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"Look at me, Quinn. You can tell me about your chastity club and pristine heterosexuality all you want, but you can't look me in the eyes and truthfully tell me that when I do this,"—Santana gripped the blonde's hip with her left hand—"or this,"—she ran the right one down Quinn's white, just-ironed dress and settled it on Ryan Seacrest's face—"or this,"—their bodies collided and Quinn's mouth was flooded with the flavor of Sue's patented weight loss shake—"your body doesn't burn up. Tell me you don't feel like Finnocence trying to run the Annual Lima Marathon."
Quinn looked into Santana's eyes and felt a painful tingle slide down her spine and settle in a place her bible study class taught her not to speak, talk, or think about.
"Fuck you."
"As you wish, princess."