Kurt subscribed to the plunger theory of clothes buying.  It went like this:  if you need to buy a jacket for, say, an opening at your best friend, Elliotts, gallery, you will never find the right jacket, no matter how many stores you traipse in and out of.  If, on the other hand, you go out to buy a plunger, you will find the perfect jacket. 

It turned out the same thing worked with men.  Because Kurt was certainly not looking for a guy when he went to the grocery store and found one.  In fact, Kurt was quite done looking for guys, possibly forever.   

For two years Kurt had been trying everything to find Mr. Right.  He belonged to six different online dating sites.  Hed been fixed up by friends.  Hed even, in one really desperate attempt, tried speed dating. 

Nothing worked. 

And apparently the problem wasnt them, it was him.  Men were attracted to Kurt; getting a date was never a problem.  All of the dates started off well enough.  They would go out to a dinner or two, maybe coffee.  They would share a few kisses; eventually they would share more.  But every time, just when Kurt was starting to feel a little hopeful and just knew that he could learn to overlook that really weird mole or the way the guys penis hung a little oddly to the left or the unnaturally pointy nipples, things would change. 

Subtly, at first, but inevitably and inexorably. 

Kurt was just too manly, apparently. 

Dont misunderstand.  It wasnt like Kurt could pass for straight; that was never going to happen.  Still, Kurt was first and foremost a man, and you would think that it was this characteristic that would make him most attractive to other gay men, but, irritatingly, because of his high voice, slim hips, and flair for fashion, he attracted those kind of men. The ones who wanted the effeminate.  When they found out Kurt could fix cars and kick their asses at video games, they began to look at him differently.  And not in a good way.  Yes, he could cook, and he could sew.  But he was still a man, damn it, and he wanted men to appreciate him for his manly qualities. 

But they didnt see it at first, and when they did, they didnt want it.  It boiled Kurts blood.  If these guys wanted women, they should date women.  If they were bothered by the breasts, they should date flat-chested women.  If they wanted sex, fine.  Its not like women didnt have asses. 

Kurt had, in fact, screamed all of that at the man he was with just last night on the occasion of their three month anniversary.  He had really thought that this guy might be the one.  So he endured always being the damn bottom and having his face fucked, which probably could be fun in the right circumstances but mostly just choked him, and he tolerated always being the one who cooked ("But youre so good at it, baby.") and cleaned up the dishes after dinner ("But Im just too full from all your good cooking, baby.")  But when, on their "anniversary" of sorts, he was presented with that certain blue box--the one that unmistakably comes from Tiffanys--and hed opened it with his breath held, knowing it was too big to be jewelry but too small to be a sweater, he nearly came unglued to find a pink, frilly apron. 

What.  The fuck? 

And as he was screaming at Caveman-Loser-Guy that he wasnt a goddamn girl, in the back of Kurts mind his inner feminist was reminding him that no self-respecting woman would want this troglodyte, either, and he would have to say the equivalent of thirty Hail Marys to his friend, Santana, to atone for his misogynistic ways. 

But Kurt was fed up.  He was tired of being "the woman" in the relationship.  He wanted to be...Santa Claus.  Okay, that was weird.  But as he was wandering the store, he saw a giant display with a life-sized cardboard cut-out of Santa Claus, and he thought, Why cant I be that guy?  Santa Claus is nice, and warm, and friendly.  Hes cuddly and sweet.  And he runs a giant, multi-national distribution network where he bosses around scores of other men, he handles livestock, and no one ever suggests that hes less of a man for all of his nurturing qualities.

But, alas, he was not Kris Kringle.  He was a complex man with, admittedly, a lot of feminine qualities, but he was a man, and he wanted to be loved as such. 

And it was never going to happen.  Kurt was just sure of it. 

So, Kurt was done with men.  He was on to bigger and better things.  Like buying a pomegranate. 

And Kurt had just put pomegranate candidate #1 to his nose when he spotted him. 

He was stunning.  He had shiny, black, curly hair, wild from the winter wind.  He had flushed pink cheeks, and full, kissable lips.  Unbelievable lips--soft looking and framing a wide mouth--that Kurt instantly wanted to press against his own.  His toffee-colored eyes were sparkling above a gorgeous blue scarf, effortlessly wrapped around his neck.  His eyelashes were straight out of a mascara commercial. 

He was a pretty, pretty present, and Kurt wanted to unwrap him under the tree. 

His eyes met Kurts over the pomegranate, and there was that spark that sometimes happens when two people see each other and are instantly attracted.  But instead of doing the usual thing--that thing where you keep eye contact for a second, and then you blush and look away, and thats that--instead, Kurt didnt look away. 

In fact, maybe it was the spirit of Christmas, or maybe it was just too much eggnog, but Kurt had a bit of an out-of-body experience.  While regular Kurt stepped out, some alternative Kurt took over.  Maybe alternative Kurt sprang from too many frustrated experiences.  Maybe alternative Kurt sprang from desperation.  Maybe alterative Kurt sprang from that place where you have nothing to lose.  Maybe alternative Kurt was just really fucking pissed off at being too much of a woman for some men and not manly enough for others.  Maybe alternative Kurt was never, ever, ever going to be the kind of man who wore a pink, frilly apron, and he would kick the ass of any man who thought otherwise.  Probably Kurt had salvaged his disastrous previous evening by watching Sea of Love four times in a row, and he was now channeling his inner Ellen Barkin. 

Whatever it was, Kurt did not blush and look away.  Okay, he blushed a little. 

More importantly, he put down the pomegranate.  Then, without losing eye contact, he began circling the produce bins, slowly and deliberately.  He picked up a ripe tomato, brought it to his nose, lips slightly parted, and inhaled, eyes closing just a little.  Discarding it, he moved to the cabbage, where his fingers skimmed lightly over the green leaves.  Still keeping bold eye contact, he moved to the bananas, reached for one, and checked himself.  He put up a finger and waggled it in a no, no, no gesture, before moving on to the acorn squash, which he caressed with a palm, staring boldly into the mans eye.  He drummed his long fingers over the turnips.  With each move, he came closer, slowly closer, to his prey. 

At last Kurt stood very, very close to the man, their chests almost touching.  The man, breathing rapidly through his nose, had his hand on a pear that he had long forgotten after he saw Kurt.  His eyes were wide, and his mouth had dropped open.  Kurt put his hand out and covered the other mans with his own, so that both hands were clasping the same piece of fruit. 

"Im sorry," Kurt said in a husky voice that didnt sound sorry at all, "Did you want this...pear?"

"Its a very nice looking...pear," Kurt went on, voice low and eye contact unwavering, "but how does it taste, I wonder?"  He punctuated his question by licking his lips.  "You can never tell just by looking." 

"Perhaps," Kurt went on as the mans eyes remained transfixed on Kurts lips and Kurt shifted his hand so he could trace a fingertip across the back of the mans knuckles, "I can buy you coffee, and we can talk about the taste..." he said the word "taste" while moving his mouth so close to the mans ear that it was completely inappropriate for a grocery store but too far away for Kurts liking, "...of your pear." 

Fueled by the fact that the guy was not running away screaming, Kurt licked his lips again, this time involuntarily, and pressed on.  "Perhaps," he enunciated slowly, "I will buy my groceries, and you will wait for me outside." 

The man gulped audibly and nodded. 

"What," the man squeaked.  Then he cleared his throat and started again, "How...what...name."  His face was turning a darker shade of red with each word, and Kurt became a little alarmed that he might faint.  Instead, the man finally managed to choke out, "Whatsyourname?"  rushing the question into one hushed word. 

"Im..." Kurt looked around, and his eyes lit once again on the Santa Claus display, "Kris...stoff.  Kristoff.  Kringle.  Uh, man." 

"Kristoff Kringlemann?" the mans voice was so small and shaky that it lodged like a splinter in Kurts heart and, somehow, gave him more bravado.

"You can call me Kris," he said.

The man swallowed again, but there was a hopeful gleam in his eyes. 

"M-m-m-meet you outside," the man stuttered.  "Im, uh, Thrand.  Thrand And-no-Sand...Sanderson.  Thrand Sanderson." 

"Outside, then," Kurt said boldly, tossing the pear into the air and snatching it back with one hand as he walked off with a jaunty swing to his hips. 

When Kurt got down the aisle and turned the corner out of sight, he opened a nearby freezer door and stuck his head inside.  He could not believe he had just done that.  He proceeded to hyperventilate for a few minutes near the frozen peas before standing erect, straightening his tie, and walking to the front of the store to buy a pear and some brillo pads.  Neither item was on Kurts shopping list, but he couldnt honestly remember what he had come to buy.