So maybe Kurt was traumatized by their last conversation or whatever, if his recent scrambling through the hallways of McKinley whenever Puck came into his line of sight was of any indication. And maybe Mr. Schue had forced him to sit down after Glee and talk about 'the correct way to communicate' and 'expressing yourself in appropriate methods', but then he got this crazy look in his eyes that meant Puck was going to understand fuck-all in T-minus twenty seconds, so he'd skipped out on the lecture and saved himself the inevitable mental scarring from the assumptions of the faculty.

But this didn't mean that Puckerman was in the position to abandon Kurt. Sure, he'd had a dandy time telling Kurt that he was a limp-wrested queen and generally abusing him, but being family and shit, he had to support him through thick and thin. This entailed protecting him from the slightly more insane members of the football team, offering him spare clothes when he got slushied, and, of course, aiding and abetting him in Kurt's (formerly unknown to everyone, including himself) quest to Getting Mad Bitches.

"Excuse me?" Kurt squeaked, from where he was cornered in the choir room, "I don't, um, know what you mean. I don't actually want to- uh, 'get mad game with the biddies', as you so eloquently put it, Noah, although I do appreciate you looking out for my wellbeing…"

Puck ignored his soul-sibling's squealing. "I made a chart, Hummel, so sit your ass down. I realize that, you know, you being a total nancy and all, that my strategy for getting yourself knee-deep in pussy isn't going to work out for you. So, with the help of these pie charts I've so lovingly made, we should be able to figure out your plan to guarantee you to be stuck in the jungle of dicks and pubes, what fucking ever you're into." He gestured to the three pies from the local bakery resting on the piano and allowed a moment for Hummel to fall the fuck over himself in gratitude.

Kurt appeared to be either trying to claw his eyes out or crying, Noah couldn't be sure.

"Those aren't really charts, Noah, those are baked goods," Kurt the Ungrateful Bitch (wait, was that abusive? It couldn't be, he'd called his little sister stuff like Brat and What The Fuck Are You Doing In My Room before, and she seemed okay, so he was probably safe) said. "Anyways, I'm supposed to meet up with Blaine for dinner in about an hour, and I need to get home so I can-"

"You don't want Blaine." Puck cut in smoothly. So smoothly, in fact, that Kurt looked uncertain for a few seconds. "I don't?"

Noah Puckerman lifted up one of the pies, leveling it with Kurt's eyes. "This," he explained carefully, "is cherry pie. Now, this is your third-level homo. He's fashionable, but only a little bit, and is essentially a vagina with a moustache and an eventual 401(k) plan." Hummel looked like he wasn't getting pretty much any of this, even though Puck'd spent, like, a fucking hour and a half trying to come up with metaphors with Finn last night. Feverishly backtracking to the last movie he'd seen with Santana before she'd blocked him from her panties and kicked him out of her life, he amended, "Uh, like, the Gretchen Weiners of gay-bots, okay?"

Kurt nodded and was starting to look a little less like he had no idea what was happening. Puck took it as a sign and seized the apple pie that lay quietly steaming beside him. "This is apple pie, otherwise known as Karen Smith. Not too shabby, but not where the party's at. This the homo-equivalent of 'the other woman'. Acceptable for blowjobs and a little face-time, but not your numero-uno. You dig?"

"I dig," Kurt said faintly, "But, Noah, please-"

Puckerman, already delirious with his ability to reach his 'little brother' and guide him, was not going to be deterred from his path. "Motherfucking cherry pie, Hummel. The god of all pies, and the master of your cock until you die, or it stops working, which ever comes first. This, Kurt, is what you're looking for. Not Blaine. Not Finn- which, by the way, I hope you dropped that stalker shit you had going for him, because dude is your brother now and I am not supportive of you tappin' that ass while your parents are still married to each other. You are looking for the motherfucking cherry pie of gay men."

There was a deafening pause, in which Puck congratulated himself on being a grade-A big brother/mentor and Kurt tried to make himself fall through the floor by the sheer force of his embarrassment.

"Noah," Kurt wheezed, "while I quite appreciate this, um, talk, I don't think I'll need it. I don't think I could juggle three guys at the same time, and anyways, that's sort- well. Amoral?"

Puck looked offended. "There are no morals. Who said anything about morals? The point of this is to conquer as many cocks as you possibly can. Basically, you'll be the Puckzilla of homos. Like, Queerzilla or something. Cockasaurus Rex."

Cockasaurus Rex. Kurt wanted to scour his brain with Lysol.

"So!" Puck said brightly, "You should probably put out if Blaine's taking you out for dinner, so come on. Show me."

Kurt wondered if it was possible to suffocate Noah Puckerman and his good intentions without anyone else finding out. "Show you want?"

"Show me your sex face. Don't you gay guys, like, have a code for when you're on a date and you'd rather skip dessert and have some dick instead? Like, a secret handshake or something? Like, a few rounds of Miss Mary Mack followed by pulling taking off your pants?"