I knew it was sickening. I knew it. I'm supposed to know this kind of stuff, people rely on me to know this before they do. That's why nobody could understand what was going through my head when they saw us together. I never told anyone, I didn't think they would believe me. They had to see it for themselves. My mother almost had a heart attack when she found out. People told her, I guess. I was trying to avoid that, for obvious reasons, but… It passed the point where I still had hope that it would stop. That we would stop.

I mean, we couldn't. At first, it was a physical force beyond my comprehension. Attraction. Gravity. We were brought to each other and collided like two animals, it was a train wreck, I was blind with lust, desire and anger before I could think. And it hurt. He knew he couldn't overpower me with arguments, with morals or knowledge; I would always win at that. So found a way of winning. Hell, when I put it like that it sounds like abuse or rape. It wasn't. It'd be easy for me to play innocent and act like I didn't love it when he ran those strong hands through my body, marking me, bruising my pale skin, spitting on my face while he slipped his hard, thick, heavy cock inside my body. God, I feel so empty without it. Literally. I feel empty without his fingers yanking my head back against his shoulder, his mouth mumbling dirty, filthy words into my ear, his balls hitting my ass cheeks while he pushed his whole dick into my ass and stood still, waiting, torturing me until I begged. And I did. I begged with every inch of my body for him to fuck me hard because I needed it. I needed his cock, his sweaty body holding me close, making me his. It felt like we were the only two people in the world.

It was secretive and exciting at first, he would catch me from behind by surprise anywhere he felt like it and we would sneak in corners of public places. I would fight just for habit, but I loved it. It loved his hands on me. His heath, his strength, those huge arms and large chest, I loved everything about his body. But it disgusted me in a way. Because I didn't love his mind. I fucking hated it, if you want the real story. And not just because he was a narcissistic asshole with no consideration for others, with twisted ethics and the most offensive sense of humor I've ever seen. Not just because he was annoying and loud and inconvenient. Not because of his huge ego, his sociopathic attitude, his racism, it wasn't even because he was constantly picking on me for my religion or my hair or pretty much anything I did. I hated him because of how he made me feel. I felt like I would be completely lost without his attention, his challenges and insults. I've grown accustomed to it. I felt like I needed him and it killed me.

Eric Cartman made me feel like nobody else would ever love me as much as he did. Nobody else would dedicate so much time and energy to get my attention, even if it was through constant fighting. I couldn't live without those fights.

It came to the point that either we fucked or he killed each other. I should've killed him when I had the chance.

I tried to stop. God, I tried so many times. But he laughed at my face and told me I was his. "I'm not letting you go, Kyle", he told me. It wasn't "I'm not giving you up", it wasn't "we belong together", it was… Possessive. Of course, what else could I except from him? He'd tell me it took him so long to get me, how the fuck would he let me go now?

Then I finally accepted that there was no running away from it. Not because Eric wouldn't take it, but because I didn't want him to let me go. So fuck what others say, I thought at the time. Fuck them. Fuck my mother, even. Fuck everyone who thinks we can't do this, everyone who says we're sick. In some way, we knew we were. I went against what my family and friends said about it, because there was no explaining for what we were doing. I couldn't understand it, so how was I supposed to make somebody else understand? Stan asked me if I was happy at the time, I remember that. I wasn't. I felt so dirty and exhausted, we yelled at each other all the goddamn time when we weren't fucking. But I told Stan I was happy and that Cartman was good to me.


You know, I've always been the smart one. And the one who wouldn't shut up about anything, when I thought something was wrong I would stand up for my ideals until the end. With Eric, I found out what that end was. The end was his fist. If you knew me a few years ago, you would never imagine I would end up like this, all swollen and bloody lying on the ground, taking it, accepting it, living with it. That's not who I thought I would become either. Shit happens.

The first time he punched me, if I recall clearly, we were arguing because he got jealous. We went to a bar and some guy hit on me, Cartman called me a whore in every way he could think of, all the way back home. When it came to sexual words (whore, slut, bitch, cocksucker), we always ended up fucking hard on the floor or against the wall because we never made it to the bed. The sexual tension was so strong. But that night was different. He didn't want to fuck me, he wanted to hurt me. And he did. Hit me hard on the face, I fell down, he kicked me and left. I packed my things the same night and moved out of the apartment. Stan took me in, like he always has and always will.

Eric went after me, begged for me to come back. Out of the bedroom, he was the one who got down on his knees and begged. He was the one with no control over anything, not even himself. "I'm not gonna be your fucking punching bag, you asshole", that's what I told him that day. Which is so ironic if you think about what happened next.

The fact is… He was a part of me. He still is. I'll never forget Stan's eyes when I told him I was getting back to Eric. He knew we were creating a new pattern, he tried to tell me million times, because Stan has always been like this. He takes such good care of me. But it was so useless because I was already aware of it, before anyone else. As I said, I'm the smart one. And in my opinion, you would have to be too damn stupid not to see what was going on between us. Of course I knew it would happen again. It took a while, but it did. He left me unconscious this time, hit my head hard against the wooden floor, calling me a Jewish little fag. I can't remember what we were fighting about, but I do remember that I punched him back that time and it made it fucking worse. When we were kids and I hit him, he cried. He was such a baby. But now I must have forgotten I was dealing with a man. A proud, big, aggressive man who I loved with every single beat of my heart, with all my soul, and I had no idea why.

Maybe because of the way he took care of me the next day. The way he held me and beseeched that I didn't leave him. And the way he said "you're the only good thing I have in my life, Kyle, you're the most important thing in the whole fucking world to me, without you I'm nothing". I can't say I actually believed him. I'm not that stupid. I didn't feel sorry for him either, even when he cried completely drunk and smelling like whore. I also didn't forgive him. I'm not that benevolent.

But I stood there. I waited for those punches. I prepared myself for them. I learned how to know they were coming and learned not to fight back. It's funny. Cartman always chose me because I was the one who fought back and it turned him on. But on the other hand, he felt so castrated that he found a way of showing me how was the real man between the two of us. And it was me. Deep inside, he knew it was me.

It killed him.

Nobody else believed the excuses I gave for my bruises, everybody knew what was going on. Kenny couldn't take it. No, Kenny was too good to take it quietly like everyone else, feeling sorry for me. That's precisely why I never let anyone say anything shitty about Kenny, because even though he saw himself as white trash, a drunken redneck like his father, he was so much more. He was the fairest man I've ever known. He showed up at our doorstep and threw himself at Cartman with all his strength; damn it, Kenny was skinny and much smaller than Eric, but he had muscle and he was freaking blind with anger that night. Cartman fell flat on his back and Kenny sat on top of him, punching him in the face repeatedly. The neighbors had to call the cops.

Kenny screamed at me, "Why are you doing this to yourself?!", so mad at me. I felt ashamed. Then I tried to leave him again. We spent some time apart. Eric didn't come after me, I guess it was too much for him. We exhausted each other.

But we couldn't do it.

We always found our way back, making drunken stupid mistakes. Making out every single time we ran into each other. There's only so much you can do in South Park to stay away from someone. To be honest, I wasn't even trying to stay away from him. When I saw him, my heart beat slower and faster at the same time. Everyone around us simply disappeared. My hands wouldn't obey me, they would look incessantly for his body. Our tongues spoke the same language. Our chests pushed against each other like we tried to be even closer, like it was humanly possible. He stroked his thumb against my cheek, looking into my eyes with that fucking smirk on his face, saying "I know how much you miss me. Come home, babe."

He promised me the world and a little more when we were in bed, spooning after sex. He liked that, I would never have guessed before we were together. He kissed the nape of my neck and caressed my hair, smelling it, hugging me close to him. It felt like home. It made sense. It was the only fucking thing that has ever made sense for me.

Of course, he'd break all those promises as he threw me to the ground again.

We did this for years.

Are you wondering why I took it? I was never fit for the whole victim role, that much I can say. I know this may be hard to understand. I stood beside him every time because I had to. The pain, the swelling, the fractured bones, the wounds, the bruises, the blood, the two teeth I lost, none of this was worse than living without him. Even then, his absence was unbearable to me.

Don't give me that look. What was the first thing I told you when you got here? That what I was about to tell you was sickening. So don't judge me now.

Eventually, he was the one who left. He was the only one who could, after all. I've always known that, but he had never actually done it. I wasn't ready. I thought I was, but there is no preparation for this sort of thing. I thought… I really thought I was stronger than this.

And I feel empty.

I wallowed in self pity and cried for… I don't even know how long. But it became even more pathetic than being this person who takes punches like they're gifts. He is gone. He left the town; I don't know where he is. I asked him not to tell me because I knew I would go after him eventually, and I don't wanna do that. He left me the apartment. Sometimes he comes back. He still has the keys, you know. Sometimes… When he misses me, he comes back for a day or two. But I haven't seen him in over a year.

Maybe he's married.

As weird as it sounds, I don't think he would ever hit a woman. Or even a man who couldn't take his punches. He knew I could, I think that's why he stuck with me for so long. Maybe he left because he realized he didn't need me anymore. I don't know. I don't think I ever will. Well, that's why I stay here. Feeling nothing.

That's… Not entirely true. I feel something. I feel sad. I've been sad for so long that I don't even know how to feel anything else anymore.

I know he'll come around and I'll be wallowing in sorrow and wearing a frown like Pierrot, the clown.

I may as well be fucking Pagliacci.