He never takes his shirt off when we have sex.

He knows it drives me crazy that I still haven't fully seen his body, after an entire year of being..., well whatever it is that we are. I don't know if I can quite call it being together. But despite knowing it drives me up the wall, he still won't bend. I've tried absolutely everything to get him to take it off. Sneak attacks, coaxing, begging, sexual favors, nothing works. And every single time I'm close to finally just ripping his shirt off of his body, he captures my hands above my head with a single fist and then distracts me with his free hand until I forget absolutely everything.

His reason behind insisting on shirt-on sex isn't really the sort of thing that I can ask him about, but then again nothing really is. This is Eric freaking Cartman we're talking about. But I have a sneaking suspicion that it has something to do with me calling him Fatass his entire life. Had I known that one day I'd be desperate to take off his shirt, and that he wouldn't let me see his body for anything in the world, I probably never would have started the whole "Fatass" thing to begin with.

"Put that fucking gay-ass diary down and come suck my balls Jew," he orders.

Then again, maybe not.

"In a minute asshole," I toss back.

Leaving his shirt on is one of the two unspoken Cartman rules that govern our "thing". The other is that he holds all the cards. He would call it having "authoritah". What that means basically, is that everything that happens with us sexually is his decision. He doesn't call before randomly breaking into my bedroom window a few nights a week and climbing in. I once asked him why he comes in that way, when obviously he could just ring my apartment's buzzer like a normal person, but he just shrugged and said, "I've been coming through your window your whole life Jew." Sometimes I think he'll still be doing this when we get really old, grumbling about a bad back but still fancying himself a "super-coo cat burglar." So, I leave the window unlocked for him now, and whenever he's in the mood he comes by and climbs into bed with me. Sometimes he spends the entire night with me, but sometimes he leaves right when I'm desperate to curl up with him and fall asleep in his arms. Every once in a while I let myself wonder where he is the other nights of the week, if he's sneaking into other willing peoples bedrooms, or if I'm the only one. Thinking that I might just be someone in the regular rotation of say, Butters, or other people, makes my stomach feel all weird and heavy, so I try not to let myself think about it too much, but lately it's constantly been on my mind. Where is he when he's not with me? It's not like he ever calls, so the only time I ever really know where he is, is when we're together. I mean it's not like I'm expecting him to constantly check in with me, but at the very least, he could call before he comes over. Sure, I'm always willing when he comes by, and he knows that, but he shouldn't just expect me to always be.

I put down my journal.

"You could call you know," I tell him.

"Call?"

"Yeah, you know like before you come over."

"What would be the hell point in that Jew?"

"Oh, I don't know, you know, maybe to see if I'm home or not," I tell him.

He looks at me like I'm crazy.

"Erm right, except I can see you're home when I come over and see you in your bed Kahl," he says this super slowly, as if he's talking to someone mentally disabled.

"ARGH! Fuck seeing if I'm home, you could call in-freaking general asshole!"

"That is so gay Kahl, so so gay man."

"Ugh, Fucking forget it," I scream. He is so fucking exasperating!

"Come here Kahl, I'll help you get the sand out of your vagina."

"I DO NOT HAVE-" Cartman crosses the room and sticks his tongue down my throat, effectively cutting me off, and pulls me hard up against him.

I kiss him back, dropping it for now, wrapping my arms around him.

Arguing with him always riles me up. In a twisted way, arguing is our kind of foreplay, so we've basically had an entire lifetime of foreplay and built up sexual frustration with no release. Which is why when we finally got together it was so explosive, and why I know it always will be. I don't think it could ever be this explosive with anyone else, because no one else unleashes this particular brand of channeled rage from me. I guess that's one thing you can say for Cartman. He makes me seriously hot.

I'm still kissing him when his mouth does this little twitch and he starts chuckling.

"Call you," he murmurs against my lips, still laughing, "Seriouslah Kahl, you kill me."

"FUCK YOU FATASS!"

"With pleasure, Jew"

And that is the end of that discussion.