair partially tamed for the occasion. She steers Stan away from him, toward the bar.
“Did you see that shirt he’s wearing?” Stan asks, trying to look back over his shoulder as she pulls him away. “What is that neckline?”
“Stanley,” Wendy says, with exasperation.
“Well, it’s like. A girl’s shirt, practically. Or maybe literally.”
“What can I make you?” Wendy asks when they reach the drinks. “The usual?”
Stan nods glumly, and Wendy makes him a whiskey and soda. She can see Token and his girl out of the corner of her eye, Token plating up some appetizer tray and the girl hanging nearby, sipping wine. Her name is Caroline and she’s already in college, an art student who makes ugly jewelry. Wendy has done some light research online.
“Hey!” Token says when he notices them. He comes over to slap Stan on the shoulder like he’s an adult or something. “I’m glad you guys made it.”
“Who did Kyle come with?” Stan asks.
“Christophe, I think,” Token says, and Wendy wants to stamp on his foot, because he knows better than to take the bait. Stan’s nostrils flare slightly. “Or Gregory?” Token says, scratching his head. He glances at Caroline. “I don’t know, but. He’s around here somewhere.”
“Which one’s Kyle?” Caroline asks.
“The redhead,” Token says, gesturing around his head to indicate wild hair. “The one who was asking you about your program at CSU.”
“Oh, yeah.” Caroline looks at Wendy, frowning. “He was kind of condescending.”
“That’s him,” Stan says. He’s already making himself a second drink. Wendy sighs and starts in on a gin and tonic for herself.
“Help yourself to some food,” Token says. He’s looking at Wendy kind of pointedly, or maybe she’s imagining things. She grabs a piping hot taquito and flees, Stan trailing behind her.
“I can’t eat this,” she says as they’re heading into the living room, the taquito staining her fingers with grease. She gives it to Stan and he eats it in one bite, then washes it down with the remainder of his whiskey and soda. His eyes are on the den across the hall, on Kyle, who is very obviously pretending not to pose conveniently in Stan’s line of vision. He’s talking with Gregory, of course, because Gregory is pretty much the worst person he could be talking to.
“I hate that fucking guy,” Stan says.
“Honey,” Wendy says. “Don’t get stupid drunk. Get buzzed. Have fun. It’s a party.” Kyle and Stan have practically made a sport out of this game: Kyle flirts, Stan gets mad, Kyle says he feels smothered, they break up and Kyle flirts even harder, until Stan is briefly irate and eventually sobbing. This is what turns Kyle on, Wendy supposes; they always have crazy sex after the completion of the cycle, followed by weeks of public nuzzling and hand holding. “You guys kind of disgust me,” Wendy says.
“Huh?” Stan says.
“Nothing, never mind.” The music is really loud; Timmy is wedged into the corner behind an actual fucking turntable, playing music to dance to. Only Clyde and Red, probably high out of their minds as usual, are dancing. Wendy meets Bebe’s eyes and waves, not wanting to make her way over there. Steve is okay, but Wendy is annoyed by him for reasons she doesn’t want to think about, such as a few that have to do with her own singleness. “That dress makes Bebe look pregnant,” she says, muttering this to Stan, but he’s not paying attention.
“Jesus, look at that douche,” Stan says. “What is he wearing?”
He’s talking about Gregory, who is, for some reason, wearing a suit. He also has his shirt unbuttoned nearly to mid-chest, and his hair is insanely eighties, but somehow he manages to pull all of this off, as usual. Gregory’s was the first cock Wendy ever held in her hand. This is probably not the time to mention so to Stan, who was her first kiss.
“Just ignore Kyle,” Wendy says, though she hates that she’s playing into their game, too, being the consoling friend who is cooing unheeded advice. “He’s wearing pine green jeans, for fuck’s sake. Stop being in love with him.”
“I bought him those jeans,” Stan says.
“I’m not going to stand here and talk about Kyle’s wardrobe all night, okay?”
“What?” Stan turns to her, aghast. “Me either! I’m not - it’s just. You know.”
“I know,” Wendy says, though she’s personally past noticing Token’s clothes. She did notice Caroline’s outfit, which is so basic that it makes her seem like she’s trying too hard.
They find Jimmy and talk to him for a while, until they’re joined by Kenny and his girlfriend. Wendy has to excuse herself, because she finds Kenny’s girlfriend, a self-described poet, extremely irritating.
“What’s with all these artists?” Wendy says when she drifts into Craig’s orbit, Tweek doing some kind of spaz dance nearby. Craig stares at her. He’s not even drinking.
“What?” he says.
“I mean, like.” Wendy tries to reel it in a little; she had a light dinner and she’s kind of tipsy after one strong-ish drink. “Everyone’s making avant garde bracelets or writing poems about Kenny’s cock. And Stan wants to major in music. You’re like me, right? Engineering major?”
“I’m not in college,” Craig says. Wendy raises her lip. Normally she would storm away, but Stan is creeping ever closer to Kyle, and she doesn’t want to storm in that direction, or in any available others.
“I meant in the future,” Wendy says. “In the fall.”
“I’ll probably major in film,” Craig says.
“Seriously? But. You were a mathlete. You’re practically a savant.”
“So?” Craig says. She allows him to stare at her in silence for several seconds, the music thumping from a nearby speaker.
“What is wrong with you?” Wendy asks. Suddenly she wants to get into a physical fight with everyone in this room.
“In what sense?” Craig asks, apparently not offended.
“Forget it.” Wendy turns to see Stan talking with Kyle in the hallway near the den, rubbing Kyle’s shoulder and assuming a general begging posture. Kyle looks annoyed but indulgent, his arms crossed over his chest. She heads toward them, wanting to at least stave off Stan’s public crying jag if she can, but Gregory intercepts her on the way there.
“Delightful to see you,” he says, and he gives her a kiss on both cheeks. He’s got his phone pressed to his ear; she can hear on-hold music.
“Who are you talking to?” she asks.
“Nobody,” he says. “The bastards are ignoring me. Someone stole my credit card number.”
“You have a credit card?”
“Well, yes, darling, I do.”
“You’re seventeen. How - what?”
“I guess it’s really my mother’s,” he says. “If you’re going to get technical about it. And someone’s been abusing it, but, perhaps because of my age, these vile money lenders won’t entertain the idea that it wasn’t me.”
“That suit looks expensive,” Wendy says, eying it.
Gregory stares at her for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly. “How are you?” he asks. He sounds like a therapist who thinks he has her half-figured out. He’s still hot, which is a shame.
“I’m fine,” Wendy says. “Bored, I guess. Of this town.” She withholds ‘and these people,’ because that includes him.
“It’s not odd for you to be here?” Gregory asks. “With Token and Caro as the hosts?”
“Caro?” She snarls at him without even meaning to. “That - jewelry designer? I don’t care, I mean. Token and I are still friends.”
“Ah, yes,” Gregory says. “But, friends or no, there’s always a little something lingering, isn’t there, after you’ve shared true intimacy with someone?” He moves slightly closer, smelling of ranch dressing.
“Are you talking about me?” she asks, leaning away. He opens his mouth to answer, but someone picks up on his call before he can.
“Hello, yes?” he says, walking away from her. “Yes, I have a bone to pick with you people-“
Wendy turns toward Stan and Kyle, but they’ve disappeared. Possibly they are upstairs fucking. She goes back to the kitchen to refill her drink, and while doing so she hears a commotion from the foyer area. Someone is saying ‘ho, ho, ho!’ Bells are jingling.
“What the hell?” Wendy says when she joins the other gawkers in the foyer. Santa has arrived. Santa is Cartman, and he’s in the company of a reindeer: Butters.
“Merry Christmas!” Cartman shouts, speaking from behind a woolly fake beard. He’s got a sack slung over his shoulder. Butters looks mortified, the end of his nose painted red, some fuzzy antlers sticking up from the brown hoodie he’s wearing. He’s got a red collar with bells on it.
“Uh,” Token says when he appears to appraise the situation. “What is this?”
“Token,” Cartman says, and he yanks the beard down to his chin. People are laughing, taking cell phone pictures. “Did we not agree that I’m going to do the entertainment for the party?”
“Yeah, in the sense that I rented the turn table from you,” Token says. “This is – what is this?”
“This is a discount Santa experience,” Cartman says, and he puts the beard back in place.
“Christmas is over,” Wendy says, and Cartman’s eyes snake meanly to hers. They’ve recently been fighting with each other in vicious Facebook comments. It started out as a disagreement about censorship and has spiraled into accusations of Nazism and Feminazism.
“Everyone knows that Christmas isn’t over until New Year’s Day,” Cartman says. “Look, Token’s still got a fucking tree up, hasn’t he?”
“Santa!” Butters says, his collar jiggling slightly. “Don’t curse!”
“You can come in, but I’m not paying for this,” Token says.
Cartman and Butters have been working at the Park County Mall since Thanksgiving, and Wendy worries what Cartman has been telling the kids who sit in his lap and tell him what they want for Christmas. Generally, she thinks children shouldn’t be exposed to Cartman, and even worries that Butters probably shouldn’t be. They’re still partners in crime, lately having arranged for private appearances at parties as Santa and Reindeer, which Cartman’s boss would certainly fire him for if he found out that the suit was being used without company permission. Possibly he would also sue. At several points during their recent argument Wendy considered calling the guy up and telling him that Cartman was doing personal Santa appearances on the side, but she’s never been the one who likes to strike low blows. Cartman is fond of bringing up her ex-boyfriends in a variety of insulting ways; he particularly loves citing the fact that Stan ‘turned gay’ after dating her. She reminds him, in turn, that he’s never had a real girlfriend, just gross sex with the kind of idiots who are impressed by him, female versions of Butters who he quickly discards, presumably because he can’t muster any respect for people who actually fall for his bullshit.
“You don’t have to wear that,” Wendy says to Butters while Cartman argues with Token about whether or not his presence as Santa will add to the party’s atmosphere in a way that he should be financially compensated for.
“Oh, I don’t mind,” Butter says, touching his collar. “I hate it when Christmas ends. It’s the best time of the year! A-and this is the last day.”
“Christmas was over five days ago,” Wendy says. “It’s a day, not a month.”
“Well, I don’t know about that,” Butters says, mumbling. He doesn’t like disagreements, and he’s scanning the room for some distraction. “Where’s Stan?”
“You really need to ask?” Wendy asks. She tries to drink more gin and tonic, but her glass is empty.
“Oh, geez,” Butters says, and he smiles. “Did he patch things up with Kyle? Are they cozied up together somewhere? That’s real sweet.”
“Hmm,” Wendy says. She’s afraid she’ll have to hear exactly how ‘sweet’ their reunion was later – not from Stan, who blushes and stammers a half-assed rebuttal when she reminds him that he’d better not think he doesn’t need to use condoms when he’s with Kyle. She’ll hear about it from Kyle, who will find some clever way to mention how sore he is from Stan’s allegedly enormous dick, pretending it’s a complaint.
She goes to make another drink. The kitchen is relatively empty, except for Jimmy, who is busy hitting on Nicole, and some suspiciously attractive guys who are hanging out near the liquor, the dark haired one mixing a drink while the blond fidgets nervously in a way that reminds Wendy of someone – Butters?
“Oh, hello Wendy!” the blond guy says when he looks up, giving her a genuine grin. He’s got a British accent and a stupid hat.
“Pip?” Wendy says, and she blinks rapidly, fearing that she’s already wasted.
“Good to see you!” Pip says. He whines when the dark haired boy passes him a drink. “Must I, love?”
“Drink it,” the dark haired boy says, and Wendy recognizes him as Damien, the only good-looking Goth kid she’s ever known. He doesn’t seem to actually attend school, but he occasionally shows up at parties and the movie theater.
“Didn’t you die?” Wendy asks Pip, reaching for the bottle of gin.
“Oh, ho!” Pip blushes and glances at Damien. “Well, it’s a bit of a long story. I don’t know if you’d be interested, really—”
“I’m sure she’s not,” Damien says, and he gives Wendy a threatening stare. “What’s that Santa doing here?” he asks.
“I think I’m dreaming,” Wendy says, and she dumps an extra shot into her drink.
In fact, the rest of the evening feels like a dream for Wendy, and a strangely pleasant one, considering she’s in South Park and surrounded by the same people who’ve been driving her crazy since elementary school. Stan reemerges from someplace upstairs, looking rumpled, Kyle smugly clinging to his arm and nibbling at his ear. Their gloating afterglow doesn’t bother Wendy, maybe because she’s drinking a lot, and she ends up laughing with Kyle about Stan’s extreme fear of snakes and how this factors into his sexuality. Stan listens to their analysis of him with mild interest, a drunken smile on his face, Kyle tucked under his arm.
“Is Gregory dealing drugs now?” Kyle asks when he sees Gregory pass through the room, still barking at someone on his phone, his other ear plugged with his finger.
“No,” Wendy says. “I think he just stole his mother’s credit card or something. Oh, Christ, what is Cartman doing?”
Kyle cranes his neck to see Cartman on the other side of the room. He’s sitting by the Christmas tree and making Butters dance for tips. Butters’ collar is jingling wildly, and he looks sort of exhausted.
“This isn’t right,” Wendy says, and she stands, wobbling a little. “He can’t – we all know Butters is traumatized, uh. When it comes to dancing.”
“Leave that pathetic creature to his own devices,” Kyle says.
“No, Wendy s’right,” Stan says. He looks close to passing out, his cheek cushioned on Kyle’s hair. “Butters is, like. Someone should save him.”
“He’s not a stray dog,” Kyle says, and he gives Stan a little kiss, as if to apologize for contradicting him. This submissive attitude will only last a few hours. “He’s got to learn to stand up for himself.”
“I’m going over,” Wendy says, straightening her skirt.
“Why?” Kyle asks. Poking into Cartman’s business used to be his job, when they were kids. He stopped caring around the time Stan started romancing him. Now the burden falls solely on Wendy, unless she’s got better things to do, which, lately, she does not.
“’Cause Butters needs rescuing,” Wendy says, as if she cares about Butters’ wellbeing. He’s actually benefited from his friendship with Cartman, at least financially, because Cartman helps Butters get in on all the part time jobs that Cartman has been working since sophomore year, when he realized that no amount of begging would make Liane able to afford buying him a car. It’s the one thing that Wendy sort of admires about Cartman, with a large dose of suspicion. He appears to be a self-made man, in the sense that he did buy a car after a year of saving. It’s an old black Corvette with a C-FROG vanity plate.
“Hey,” she says, kicking one of Cartman’s shiny black boots when she reaches him. He looks away from Butters, his chin tilted up as if he’s the godfather and she’s come for a favor. “You look like an idiot in that thing,” she says. She doesn’t usually open with an insult, but she’s drunk, off her game. Cartman smirks.
“At least I’m not wearing yellow stretch pants,” he says. “Testaburger, what the fuck?”
“They’re not stretch pants, they’re capris, okay, and they’re supposed to demonstrate that I don’t give a fuck. Butters!” she says, and he freezes when he hears her tone. “Stop dancing.”
“Ey, bitch!” Cartman says. “He doesn’t work for you! Keep dancing, Rudolph,” he says, snapping his fingers. Butters sighs and resumes his pathetic wriggling. Clyde and Red are red-faced with laughter, slipping dollar bills into his pants.
“I hope Token didn’t agree to give you any money,” Wendy says.
“No, he didn’t, so I’ll probably have to sue him,” Cartman says. “We had an oral contract. And hey, speaking of oral. I see Marsh is mounting the Jew over there. Doesn’t that make your little black heart ache?”
“Oh, I have a little black heart? You should talk.”
“That’s right, I should. My heart is big and black, like a porn star dick.”
“You have a dick for a heart,” Wendy says, too tired to make a proper joke about how appropriate that comparison is. Clyde and Red are leading Butters away, presumably to attempt to seduce him into a threesome, which is something they do while high at parties. Stan nearly became involved in one last year, and Kyle once pretended he was going to do so willingly, only to flee in tears when Stan didn’t kick the door down to beat Clyde up.
“Speaking of big black dicks,” Cartman says, and he scans the room, his gaze landing on Token, who is slow dancing with Caroline.
“Don’t,” Wendy says. Token’s equipment was actually completely average, and she wants to say so in order to counter Cartman’s racist bullshit, but Token probably wouldn’t appreciate her broadcasting that.
“That girl’s kind of busted-looking,” Cartman says, leering at Token and Caroline. “Almost as busted-looking as Jew boy. Why are people always leaving you for ugly motherfuckers?”
“Is that a serious question?” she asks. She feels tired and wants to sit, but there’s nowhere here to sit but on the floor, and she’s not about to drop to Cartman’s feet.
“I’m just saying,” Cartman says. “You really know how to drive ‘em away. Ey!” He looks around. “Where the fuck did my reindeer boy go?”
“Your reindeer boy?” Wendy says, and she sneers. “Ew. I bet you guys have, like. The grossest sex.” She should leave, or at least resolve not to speak for the rest of the evening, but saying dumb shit to Cartman has no real consequences aside from the potential for blackmail, and these people already know all about her mistakes.
“You think I fuck Butters?” Cartman says. The Santa beard is pulled down under his chin, sagging there, and his legs are spread kind of lewdly. “Do you not know my reputation among the ladies at Park County High? I have never failed to get it up for a girl, okay? Not even the ugly ones.”
“You’re disgusting,” Wendy says. She wants to walk off, but people are starting to pair up and make out in corners, including Jimmy, who is the only person here who she really likes talking to at parties. He seems to have been successful with Nicole, having enticed her into his lap on a loveseat. Stan is holding Kyle’s chin and whispering to him like he’s reciting poetry, Kyle swooning against him. Bebe is still dancing with Steve, slowly now, still looking pregnant. Maybe she is? “Ugh,” Wendy says.
“Have a seat,” Cartman says, patting his thigh. “Tell Santa all about it. You’ve been a bad girl this year, haven’t you?”
“No,” Wendy says, and her stomach lurches. It’s not entirely out of disgust.
“Where are your shoes?” Cartman asks. Something about the question takes her off guard, and not just because she hadn’t noticed until now that she’d taken her shoes off at some point. It’s rare that Cartman speaks to her like they’re just two people talking, asking a rational question instead of an inane and insulting one.
“Oh.” Wendy looks down at her feet. Her toe nails are painted pale pink, and she’s glad they’re not chipping yet, though there’s no one here she wants to impress, least of all him. “Um, I think I left them on the couch, with Stan.”
“Well, that’s a shame. Kyle is probably anally stimulating himself with one by now. Or both.”
“Shut up,” Wendy says, but she’s smiling a little, because it’s a stupid, offensive joke, but also kind of funny.
“Seriously,” Cartman says, and he pats his thigh again. “Sit down, make your case. Maybe Santa will bring you some new shoes.”
“Make my case?”
“Yeah, about how you were good or bad.” Cartman has a weird look in his eyes, a kind of repulsive confidence wrapped around something that’s either carefully designed to look sincere or supposed to be entirely hidden. She sits, mostly to take him off guard, and to see how that honest-looking thing in his eyes will change. He’s visibly surprised, and she can see his throat bob when he swallows.
“Well,” she says, crossing her legs. Cartman is huge, as tall as he is fat, a little alarmingly warm but otherwise a very comfortable seat, soft across his thighs. “I think I’ve been mostly good,” she says. “Oh, fuck that, no, I haven’t. I’m so cynical, and judgmental. I look around this room and just see what’s wrong with everybody. But I’m not depressed,” she says, thinking of Stan and his reasons for occasionally binge drinking. “It’s just. I’m worn out.” She’s not sure why she’s saying all of his to Cartman, whose eyes have widened with seeming wonder, as if she’s begun to glow. He puts his hand on her waist, and she gives him a warning look.
“So you’ve been bad?” he says. His usually booming voice is low now, and she’s not sure if he’s feeling uncertain or trying to be seductive. The idea is laughable, and she does laugh, bouncing on his lap. He shifts, going red across his cheeks, which are always slightly pink, as if even breathing overexerts him.
“Yeah, Santa,” she says, leaning against his chest. “I’ve been bad.”
And that’s her last clear memory of the evening, though there are plenty of blurry ones: Cartman asking her how she’d been bad, Wendy inviting him to find out, some brief eye-fucking before they ascended the stairs, Wendy still shoeless and Cartman still wearing the Santa costume. Downstairs, there was some kind of fist fight, but Wendy had never cared less about what the others were doing.
*
She wakes up still feeling buzzed, but it’s not a fun buzz, more like there are bees in her head and they’re slowly dying. She’s wearing a giant sweatshirt – no, it’s a fleece jacket, no. It’s a Santa coat, and she’s naked underneath it, in some richly decorated guest room with a bizarre hunting lodge in the tropics-type theme, still at Token’s house.
She rolls over, knowing what she’ll find, some hazy memories resurfacing as she surveys Cartman, who is nude and slumped onto his side like a beached whale, only halfway covered by a bedsheet. He looks innocent when he sleeps, which is disconcerting when she remembers what they did last night, how he fucked her from behind while growling, bad girl, you’re such a bad girl in her ear, his hand between her legs. She came – Jesus, she’s hot all over, remembering it, and only partly from shame. They fucked, what? More than once. She’s come before, with the vibrator Bebe got her for her sixteenth birthday, but never with a guy, never even close.
She thinks about sneaking away, but she’s still exhausted, and her legs shake when she leans up onto her knees, sliding the Santa coat off. She drops it onto the floor and turns to Cartman, surprised to see his eyes slitted open.
“Shit,” she says, and she turns to try to find her phone, but she must have left her purse downstairs. Of course she did. “Can I use your phone?” she asks. “I need to call my mom, she’s probably freaking.”
“Mine’s in the pocket of that Santa coat,” Cartman says. He’s muttering, but he seems fully awake, peering up at her nervously, his cheek pressed to the pillow. He pulls the blankets up over himself while she calls her mother, who assures her that Kyle was nice enough to send her a text to explain that Wendy would be spending the night at Token’s house.
“Fucking Kyle,” Wendy says when she hangs up. “Now my mom will be in my face, asking me if I’m going to get back together with Token.” She looks at Cartman, re-securing the sheets over her bare chest. “My mom, uh. Really liked him.”
“I bet she liked Stan, too,” Cartman says. “And Gregory. You’ve dated a lot of guys moms like.”
“Well.” Wendy lies down and sighs, waiting for him to start taunting her for screaming his name when she came, for asking him to pull her hair. He had without hesitation, unlike Token, who had asked why. “So, uh. We used a condom, right?” She seems to remember finding a whole row of them in one of the baggy pockets of Cartman’s Santa pants.
“Yeah,” Cartman says. “Three condoms,” he says, and he attempts a gloating grin, but mostly he just seems scared, and he’s blushing, the blankets tucked under his chin. “So, sorry, your plan to get pregnant with my love child failed.”
“Ha.” Wendy stares at the ceiling. She’s alarmed by the fact that she wants to squirm over next to him and cuddle up to the insane amount of heat that his body is radiating. He’s breathing kind of hard, like he’s coming down with a cold, a slight rattle at the back of his throat. “Well,” she says, again, not sure how to continue. “I was really drunk. You shouldn’t have sex with people who are drunker than you. It’s not right.”
“What!” Cartman says. “You kept waking me up and asking for more. I was like, woman, a guy can’t go four times in one night, Jesus. Not even me.”
“I – oh.” Wendy remembers that now, and chews her lip. She remembers rolling against Cartman’s spent, sweaty body and murmuring in his ear, Eric, please, one more time, it’s never been like this before.
“Are you okay?” he asks, sitting up on his elbow, careful to keep the blankets over his jiggly chest. “You, uh. How many times can a girl take it before she gets all sore and shit?”
“I don’t know,” Wendy says, glowering. “I’ve never done it more than once in one day.”
Cartman smiles, clearly taking this as a huge compliment, and she whacks him. He catches her hand and rubs the back of it with his thumb, still grinning.
“Do I look like shit?” Wendy asks, inviting him to ruin this. She can taste how bad her breath is. Cartman shakes his head.
“You’re pretty,” he says, and she waits for him to add some insulting qualifier, like, ‘for someone who looks like she’s about to hurl.’ “I’ve never had a girl like you,” he says.
“Like me?” She makes a face, still wary.
“Like,” he says, and his lips twitch. “Ugh, bitch, you know what you’re like.”
“No, I don’t. I have no idea what you think of me, actually. Especially after – that. Not that I care. I don’t. But I want to hear you say it.”
“You’re like,” Cartman says, and he groans. “Pretty, fucking – obviously, and smart, and like, interesting, um, you care about – stuff – goddammit you know all this!”
“Did we kiss?” Wendy asks. He’s one person she wouldn’t mind sharing her stink breath with first thing in the morning. What’s Cartman going to do, kick her out of bed? “Last night, did we?”
“A little,” he says, mumbling. She stares up at him, hoping that he’ll know what to do. He hesitates, searching her eyes as if for booby traps, then sighs and presses his lips to hers. He’s a weirdly gentle kisser; it makes her shudder. She opens her lips and he touches his tongue to hers, making her shudder again. He tastes like toothpaste. He must have gotten up to brush and sneaked back to bed.
“Don’t tell anyone about this,” she says when he pulls back. “For as long as it’s our secret, I’ll be yours, okay? You can, like. We can do this again, if you don’t go around bragging about it.”
“Fine,” he says. “You either.”
“Ha!”
He grins, and it seems real. She’s still cautious, and she knows he is, too, his hand shaking on her cheek. He kisses her more deeply, and she remembers being surprised, last night, that he could do it so well. Then she was surprised by how much she wanted him, how what had started off as a kind of joke and a dare turned into baring herself to him.
They go downstairs around ten AM, Cartman in the Santa costume and Wendy in her capris and a purple tank top that has a smear on it that might be Cartman’s dried come. She feels oddly at peace with whatever’s happening, though her headache is getting worse. Token and Caroline are in the kitchen, wearing matching robes, Token cooking his “famous” buckwheat pancakes at the stove. Wendy had only pretended to like them; it was like chewing cardboard.
“Oh,” Token says when he sees them, Wendy tiptoeing in to reclaim her purse. Caroline, seated at the breakfast bar, pauses in mid-reach, her fingers stretched toward her coffee cup. She’s obviously trying not to laugh. “Um,” Token says, looking at Wendy. “Are you okay?”
“Totally!” Wendy says. “Cartman and I stayed up all night, like. Fighting about politics. You know how we are. Ha.” She looks back at Cartman. He’s found her shoes, and he has them hugged to his undershirt, the Santa coat open over it. He looks ridiculous, like a liability. “Also,” Wendy says, turning back to Token. “You should change the sheets in that guest bedroom with the tortoise shell on the wall. We had, like. Lots of sex in that bed. And I mean, major sex. Lots of it.”
“You can consider the cost of the dry cleaning bill your payment for services rendered,” Cartman says while Caroline and Token gape at them. “So, we’re even. For now. Another party successfully masterminded by ETC Party Professionals. I’ll send Butters for my turn table this afternoon. Merry Christmas!”
“Christmas is over,” Wendy says as she leads him away from the kitchen. “It’s a whole new year.”
“Whatever, I’m fucking starved,” he says. In the foyer, she sits on the bottom stair and he slips her shoes on for her like she’s Cinderella. “You want to go to Taco Bell?” he asks.
“It’s ten in the morning.”
“So? Jesus, you’ve never heard of a breakfast burrito?” He offers her his hand, which is sweaty when she takes it. “I’ll treat,” he says. “This time.”
She’s not hungry yet, her hangover lurching onto her painfully once she’s riding in his car, bundled in her coat and hiding her tired eyes behind her white-rimmed sunglasses. At Taco Bell, she orders nothing, just drinks some of his jumbo sized Diet Mountain Dew. He’s still in the Santa outfit, scarfing down burritos. She thinks about how this is a story she’ll tell for the rest of her life, the night she had crazy sex with this ridiculous guy in a Santa costume at her ex-boyfriend’s awful party. In fact, she wants to start telling it right now, so she digs out her phone to text Stan. She has three texts from him, from last night:
Kyle punched Christophe
we broke up
never mind. Happy near year!
She thinks about how she’s going to phrase her news about Cartman in a witty text, but before she can decide he slides his feet over to touch hers under the table. He’s still looking at his burrito, and he’s blushing hard.
“ETC Party Professionals, huh?” she says, dropping her phone back into her purse. She can tell Stan later; he’s probably asleep with his face between Kyle’s ass cheeks, anyway. “Got anything planned for Valentine’s Day?”
“What, like—” He’s boggling at her. “Like, do I have a date?”
“No, like, are you going to dress up as cupid and shoot plastic arrows at people at theme parties?”
“No,” Cartman says, scowling. “That’s the dumbest thing I ever heard. Butters will be cupid, and he’ll be delivering singing telegrams to addresses in the tri-county area. You can order him online and everything.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Wendy says, and she presses her foot onto his. She’s not ready to promise that she’ll do something with him for Valentine’s Day, but in the wake of her hangover it doesn’t seem that insane. Maybe she’ll order Butters and send him to Cartman’s doorstep for a serenade: You’re no good for me, but baby I want you, I want you.