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So I try to open the door with my foot, pushing a little. Only it isn't my house. That's Kevin's house, the one and only Kevin Stoley, the same guy who wears crocs and talks about spaceships in economy class. He owns a Yoda hat, for fuck's sake. Kevin is a nerd, and I am drunk. Pretty drunk. I'll always be a little drunk, that's what if feels like.
And the door is kinda pretty, like those doors your grandma has at her little frilly cottage house. Made of wood, baby pink, flowers drawn on the sides. Just there to emphasize how gay Kevin Stoley is and how gay I'm feeling for him. Which is very. Like, I don't know, is it the body? The smile? The Asianness? It's a mystery I may or may not solve, but I just know I have to get through that door. Which, in matter of fact, still isn't my door.
Half drunk but VERY determined, I knock on Kevin Stoley's baby pink front door. I wait. A second, two (?) seconds later, the door opens and TA-DA! Kevin Stoley, in all of his naked glory. Only he isn't naked, but wearing Star Wars boxers and a Barney t-shirt. So Kevin looks at me and he squints and it's kinda cute, but then he goes "What?"
"What?" What was an excellent question. I mean, it's not really every night when you come across a drunk fat guy posing sexily on your doorsetep. I, I think it's sexy, I don't know. Is it? I lower my arm from the wall and settle my grin into a smile. Smooth, Donovan. Keep it buttery.
"Heyyy brofski. Stoley. You got eyyyyes like butter," I say, finger guns in tow. Heh, I've got him in the palm of my hand.
So this guy, this fucking guy with the almondest of eyes dares look me in the (boring, brown) eyes and go "Why are you at my house?" Why am I at his house? Right. Wait. Flowery pink door. Totally not my door! Not even my street? Shit.
"Uh, just paying my favorite bro a visit! How's it hanging?"
I can hear the Stoleys' TV from inside, and the voice of his mother. Very short, very angry Chinese mother. Most likely not a fan of drunk teenage boyfriends. So, naturally, what comes next is: "Can I come inside?"
"Fuck you, you stupid, drunk asshole. You're drunk."
"Yeah. Hella sorrz, man."
"No, no. Fucking come inside. Make yourself at home. Good idea."
So, normally I'm able to detect this thing called sarcasm. I mean, I'm best bros with Craig fucking Tucker, right? Must be able to at least recognize the basics. Right? No. Nope. Not drunk Clyde. Drunk Clyde tears up and hugs the closest twink in his surrounding area (Kevin Stoley).
"My parents are home," he says.
"I know."
"Right. Great. I'm taking you upstairs. Is this green nail polish you're wearing? Jesus."
I kind of tune him out at that point. Or rather I'm not focusing on what he's saying, just kind of.... The pitch of his voice. It's really weird. A bit nasal but not in the Craig way, that's only sexy if you're Tweek. He talks fast, and loud, though he doesnt realize it, and it's soft and reminds me of my grandma. My boyfriend's voice and door remind me of my grandma. Nice.
Somewhere in the faraway background his parents are yelling, but whatever. I'm being hugged by a hot boy. He's actually taller than me, which is like, totally unfair. My mom's Dutch genes have to come in somewhere, right? Tallest people in the world. More like a bunch of liars, I think. I lean against Kevin's shoulder as he carries me up the stairs.
Kevin's noodle arms somehow get me to his bed, where I flop down with all the grace of a fat pig. His sheets smell like cheetos, and not even the flaming hot kind. Which, by the way, is clearly superior. "Your bed sucks buddy. Bed buddy. Bed bud. Bro."
Kevin lets out an exasperated sigh, his hand running through his hair. Even his hair is pretty, all sleek and black. Fucker doesn't even have to brush it to look good, what with his magical anime boy powers. He leans in real close, and I can smell his fancy peach shampoo when he kisses me. Gay.
I try to moan seductively, but Kevin just pulls away and laughs. He works on my jacket, unbuttoning till I'm stripped to my favorite meme t-shirt. Normally I'd be flustered by this, and very excited in the Clyde Jr area. But alcohol makes everything fuzzy, including bodily functions.
"You're a big baby, you know that? I told you to stay in with me instead of going to the party," Kevin says. He's not mad, just constantly cranky. Pissed. Sandy-vaginaed. Unlike Kyle, it makes him endearing.
"And watch another Star Trek marathon? Sorry babe, I'd rather... I'd rather hear Craig talk about guinea pigs for an hour! While Tweek kisses his neck. It's kinda hot. Is that fucked up? That I find my best friend getting his neck sucked by my other friend hot?"
The mattress suddenly dents next to me, Kevin's arm finding its way around my shoulders. I nuzzle it, obviously. "Just go to bed Clyde. I'll call your dad for you."
What a guy. What a fucking guy, right? No one should have to call their boyfriend's dad, but Kev's a champ. I love him. "I love you!"
"Yeah, yeah. You too. Goodnight, dummy."
"Night."