(no subject)
Title: Love Boat (With Men) [3/?]
Rating: R
Pairing: Stan/Kyle, Kenny/Butters, others, randos
Summary: Stan, Kyle, Cartman, Kenny, and Butters decide to do a supposedly fun thing, at which only Kyle proves to have any success.
Note: Remember like two days ago when I was all "writing 'Kenny gives advice' conversations is stupid and cliche let's never do that again" and everyone was like "mmhmmm" and I was like "uh huh"?
Remember that.
Stan wakes up with his face buried in soft sheets, the sun beating down on his back, and a damp towel draped over his behind, wedged into the cleft of his ass. There’s a big, warm hand under the towel, resting on the back of Stan’s leg. The nails are clipped short, but catch the hairs on Stan’s thigh.
“Kyle?” he asks, rolling over.
“Hey,” says a tall guy with a beard. “Someone’s up.”
Stan rolls his eyes, disappointed in the fact that it’s this guy he’s waking up next to. “Aw, hey,” Stan says, trying not to sound too down about it, just to be polite. “What’s up?” Without waiting for an answer, he climbs off the bed and runs a hand through his wet hair, looking for his shoes.
“That was quite a ride,” says Old Beard Guy.
“For you?” Stan asks. He finds his iPod on the nightstand table, with his room key, his water bottle, and his wadded-up underwear. “Or for me?”
“You’re a funny guy, Clarence.” Beard Guy is sipping a rosy midday martini.
“My name’s not actually Clarence.” Stan suddenly feels pretty bad about things, and the reality of the situation settles over him. Here he is in a big suite with a terrace and a fabulous view of the ocean. He can’t even see any lifeboats out the window. The sheets are crumpled, but they’re nice, and the floor isn’t the sodden green carpet of his windowless beige-box cabin. Actually, it’s a hardwood floor with a decent if uninspiring rug under the bed which, indeed, is even larger than a king-size. “This is a nice room,” Stan says, rooting around under a chair for his clothes. He suddenly feels not just nude but totally naked, his ass exposed to this robe-clad martini drinker in the early afternoon.
“Thanks. There’s only one other like this on the ship.”
Stan gets up and puts his hands on his hips. His dick is so beyond flaccid. “Where are my clothes?”
Beard guy takes a long, careful sip of his drink, tipping it back and licking the rim of the glass. “What’s your real name?”
“Stan.” Stan wrinkles his nose.
“Stan! That’s a cute little name.”
“It’s short for Stanley.”
“Well.” Beard Guy licks the rim again, then sets the empty glass down. “There’s nothing short about you, Stanley, is there?”
Stan pretends not to care that he’s getting hard again. “Where are my clothes?” he growls.
“Oh, those things were so filthy! I sent them out to be laundered.”
“What!”
“Just relax! They’ll be back in a couple of hours.”
“I don’t have a couple of hours!”
“Why not? Let me make you a drink, Stanley. Or I could call up for something, are you hungry?”
“I’m going back to my cabin,” Stan says. “Excuse me.” He ducks into the bathroom, where some used poppers are lying on the marble counter next to the sink. “Great.” He shoves them out of the way as he bends over to drink from the faucet. As he straightens up and wipes the water off of his lips, he notices a bathrobe on a hanger dangling from a hook on the door. Stan grabs it and puts it on, belting it as tightly as possible. When he comes back into the bedroom, the guy is lying on the bed, stroking his cock.
“Round two?” he asks.
“No thanks,” says Stan. He grabs his stuff. “What’d you say your name was?”
“I didn’t.”
Stan shrugs. “Well, nice knowing you.”
As Stan is leaving, No-name follows him to the door calling, “Wait!”
“What?”
“I need your cabin number.” Stan’s about to leave in a rage, but the guy just laughs and says, “I mean, to have your laundry delivered.”
Sighing, Stan deigns to scribble his cabin number on the back of a loose receipt from the shipboard spa for reiki. Stan has always wanted to try reiki for some reason; it seems relaxing, indulgent without being absurd. Kyle has scoffed at this interest, calling reiki “bullshit” and insisting, “There’s absolutely no medical evidence that any of that is helpful in any regard.” Stan knows this, and he doesn’t care, but he sighs at the receipt anyway, wishing everything on the ship didn’t remind him of these things.
“Here,” Stan says, recapping the heavy silver pen and shoving it in the guy’s face. “Thanks for doing my laundry.”
“Oh, no problem, it was nothing,” his host begins to say, but Stan is out of there quickly, the robe strangling his waist, all his belongings in his arms.
Back at his cabin, Stan wonders if he should knock. He presses his ear to the door, but doesn’t hear much. Figuring it’s his room and he’s got every right in the world to be there instead of standing in the hall in a sketchy bathrobe, Stan slips the keycard in the slot and barges in.
The sight that greets Stan leaves him breathless: Kyle is spread out on the bed, on his side, clutching a pillow to his chest. One of his legs is up in the air, his thigh resting on the shoulder of some other guy. They’re all starting to look the same to Stan, the guys on this ship, Kyle’s tricks; this one has dirty blond hair and Chinese characters tattooed down his right side, a piercing at the small of his back. Stan’s never seen anyone with one of those before, but it makes his stomach turn. He shuts the door with his heel, unable to speak.
Back Piercing glances over to see who’s walked in, but he apparently finds Stan uninteresting, or at least isn’t bothered enough by Stan’s presence to stop what he’s doing: sliding three of his wet fingers into Kyle, stretching him slowly, making Kyle shake and gasp.
Stan can’t help but gape for a moment, at how visceral this is, and how Kyle looks in this position: wide open, some guy who looks like he’s never fully gotten closure on the death of CBGB touching the soft flesh on Kyle’s belly, which trembles as he’s penetrated. Kyle’s skin is pink from exertion and complaint, not that Kyle seems overly exerted, or like he’s complaining. His eyes are closed and he’s biting his lip, fingers tucked into the pillow he’s squeezing so tightly that Stan fears they’ll snap. Stan wants to run over and take Kyle’s fingers into his own, kissing each of them, then Kyle’s lips, swallowing his gasps.
Instead, Stan just stands there at the door, in his bathrobe, and says, “Crap.”
Kyle opens his eyes and sits up, focusing on Stan. He must have caught the look of dread on Stan’s face, because he says, “Sorry! Forgot to put a sock on the knob.” Then he sinks back into the mattress.
“Out,” Stan barks. “Both of you, get out.”
“Excuse me?” says Back Piercing. He does not take his fingers out of Kyle’s anus, although he’s stopped moving them; Stan tries not to look, but it’s impossible. Besides, he’d rather openly gape at that than risk catching Kyle’s eyes and falling apart.
“I said, get the fuck out of my room,” Stan repeats, articulating every syllable.
Now Kyle sits up. “This is also my room,” he says, hoarsely, “and I’m not going anywhere.”
“Well.” Stan straightens out and steps forward, leaving his things on the vanity and approaching the bed. “I’m tired, I’m stressed the fuck out, and if I have to spend my one vacation this year in a fucking styrofoam box on a floating prostitution ring, then I will damn sure be able to return to my room without coming face-to-face with some cretin’s hands stuffed up your gaping asshole!”
“Hey!” says Back Piercing. Now he pulls his fingers from Kyle’s ass.
“Oh, don’t you dare!” Kyle snaps. “Put those back in!” He turns his ire on Stan: “I’ll have you know, Davis is not a cretin! He is getting his master’s in French!”
“Oui,” says Davis.
“Shut up, Davis,” says Stan. “Kyle, what the fuck. Just, what the fucking fuck?”
“Oh, don’t ask me what the fucking fuck! I should be asking you what the fucking fuck! Where are your clothes?”
“You’re not the master of my clothes!” Stan retorts.
“Well, you’re not the master of my sex life!”
“Should I come back?” Davis asks.
“No!” Kyle shouts. “You’re going to stay and you’re going to fucking finish what you started!”
“Kay.”
“Shut up, Davis, where the fuck did you even come from?” Stan shouts.
“Manitoba.”
Stan opens the wardrobe and grabs a fresh set of clothes from the shelves.
“What are you doing?” Kyle asks.
“Getting the fuck out of here,” says Stan. “You know, you don’t want me commenting on your - your whatever this is, fine, I understand that. I can respect it. I can try to hold myself back. Your sex life is your own business.” It hurts Stan to say it, and he can’t look Kyle in the eyes when he does. He swallows. “But dude - you’re demeaning yourself, and as your best friend, well - what kind of friend would I be if I didn’t at least try to bring it your attention?”
Kyle sniffs. “Thanks for your well-intended concern, Stanley,” he says, his voice dry and brittle. “But I’m an adult and I know what I’m doing. Trust me.” He clenches his ass around Davis’ fingers when he says this. It’s as if he knows that Stan couldn’t possibly miss it.
“Even still,” Stan says. “This room is the one place I’m supposed to be able to go on this ship to - to get away from this.”
“This is what we came here to do!” Kyle groans. He waves Stan away and covers his eyes. “Well, fine, just go, if you’re going. This isn’t sexy anymore, it’s making me feel like a team of med students are watching me get a colonoscopy.”
Davis can’t help but laugh.
“Oh,” says Kyle, “you think I’m funny?”
“Yeah, kind of.”
“See, Stan, that’s one thing you guys have in common.” Kyle closes his eyes, nuzzling into the pillow, and petting Davis’ hair. “Just wake me up when it’s over, okay?”
~
There are guys hanging out in the elevator in further states of undress than Stan in his bathrobe, but he still clutches his things to his chest with one hand, and clenches his robe needlessly with the other. When Stan hobbles off the elevator on Kenny and Butters’ deck, he passes a deeply tanned buff lady in cut-offs and string bikini laughing with a group of guys in their mid-50s or early 60s, all of them in Speedos. Stan hates them all, resents them for leering. He wants to be back in his cabin, his fingers deep in Kyle’s ass, absorbing Kyle’s open-mouthed sighs, then whispering into Kyle’s ear that he’s beautiful, so beautiful, and Stan is so lucky to know him, to be able to give him pleasure. Thinking about this doesn’t make Stan hard, just sad, and he swallows back his regrets as he knocks on the door.
Kenny answers, in his boxers, a look of resignation on his face and a half-drunk mimosa in his hand.
“Christ,” says Stan, “is everyone on this fucking boat half-naked and drunk?”
“I’m just half-naked,” Kenny replies, “not drunk. Not yet. Did you want something?” He opens the door wider when Stan doesn’t reply. “Want to come in, maybe?”
“Not if you’re indisposed.”
“I’m perfectly disposed,” says Kenny, “but tell you what: worst-case scenario, you leave.”
Stan says, “Thank you,” and steps inside.
This cabin is nicer than Stan and Kyle’s, and larger, but just barely. In contrast to the mess Kyle’s made of their bed, Kenny and Butters’ is neat, the floral bedspread pulled tight, pillows stacked, two to a side. There are no wet towels flung about, and the TV is on only for a moment before Kenny snaps it off. Only a bucket of melting ice with a split of champagne leaning in it and an empty carafe that held orange juice, once, litter the coffee table.
“I’d offer you a drink,” Kenny says, “but I’m afraid I’m fresh out.”
“That’s okay.” Stan sighs and leaves his belongings on a club chair before shuffling over to the love seat, which is a tacky pink color. Its vinyl upholstery is cool on Stan’s thighs as he sits, the bathrobe bunching up under his ass.
“So,” Kenny says, shutting the door, “was there something I could do for you?”
“Not really, sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry.” Kenny scoffs. “Your company’s always a delight. Just, what’d she do?”
“He didn’t do anything,” says Stan.
“Then what happened to your clothes?” Kenny sits on the chair across from Stan, tucking his legs underneath him. “I can call for more drinks, really, you know, room service-”
“I know, I get it,” Stan says, not wanting to think about room service, as it just reminds him of Eric Cartman puffing away on the treadmill, flecks of his panting breath and perspiration splattering on the control panel. “My clothes, um - and old man took them.”
Kenny raises an eyebrow. Where’d he learn how to do that?
“Fuck you,” says Stan. “I brought some to change into.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“No. I just - there was nowhere else to go, I mean, literally, my cabin’s being, uh - serviced.”
“I’ll bet.”
“Fuck you,” Stan repeats. He puts his hand in his heads.
“Aw, hey.” Kenny gets up and makes Stan scoot over, then sits next to him on the sofa and pats his back. “Shhh, it’s okay. We can talk about it. I can give you some advice.”
“Thanks, dude, but I don’t want your advice,” Stan says, sniffing. “No offense, but...” He glances around the room. “...Where’s Butters?”
“Oh, him. Unlike you, I’m perfectly happy to talk about it. Butters is having his chest waxed.”
“Butters has chest hair?”
“Well, no,” says Kenny, “not anymore, he doesn’t. But, anything’s worth a shot, right? You think you’re having a miserable time on this cruise? At least you’re getting laid, Stan.”
“Once,” says Stan. “And I’m trying to block it out, and you’d better not mention it to Kyle.”
“Of course not.” Kenny puts a finger to his lips. “My middle name is ‘discretion.’ Kenny Discretion Stotch-McCormick.”
“That’s the stupidest name I’ve ever heard.”
“Well, it’s not real anyway, right? Listen, you think you’ve got it so bad? Everyone on this ship is unhappy, Stan, everyone. It’s just some of us can figure out how to smuggle MDMA aboard, and some of us are forever tagged for searches as a security risk because we tried to buy codeine over the counter in Nogales when we were 19. It happens.”
Stan wishes he were getting dressed. “Do you mind if I disrobe?”
Kenny doesn’t answer, just points to Stan’s pile of clothes and things.
“Thanks.” Stan rises. He’s quiet while he unbelts the robe, and pulls his underwear up. After tugging on his shirt, he says, “I don’t think everyone on this boat is miserable. Honestly. This is where people go to get away from their misery. Cruising, I mean. I hate that word, it’s so loaded. ... And I hate that word, too. Words, Kenny, I hate words. They fucking ruin everything.”
“Yes, agreed. I’m fucking sick of words. Have you ever been to therapy? Of course you haven’t. Do you know what therapy is, Stan? It’s just talking, fucking talking to some woman for an hour while she explains that you and the man you’ve built your life around are ‘sexually incompatible,’ that you’ve been together for so long you missed the ‘crucial developmental milestones of self-identity’ and then she charges you $185-”
“Just stop.” Stan folds the damp robe over and tosses it back on the chair. He adjusts his jeans and sits down on the sofa again, with half-clad Kenny, noticing the frayed ends of Kenny’s hair hanging in his eyes. “I’m sorry, dude. I am. But it’s only been a day, okay? You guys will find someone.”
“At least if you end up with Kyle, you won’t have to draw up a contract to determine who gets to do what. Do you know how hard it is for two bottoms to fuck, Stan? And wouldn’t you know it, everyone else on this ship is also a fucking bottom.”
“I dunno, I think Kyle’s doing all right in that department.”
“God, he’s fucking lucky, then. You both are. You’re lucky you’re a top, Stan.”
“I’m not a top,” says Stan.
Kenny raises his eyebrow again. “Find that hard to believe.”
“I’m not anything, I don’t care, I just want to be treated like a person.”
“If you bottomed you’d never say anything like that,” says Kenny. “That’s such a top thing to say. To not even give a shit.”
Stan reaches for his book on the dresser behind him. “These labels are ruining your sex life, dude. They’re ruining your relationship. I don’t buy into that shit, okay? I just want to be with him, that’s all I want. And if I can’t be with him, I want him to be happy. And if I were with him I’d do whatever he wanted. But I’d do it for the person he is in his heart, you know? Like, I dunno, it’s all the same orgasm. Biologically, I mean, it’s the same exact thing. The mind is the primary sex organ, after all.”
“She’ll come around.” Kenny pats Stan on the thigh, sighing.
There is one more difference in Kenny and Butters’ cabin that Stan can discern, one more thing that sets his room apart from his own: a tight balcony, large enough to accommodate just one small cocktail table and two chairs. This is visible from behind sliding doors, and beyond is a real view of the ocean. The sun must be above the boat, because it’s not visible, but the water looks so saturated, like a child’s painting of the sea, a rich toilet bowl-cleaner blue. Stan imagines Kenny and Butters having a drink out there before dinner, watching the sunset, hand-in-hand. It’s no wonder they’ve got this perk; Butters is a party planner, and Kenny a concierge at an upscale chain hotel in downtown Denver. Together they excel at wringing opportunities from the burden of service, creating something out of nothing.
For all their problems, Stan envies them.
~
Dinner is an optional formal night, and when Stan returns to the cabin to avoid cocktail hour, he finds his laundry on the freshly made bed, wrapped up in a tissue package and bound with baker’s twine. There’s a handwritten note, a vase of roses and an open box of Belgian chocolate someone has already ransacked. Stan hates roses, finds them cliché, but enjoys the note, on heavy stationery in flowing gel ink longhand, at least until he reads it:
My dear Clarence,
Have been thinking of you all day
Stan rips the card in half and tosses it in the garbage, along with another withered condom and several chocolate wrappers. It’s the lone sign of Kyle.
Though all he’s wanted all day is a bit of peace and quiet, without Kyle the room is depressing, the size of the cabin stifling rather than cozy. Stan pops a dark chocolate in his mouth, crushing into the stippled shell to discover it’s full of montelimar. The filling clings to his teeth, and he picks it out before heading out for the night.
Rating: R
Pairing: Stan/Kyle, Kenny/Butters, others, randos
Summary: Stan, Kyle, Cartman, Kenny, and Butters decide to do a supposedly fun thing, at which only Kyle proves to have any success.
Note: Remember like two days ago when I was all "writing 'Kenny gives advice' conversations is stupid and cliche let's never do that again" and everyone was like "mmhmmm" and I was like "uh huh"?
Remember that.
Stan wakes up with his face buried in soft sheets, the sun beating down on his back, and a damp towel draped over his behind, wedged into the cleft of his ass. There’s a big, warm hand under the towel, resting on the back of Stan’s leg. The nails are clipped short, but catch the hairs on Stan’s thigh.
“Kyle?” he asks, rolling over.
“Hey,” says a tall guy with a beard. “Someone’s up.”
Stan rolls his eyes, disappointed in the fact that it’s this guy he’s waking up next to. “Aw, hey,” Stan says, trying not to sound too down about it, just to be polite. “What’s up?” Without waiting for an answer, he climbs off the bed and runs a hand through his wet hair, looking for his shoes.
“That was quite a ride,” says Old Beard Guy.
“For you?” Stan asks. He finds his iPod on the nightstand table, with his room key, his water bottle, and his wadded-up underwear. “Or for me?”
“You’re a funny guy, Clarence.” Beard Guy is sipping a rosy midday martini.
“My name’s not actually Clarence.” Stan suddenly feels pretty bad about things, and the reality of the situation settles over him. Here he is in a big suite with a terrace and a fabulous view of the ocean. He can’t even see any lifeboats out the window. The sheets are crumpled, but they’re nice, and the floor isn’t the sodden green carpet of his windowless beige-box cabin. Actually, it’s a hardwood floor with a decent if uninspiring rug under the bed which, indeed, is even larger than a king-size. “This is a nice room,” Stan says, rooting around under a chair for his clothes. He suddenly feels not just nude but totally naked, his ass exposed to this robe-clad martini drinker in the early afternoon.
“Thanks. There’s only one other like this on the ship.”
Stan gets up and puts his hands on his hips. His dick is so beyond flaccid. “Where are my clothes?”
Beard guy takes a long, careful sip of his drink, tipping it back and licking the rim of the glass. “What’s your real name?”
“Stan.” Stan wrinkles his nose.
“Stan! That’s a cute little name.”
“It’s short for Stanley.”
“Well.” Beard Guy licks the rim again, then sets the empty glass down. “There’s nothing short about you, Stanley, is there?”
Stan pretends not to care that he’s getting hard again. “Where are my clothes?” he growls.
“Oh, those things were so filthy! I sent them out to be laundered.”
“What!”
“Just relax! They’ll be back in a couple of hours.”
“I don’t have a couple of hours!”
“Why not? Let me make you a drink, Stanley. Or I could call up for something, are you hungry?”
“I’m going back to my cabin,” Stan says. “Excuse me.” He ducks into the bathroom, where some used poppers are lying on the marble counter next to the sink. “Great.” He shoves them out of the way as he bends over to drink from the faucet. As he straightens up and wipes the water off of his lips, he notices a bathrobe on a hanger dangling from a hook on the door. Stan grabs it and puts it on, belting it as tightly as possible. When he comes back into the bedroom, the guy is lying on the bed, stroking his cock.
“Round two?” he asks.
“No thanks,” says Stan. He grabs his stuff. “What’d you say your name was?”
“I didn’t.”
Stan shrugs. “Well, nice knowing you.”
As Stan is leaving, No-name follows him to the door calling, “Wait!”
“What?”
“I need your cabin number.” Stan’s about to leave in a rage, but the guy just laughs and says, “I mean, to have your laundry delivered.”
Sighing, Stan deigns to scribble his cabin number on the back of a loose receipt from the shipboard spa for reiki. Stan has always wanted to try reiki for some reason; it seems relaxing, indulgent without being absurd. Kyle has scoffed at this interest, calling reiki “bullshit” and insisting, “There’s absolutely no medical evidence that any of that is helpful in any regard.” Stan knows this, and he doesn’t care, but he sighs at the receipt anyway, wishing everything on the ship didn’t remind him of these things.
“Here,” Stan says, recapping the heavy silver pen and shoving it in the guy’s face. “Thanks for doing my laundry.”
“Oh, no problem, it was nothing,” his host begins to say, but Stan is out of there quickly, the robe strangling his waist, all his belongings in his arms.
Back at his cabin, Stan wonders if he should knock. He presses his ear to the door, but doesn’t hear much. Figuring it’s his room and he’s got every right in the world to be there instead of standing in the hall in a sketchy bathrobe, Stan slips the keycard in the slot and barges in.
The sight that greets Stan leaves him breathless: Kyle is spread out on the bed, on his side, clutching a pillow to his chest. One of his legs is up in the air, his thigh resting on the shoulder of some other guy. They’re all starting to look the same to Stan, the guys on this ship, Kyle’s tricks; this one has dirty blond hair and Chinese characters tattooed down his right side, a piercing at the small of his back. Stan’s never seen anyone with one of those before, but it makes his stomach turn. He shuts the door with his heel, unable to speak.
Back Piercing glances over to see who’s walked in, but he apparently finds Stan uninteresting, or at least isn’t bothered enough by Stan’s presence to stop what he’s doing: sliding three of his wet fingers into Kyle, stretching him slowly, making Kyle shake and gasp.
Stan can’t help but gape for a moment, at how visceral this is, and how Kyle looks in this position: wide open, some guy who looks like he’s never fully gotten closure on the death of CBGB touching the soft flesh on Kyle’s belly, which trembles as he’s penetrated. Kyle’s skin is pink from exertion and complaint, not that Kyle seems overly exerted, or like he’s complaining. His eyes are closed and he’s biting his lip, fingers tucked into the pillow he’s squeezing so tightly that Stan fears they’ll snap. Stan wants to run over and take Kyle’s fingers into his own, kissing each of them, then Kyle’s lips, swallowing his gasps.
Instead, Stan just stands there at the door, in his bathrobe, and says, “Crap.”
Kyle opens his eyes and sits up, focusing on Stan. He must have caught the look of dread on Stan’s face, because he says, “Sorry! Forgot to put a sock on the knob.” Then he sinks back into the mattress.
“Out,” Stan barks. “Both of you, get out.”
“Excuse me?” says Back Piercing. He does not take his fingers out of Kyle’s anus, although he’s stopped moving them; Stan tries not to look, but it’s impossible. Besides, he’d rather openly gape at that than risk catching Kyle’s eyes and falling apart.
“I said, get the fuck out of my room,” Stan repeats, articulating every syllable.
Now Kyle sits up. “This is also my room,” he says, hoarsely, “and I’m not going anywhere.”
“Well.” Stan straightens out and steps forward, leaving his things on the vanity and approaching the bed. “I’m tired, I’m stressed the fuck out, and if I have to spend my one vacation this year in a fucking styrofoam box on a floating prostitution ring, then I will damn sure be able to return to my room without coming face-to-face with some cretin’s hands stuffed up your gaping asshole!”
“Hey!” says Back Piercing. Now he pulls his fingers from Kyle’s ass.
“Oh, don’t you dare!” Kyle snaps. “Put those back in!” He turns his ire on Stan: “I’ll have you know, Davis is not a cretin! He is getting his master’s in French!”
“Oui,” says Davis.
“Shut up, Davis,” says Stan. “Kyle, what the fuck. Just, what the fucking fuck?”
“Oh, don’t ask me what the fucking fuck! I should be asking you what the fucking fuck! Where are your clothes?”
“You’re not the master of my clothes!” Stan retorts.
“Well, you’re not the master of my sex life!”
“Should I come back?” Davis asks.
“No!” Kyle shouts. “You’re going to stay and you’re going to fucking finish what you started!”
“Kay.”
“Shut up, Davis, where the fuck did you even come from?” Stan shouts.
“Manitoba.”
Stan opens the wardrobe and grabs a fresh set of clothes from the shelves.
“What are you doing?” Kyle asks.
“Getting the fuck out of here,” says Stan. “You know, you don’t want me commenting on your - your whatever this is, fine, I understand that. I can respect it. I can try to hold myself back. Your sex life is your own business.” It hurts Stan to say it, and he can’t look Kyle in the eyes when he does. He swallows. “But dude - you’re demeaning yourself, and as your best friend, well - what kind of friend would I be if I didn’t at least try to bring it your attention?”
Kyle sniffs. “Thanks for your well-intended concern, Stanley,” he says, his voice dry and brittle. “But I’m an adult and I know what I’m doing. Trust me.” He clenches his ass around Davis’ fingers when he says this. It’s as if he knows that Stan couldn’t possibly miss it.
“Even still,” Stan says. “This room is the one place I’m supposed to be able to go on this ship to - to get away from this.”
“This is what we came here to do!” Kyle groans. He waves Stan away and covers his eyes. “Well, fine, just go, if you’re going. This isn’t sexy anymore, it’s making me feel like a team of med students are watching me get a colonoscopy.”
Davis can’t help but laugh.
“Oh,” says Kyle, “you think I’m funny?”
“Yeah, kind of.”
“See, Stan, that’s one thing you guys have in common.” Kyle closes his eyes, nuzzling into the pillow, and petting Davis’ hair. “Just wake me up when it’s over, okay?”
~
There are guys hanging out in the elevator in further states of undress than Stan in his bathrobe, but he still clutches his things to his chest with one hand, and clenches his robe needlessly with the other. When Stan hobbles off the elevator on Kenny and Butters’ deck, he passes a deeply tanned buff lady in cut-offs and string bikini laughing with a group of guys in their mid-50s or early 60s, all of them in Speedos. Stan hates them all, resents them for leering. He wants to be back in his cabin, his fingers deep in Kyle’s ass, absorbing Kyle’s open-mouthed sighs, then whispering into Kyle’s ear that he’s beautiful, so beautiful, and Stan is so lucky to know him, to be able to give him pleasure. Thinking about this doesn’t make Stan hard, just sad, and he swallows back his regrets as he knocks on the door.
Kenny answers, in his boxers, a look of resignation on his face and a half-drunk mimosa in his hand.
“Christ,” says Stan, “is everyone on this fucking boat half-naked and drunk?”
“I’m just half-naked,” Kenny replies, “not drunk. Not yet. Did you want something?” He opens the door wider when Stan doesn’t reply. “Want to come in, maybe?”
“Not if you’re indisposed.”
“I’m perfectly disposed,” says Kenny, “but tell you what: worst-case scenario, you leave.”
Stan says, “Thank you,” and steps inside.
This cabin is nicer than Stan and Kyle’s, and larger, but just barely. In contrast to the mess Kyle’s made of their bed, Kenny and Butters’ is neat, the floral bedspread pulled tight, pillows stacked, two to a side. There are no wet towels flung about, and the TV is on only for a moment before Kenny snaps it off. Only a bucket of melting ice with a split of champagne leaning in it and an empty carafe that held orange juice, once, litter the coffee table.
“I’d offer you a drink,” Kenny says, “but I’m afraid I’m fresh out.”
“That’s okay.” Stan sighs and leaves his belongings on a club chair before shuffling over to the love seat, which is a tacky pink color. Its vinyl upholstery is cool on Stan’s thighs as he sits, the bathrobe bunching up under his ass.
“So,” Kenny says, shutting the door, “was there something I could do for you?”
“Not really, sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry.” Kenny scoffs. “Your company’s always a delight. Just, what’d she do?”
“He didn’t do anything,” says Stan.
“Then what happened to your clothes?” Kenny sits on the chair across from Stan, tucking his legs underneath him. “I can call for more drinks, really, you know, room service-”
“I know, I get it,” Stan says, not wanting to think about room service, as it just reminds him of Eric Cartman puffing away on the treadmill, flecks of his panting breath and perspiration splattering on the control panel. “My clothes, um - and old man took them.”
Kenny raises an eyebrow. Where’d he learn how to do that?
“Fuck you,” says Stan. “I brought some to change into.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“No. I just - there was nowhere else to go, I mean, literally, my cabin’s being, uh - serviced.”
“I’ll bet.”
“Fuck you,” Stan repeats. He puts his hand in his heads.
“Aw, hey.” Kenny gets up and makes Stan scoot over, then sits next to him on the sofa and pats his back. “Shhh, it’s okay. We can talk about it. I can give you some advice.”
“Thanks, dude, but I don’t want your advice,” Stan says, sniffing. “No offense, but...” He glances around the room. “...Where’s Butters?”
“Oh, him. Unlike you, I’m perfectly happy to talk about it. Butters is having his chest waxed.”
“Butters has chest hair?”
“Well, no,” says Kenny, “not anymore, he doesn’t. But, anything’s worth a shot, right? You think you’re having a miserable time on this cruise? At least you’re getting laid, Stan.”
“Once,” says Stan. “And I’m trying to block it out, and you’d better not mention it to Kyle.”
“Of course not.” Kenny puts a finger to his lips. “My middle name is ‘discretion.’ Kenny Discretion Stotch-McCormick.”
“That’s the stupidest name I’ve ever heard.”
“Well, it’s not real anyway, right? Listen, you think you’ve got it so bad? Everyone on this ship is unhappy, Stan, everyone. It’s just some of us can figure out how to smuggle MDMA aboard, and some of us are forever tagged for searches as a security risk because we tried to buy codeine over the counter in Nogales when we were 19. It happens.”
Stan wishes he were getting dressed. “Do you mind if I disrobe?”
Kenny doesn’t answer, just points to Stan’s pile of clothes and things.
“Thanks.” Stan rises. He’s quiet while he unbelts the robe, and pulls his underwear up. After tugging on his shirt, he says, “I don’t think everyone on this boat is miserable. Honestly. This is where people go to get away from their misery. Cruising, I mean. I hate that word, it’s so loaded. ... And I hate that word, too. Words, Kenny, I hate words. They fucking ruin everything.”
“Yes, agreed. I’m fucking sick of words. Have you ever been to therapy? Of course you haven’t. Do you know what therapy is, Stan? It’s just talking, fucking talking to some woman for an hour while she explains that you and the man you’ve built your life around are ‘sexually incompatible,’ that you’ve been together for so long you missed the ‘crucial developmental milestones of self-identity’ and then she charges you $185-”
“Just stop.” Stan folds the damp robe over and tosses it back on the chair. He adjusts his jeans and sits down on the sofa again, with half-clad Kenny, noticing the frayed ends of Kenny’s hair hanging in his eyes. “I’m sorry, dude. I am. But it’s only been a day, okay? You guys will find someone.”
“At least if you end up with Kyle, you won’t have to draw up a contract to determine who gets to do what. Do you know how hard it is for two bottoms to fuck, Stan? And wouldn’t you know it, everyone else on this ship is also a fucking bottom.”
“I dunno, I think Kyle’s doing all right in that department.”
“God, he’s fucking lucky, then. You both are. You’re lucky you’re a top, Stan.”
“I’m not a top,” says Stan.
Kenny raises his eyebrow again. “Find that hard to believe.”
“I’m not anything, I don’t care, I just want to be treated like a person.”
“If you bottomed you’d never say anything like that,” says Kenny. “That’s such a top thing to say. To not even give a shit.”
Stan reaches for his book on the dresser behind him. “These labels are ruining your sex life, dude. They’re ruining your relationship. I don’t buy into that shit, okay? I just want to be with him, that’s all I want. And if I can’t be with him, I want him to be happy. And if I were with him I’d do whatever he wanted. But I’d do it for the person he is in his heart, you know? Like, I dunno, it’s all the same orgasm. Biologically, I mean, it’s the same exact thing. The mind is the primary sex organ, after all.”
“She’ll come around.” Kenny pats Stan on the thigh, sighing.
There is one more difference in Kenny and Butters’ cabin that Stan can discern, one more thing that sets his room apart from his own: a tight balcony, large enough to accommodate just one small cocktail table and two chairs. This is visible from behind sliding doors, and beyond is a real view of the ocean. The sun must be above the boat, because it’s not visible, but the water looks so saturated, like a child’s painting of the sea, a rich toilet bowl-cleaner blue. Stan imagines Kenny and Butters having a drink out there before dinner, watching the sunset, hand-in-hand. It’s no wonder they’ve got this perk; Butters is a party planner, and Kenny a concierge at an upscale chain hotel in downtown Denver. Together they excel at wringing opportunities from the burden of service, creating something out of nothing.
For all their problems, Stan envies them.
~
Dinner is an optional formal night, and when Stan returns to the cabin to avoid cocktail hour, he finds his laundry on the freshly made bed, wrapped up in a tissue package and bound with baker’s twine. There’s a handwritten note, a vase of roses and an open box of Belgian chocolate someone has already ransacked. Stan hates roses, finds them cliché, but enjoys the note, on heavy stationery in flowing gel ink longhand, at least until he reads it:
My dear Clarence,
Have been thinking of you all day
Stan rips the card in half and tosses it in the garbage, along with another withered condom and several chocolate wrappers. It’s the lone sign of Kyle.
Though all he’s wanted all day is a bit of peace and quiet, without Kyle the room is depressing, the size of the cabin stifling rather than cozy. Stan pops a dark chocolate in his mouth, crushing into the stippled shell to discover it’s full of montelimar. The filling clings to his teeth, and he picks it out before heading out for the night.