Through the Cracks
Test Tickles
Years of sneaking into others’ houses had morphed Cartman into a master of breaking and entering. From Butters’ room, he could hear the TV on, but the canned laughter and trite dialogue of some sitcom were the only sounds in the house. Cartman crept towards the noise, and just barely peeked around the banister into the living room below. Butters was on the floor playing. Behind him, a man in khakis and a Dodgers jersey sat on the couch with a beer in his hand. It was Uncle Bud alright, replacing the hazy image from Cartman’s memory with a crystal clear one. That made it easier to imagine Butters being preyed upon in lurid detail.
Commercials began, and Bud shifted his weight. He’s making his move. I’ll start with a high angle shot, and I can sneak in some close-ups when they’re really going at it. Cartman fumbled through his backpack for his video camera. Here it comes. Here it comes... He’s looking at Butters’ ass! No, he’s watching Charlie Sheen being a douchebag. He watched the lack of action through the camera screen. Bud put his feet on the coffee table, and Butters kept playing. Seconds ticked by on the counter, then minutes. Cartman stewed. Come on. His arms started to droop. He waited. And waited. Stretched himself out on the floor. And waited.
One show ended and another one started. Bored, Cartman turned the camera on himself and whispered, “This is seriously weak. Butters is just sitting there with that dumbass smile, like, ‘Not tonight. I’m gonna be a cock-tease right now.’” He was so engrossed with himself on video that he almost failed to notice that Butters had picked up his toys and was coming up the stairs. “Aw, crap!” He ran to the safety of Butters’ closet and tried to quiet his panting.
Blissfully unaware of his new visitor, Butters hummed a sleepy tune to wind down for bed. The night before, he had locked the bathroom door and watched it while brushing his teeth, combing his hair, taking his medicine. Tonight, the door was barely closed. I thought Uncle Bud was gonna be awful sore at me. But he gave me ice cream and let me stay up until 9 o’clock. He even said he was sorry for not giving me my medicine like I need it. Butters had felt better about spending time with his uncle than he had in a long time. The only physical contact between them was a quick, chaste hug at the suggestion of Mrs. Stotch. I knew Mom and Dad had a reason for punishing me.
The artificial, well-adjusted feel of the Stotch home was making Cartman restless. He pawed through the piles of stuff squirreled away in his friend’s closet, hoping to come across something interesting, or perhaps finally get his hands on that video of himself dressed as Britney Spears and destroy it. He tipped over a box and miniature construction equipment fell out. “Heh heh, an Erector Set. Does he have a dildo set in here, too?”
While Cartman helped himself to a stack of boxes behind the Erector Set, a noise from the hall interrupted his excavation. He held his breath and watched through the slightly open closet door as Uncle Bud came into Butters’ room and made himself at home. Bud was so much at ease that he didn’t hear the click of Cartman hitting the record button. The boy in the closet was not going to miss a thing. Moments later, there was a gurgling of bathwater going down the drain, followed by the bathroom door opening.
Fresh and steamy from his bath, Butters stumbled in, swaddled in a plush robe. When he spotted his uncle sitting on the bed, he stammered, “Oh. Wuh…what are you doin’ in here, Uncle Bud?”
“Just having a look around. Nice digs you got here.” Bud intended to be complimentary, not ironic, but the sugary colors and much of the décor didn’t fit Bud’s idea of a boy’s room. He moved on. “Why don’t you jump into your PJs? We can read a story together. How about…” Bud grabbed a paperback from the nightstand behind him and looked at the cover. “How about Will God Smite Michael’s Two Daddies?” He flashed a winning smile at the boy.
Butters was grateful for the offer of quality time and picked up the set of bunny pyjamas lying folded on the dresser. He was also quite happy to dismiss his confession about his uncle as a moment of madness and move on, never mentioning it again, as his parents had made sure he explained during his apology that afternoon. Before he could start getting changed, he noticed his uncle’s eyes still locked on him. He kneaded the terrycloth in his hands, unsure about whether to proceed. “Could you t-t-turn around? My body is a temple.” He wasn’t sure what that meant, but it sounded important in Father Maxi’s sermon.
“Ain’t nobody here but us guys. I’ll get comfy, too.” Bud pulled off his shirt and unbuckled his pants, tossing them aside. He looked very comfortable indeed. Not Butters, who wasn’t any closer to taking off his robe. The boy wanted badly to feel the trust he once had for Bud, but his feelings aligned with Mysterion’s words, not his family’s.
"Hey, I know. Would you like some candy?"
Butters perked up, in spite of already being full of ice cream. Candy? Maybe it's okay after all. "I love candy," said Butters, thinking of how seldom his parents offered him any. If he wanted to do something bad to me, he’d ground me. Bud reached into his pocket and withdrew a black tube with a picture of strawberries on it. "That sure is some funny looking candy." There was a word written on the side. "Ass-tro-slide. Is that like Astropops?"
"Uh, yeah. Just like them. It tastes like strawberries." Bud squeezed a dab onto his fingertip and held it to Butters' mouth. "Give it a try." When Butters looked at him haltingly, Bud added in a firmer tone, "Go on."
Never wanting to cause a problem, Butters climbed onto the bed and knelt next to his uncle. He parted his lips and licked at the pink goo. He swallowed and made a face. "That doesn't taste like strawberries."
"It's strawberry-like. As in, you'll learn to like it."
Butters wasn't so sure. “Okay, then.” While Butters was distracted by trying to get past the waxy aftertaste, Bud brushed the loose folds of Butters’ robe off the boy’s shoulder, revealing taut young skin and one pink dot of a nipple. The boy tried to shrug the sleeve back onto his shoulder, thinking it had slipped accidentally, but when his uncle whisked the material so that the rest of Butters’ chest was exposed, he knew it was no accident. “Please,” Butters began, trying to channel Mysterion, but unable to give a firm, convincing refusal. “L-let me put on my pyjamas now.” It didn’t sound serious in his meek whisper. To Bud, it wasn’t serious. It sounded like flirtation.
“Shhhh,” Bud cajoled, tracing the interesting landmarks on Butters’ skin. Collarbone, two nipples, a secret freckle.
Remember King Mysterion. You gotta stick up for yourself. “You better not do that no more, or I’m gonna… gonna…”
“Tell your Mommy and Daddy?” Bud didn’t sound threatened or even annoyed. It was the smooth, casual voice Butters remembered from that night in the bathroom. “Your folks didn’t believe you last time. No one did. So why don’t you just be a good boy and do what I tell you? You will learn to like it.” As he said this, he tried to peel the robe completely away, but Butters curled up so he could stay wrapped in it. He ended up lying supine on his bed, legs up against his chest. Seeing an opportunity, Bud let Butters be curled up and placed himself at the boy’s bottom. There, he resumed tracing, this time from Butters’ lower back nearly to his scrotum, following the exposed crease. He kept his free hand ready in case of a defensive kick. Butters did not kick out; instead, his fear turned his muscles useless and twitchy, granting Bud’s hand access between his legs. “Relax,” Bud instructed. “I’m starting with your ‘test tickles’ before we get to the real fun.” With curious fingers, he intended to warm the boy up for the main event.
“Test tickles… oh, you mean my chicken nuggets. Wait, don’t tickle me there!” Sensing Bud’s hand venturing forward, Butters pleaded, “Don’t touch my wiener. Please, no! That’s dirty!” Butters tried to squeeze his legs shut, but to no avail.
From where he was listening, Cartman couldn’t tell if Butters was beginning to cry, or whether it was the shaking of his body caused that delicate vibration in his voice. Either way, seeing Butters pleading and vulnerable like this had Cartman captivated until he noticed an uncomfortable tightness in his pants. Worst possible time for a fucking wedgie. With one hand, he fidgeted with the button on his pants until it came open. The tightness lessened, but he still felt tension down there. Oh. It’s that kind of wedgie. Well, my fun gun is gonna have to wait. Still, he let his hand rest at the meeting of his thighs. He waited for an encore of the performance Butters had described. You’d love my mouth on your junk, wouldn’t you, Butters? We can make that happen. He made a mental note and pressed his hand along the pink triangle of fabric. Not that there was anything gay about that. He dismissed it as a stroke of genius. Carefully, Cartman hit zoom to capture the image of Butters squirming against his uncle’s hand, while the man’s other hand reached for the little black tube again. Yes.
Commercials began, and Bud shifted his weight. He’s making his move. I’ll start with a high angle shot, and I can sneak in some close-ups when they’re really going at it. Cartman fumbled through his backpack for his video camera. Here it comes. Here it comes... He’s looking at Butters’ ass! No, he’s watching Charlie Sheen being a douchebag. He watched the lack of action through the camera screen. Bud put his feet on the coffee table, and Butters kept playing. Seconds ticked by on the counter, then minutes. Cartman stewed. Come on. His arms started to droop. He waited. And waited. Stretched himself out on the floor. And waited.
One show ended and another one started. Bored, Cartman turned the camera on himself and whispered, “This is seriously weak. Butters is just sitting there with that dumbass smile, like, ‘Not tonight. I’m gonna be a cock-tease right now.’” He was so engrossed with himself on video that he almost failed to notice that Butters had picked up his toys and was coming up the stairs. “Aw, crap!” He ran to the safety of Butters’ closet and tried to quiet his panting.
Blissfully unaware of his new visitor, Butters hummed a sleepy tune to wind down for bed. The night before, he had locked the bathroom door and watched it while brushing his teeth, combing his hair, taking his medicine. Tonight, the door was barely closed. I thought Uncle Bud was gonna be awful sore at me. But he gave me ice cream and let me stay up until 9 o’clock. He even said he was sorry for not giving me my medicine like I need it. Butters had felt better about spending time with his uncle than he had in a long time. The only physical contact between them was a quick, chaste hug at the suggestion of Mrs. Stotch. I knew Mom and Dad had a reason for punishing me.
The artificial, well-adjusted feel of the Stotch home was making Cartman restless. He pawed through the piles of stuff squirreled away in his friend’s closet, hoping to come across something interesting, or perhaps finally get his hands on that video of himself dressed as Britney Spears and destroy it. He tipped over a box and miniature construction equipment fell out. “Heh heh, an Erector Set. Does he have a dildo set in here, too?”
While Cartman helped himself to a stack of boxes behind the Erector Set, a noise from the hall interrupted his excavation. He held his breath and watched through the slightly open closet door as Uncle Bud came into Butters’ room and made himself at home. Bud was so much at ease that he didn’t hear the click of Cartman hitting the record button. The boy in the closet was not going to miss a thing. Moments later, there was a gurgling of bathwater going down the drain, followed by the bathroom door opening.
Fresh and steamy from his bath, Butters stumbled in, swaddled in a plush robe. When he spotted his uncle sitting on the bed, he stammered, “Oh. Wuh…what are you doin’ in here, Uncle Bud?”
“Just having a look around. Nice digs you got here.” Bud intended to be complimentary, not ironic, but the sugary colors and much of the décor didn’t fit Bud’s idea of a boy’s room. He moved on. “Why don’t you jump into your PJs? We can read a story together. How about…” Bud grabbed a paperback from the nightstand behind him and looked at the cover. “How about Will God Smite Michael’s Two Daddies?” He flashed a winning smile at the boy.
Butters was grateful for the offer of quality time and picked up the set of bunny pyjamas lying folded on the dresser. He was also quite happy to dismiss his confession about his uncle as a moment of madness and move on, never mentioning it again, as his parents had made sure he explained during his apology that afternoon. Before he could start getting changed, he noticed his uncle’s eyes still locked on him. He kneaded the terrycloth in his hands, unsure about whether to proceed. “Could you t-t-turn around? My body is a temple.” He wasn’t sure what that meant, but it sounded important in Father Maxi’s sermon.
“Ain’t nobody here but us guys. I’ll get comfy, too.” Bud pulled off his shirt and unbuckled his pants, tossing them aside. He looked very comfortable indeed. Not Butters, who wasn’t any closer to taking off his robe. The boy wanted badly to feel the trust he once had for Bud, but his feelings aligned with Mysterion’s words, not his family’s.
"Hey, I know. Would you like some candy?"
Butters perked up, in spite of already being full of ice cream. Candy? Maybe it's okay after all. "I love candy," said Butters, thinking of how seldom his parents offered him any. If he wanted to do something bad to me, he’d ground me. Bud reached into his pocket and withdrew a black tube with a picture of strawberries on it. "That sure is some funny looking candy." There was a word written on the side. "Ass-tro-slide. Is that like Astropops?"
"Uh, yeah. Just like them. It tastes like strawberries." Bud squeezed a dab onto his fingertip and held it to Butters' mouth. "Give it a try." When Butters looked at him haltingly, Bud added in a firmer tone, "Go on."
Never wanting to cause a problem, Butters climbed onto the bed and knelt next to his uncle. He parted his lips and licked at the pink goo. He swallowed and made a face. "That doesn't taste like strawberries."
"It's strawberry-like. As in, you'll learn to like it."
Butters wasn't so sure. “Okay, then.” While Butters was distracted by trying to get past the waxy aftertaste, Bud brushed the loose folds of Butters’ robe off the boy’s shoulder, revealing taut young skin and one pink dot of a nipple. The boy tried to shrug the sleeve back onto his shoulder, thinking it had slipped accidentally, but when his uncle whisked the material so that the rest of Butters’ chest was exposed, he knew it was no accident. “Please,” Butters began, trying to channel Mysterion, but unable to give a firm, convincing refusal. “L-let me put on my pyjamas now.” It didn’t sound serious in his meek whisper. To Bud, it wasn’t serious. It sounded like flirtation.
“Shhhh,” Bud cajoled, tracing the interesting landmarks on Butters’ skin. Collarbone, two nipples, a secret freckle.
Remember King Mysterion. You gotta stick up for yourself. “You better not do that no more, or I’m gonna… gonna…”
“Tell your Mommy and Daddy?” Bud didn’t sound threatened or even annoyed. It was the smooth, casual voice Butters remembered from that night in the bathroom. “Your folks didn’t believe you last time. No one did. So why don’t you just be a good boy and do what I tell you? You will learn to like it.” As he said this, he tried to peel the robe completely away, but Butters curled up so he could stay wrapped in it. He ended up lying supine on his bed, legs up against his chest. Seeing an opportunity, Bud let Butters be curled up and placed himself at the boy’s bottom. There, he resumed tracing, this time from Butters’ lower back nearly to his scrotum, following the exposed crease. He kept his free hand ready in case of a defensive kick. Butters did not kick out; instead, his fear turned his muscles useless and twitchy, granting Bud’s hand access between his legs. “Relax,” Bud instructed. “I’m starting with your ‘test tickles’ before we get to the real fun.” With curious fingers, he intended to warm the boy up for the main event.
“Test tickles… oh, you mean my chicken nuggets. Wait, don’t tickle me there!” Sensing Bud’s hand venturing forward, Butters pleaded, “Don’t touch my wiener. Please, no! That’s dirty!” Butters tried to squeeze his legs shut, but to no avail.
From where he was listening, Cartman couldn’t tell if Butters was beginning to cry, or whether it was the shaking of his body caused that delicate vibration in his voice. Either way, seeing Butters pleading and vulnerable like this had Cartman captivated until he noticed an uncomfortable tightness in his pants. Worst possible time for a fucking wedgie. With one hand, he fidgeted with the button on his pants until it came open. The tightness lessened, but he still felt tension down there. Oh. It’s that kind of wedgie. Well, my fun gun is gonna have to wait. Still, he let his hand rest at the meeting of his thighs. He waited for an encore of the performance Butters had described. You’d love my mouth on your junk, wouldn’t you, Butters? We can make that happen. He made a mental note and pressed his hand along the pink triangle of fabric. Not that there was anything gay about that. He dismissed it as a stroke of genius. Carefully, Cartman hit zoom to capture the image of Butters squirming against his uncle’s hand, while the man’s other hand reached for the little black tube again. Yes.