Rhythm

A dance lesson.

“What are you listening to now?” Starsky wandered into the living room and sat down in his easy chair. He lifted his feet onto the ottoman and scooted down into the comfort of the overstuffed pillows. A Motor Trends magazine miraculously appeared from under the seat cushion.

“Music,” Hutch replied, without looking up. He was seated on the edge of the couch, poring over a coffee table covered with check stubs and bank statements. His right hand hovered over a calculator, his left hand steadied a can of beer on his knee.

Starsky leafed through his magazine. “That’s not music, that’s monotony,” Starsky opined. “New Age crapola.”

“Whatever,” Hutch mumbled, thumbing through a stack of checks. “Do you remember how much that check for Pep Boys was?”

“Look in the checkbook,” Starsky was immersed in an article.

“I did.” Hutch looked up from the clutter. “Somebody forgot to write it down.”

“I don’t know how you can listen to that stuff,” Starsky reiterated. “It’s just the same thing over and over and over.”

“A lot of people like it, Starsk.” Hutch went back to his calculations. “It’s soothing. It’s tranquilizing. You can think to it.”

“You can’t dance to it,” Starsky concluded. “It doesn’t have a beat.”

“I don’t suppose you know what this check for $1.32 is?” Hutch waved the checkbook at Starsky, exasperation in his voice.

“I give it a minus twelve,” Starsky continued, ignoring Hutch. “It’ll never make the Hot 100.”

Hutch flipped the checkbook onto the table and set his beer on a coaster. He stood, and pushed the coffee table off to the side. “Care to dance?”

Starsky snickered without looking up from his magazine.

Hutch repeated his request. “Shall we dance?” He plucked the magazine from Starsky’s fingers and offered his hand instead.

Starsky looked at the hand, then at Hutch. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

Hutch grasped Starsky’s hand and pulled him upright. “I’m going to prove you can dance to this.”

Starsky grudgingly allowed himself to be hauled into the center of the room. Hutch slipped one hand around Starsky’s waist, then grasped his right hand and moved as if to do a box step.

“Oh come on!” Starsky shook off Hutch’s hands and stepped back.

“You come on!” Hutch grabbed Starsky around the waist and literally jerked him into an embrace. Starsky’s hands went up protectively, pushing against Hutch’s chest.

“Relax, will you?” Hutch held Starsky around the waist, pulling him closer.

Starsky’s hands crept up to Hutch’s shoulders, allowing their bodies to brush.

Hutch began swaying gently, keeping the rhythm of the soft tones.

Starsky leaned into the swaying body and found a rhythm of his own.

Hutch snaked one arm around Starsky’s waist, and let the other arm drift up and down his back. Softly, gently, his thumb traced Starsky’s spine. Fingers caressed the sensitive flesh. The heel of Hutch’s hand pressed into firm muscle.

Soft, then hard, teasing the tender skin.

Starsky closed his eyes and rested his forehead on Hutch’s shoulder, his arms wrapped around Hutch’s neck.

Hutch used both hands to stroke up and down Starsky’s back. One up, one down; then the reverse. Up and down, leaving trails of heat and shivers.

Up and down, following the harmonies of the music.

Starsky sighed and hugged Hutch tighter.

Hutch let the motion of the music sweep down to his hips. Side to side, entreating Starsky to follow.

Slowly right, then left; worn denim grazing worn denim at the center of the swing.

Side to side became circular and more insistent. Greedy hands swept down to Starsky’s ass and fastened on his cheeks, squeezing and kneading flesh. They pressed him in, forced him on, made him follow the rhythm set by Hutch.

Hips together, grinding against one another, following the pulse of the music.

Hutch’s lips found Starsky’s ear, nibbled on the soft flesh, grazed downward toward his neck.

Starsky, eyes still closed, let his head fall back. Lips and tongue fastened on his sensitive throat.

Hips thrust. Lips sucked. Hands massaged. Starsky moaned.

The music ended.

“Still think you can’t dance to this stuff?” Hutch abruptly released Starsky and stepped away from him.

Starsky lost his balance and fell back in the chair.

“Shit no,” Starsky rasped.

“Want to hear some more?” Hutch asked.

“Shit yes!” Starsky found a steadier voice.

“And shall we dance?” smiled Hutch.

Starsky rose from the chair. “My lead.”