It's an impossibility. Like vegetarian meatloaf.
Some things just can't exist in a certain way or form, because the laws of nature totally negate it. Or, in this case, the laws of God.
It's somewhere between the meat and potatoes of the typical Hudson meat and potatoes meal that Quinn realizes this. Then she immediately wills herself to not think about it.
She's not even sure if it's actually against God's law, she just knows what she's heard in church or from her parents. Her father, really.
Though, she's in the middle of a life lesson that suggests Russell Fabray may, in fact, not know everything.
It doesn't matter though, because Quinn likes boys. It's why she's having dinner here, awkwardly seated between Finn and Carole Hudson, smiling politely as she's asked if she'd like more green beans. Normally, she isn't really a fan, but tonight they're kind of incredible.
It's probably because of the baby.
If she keeps eating like this, she's going to need new pants a lot sooner than she originally projected. She's been keeping track of her ideal weight gain according to everything she's looked up on the pregnancy websites she now has bookmarked on her laptop. And 'ideal weight gain' is a phrase she never thought would enter her vocabulary. At least she isn't putting stickers on a chart to track her progress.
That's more something Rachel Berry would do.
Not that she thinks about Rachel Berry.
Particularly not at night, while she lies in Finn's bed and tries to find sleep before her mind wanders. Finn, dumb as he is, is actually kind of noble and has been sleeping downstairs on the fold-out sofa. She knows he doesn't really fit and that his feet hang off the side, but he's insistent that she's comfortable and she can only argue so much with him without letting on that he shouldn't even want to look her in the eye considering... everything.
Her back is grateful for the gesture, however, and after she initially laundered the 'boy smell' out of his sheets, it's been relatively easy to drift off after each and every exhausting day.
Except on nights like tonight.
Masturbation isn't a habit she embraces. She prefers to channel her energy into cheerleading, into working out, even into glee club. Whenever she hears Puck mention 'rubbing one out' or any other disgusting euphemism, she wants to punch him in the face. Sex is sacred, sex is something to share with her husband, sex outside of marriage leads to things like getting pregnant at sixteen, and touching yourself only encourages less than honorable behavior.
She knows, because she's living the consequences.
Except the pregnancy has her hormones all over the place and sometimes, like right now, all she wants to do is slip her hand between her legs and just make everything else go away. Maybe it's wrong, maybe it's sinful, but it's also biological.
She's already knocked up, anyway.
Her eyes are fixed on the ceiling of Finn's bedroom, but as she drags her fingers over her own distended stomach, she looks toward the door, checking to make sure it's locked. The lights are off but the room's lit enough from the streetlight outside to suggest that the lock is twisted to the vertical position, meaning no one can walk in and witness what's about to happen, even though Carole's working a late shift and Finn already texted her his usual 'GOODNITE! :-)' message.
If she tries hard enough, she's pretty sure she can hear him snoring from downstairs.
She thinks about him for a minute, trying to picture him in his football uniform, standing tall, taking charge of the team, winking at her from the field while she cheers on the sidelines. He's a good boyfriend and a nice guy, so this should be enough. He's exactly the kind of man she plans to marry, so thinking about him in his element, in his prime, should be enough to turn her on.
But he isn't.
She sighs and rubs her other hand over her eyes. He isn't and that's part of the problem.
She lets the fantasy shift, just a little. It's still a football field setting, but now she's looking at jersey number twenty, instead of five. Puck's always been vulgar and crass and is everything she doesn't want, ever. Except part of her is drawn to the badness he represents, the idea of something she shouldn't want.
Her fingers still rest on the waistband of her pajama pants.
The idea of him is fine. The actuality of being with Puck is nothing but an after school special.
The football field disappears and now she's picturing guys from her classes. Maybe there's someone else that she hasn't thought about before. Mike Chang has a nice body and she definitely likes watching him dance in glee club.
Who else is in glee with them? Matt? Artie? No and no.
She sighs and contemplates getting up to make some chamomile tea, because that will at least make her sleepy and then she can just bypass this whole process, but the bed is also already so warm and it's November, which means the floor will be cold against her feet and if she goes down to the kitchen she risks waking up Finn, which means he's going to want to talk and she doesn't have the patience for him, right now.
Instead, she figures she'll focus on the songs for sectionals, because Rachel won't stop sending emails to the entire club, reminding them to practice in their downtime and even sent her a special invitation to work on the choreography together in the event that her 'center of balance has shifted' at all.
Quinn doesn't even realize her hand's moved under her pants until after her fingertips rub against herself through her underwear.
This can't be right.
It's definitely wrong.
Nothing about it makes sense.
Still, just to prove it to herself, she allows a memory of Rachel to surface, just so she can roll her eyes at the absurdity of it all.
There, behind her tightly closed eyelids, she visualizes Rachel in the hallway, poking her nose into Quinn's business under the guise of trying to help. She recalls the way Rachel can be stubbornly insistent when she's obviously so wrong about everything. She even thinks about that ridiculous duet Rachel sang with Mr. Schue.
Her fingers won't stop moving and her breathing is just getting heavier.
It's probably unrelated.
It's not like she's imaging what it would be like to kiss her or anything.
Kissing Rachel Berry would be absolutely-
The sound she makes when she comes is really too loud to be a whimper, but it's not enough to be considered a yell. Her free hand claps over her mouth and she blinks at the shadowy ceiling as she silently prays that it wasn't loud enough for Finn to hear her.
There's apparently a lot of other prayer that needs to happen, too, if the tears on her face are any indication. For now, though, she just wants to sleep.
Maybe if she ignores it, God won't hold it against her.