Gossip Girl: It Had To Be You

Snow falling on cheaters

"Where's Nate?" Blair slurred drunkenly into Serena's ear. The two girls were seated back-to-back in the middle of the polished chrome coffee table, sharing a cigarette. Around them revelers lay sprawled on the floor or furniture, their hair matted with sweat from dancing or puking, their lip gloss smeared. Justin Timberlake was singing in slow motion over the sound system, or at least it seemed that way. Of course Blair knew perfectly well that Nate was indisposed at the moment because he was busy getting devirginized by that horrible megaslut L'Wren, but she needed him—now. "I want him to take me home."

"Me too," Serena agreed. "My butt's cold." She couldn't wait to put on a pair of big comfy cotton underwear and crawl into bed. With Nate.

"Yes, where is Nathaniel?" Chuck chimed in, from the floor. He'd been staring up the girls' skirts all night, just waiting for one of them to get drunk enough to fall into his lap so he could molest her.

"Do you think he and that girl are really . . . ?" Blair's voice trailed off. The idea of Nate with anyone but her made her feel like she was going to be sick.

Serena shrugged her shoulders sadly. How could the boy she loved so dearly be so careless and insensitive? Didn't he know that she lay in bed every night imagining how it would be—them together—like an Eternity perfume ad, only better? They even looked alike—sort of. Didn't he get it?

Chuck suddenly leapt to his feet. "You know what this calls for?"

Both girls shook their heads. Chuck's ideas were usually terrible.

"Bundle!" he yelled grabbing their hands. He yanked them forward, racing toward the closed door of Luke's bedroom. And without even pausing to knock or give warning, he burst in, setting free a pungent cloud of pot smoke.

Nate and L'Wren were lying on the creamy flokati rug, she in a tiny black lace thong and he in his royal blue boxers, smiling up at the ceiling in what could only be complete postcoital bliss.

Well, at least they were wearing underwear.

"Bundle!" Chuck shouted again, nonsensically, as he hurled himself on top of them. It was as if he were re-creating a scene from some dumb college frat movie he'd loved but no one else had ever seen.

Serena and Blair clung to each other in the doorway, staring at L'Wren's fake-looking bare boobs. They were balloon-round and tan. Even her nipples appeared to be tan. They glared at Nate's gorgeous, naked, muscular chest. How could he? they wondered simultaneously. With that fake-boobed slut in the skanky black Victoria's Secret thong!?

"Natie?" Serena whimpered, a little too tragically. "Blair's feeling bad. We need to go home."

Dutifully, Nate sat up. He rubbed his half-closed green eyes and grinned down at his bare knees. Stoned as he was, getting dressed seemed a monumental task. "Just a minute," he murmured, his tongue leaden. Next to him on the floor, Chuck tickled L'Wren's bare feet and she cackled merrily, loving it. Nate didn't get it. L'Wren seemed to get hornier and hornier the more they smoked, but he could hardly do more than kiss her a few times before going into a pot-induced trance wherein he expounded in a monotone voice much like his father's on how cars should run on pot instead of gas and then there'd be no global warming and everyone would be happy. He hadn't even gotten close to losing his virginity.

Wonder why—global warming is so sexy.

He staggered to his feet and pulled on his gray T-shirt, backward. "Your coat's in the hall," Blair reminded him, all motherly. She took his hand, bending down to retrieve his white Stan Smith tennis shoes from underneath L'Wren's bare calf.

L'Wren sat up. With Chuck in her lap, his back pressed against her voluminous bare breasts and a huge gleaming-toothed grin on his weirdly handsome face, she began to reload her pink bong. "'Bye, Natie," she called out teasingly.