Scrap post
Mar. 18th, 2014 19:32![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sekritomgI started writing this last fall and after re-reading it I am still so into this idea, which is supposed to be kind of tongue-in-cheek and cracked out. Unfortunately I have way too many fics to write so I am abandoning this one.
Rating: R/NC17ish
Pairings: Butters/Kenny, Craig/Clyde, Craig/Butters/Kenny, Stan/Kyle
Summary: In this unfinished genderbend AU, all the boys are adult lesbian separatists and South Park is their lesbian separatist commune.
Note: This was supposed to be very, um, pulpy.
Craig knew something unusual — something sinister — was afoot. She simply had a nose for these things. The tone of people’s voices, the way they shifted their eyes; these were cues, for Craig, to portentous developments. It was a shame no one ever listened. It was a shame no one ever cared. Craig was going on about this at breakfast.
“What do you think is afoot?” Clyde asked. She was sweating over the stovetop, making preserves. Sweat beaded at her brow.
“I don’t know.” Craig swept some granola crumbs into her hand, and stood up to brush them into the sink. “But something is, and I just know it. You know I know these things.” The sink was a novelty. Indoor plumbing has only come to South Park last winter. It was a hard-fought victory over the county, a two-year slog to bring pipes to the settlement. The water wasn’t hot, but a stupid kind of pride filled Craig’s heart as she watched the granola crumbs wash away, down the drain.
When they’d come here to settle down and founded South Park six years ago, none of them knew when, or if, running water would come. They had grappled with the legal bullshit and Craig had laid the pipes for this domicile herself. Clyde had attempted to help, in so far as she was able. Clyde was pudgy and clumsy, prone to tiredness and lazy on top of it. She’d tried, and largely failed, and Craig had secretly gone ahead and re-laid Clyde’s sections after she had shrugged off and gone inside to bake. Craig resented Clyde’s baking, her jam-making, her canning, and the general way she insisted on performing such heteronormative pantomimes of meaningless wifery. Yet clearly Clyde wasn’t made to do physical labor. She had unsteady hands and soft skin that blistered easily. The only labor Clyde never tired of was lovemaking, and she had a hot little mouth that didn’t quit. Craig sighed thinking of it, turning off the tap.
Clyde was licking blueberry juice from her fingers. If Craig had no work to do, she might have crawled between Clyde’s legs then and there. Unfortunately, she had agreed to go over to Butters’ and help lay a fence.
“If something was wrong,” Clyde asked, reducing the flame under the pot, “you’d tell me, right?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” said Craig. “In any case, not with you.” Generally hesitant to express affection, Craig took a handful of Clyde’s ass and brought her in for a sloppy kiss. She tasted more like baking soda toothpaste than blueberries, but Craig didn’t like blueberries anyway. She didn’t plan to have any of the preserves.
~
It was at Butters’ that Craig found out what was going on. This came when she was halfway through burying the first fence stake. “Gosh,” Butters was saying, kneeling in the grass. “You sure can handle that thing.”
Craig planted the butt of the sledgehammer in the soft ground. Soon it would freeze over; fall was coming, and in the Rockies that meant hard, unforgiving soil. For now it sank into the mud. Butters was flirting, awkwardly, the way she did everything. It was shameless. Something about that made Craig wet. She rolled her eyes. “Yeah?”
“Yeah!” Butters clasped her hands over her crotch, gasping. “I dunno what I’d do without you, Craig.” Her eyelashes fluttered. She was probably hard. The thought of it made Craig uncomfortable, and yet she was intrigued. A year ago, when Butters got here, Craig was adamant that there was no place for a dick in South Park, even if it was attached to a self-identified woman. It was a hardline position, but someone had to take it. Technically it was Stan’s call, but as the years went by Stan was growing increasingly lenient on matters. First that snotty, frilly little bitch from the city, and now this. Not that Craig minded. Butters was sweet and self-effacing, a blonde-haired, blue-eyed charmer. Her hair was growing longer, her voice hitching up. The hard, knobby look of her joints was blurring past androgyny into the delicate gait of girlhood. For all Butters must have been in her 30s, she looked as fresh and wide-eyed as a college freshman, the kind Craig has made a habit of preying on over the course of her four-year tenure at Boulder. (This was before Clyde had been in the picture. They were going on 10 years now. Hard to believe.) Butters was signaling like crazy, touching her hair and biting her fingernails — coquettish stuff, really. Craig was considering her next move when Kenny appeared, disrupting the moment.
Kenny was an athletic woman, and she came out of the trailer in a halter top that made the most of her shoulders and arms and a pair of yoga pants that skimmed the shape of her thighs. This despite the fact that it was October and chilly, that Craig was wearing flannel with a down vest and Butters was bundled up in a puffy coat. Barefoot, Kenny padded over through the dirt, her feet dusty. She never seemed to wear shoes anywhere. From Craig's understanding she didn't cook, and she and Butters often ate Pop-Tarts for dinner. Craig chose to ignore such failings.
"Hey." Kenny put an arm around Butter's shoulder, falling to the ground at Butters' side. "How're you, Craig?"
"I'm fine."
"Craig's working on our fence," said Butters.
"I know."
"It's very kind of — Craig."
"It's really something," said Kenny. "I mean, Craig is really something."
"I'm all right," said Craig. She seized the sledgehammer again. "I mean, you girls could help."
Butters merely giggled. Kenny said, "All right," and got up. She picked up the next stake and dragged it to where Butters had marked the ground with pink spray paint. "Seriously, though," she said, hefting the stake into position. "I have news." She as an incurable gossip.
"Ooh." Butters sat to attention. "What kind of news?"
"Yes," said Craig, drily. "Please enlighten us."
"Stan and Kyle news," said Kenny. "They're pregnant."
Craig narrowed her eyes. She lifted the sledgehammer. "What?" she asked. "Both of them?"
"I don't think so," said Kenny. "Only one."
"Well?" Butters hopped to her feet. "Which one?"
"Don't talk about them like they're animals," said Craig. "Move your fucking fingers, Kenny, or I'll shatter them."
Kenny let go of the stake and Craig swung at it. The stake sunk shallowly into the ground. Again and again Craig swung at it.
"I don't know who," Kenny was saying. "I just got off the phone with Cartman."
Craig hated Cartman with every ounce of her passion. "What's that fat piece of shit up to?"
"Aw, Craig," said Butters. "That's shameful talk."
"That bitch owes me." One of Cartman's cats had gotten Craig's guinea pig. Now she and Clyde kept the windows closed. “She can die in a fire for all I care.”
“Don’t say things like that!” Butters put her hands over her ears, shaking her head. “Erica’s a good friend of mine.”
“Yeah, she’s a friend of ours.”
“That fat bitch is no one’s friend.” Craig brought the head of the sledgehammer down again, one last time. She kicked the post and, finding it sturdy, dropped the sledge in the mud and put her hands on her hips. “Stripes was my familiar.”
“Aw, Craig.” Butters stepped forward, patting Craig’s shoulder. “What’s a familiar?”
Craig let the hand fall from her shoulder as she waited to reply. “You wouldn’t understand,” she finally said. “Bring me another stake.”
Kenny dragged one up, steadying it as Craig swung. “What do we owe you?” she asked. “Baby, can we get Craig some lunch or something?”
“I just had granola,” Craig said. “There’s something I had in mind, though.”
~
Three posts in the ground and Craig found herself in bed. There was only one way to do it with Butters and Kenny: Butters fucked Kenny missionary-style, and Craig straddled Kenny’s face. Kenny had nothing on Clyde in this regard; Clyde’s tongue was a powerhouse, and Craig thought of it as she came on Kenny’s mouth. The ironic thing was how when Craig and Clyde actually made love, Craig’s mind wandered to memories of just about anyone else. It was a small community, no more than 200 women, and among the group in which Craig circulated, he’d had just about everyone. With notable exceptions. She’d made quick work of Butters and Kenny, once she’d gotten over the trans thing. Butters had promised she was finally doing the bottom-surgery. As Craig watched her finish in Kenny, it seemed impossible to think of them unable to do this. Butters’ implants jerked as she thrust, and Kenny’s sighs of delight were muffled between Craig’s thighs.
Not one to linger, Craig dressed quickly, buttoning her flannel over a wife-beater. (Misogynistic designation, but Craig liked the gruffness of it.) “Sorry we didn’t get to much of the fence,” she said, though she was hardly sorry.
“Oh,” said Kenny. “We’ll get to it.”
Butters was already dozing, head on Kenny’s shoulder.
“I’d walk you out,” Kenny began.
“Forget it,” said Craig. “I’ve got shit to deal with.”
~
The South Park County Radical Separatist Cooperative was chartered outside of Guffey, Colorado, during one long, cold winter Craig would never quite forget. It was the winter she and Clyde moved in together, first into the basement of Clyde’s mother’s house and then, little by little, Craig built their cabin. It was small, four rooms, counting the one they used now as a bathroom. (Previously it had been Clyde’s craft studio. Now she wove and canned at the kitchen table.) Things had come together slowly.
If Craig disavowed her own parents, she had little use for Mrs. Donovan, who’d lost her husband during Clyde’s childhood, an incident Clyde refused to discuss. Craig labored under the impression that this event was traumatizing for Clyde. In any case, Craig and her mother-in-law (not that Craig believed in such a meaningless and false construction) did not get along. Mrs. Donovan was afraid of Craig dragging her only daughter away to rough it in a house Craig built with her own hands; Craig found Clyde’s mother a sad old boor. She put on layers of plumping lip gloss and spent her free nights at bars, hounding men with her number scrawled on the interior flap of a matchbook. Clyde was easy to pathologize, in that she bore the mark of a woman desperately in need of a father. She didn’t like to talk about the details. Craig considered this one of Clyde’s failings. It was one of those topics on which they disagreed. Clyde had a sort of wistfulness about men, spoke often of her father and how kind he’d been before his death. Apparently he was an academic and a salesman, owned a shoe store, wore glasses and a cardigan. “He was one of the good ones,” she’d say.
“There are no good ones,” Craig would reply. “Men are strictly unnecessary.”
“Well, sure, but just because something is unnecessary doesn’t mean a good one doesn’t satisfy on occasion.”
“Are you talking about sex?” Craig might ask.
“What? Oh, gosh, no, no—” And Clyde would be blushing. She was terminally afraid of penises and never made it with Butters, even though the offer was on the table.
South Park had sprung from a burst of inspiration from the most righteous feminist mind Craig has ever had the pleasure of knowing. (And, once or twice, before that shrill little femme had burst onto the scene, pleasuring.)
[Partly Craig is upset because to get Kyle pregnant there had to be some semen involved and that is definitely not allowed on the compound! But also Craig is upset that the baby could be a boy and that is terrifying to Craig. (This despite the fact that Butters' semen was just totally all over Kenny's face while she was eating Craig out like 10 minutes previous.) So Craig goes over there to interrogate Stan about it and bitch him out for conspiring to get Kyle pregnant. Stan is like, "Actually, I'm pregnant," and Craig is extremely disillusioned and upset because the entire foundation of Craig's world is like, crumbling. So then Craig goes home and is bitching about this to Clyde and expects Clyde to be like "eh, get over it" because Clyde is all weak and unpolitical. But Clyde is like, you're right, that's total bullshit, you should take over this place in a coup and kick Stan and Kyle out for abuse of power. So Craig is like, wow, you're right, I should! And the rest of the story would basically be about Clyde kind of Lady Macbething Craig. No murder, though. I think eventually Stan just quits and is like, "Man, this was fun when I was in my 20s but it's not 1998 anymore and civil unions are legal in Colorado! So this is no longer necessary, I'm out." Kyle is an outsider; she knows Stan from high school and they hooked up after Stan founded this commune. Kyle is a very educated lipstick lesbian type who moved here from Denver and she is pissed that she can't wear any of her Jimmy Choos in the straw/mud. Also Stan is a goat farmer and a goat ate Kyle's best stilettos. Anyway, Kyle is a novelist who writes historical lesbian erotica, about like, the 1920s kibbutzes in Palestine. Anyway, this last bit was supposed to be Kyle and Craig fighting:]
“Get out of my house!”
“Hey,” said Craig, coolly, “I was helping build this house while you were still giving your high school boyfriend hand jobs under the table at Panera Bread.”
“How do you know about that?”
“It’s a small place,” said Craig. “Word gets around.”
“Ugh!”
[I'm sad to scrap this but seriously there's no way this would ever actually work. Also after fucking around with Butters and Kenny (they were just in a bi m/f open relationship before Butters decided to transition and they moved to this commune} Craig decides she wants to get a strap-on and use it on Clyde and Clyde is like "I dunno that makes me nervous" and then they do it anyway and Clyde is very into it and Craig gets super jealous.]
[Okay I'm done.]
Rating: R/NC17ish
Pairings: Butters/Kenny, Craig/Clyde, Craig/Butters/Kenny, Stan/Kyle
Summary: In this unfinished genderbend AU, all the boys are adult lesbian separatists and South Park is their lesbian separatist commune.
Note: This was supposed to be very, um, pulpy.
Craig knew something unusual — something sinister — was afoot. She simply had a nose for these things. The tone of people’s voices, the way they shifted their eyes; these were cues, for Craig, to portentous developments. It was a shame no one ever listened. It was a shame no one ever cared. Craig was going on about this at breakfast.
“What do you think is afoot?” Clyde asked. She was sweating over the stovetop, making preserves. Sweat beaded at her brow.
“I don’t know.” Craig swept some granola crumbs into her hand, and stood up to brush them into the sink. “But something is, and I just know it. You know I know these things.” The sink was a novelty. Indoor plumbing has only come to South Park last winter. It was a hard-fought victory over the county, a two-year slog to bring pipes to the settlement. The water wasn’t hot, but a stupid kind of pride filled Craig’s heart as she watched the granola crumbs wash away, down the drain.
When they’d come here to settle down and founded South Park six years ago, none of them knew when, or if, running water would come. They had grappled with the legal bullshit and Craig had laid the pipes for this domicile herself. Clyde had attempted to help, in so far as she was able. Clyde was pudgy and clumsy, prone to tiredness and lazy on top of it. She’d tried, and largely failed, and Craig had secretly gone ahead and re-laid Clyde’s sections after she had shrugged off and gone inside to bake. Craig resented Clyde’s baking, her jam-making, her canning, and the general way she insisted on performing such heteronormative pantomimes of meaningless wifery. Yet clearly Clyde wasn’t made to do physical labor. She had unsteady hands and soft skin that blistered easily. The only labor Clyde never tired of was lovemaking, and she had a hot little mouth that didn’t quit. Craig sighed thinking of it, turning off the tap.
Clyde was licking blueberry juice from her fingers. If Craig had no work to do, she might have crawled between Clyde’s legs then and there. Unfortunately, she had agreed to go over to Butters’ and help lay a fence.
“If something was wrong,” Clyde asked, reducing the flame under the pot, “you’d tell me, right?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” said Craig. “In any case, not with you.” Generally hesitant to express affection, Craig took a handful of Clyde’s ass and brought her in for a sloppy kiss. She tasted more like baking soda toothpaste than blueberries, but Craig didn’t like blueberries anyway. She didn’t plan to have any of the preserves.
~
It was at Butters’ that Craig found out what was going on. This came when she was halfway through burying the first fence stake. “Gosh,” Butters was saying, kneeling in the grass. “You sure can handle that thing.”
Craig planted the butt of the sledgehammer in the soft ground. Soon it would freeze over; fall was coming, and in the Rockies that meant hard, unforgiving soil. For now it sank into the mud. Butters was flirting, awkwardly, the way she did everything. It was shameless. Something about that made Craig wet. She rolled her eyes. “Yeah?”
“Yeah!” Butters clasped her hands over her crotch, gasping. “I dunno what I’d do without you, Craig.” Her eyelashes fluttered. She was probably hard. The thought of it made Craig uncomfortable, and yet she was intrigued. A year ago, when Butters got here, Craig was adamant that there was no place for a dick in South Park, even if it was attached to a self-identified woman. It was a hardline position, but someone had to take it. Technically it was Stan’s call, but as the years went by Stan was growing increasingly lenient on matters. First that snotty, frilly little bitch from the city, and now this. Not that Craig minded. Butters was sweet and self-effacing, a blonde-haired, blue-eyed charmer. Her hair was growing longer, her voice hitching up. The hard, knobby look of her joints was blurring past androgyny into the delicate gait of girlhood. For all Butters must have been in her 30s, she looked as fresh and wide-eyed as a college freshman, the kind Craig has made a habit of preying on over the course of her four-year tenure at Boulder. (This was before Clyde had been in the picture. They were going on 10 years now. Hard to believe.) Butters was signaling like crazy, touching her hair and biting her fingernails — coquettish stuff, really. Craig was considering her next move when Kenny appeared, disrupting the moment.
Kenny was an athletic woman, and she came out of the trailer in a halter top that made the most of her shoulders and arms and a pair of yoga pants that skimmed the shape of her thighs. This despite the fact that it was October and chilly, that Craig was wearing flannel with a down vest and Butters was bundled up in a puffy coat. Barefoot, Kenny padded over through the dirt, her feet dusty. She never seemed to wear shoes anywhere. From Craig's understanding she didn't cook, and she and Butters often ate Pop-Tarts for dinner. Craig chose to ignore such failings.
"Hey." Kenny put an arm around Butter's shoulder, falling to the ground at Butters' side. "How're you, Craig?"
"I'm fine."
"Craig's working on our fence," said Butters.
"I know."
"It's very kind of — Craig."
"It's really something," said Kenny. "I mean, Craig is really something."
"I'm all right," said Craig. She seized the sledgehammer again. "I mean, you girls could help."
Butters merely giggled. Kenny said, "All right," and got up. She picked up the next stake and dragged it to where Butters had marked the ground with pink spray paint. "Seriously, though," she said, hefting the stake into position. "I have news." She as an incurable gossip.
"Ooh." Butters sat to attention. "What kind of news?"
"Yes," said Craig, drily. "Please enlighten us."
"Stan and Kyle news," said Kenny. "They're pregnant."
Craig narrowed her eyes. She lifted the sledgehammer. "What?" she asked. "Both of them?"
"I don't think so," said Kenny. "Only one."
"Well?" Butters hopped to her feet. "Which one?"
"Don't talk about them like they're animals," said Craig. "Move your fucking fingers, Kenny, or I'll shatter them."
Kenny let go of the stake and Craig swung at it. The stake sunk shallowly into the ground. Again and again Craig swung at it.
"I don't know who," Kenny was saying. "I just got off the phone with Cartman."
Craig hated Cartman with every ounce of her passion. "What's that fat piece of shit up to?"
"Aw, Craig," said Butters. "That's shameful talk."
"That bitch owes me." One of Cartman's cats had gotten Craig's guinea pig. Now she and Clyde kept the windows closed. “She can die in a fire for all I care.”
“Don’t say things like that!” Butters put her hands over her ears, shaking her head. “Erica’s a good friend of mine.”
“Yeah, she’s a friend of ours.”
“That fat bitch is no one’s friend.” Craig brought the head of the sledgehammer down again, one last time. She kicked the post and, finding it sturdy, dropped the sledge in the mud and put her hands on her hips. “Stripes was my familiar.”
“Aw, Craig.” Butters stepped forward, patting Craig’s shoulder. “What’s a familiar?”
Craig let the hand fall from her shoulder as she waited to reply. “You wouldn’t understand,” she finally said. “Bring me another stake.”
Kenny dragged one up, steadying it as Craig swung. “What do we owe you?” she asked. “Baby, can we get Craig some lunch or something?”
“I just had granola,” Craig said. “There’s something I had in mind, though.”
~
Three posts in the ground and Craig found herself in bed. There was only one way to do it with Butters and Kenny: Butters fucked Kenny missionary-style, and Craig straddled Kenny’s face. Kenny had nothing on Clyde in this regard; Clyde’s tongue was a powerhouse, and Craig thought of it as she came on Kenny’s mouth. The ironic thing was how when Craig and Clyde actually made love, Craig’s mind wandered to memories of just about anyone else. It was a small community, no more than 200 women, and among the group in which Craig circulated, he’d had just about everyone. With notable exceptions. She’d made quick work of Butters and Kenny, once she’d gotten over the trans thing. Butters had promised she was finally doing the bottom-surgery. As Craig watched her finish in Kenny, it seemed impossible to think of them unable to do this. Butters’ implants jerked as she thrust, and Kenny’s sighs of delight were muffled between Craig’s thighs.
Not one to linger, Craig dressed quickly, buttoning her flannel over a wife-beater. (Misogynistic designation, but Craig liked the gruffness of it.) “Sorry we didn’t get to much of the fence,” she said, though she was hardly sorry.
“Oh,” said Kenny. “We’ll get to it.”
Butters was already dozing, head on Kenny’s shoulder.
“I’d walk you out,” Kenny began.
“Forget it,” said Craig. “I’ve got shit to deal with.”
~
The South Park County Radical Separatist Cooperative was chartered outside of Guffey, Colorado, during one long, cold winter Craig would never quite forget. It was the winter she and Clyde moved in together, first into the basement of Clyde’s mother’s house and then, little by little, Craig built their cabin. It was small, four rooms, counting the one they used now as a bathroom. (Previously it had been Clyde’s craft studio. Now she wove and canned at the kitchen table.) Things had come together slowly.
If Craig disavowed her own parents, she had little use for Mrs. Donovan, who’d lost her husband during Clyde’s childhood, an incident Clyde refused to discuss. Craig labored under the impression that this event was traumatizing for Clyde. In any case, Craig and her mother-in-law (not that Craig believed in such a meaningless and false construction) did not get along. Mrs. Donovan was afraid of Craig dragging her only daughter away to rough it in a house Craig built with her own hands; Craig found Clyde’s mother a sad old boor. She put on layers of plumping lip gloss and spent her free nights at bars, hounding men with her number scrawled on the interior flap of a matchbook. Clyde was easy to pathologize, in that she bore the mark of a woman desperately in need of a father. She didn’t like to talk about the details. Craig considered this one of Clyde’s failings. It was one of those topics on which they disagreed. Clyde had a sort of wistfulness about men, spoke often of her father and how kind he’d been before his death. Apparently he was an academic and a salesman, owned a shoe store, wore glasses and a cardigan. “He was one of the good ones,” she’d say.
“There are no good ones,” Craig would reply. “Men are strictly unnecessary.”
“Well, sure, but just because something is unnecessary doesn’t mean a good one doesn’t satisfy on occasion.”
“Are you talking about sex?” Craig might ask.
“What? Oh, gosh, no, no—” And Clyde would be blushing. She was terminally afraid of penises and never made it with Butters, even though the offer was on the table.
South Park had sprung from a burst of inspiration from the most righteous feminist mind Craig has ever had the pleasure of knowing. (And, once or twice, before that shrill little femme had burst onto the scene, pleasuring.)
[Partly Craig is upset because to get Kyle pregnant there had to be some semen involved and that is definitely not allowed on the compound! But also Craig is upset that the baby could be a boy and that is terrifying to Craig. (This despite the fact that Butters' semen was just totally all over Kenny's face while she was eating Craig out like 10 minutes previous.) So Craig goes over there to interrogate Stan about it and bitch him out for conspiring to get Kyle pregnant. Stan is like, "Actually, I'm pregnant," and Craig is extremely disillusioned and upset because the entire foundation of Craig's world is like, crumbling. So then Craig goes home and is bitching about this to Clyde and expects Clyde to be like "eh, get over it" because Clyde is all weak and unpolitical. But Clyde is like, you're right, that's total bullshit, you should take over this place in a coup and kick Stan and Kyle out for abuse of power. So Craig is like, wow, you're right, I should! And the rest of the story would basically be about Clyde kind of Lady Macbething Craig. No murder, though. I think eventually Stan just quits and is like, "Man, this was fun when I was in my 20s but it's not 1998 anymore and civil unions are legal in Colorado! So this is no longer necessary, I'm out." Kyle is an outsider; she knows Stan from high school and they hooked up after Stan founded this commune. Kyle is a very educated lipstick lesbian type who moved here from Denver and she is pissed that she can't wear any of her Jimmy Choos in the straw/mud. Also Stan is a goat farmer and a goat ate Kyle's best stilettos. Anyway, Kyle is a novelist who writes historical lesbian erotica, about like, the 1920s kibbutzes in Palestine. Anyway, this last bit was supposed to be Kyle and Craig fighting:]
“Get out of my house!”
“Hey,” said Craig, coolly, “I was helping build this house while you were still giving your high school boyfriend hand jobs under the table at Panera Bread.”
“How do you know about that?”
“It’s a small place,” said Craig. “Word gets around.”
“Ugh!”
[I'm sad to scrap this but seriously there's no way this would ever actually work. Also after fucking around with Butters and Kenny (they were just in a bi m/f open relationship before Butters decided to transition and they moved to this commune} Craig decides she wants to get a strap-on and use it on Clyde and Clyde is like "I dunno that makes me nervous" and then they do it anyway and Clyde is very into it and Craig gets super jealous.]
[Okay I'm done.]
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2014-03-22 04:04 (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-03-23 01:04 (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-03-22 11:00 (UTC)"Craig decides she wants to get a strap-on and use it on Clyde and Clyde is like "I dunno that makes me nervous" and then they do it anyway and Clyde is very into it and Craig gets super jealous"
This is so perfect.
no subject
Date: 2014-03-23 01:05 (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-05-03 03:06 (UTC)Like, holy shit, some of these conversations are just so apt, e.g. Craig saying, “There are no good ones,” not to mention the hilarity of Craig not using pronouns. I mean, this Craig is great. It’s classic dick Craig channeled really appropriately into the stereotype of the hot androgynous lesbian who gets all the sex. And the voice/tone is great, too, poking fun at some of these radical feminist clichés – I really appreciated that.
So sad there wasn’t anything with Stan and Kyle though! Femme Kyle is the greatest thing ever, like, this prissy asshole from Denver who writes historical lesbian erotica and is mad she can’t wear her Jimmy Choos around the commune? I’ve been thinking about this more today, I mean, how does she cope? How does she style her hair? How does she look at that fucking goat without wanting to kill it? Also, giving hand jobs to her high school boyfriend under the table at Panera, ooooh no!!!
God, this is like, so good. SO good. But I understand – you can’t write everything! It does really make me want to write them as lesbians myself, but I don’t think I’d be able to come up with an idea as good as this one!