The farmhouse was huge, and the men were met in the foyer of the bed and breakfast by a painfully thin dark woman wearing tiny hoochie mama clothing that were completely impractical for a working farm (especially in winter) and a make-up free, natural blonde in jeans and a sweatshirt.

“Lady Face!” cried the dark woman, enveloping Kurt in a big hug, while the blonde stepped over to Blaine and asked in a soft, husky voice, “Is Kurt your gibbon?”

Fortunately, she didn't wait for the answer that Blaine had no idea how to give. Instead, she turned and hugged Kurt while the other woman lifted one of Blaine's hands, looked him up and down, and said, “Ooh, la, la, Kurt, who's your plat du jour?”

Blaine held out his other hand to her and said, “Hi, I'm Blaine.”

“Fuck that shit,” she said, and pulled Blaine into a hug, and then she grabbed his ass! “Nice,” she said, stepping back.

“Santana, do not grope my boyfriend. Blaine, this is Santana; she probably doesn't have anything that can't be cured with penicillin. And this is Brittany.”

“Are you Pee Wee Herman?” Brittany asked, tilting her head to one side.

Blaine turns puzzled eyes to Kurt who answered, “No, dear. They both just like hair gel.”

Later in their room Blaine asked Kurt, “Didn't you say that Brittany went to MIT? I don't get it. When I got here, she asked me if I was your gibbon.”

“Brittany has her own kind of genius. Did you know that gibbons mate for life, that the partners are roughly the same size, and that the partners don't dominate each other?”

“How do you know that? Did you take a hairy primates class in college?”

Kurt thought back to some of his conquests, “More like an independent study.”