Insomnia

1.3K

Starsky is having trouble sleeping. Hutch helps, more than he knows.

 

Inspired by an old challenge I found while poking around through ancient posts, and by Louise Bourgeois’ insomnia drawings. A hearty thank you to Fiona, Rae, and Val for their hard work as betas.

---

“The power of integration, connect together, overpowering-but evanescent. One responds to a need-are you together? . . . A map is an object of study . . . I am a map. You are a different map.”

“Materials are not the subject of the artist. The subject of the artist is: Emotions . . . and ideas . . . Both.”

-Louise Bourgeois

 

Starsky was sitting in front of the TV in an otherwise darkened living room when Hutch came in from their bedroom, rubbing his eyes.

“Starsk, what’re you doing up? It’s three in the morning.”

Starsky put a handful of popcorn into his mouth. “Couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d spare you my tossing and turning.” He was wearing a ratty blue robe over cotton pajama bottoms, and sitting cross-legged on the couch. A bowl of popcorn sat in his lap, and a half-empty beer bottle was on the coffee table in front of him.

“This happen often?” Hutch asked, still only half awake.

Starsky looked at him, then back at the TV. “No. Occasionally. Hasn’t happened since we moved in together.” He stared at whatever was happening on the TV screen.

“Any idea why?”

“Shiftwork. We pulled two night shifts last week. Threw off my biological clock . . . my . . . whaddayacallit . . . my circadian rhythms.” Hutch chuckled. “Never used to bother me,” Starsky went on. “Getting older, I guess.” He took another fistful of popcorn from the bowl.

“What’re you watching?”

“Bela Logusi movie.”

“Lugosi,” Hutch corrected.

“Whatever,” Starsky replied. He was too tired to argue.

“You know, you really shouldn’t be watching a horror movie when you’re trying to fall asleep. You should be doing something soothing, something relaxing. And this-” Hutch picked up the beer- “is another mistake. Alcohol will make you drowsy, but you’ll wake up again when the buzz wears off.” Hutch took the bottle into the kitchen. Starsky could hear him opening the fridge and rustling around.

“Hey, I was enjoying that beer. What, you got something better?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.” Starsky heard him filling the kettle with water, then the click-click-click as one of the burners went on. Hutch reappeared in the doorway.

“This is just a little concoction that’s designed to make you feel relaxed and sleepy. It always works for me when I have trouble sleeping.”

“You have trouble sleeping?”

Hutch shrugged. “Sometimes, I used to. Not so much lately.” He smiled. “Shiftwork’s a bitch.” He went back into the kitchen, and Starsky could hear him opening jars and things.

“Hey, don’t put any of that decimated liver in there,” he called. “None of your weird food in my sleepy drink.”

“Nothing weird,” called Hutch. He went on making odd noises for awhile, until the water had boiled. Then he poured it into a mug, added milk and a few other things, and brought it in to his partner.

“One sleepy drink for you,” he announced, handing the mug to Starsky.

Starsky sniffed at it. “What’s in here?”

“Nothing weird, I promise. It’s just chamomile tea, milk, honey, and some valerian root extract.”

“Valerian root extract? That to you is not weird?”

“It’s really not, Starsk. It’s a well-known holistic cure for insomnia.”

“Cure?” Starsky looked skeptical.

“Well, maybe not a cure. But it’s supposed to help you get to sleep. Come on, try it.” Starsky sipped the tea-and-milk drink. His eyebrows went up-it wasn’t bad, and the honey made it sweet.

“How’s that?” Hutch asked.

“Not bad,” Starsky admitted. “Now let’s get rid of this over-stimulating movie-” Hutch turned off the TV- “and let’s put on some soothing music. How about some Chopin?” He dug through his records and found what he was looking for. “Nocturnes. Perfect.” He put the record on the turntable and turned it down low.

“Now do you want to stay in here on the couch, or do you want to come back to bed?”

Starsky looked at Hutch slyly. “You know what else they say is a cure for insomnia?” He eyed Hutch’s bare chest and his thin pajamas.

Hutch rolled his eyes. “Well, if that were true you’d be sleeping right now.”

“Second time might be the charm,” Starsky said, winking.

“You’re gonna be the death of me.”

“Yeah, but at least it’ll be a happy death.”

****************************

They lay on the bed afterward, a tangle of arms and legs. Hutch pulled Starsky’s head towards him and kissed him on it, then curled against his neck, his eyes closing easily.

“G’night, love,” he murmured, already dozing.

Starsky stroked Hutch’s back, his neck, his arm. He felt relaxed and happy. But he was still wide awake. He knew from past experience that sleep would not be coming tonight.

****************************

The next day, Hutch found a book called Counting Sheep: A Hundred Ways to Put Yourself to Sleep at the local bookstore, and bought it for Starsky. They spent most of the day cruising their beat, with Hutch reading parts of it out loud.

” ‘Make your bedroom a haven. Get rid of any distracting object that might keep you from peaceful slumbers.’ ”

Starsky grinned. “Can’t get rid of you, Blondie. But I do find you distracting.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Especially at night. Especially when you’re wearing just those thin pajama bottoms. Love the way they hug you in all the right places.”

Hutch blushed. “Starsky, I thought we had a rule.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Starsky answered dismissively, turning the wheel to turn a corner.

“I’m serious. We can’t talk that way when we’re at work. We’ve got to be careful.”

Starsky didn’t say anything. Instead, he looked at Hutch with one of his candid leers, the kind he would have given Rita in filing three years ago, or Brenda in Vice, or . . .

“Hey Hutch.”

“Hmmmm.”

“You think they ever notice? The women, I mean. That I don’t look at them like that anymore?”

“You still look at them like that, Starsky. Don’t deny it, I’ve seen you do it. No, don’t protest, I don’t mind. You can’t help it, it’s in your nature.” Hutch smiled. Starsky knew he was thinking of Zack Tyler and his story of the scorpion and the frog.

“Yeah, but I don’t mean it. I don’t look at ’em with conviction anymore.”

“No, you save the conviction for the criminals.” Hutch laughed at his own dumb joke.

Starsky rolled his eyes. “I’m serious.”

“So am I. You know I’m just as concerned about this kind of thing as you are. I would have told you a long time ago if I thought you were acting out of character around the ladies. But you’re such a flirt, you can’t help yourself.”

Hutch seemed convinced, but Starsky felt unsteady. For the rest of the day, he felt himself watching his own behavior, almost as if he were outside his own body, a distant observer. He’d also been feeling uncoordinated and slow, so he let Hutch drive in the afternoon. He wished he could get some sleep, but he found that the more anxious he became about it, the more sleep eluded him.

****************************

The next night, instead of tossing and turning, Starsky decided to follow the book’s advice and not get into bed until he felt tired. The trouble was, when one of these episodes hit, he always felt tired, and he never felt tired, at the same time.

The point was, not to feel anxious about it. The point was to distract himself somehow so that part of his brain was busy, fooling the other part of his brain into sleepiness.

He thought a good thing to do would be to putter around in his darkroom, so that’s what he did. He entered the spare bathroom that he used as a darkroom, and started mixing developer chemicals in one of the trays on the wet side of the room. The room was divided into a wet side, where the sink and all the chemicals were, and a dry side, where he hung his negatives to dry, and kept his finished prints. Starsky bought his developer chemicals separately, although he could have gotten them pre-mixed, because he liked fooling around with the ratios and changing the developing time, to see what effects he could get. Lately, while taking black and white photos, he’d been experimenting with lengthening exposure times, changing lighting, and then shorter and longer developing times, to change the contrast of the photos without making them grainy. Now he just needed to take some pictures, so he’d have something to develop.

He tiptoed around the house, inspecting things to use in a still life. A set of coasters in the shape of giant poker chips that he’d gotten in Vegas. A Mickey Mouse hat from Disneyland. One of Hutch’s plants (a cactus). He assembled them all on the kitchen table, then played with the lighting. It took him awhile to get the lighting right, to get all the shadows just the way he wanted them. He shot a roll of black-and-white pictures, then took them to the dark room to experiment on. At around three am, he started feeling a bit sleepy, so he put away the chemicals, washed his hands, and quietly crawled into bed, careful not to disturb Hutch. The book said, just relax. Even if you don’t sleep, relax. So he tried to relax. He concentrated on unclenching every muscle in his body, starting with the muscles in his forehead, his jaw, his neck, then working down. He unclenched his fists, relaxed his stomach. Somewhere around the ankles, he finally fell asleep.

This kept Starsky busy for a few nights. After Hutch had gone to bed, he’d find some objects around the house that he could use for still lifes. He’d arrange them on the kitchen table, play with the lighting, snap the pictures, and develop them. This usually took two or three hours. After a few nights of the relaxation exercise, he was sufficiently relaxed when he got into bed to fall asleep. Now he was getting three or four hours sleep instead of one or two, which was an improvement. He hoped that eventually he’d start getting tired earlier. But so far, he wasn’t anywhere near tired when Hutch went to bed.

So he kept taking pictures.

He started coming up with themes. First, he did desert kitsch: casino souvenirs, cacti, an advertising brochure from a brothel. Next, New York City kitsch: a toy taxi, a Statue of Liberty nightlight. He did one called “Cops,” with his and Hutch’s guns and badges. He took the bullets out and sprinkled them around the table. He thought about making a Xerox of an arrest report at work and bringing it home, just to add authenticity. But that would have been against department regulations, so he didn’t.

Eventually, he had perfected the darkroom technique he was working on so that he was getting pictures with high contrast levels-the shadows were deep and the light was bright. But he became unhappy with the gradations. Because most of the things he was photographing had hard edges, it was hard to get really nice nuances in the photographs and give them rich texture. That could only be done with portraiture, he knew. But he didn’t have anyone to photograph. He didn’t have any cats, dogs, or chickens, and he knew it would be wrong to take pictures of the neighbors with his telephoto lens.

And then he thought of Hutch.

Hutch. Of course. He’d just be very careful, not making any noise in the bedroom, and take some pictures of Hutch sleeping. He wouldn’t be able to turn on a light, so he’d need to use a tripod and a very long exposure. It would be difficult, but it could be done.

The first night he tried it, even with the shutter held open for a full minute, he wasn’t able to get anything. There wasn’t a moon, and there was almost no ambient light from the street. All his pictures came out too dark.

The next night, he waited until he was certain Hutch was asleep. Then he left the door to the bedroom open, and set up the tripod soundlessly. Because the shutter was being held open for so long, it made almost no sound at all when the picture was taken. He was able to get about five pictures taken before Hutch twitched a bit in his sleep. Starsky, nervous, stopped what he was doing, and stood in the dark without moving for ten minutes, until he was sure that Hutch was still asleep. Then he folded up his tripod and went to the darkroom.

Images came to the surface slowly, rising up through the developer and transforming themselves into pictures of Hutch before Starsky’s eyes. Here was an arm; here a leg. A light tuft of hair atop a sleeping head, amidst blankets. When he was satisfied with how they looked, Starsky used a pair of tongs to transfer the prints from the developer tray to the fixer tray, and then to the wash. Then he hung them on the line to dry, and marveled at the depth the long exposure had created in the photographs.

The next night he was more daring, taking ten pictures before getting spooked and leaving the room. He experimented with F-stops and shutter speeds, finally settling on a wide-open aperture and a manual shutter speed. He locked the shutter open, using a cable release and the second hand on his watch, sometimes for three or four minutes. Four minutes, he found, was pretty much Hutch’s stillness limit, and his own. After Starsky became more confident that Hutch would easily sleep through any small sound he made, he had less trouble waiting through the moments when he moved an arm, a leg, sometimes his head. He’d always settle back down, and Starsky would resume his night work.

The best were nights when there was a moon. The moon cast a light that could not be reproduced by any kind of ambient light, a light that made Hutch’s skin glow, that made his hair radiant. Starsky loved the way these pictures came out.

He tried to get photos of Hutch’s whole body, but the pictures he liked the best were close-ups of the various parts. A beloved foot, sticking out from beneath the sheets. An arm, thrown over a pillow. The back of his head; his neck. His cock.

Starsky hadn’t meant to shoot erotic photographs, but sometimes Hutch slept naked, and Starsky came to like taking pictures on these nights best. The absolute best night was one when Hutch slept naked and the moon was out. From behind the shutter, he could more fully see his lover’s cock. He could frame it. Then he could develop his pictures, and stare at the smoothness, the irregular shape, the way it lay, soft and innocent, against Hutch’s abdomen, or against his thigh, or against the sheet. He was sure that Hutch had the most beautiful penis ever created, and he wanted to record it in as many variations as possible.

After he started taking his night photos, Starsky became less agitated during the day. He slept better, though he only seemed to need about four hours of sleep. He managed to keep the photos a secret from Hutch. He would tell him eventually, Starsky told himself. But to tell him now would ruin his work.

****************************

During the days, they were working on a homicide in the red light district. One of the girls who worked at the Chapel of Bodily Invigoration had been found dead in the L.A. reservoir, and foul play was suspected. Starsky and Hutch were interviewing friends and family.

Mostly, it went like this: “Do you know any reason why someone would want to hurt Cindy? Did she have any enemies? Any gambling debts? Was she getting along with her boss, and the other girls?”

They had nothing.

They were driving down to Marina del Rey to check out one of Cindy’s former boyfriends, when Hutch asked, “How’ve you been sleeping lately?”

“Okay. Pretty good, I guess.”

“Sometimes you come to bed pretty late.”

“How’d you know that?” Starsky was surprised. He thought he’d been fooling Hutch.

Hutch smiled. “Oh, I know you come to bed with me, and stay till I fall asleep, or till you think I’ve fallen asleep. But sometimes I wake up at one or two and you’re not there.”

Starsky glanced over at Hutch, then looked back at the freeway traffic.

“I hope I’m not waking you up when I get into bed,” he said, trying to disguise his concern that Hutch had been waking up and noticing his absence. Who knew what else he’d been aware of?

“No, not really. But sometimes I wake up, and you’re not there.”

Starsky said, “I read in that book you got me that you shouldn’t go to bed till you feel tired. So that’s what I’ve been doing.”

“What do you do all that time? Watch TV?”

“Sometimes. Or sometimes I read,” Starsky hesitated. He hated lying to Hutch. “Sometimes I take pictures, and work in the darkroom.”

“Pictures? Of what?”

“Still lifes. I get stuff from all over the apartment, and make little still lifes on the kitchen table.”

Hutch chuckled. “Like what kinda stuff?”

“Oh, you know, a Mickey Mouse hat, or a coffee mug, or a cactus.”

Hutch’s laughter stopped. “A cactus? One of my cacti?”

“Hutch, relax. I don’t hurt it, I just photograph it. I always put it back where it belongs. Sometimes-” he looked at Hutch to gauge his reaction- “sometimes I even sing to it.”

Hutch groaned. “I thought you said you didn’t hurt it.”

“Ha ha. Very funny.”

“Well, what have you been doing with the pictures? How come I haven’t seen any of them?”

“I’ve been developing them. I dunno. I’ll show you when I’m done.” And he would, too. Just not yet.

They’d reached Marina del Rey, and Hutch had to look at a map to figure out how to get to the address they’d been given for Cindy’s ex. The topic didn’t come up again. Starsky was relieved.

****************************

The next night, Starsky offered to cook dinner. He made grilled burgers, mashed potatoes, and sautéed leeks, one of Hutch’s new favorite foods. He lit candles and bought flowers for the table, and some red wine.

He was behaving like a guilty lover.

When Hutch came to the table, and saw the candles and the flowers and the wine, he seemed puzzled. “What’s the occasion?”

Starsky, wearing oven mitts, brought the pot of mashed potatoes into the dining room. “No occasion. Just wanted to do something a little special.” Starsky wondered if Hutch could tell his smile was just a bit forced.

But Hutch didn’t seem to notice. He pulled out his chair, and sat down to dinner. “Starsky, that smells terrific. What is it?”

“Hamburgers, potatoes, and leeks,” Starsky said, pleased with his work.

“Leeks! You know those are my favorite. Are you sure there’s no occasion?”

“Sure I’m sure. Who needs an occasion? With you, every day’s a holiday.” Starsky bent down and kissed Hutch before going back into the kitchen for the rest of the food.

****************************

After dinner, Hutch put on a jazz record, and they lingered over the last drops of wine, listening to it. Starsky looked thoughtful, or distracted, but it was nothing Hutch could put his finger on. Finally, Starsky got up and started clearing plates.

“Let me help,” Hutch said, but Starsky wouldn’t let him.

“Just sit and relax, it’ll only take me a minute.” Hutch could hear him scraping off the plates and putting them into the dishwasher. Then water was running, and Starsky was cleaning the pots.

Hutch sipped his wine, and listened to the music. There was a saxophone line he was trying to follow. He closed his eyes and let it wash over him.

Suddenly, Starsky was behind him, whispering in his ear. He smelled of lemon-scented dishwashing soap. “Hey, loverboy, you ready for dessert?” Starsky licked his earlobe and nibbled at the top of his ear.

“Uh, would that be regular dessert, or . . . something else?”

“Well, that depends on what you mean by ‘regular,’ doesn’t it. I have a little chocolate sauce here-” Starsky produced a jar as he said this- “and some marshmallows and cherries. But it’s the darnedest thing, I can’t seem to find the angel food cake they were supposed to go on.” He bent down lower and murmured into Hutch’s neck, “Do you know where my angel food cake could be?”

Hutch smiled, in spite of himself. He felt his pulse quicken. “No, I don’t know where it is. But maybe we could look for it in the bedroom. That’s where Angel food cake is usually kept, isn’t it?” He turned to look at Starsky.

Starsky grinned. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure that’s where I saw it last.” He tilted his head slightly and kissed Hutch fully on the mouth. Hutch could taste the wine there, the butter from the leeks, the meaty hamburger taste. “Mmmm,” Starsky moaned into Hutch’s mouth, kissing him more deeply now, his tongue deep inside, searching for Hutch’s own tongue, his lips at first caressing and then almost gnawing at Hutch’s lips. “Suddenly I’m feeling very hungry.”

Hutch pulled away just a bit, and smiled. “For angel food cake?”

Starsky licked his lips. “That would be perfect.”

****************************

They had both stripped naked and were kneeling in front of each other on the bed. Starsky always loved this moment, the moment right before, when they were just looking at each other and . . . anticipating. He reached his left hand out and touched Hutch’s face, then grabbed him by the neck and pulled him close, to his own mouth. His right hand stroked Hutch’s shoulder, his chest, touched his nipple and played with it till it hardened. Hutch groaned. Starsky could feel Hutch’s cock rising against him.

Starsky pulled away but kept looking into Hutch’s eyes. Hutch looked back, his eyebrows raised as if to ask, “what next?”

Starsky touched Hutch’s lips with his index finger, running it along Hutch’s lower lip tenderly. “Lie back,” he urged, softly.

Hutch did as he was told. Starsky smiled, and reached for the jar of chocolate sauce he had placed on the bedside table. He unscrewed the lid, reached in with two fingers, and traced a chocolate line from Hutch’s chin, down his neck, down his chest and belly, to his cock. Hutch closed his eyes and drew his breath in at the strange sensation, the cool feel of the chocolate against his skin, Starsky’s hand smoothing it lower and lower. Then Starsky’s hand was at his mouth again, and this time his tongue darted out to lick the fingers; his mouth enveloped them to suck, one by one, slowly, sensuously. He’d opened his eyes and was staring into Starsky’s now, sucking his fingers languorously. Starsky let him, the heat of Hutch’s mouth and the sweet sucking a delicious taste of things to come.

Finally, Starsky replaced his fingers with his own mouth, sucking on Hutch’s, feeding on his tongue and lips and teeth, and then dipped lower to his chin, licking and nibbling at skin and chocolate. He feasted on Hutch’s body, as he always did, farther and farther down, but this time with the added treat of the chocolate sauce. It mingled with the slightly salty taste of Hutch’s own skin, and led Starsky lower, to the broad, muscled chest, where he let his mouth wander over to one nipple, and then the other, swirling his tongue around each one, nibbling a bit, until he heard Hutch groan again, and he continued his journey downward.

Down down down, past Hutch’s strong, flat belly, and then to the golden pubic hair and now-rigid cock. Starsky smiled and breathed in Hutch’s musky essence. He tickled the underside of Hutch’s cock with one finger, then looked up to see his face. Hutch looked surprised, then laughed when he saw Starsky’s wicked smile. Pleased, Starsky reached for the jar of chocolate sauce, dipped two fingers in, and smoothed the stuff on Hutch’s hard cock. Up and down, Starsky coated the length of it with chocolate. He reached in for more and smoothed some on Hutch’s full, tender balls. He heard Hutch gasp every time the cool chocolate touched his skin. When a drop fell on the inside of Hutch’s thigh, Starsky moved to lick it. He felt Hutch’s powerful muscle twitch beneath his touch, and kept licking and sucking even after the chocolate was gone, working his way up, back to Hutch’s cock. He felt Hutch grab his head and try to tug him towards it; Starsky looked up and smiled at Hutch. “Ah ah ah ah,” he scolded. “Don’t be impatient.” Then he went back to kissing Hutch’s strong thighs.

Slowly, teasingly, he made his way to Hutch’s cock, which was rock-hard. When the soft wetness of Starsky’s mouth enveloped Hutch, he moaned. “Oh God, Starsk. Yes. Take me in your mouth. Please.”

But Starsky was still moving slowly, delighting in the chocolate-covered penis he’d created. Slowly, slowly, he licked it up and down. “Like a lollipop,” he murmured, and Hutch chuckled. Then Starsky licked at the tip and Hutch’s laugh changed quickly to another groan.

Starsky shifted around so that he was now comfortably kneeling between Hutch’s legs. He moved his head down and ran his tongue along Hutch’s balls, tracing patterns in the chocolate sauce until it was all cleaned off. He could feel Hutch bucking insistently against his head. He smiled, and moved once again to Hutch’s penis.

It was thick and variegated now, with stripes of chocolate sauce covering it asymmetrically. Starsky smiled when he saw his handiwork, and wished for a moment that he could take a picture of it. Hutch was moaning again. “Please, Starsk. Please,” and grabbing fistfuls of his curls.

Starsky suddenly moved up so that he was face to face with his partner. “Be patient, love,” he whispered, kissing him. “You gotta be more patient. Angels are more patient than this.” He kissed him again and then slid down his long, tanned body. Again, he teased Hutch’s penis with his mouth, kissing and licking it, first on top, then the underside, stroking from the base to the head. Finally, finally, he gave Hutch what he’d been craving, and sucked the tip of his cock into his mouth, past his lips, and played over it with his tongue, tasting and sucking the chocolate and now Hutch’s own flavor. He grasped the base of Hutch’s cock with his left hand and jacked, while taking as much of him into his mouth as he could, sucking softly, and then harder, Hutch thrusting against the back of his throat, thrusting again and again until he came, bucking hard against Starsky’s teeth, an explosion of light and liquid, moaning his lover’s name again and again into the night.

****************************

They dozed for a few minutes, touching each other lightly in their half-sleep. Hutch woke first, and reached for the jar of chocolate sauce.

“Your turn,” he said softly in his deep bedroom voice.

“Really?” Starsky replied, in mock surprise. “Well. Whatever floats your boat.”

****************************

Starsky dozed, but he did not sleep. Instead, he found himself transfixed, again, by the sight of Hutch’s cock, now quiet, not stirring, resting against Hutch’s thigh. A sheet covered both of them, but only partly. Starsky wrapped his own leg around his sleeping partner for a bit and held himself there, feeling the warmth of his sleeping lover. But sleep did not come for Starsky.

Tonight would not be good for picture taking, as the moon was just a thin crescent in the sky. Instead, Starsky busied himself in his darkroom, making enlargements of some of his earlier shots, developing others so they were brighter or darker, with more contrast or graininess. As he worked, he thought about the previous evening, the dinner he’d made, the extravagant lovemaking. Had it been out of guilt? He knew it had. He would have to tell Hutch about the pictures soon. Very soon. But not quite yet.

****************************

Hutch woke in the middle of the night, the bed bare beside him. He reached out his arm-it wasn’t even warm. Starsky was up again. He smiled sadly in his half-sleep; he’d thought that their earlier activities would surely have tired his partner out. Ah, well. Nothing he could do to help; it was something that Starsky would have to get through on his own. He turned over and went back to sleep.

****************************

Before the moon could wax again to full, Starsky’s insomnia began ebbing away. He found himself drowsy earlier and earlier, sometimes falling asleep during a TV show or while reading a book, sometimes falling asleep after sex. He was happy to sleep six or seven hours again; he felt less edgy during the day and more relaxed in the evenings. The Chapel of Bodily Invigoration case had been solved; it had turned out to be an old customer who’d felt himself spurned and who had killed Cindy in a jealous rage. Just another pathetic, senseless killing in a long line of pathetic, senseless killings. Starsky and Hutch were back to riding their beat for now, checking out the regular pickpockets and drunks in the neighborhood, making sure they weren’t up to anything nefarious.

Sometimes he missed his darkroom work, but he knew he’d have time for that later. He enjoyed sleeping more than he enjoyed staying awake and taking photographs, though that certainly had its allure.

Starsky could tell Hutch was happy to see him back to his old self again. On days off they would sleep eight, nine hours, then go down to the beach for a run, or off to Huggy’s for a game of pool and a beer. Sometimes Hutch would tend his plants while Starsky worked in his darkroom. Sometimes they’d do nothing and stay in bed all day. Those were some of their favorite days.

One Saturday, after a morning spent rolling around in bed, Starsky went to his darkroom while Hutch took a shower. After his shower, Hutch went to see what Starsky was up to.

He knocked on the door to make sure it was OK to go in. “All clear, or have you got the safe light on in there?”

“Come in,” Starsky said. “Nothing’s gonna get ruined.” Hutch entered, wearing only a dark green towel around his waist, and Starsky grinned at him. In his hands he held a print that he was working on.

“You come to see what I’m doing with my silly pictures?”

“I didn’t say they were silly,” Hutch said, leaning down to kiss Starsky, his wet hair dripping water onto Starsky’s nose. “Sorry.”

” ‘s OK,” Starsky said, wiping it off with his sleeve.

Hutch turned to look at the photograph Starsky had been trimming. “What is that?”

“It’s a still life. ‘Still Life with Cactus,’ I call it. See? There’s your cactus.”

“Huh. That’s not half bad.”

“Well, thank you very much. A lot of these pictures aren’t half bad, I’ll have you know.”

“I know they’re not. They’re very good.” Hutch walked around to the dry side of the room, and looked at the piles of prints that Starsky had stacked around.

Starsky held his breath. He’d never hidden the pictures he’d taken of Hutch, but he hadn’t told him about them either. He’d left them out in the hopes that Hutch would find them, thus relieving him of the burden of having to tell Hutch himself.

Hutch stopped suddenly, his hand on one of the pictures. “What’s this?”

“Huh? What’s what?” Starsky pretended to study the print in his hands with deep concentration.

“This. What’s this, Starsky?” He turned to show Starsky the photograph in his hands, which was a picture of him, naked and sleeping. He could tell it was a picture of himself, even though only a small portion of his body was in the shot.

“Oh, uh, well that was just a little experiment I did.”

“An experiment?” Hutch’s voice was rising in anger.

“Yeah, you know.” Starsky shrugged, like it was no big deal. “I was experimenting with lighting and exposure times and stuff.”

Hutch kept looking, incredulously, at the picture. “Starsky, this is me. I’m naked in this picture.” He turned back to the pile he’d found the picture in, and continued to dig through it. “There are more here! How many did you take?”

Starsky looked stunned. “Well, I . . . ”

“How many did you take, Starsky?”

“I don’t know! I never counted!”

“Approximately! Approximately how many pictures did you take of me while I was sleeping, and unable to give you my consent?”

“Unable to give me your consent? You make it sound like I raped you or something!”

“Well, don’t you think it’s an invasion of my privacy, for you to do this?”

“I . . . I dunno. I couldn’t wake you to ask you, ’cause then you wouldn’t be sleeping.”

Hutch was momentarily struck dumb by Starsky’s Yogi Berra logic.

“And I couldn’t tell you in the morning, ’cause then you’d be self-conscious about it the next night. Maybe it would give you insomnia, knowing I was gonna take pictures of you in your sleep.”

“Did it ever occur to you that maybe I wouldn’t want you to take pictures of me in my sleep?”

“Y-yes. It did occur to me, and I felt guilty about it. I felt terribly guilty.” Hutch thought of the leeks, and the chocolate sauce, and almost smiled. But he let Starsky continue. “I knew I should stop. But I couldn’t.”

“You couldn’t?”

“No, I couldn’t, even though I knew you might not like it. I couldn’t stop because it was like I was studying you. Every single inch of you. I wanted to know where your veins were, where your hair rose and where it lay flat, where your skin was bumpy and where it was smooth. I couldn’t sleep, and I wanted to spend my sleeplessness with you. With your body.”

Hutch’s voice softened. “Starsky, you spend every day with my body. You probably know my body better than I do-you’ve known it from a long time ago, from even before we were lovers.”

“It’s not the same. When you’re awake, you’re moving. I can’t study you the way I can when you’re asleep.” There was more, something about the transformation of life into art, of Hutch’s body and of their relationship into photographs, but Starsky couldn’t figure out how to put that into words.

Starsky moved over to where Hutch was standing, and picked up a picture. He traced the line of Hutch’s thigh in the photo with his index finger. “See that? I never noticed that before, how it curves right here-” he pointed- “and here. Mine doesn’t do that. Isn’t that interesting?” He looked at Hutch in wonder.

Hutch smiled. He found it impossible not to delight in Starsky’s childlike enthusiasm for things. So their thighs were different; Hutch would never have thought to comment on such a thing, and certainly would not have gotten excited about it.

Starsky went on. “It’s interesting, because we’re both men, but our bodies are very different. You’d think that you’d know a person better because they have basically the same body as you, but really every body is different, even when they have the same parts. Your body is completely different than mine, even though we both have cocks. Isn’t that funny?”

“I never really thought about it, I guess.”

Starsky was just getting warmed up. “What if you had red hair, or brown hair? What if you were shorter than me? Have you ever thought about that? Would we still be attracted to each other, if we had different bodies?”

“I don’t know, Starsk.” It was true, he’d never thought about it. “But I guess it would all be a lot easier if one of us had a woman’s body.”

“Easy,” Starsky said dismissively. “Easiness is overrated.” But he’d had the same thought many times. Of course, if one of them was a woman, would they still have the relationship they had now?

Hutch interrupted his thoughts. “Starsk, about these photos . . . aside from experimenting with light and exposure, and aside from studying all the nuances of my naked bod, what else were you planning on doing with them?”

“Don’t worry, Hutch. I’m not gonna show ’em to anyone. They’re just for me. I just. . . I just really liked taking ’em.”

Hutch considered this. “They’re just for you? You’re not gonna show ’em to anyone else?”

Starsky shook his head. “Uh-uh.”

Hutch laid the pictures out on the table in front of him. This time, he really looked at them. He noticed the progression from the earlier ones, which were blurry and not very well composed, to the later ones, which were sharper, and conveyed something. Hutch wasn’t sure what it was. Love? Could a picture convey love?

“Starsky. I’m sorry. It’s just-it was just such a shock. To see these here, I mean.”

Starsky came around the table to where Hutch was standing, and put his arms around him from behind. “Hutch,” he said softly. “I loved taking them. I love looking at you. You are so beautiful-your body-and I just wanted to keep it, I just wanted to capture it for myself. I know it was very selfish of me.” He leaned his cheek against Hutch’s shoulder.

“They-uh-they aren’t half bad. Not the subject, I mean.” He blushed. “The way you took them. There’s so much-there’s so much in them.” Hutch turned around to face Starsky. “There’s so much love in them.”

“You can see the love?”

“I can see the love.” Hutch smiled, and kissed him. “I can’t believe that this is what you were doing when you couldn’t sleep. Taking pictures of me.”

“Good way to pass the time.”

Hutch chuckled.

“Good thing you’re a heavy sleeper. Any normal person would have woken up at the sound of a clicking shutter.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, good thing I have you protecting me at night, then.” Hutch kissed him again, and then opened the door to leave. “They really are good, Starsk. You oughta, I don’t know, keep taking pictures. You’re good at it.”

“Thanks,” Starsky said, and went back to work with his chemicals, as Hutch shut the door.

****************************

Starsky had a friend, Rico Berkowitz, whom he knew from his bowling league. Rico was a welder, and had recently started making sculptures, or “sculptures,” as Rico so clearly put quotation marks around them when he spoke. He made these sculptures in his spare time, in his garage, with bits of pipe and rebar that he had left over from jobs he’d done.

Rico was a big guy, all dark hair and muscle, and when he laughed it came from deep in his gut. One night at the bowling alley, he told Starsky about some recent “sculptures” that he’d sold.

“You would not believe the money these people spend on ‘art,’ ” he told Starsky, the quotation marks clearly in place. “All I do is stick a few pieces of metal together, and these people are all over them like flies on shit. It’s unbelievable!”

Starsky was interested. “You must put some time into thinking about composition, though, don’t you?”

Rico shrugged. “Oh yeah, sure, I think about comp-hey, what do you know about composition?”

Starsky was nonchalant. “Oh, I’m a bit of an amateur artist myself.”

“Oh yeah? What kind?”

“Photographer.”

“Photographer? No kidding! Hey, you oughta bring some of your pictures with you next week. We can compare notes.”

“OK, I will. And maybe I can come to your garage sometime, see what you’re up to in there.”

Rico grinned. “Whaddaya know? A coupla working stiff artists we got here, at good old Hollywood Lanes.”

Starsky grinned back. “Heh. Yeah, whaddaya know?”

****************************

The next week Starsky brought along some of the prints he’d made of the still lifes. While they waited their turns to bowl, Starsky and Rico sat at the scoring table drinking their beers, and Rico looked the photographs over carefully. “Nice, nice. I like the shading in this one.” He moved through the pile, murmuring compliments. Finally, he looked up at Starsky. “You could sell some of these, easy.”

“You really think so?” Starsky looked doubtful.

“Absolutely. You got a good eye. Some people really go for this kinda stuff.”

“You mean, crap.”

“Naw, I really like ’em. I think you got something here. All you need to do is buy a real portfolio-that’ll impress the gallery people. If you want, I can take you around to some of the places on Melrose, introduce you to people. Whaddaya say?”

Starsky hadn’t expected this. He thought about it for a minute. “And then what?”

“Then it’s up to them. Somebody likes your stuff enough, he might hang some of it in his gallery. Oh-” Rico looked up again. “You’re gonna have to think about pricing. You don’t want to price your stuff too low, make it seem worthless. Price it high enough to make it valuable.”

Starsky considered this. “So, what, like fifty bucks a print?”

Rico looked startled. “Fifty bucks? Are you kidding, that’s nothing. Listen, you can’t think of your average art buyer as being a person like you or me. Fifty dollars is something we could afford. You gotta place it way out of our league. Think of a price neither of us would ever pay for a photograph, and make that your price.”

“OK, how about nine hundred and fifty dollars?” Starsky said, half joking.

Rico brightened. “Now you’re talking! Much better. Nine-fifty for a signed print by the artist. Very nice. You should probably make some big ones and some small ones. The big ones should cost more. I wouldn’t go any lower than two-fifty on the smallest ones.”

Starsky still felt a bit flustered. “Two-fifty. Geez, you really think people’ll pay that kinda money for these?”

Rico flipped through the prints again. “Oh yeah, of course they will. With some nice frames, these’ll look great with the contemporary or southwestern decor in a Bel Air mansion.”

Starsky took a swallow from his beer bottle. “Huh. No shit. And here I thought I was just fooling around.”

Rico chuckled. “Just fooling around could get you some big extra bucks. I’ll bet you could use some extra cash, maybe take a nice vacation, go to the Bahamas or something. Spend a week ogling some bikini beauties.”

Starsky grinned. “Yeah.” But he was thinking of other things he could do with the money, like get something nice for Hutch, or some more equipment for his darkroom. The crash of pins in their lane interrupted his thoughts.

“Anyway,” Rico took a minute to record a team member’s frame. “Next week. We’ll pick you up a nice portfolio, and go make some gallery visits. See what happens. You never know.” As an afterthought, he added, “Your turn.”

“Yeah,” Starsky said, putting his beer down and going for his bowling ball. “You never know.”

****************************

Starsky met Rico at Mel ‘n’ Rose’s Diner the following Tuesday morning. Over scrambled eggs and coffee, he showed Rico the portfolio he’d bought, and the way he’d organized the prints. Rico approved, and began outlining their plan of attack. He had a list of galleries up and down Melrose in West Hollywood; they would start with the higher-end ones, and work their way down. The last few were funky coffee shops whose clientele included college students and out-of-work screenwriters, and that liked to have local artists’ work hanging on their exposed-brick walls.

“You probably won’t sell much there,” Rico admitted. “But the exposure couldn’t hurt.”

The first two galleries they hit were glass-doored, heavily air-conditioned, and featured paintings in the five-thousand-dollar range. They were completely empty, except for one lone attendant who sat in the back of each at a desk, taking calls and greeting visitors. Starsky’s work was politely rejected by both. He was disappointed, but Rico explained they were long shots anyway. “Can’t hurt to try,” he explained.

The next place on their list had Mayan sculptures and folk art on display; Starsky realized with a twinge of sadness that it reminded him of Rosey’s shop. The owner, a cool young woman with blond hair arranged primly in a bun, informed them that the gallery was now showing only indigenous art. “I’m indigenous to L.A.,” Starsky assured her, flashing his grin.

She gave him a tight smile. “No, I mean indigenous peoples, like Inuits and Cherokees. Are you part of a tribe?”

“Am I part of a tribe? I’m part of the tribe. My people go back to Moses and Abraham.”

A tiny crack appeared in her stern façade. “That’s very amusing, Mr. . . . What did you say your name was? Mr. Starky. Perhaps you’d be interested in showing at a gallery I know . . . in Tel Aviv.”

Starsky smiled at her joke. “Well, maybe another time, when I’m looking for some international exposure.” He smiled again in his defeat, and left the gallery with Rico.

When they were outside on the sidewalk, Rico said, “That was good, Starsky. Do more of that. It could work in our favor.”

“Do more of what?” Starsky was puzzled.

“Flirting. You’re good at it, and it could get you somewhere.”

Flirting? Starsky hadn’t meant to flirt, but thinking back, of course that’s what he’d been doing. It came so naturally to him, it was almost impossible to shut off. Hutch had been right.

But in the end, he didn’t need to flirt. The sixth gallery they visited, a place called Louise B. Peeples Gallery, was interested. The young man behind the desk looked through Starsky’s photographs, stopping to look at some for a few seconds longer than others. When he was done, he looked up.

“I’ll need to hang onto this, so I can show your work to Louise. But I do think we might be interested.” He was a calm, self-assured man in his late twenties, wearing a pale gray suit and dark-rimmed glasses. He said this so matter-of-factly and with so little expression that Starsky thought at first that he had misunderstood.

“R-really? You think you might be interested?”

“Yes. Your work shows a good eye for composition and lighting. But of course, I need to talk it over with Louise. She is the owner, after all.”

“Of course,” said Starsky, raising a hand in a gesture of agreement. “That’s great. Isn’t that great, Rico?”

“That’s great, Starsky,” Rico said, clapping him on the shoulder.

“You do have a CV in here, don’t you?” The man paged through the portfolio again, searching.

Starsky’s face fell. “A CV?”

“Yes, a CV. Curriculum vitae? You know, like a résumé, with all your previous shows listed?”

“Oh. Well, I haven’t exactly had any previous shows,” said Starsky, a bit uncertain now.

The man seemed to sense his nervousness. He smiled reassuringly. “Don’t worry about it, it’s OK. But I will need your full name, and a number where I can reach you.” He handed Starsky a pen and piece of paper, and Starsky scribbled down his name and number. Then he smiled and thanked the man, whose name, he realized, he did not know.

“Thanks a lot, Mr. . . . I didn’t get your name.”

The man smiled again. “My name is Peter, Peter Gaulton. Either Louise or I will contact you by the end of the week.”

Starsky smiled again. “OK. Thanks, Peter. G’bye.” He felt almost unwilling to leave the gallery; it was the site of his first art victory. Rico finally grabbed him by the arm and dragged him out.

Once they were on the street, Rico was ebullient. “See, I told you you could do it! What’d I tell you? Ha! Let’s go get some burgers to celebrate.”

Starsky still felt a bit stunned. He also didn’t want to get his hopes up. “Well, you never know. The owner might not like my work. That guy doesn’t have final say.” Realizing something, he suddenly turned to Rico. “Hey, we didn’t talk about prices. Should I have told him my prices?”

Rico put an arm around his shoulder. “Talk about prices when they agree to show your photos. Until then, don’t worry about it. Just be happy you’ve got someone who’s interested in your work. Come on, lunch is on me.”

****************************

Starsky didn’t say anything about it to Hutch until Friday, when the phone call came from the gallery. Peter Gaulton called him at work to say that he had shown the portfolio to Louise, and she had been interested. They had picked out ten of his photos, and wanted to know if Starsky would agree to have them included in an upcoming group show.

“Yeah,” he said, trying to sound nonchalant. “Sure. Why not?”

Peter explained about the group show, and they set a time when Starsky could come down to the gallery and oversee framing. He hung up without remembering to discuss pricing; he figured they’d talk about that in person. It didn’t really matter-he was going to have his pictures in a gallery! He could hardly believe it.

“Who was that on the phone?” Hutch asked. Starsky seemed weirdly animated, more so than usual.

“No one. I mean, it was someone. I’ll tell you about it later.” Starsky was oddly flustered. He hadn’t realized it meant so much till now.

During their lunch at a local taco stand, Hutch finally asked. “What’s up, Starsk? You’ve been buzzing around all morning, like you just got the news you inherited a lot of money from a rich uncle.” Hutch smiled behind his aviator sunglasses.

“It just so happens I did get some good news, but it’s not about money. Well, not really. Not yet. I mean, the money isn’t the important part.” Starsky leaned on the roof of the Torino, taco in one hand, Coke in the other.

“What is it, then?”

“I’ll tell you tonight, over dinner.” He raised his eyebrows and bit into the waiting taco.

Hutch rolled his eyes. “What’s the big deal, why can’t you just tell me now?”

“I’ll tell you over dinner. And that’s final.” Starsky’s mouth was full of taco filling, and bits flew out while he spoke.

“That’s disgusting. Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to talk with a full mouth?”

“Then stop asking me questions while I’m eating.” And he took another bite of his lunch.

****************************

Starsky didn’t have time for anything fancy, so he bought a couple of steaks and some wine on the way home, while Hutch waited in the car. Hutch had given up asking questions, and seemed resigned to waiting until Starsky was ready to tell him whatever it was he had to tell him.

At home, Hutch opened the wine while Starsky put the steaks under the broiler, and threw a couple of potatoes into the oven. Starsky set the table and put some candles out, whistling while he worked.

When dinner was ready, Starsky made both of their plates up and brought them to the table. He tucked a napkin into Hutch’s collar, which Hutch promptly removed and placed on his lap.

“Okay, what gives. You’ve been grinning like a maniac all day, and now you can’t stop whistling. What’s going on?”

Starsky looked up from his steak, which he’d started cutting into. “I’ll tell you after dinner. Eat up, it’s gonna get cold.”

Hutch reached across the table and grabbed Starsky’s wrist. “Now, Starsk. If I have to wait another minute, I may have to kill you, and then you won’t make it past dinner.”

Starsky put his silverware down. He picked up his wine glass, and took a drink from it. “OK. Here it is. I showed my photos to some galleries on Melrose, and one place liked ’em. They chose ten of ’em to put up in a show next month.” He looked down at the table, waiting to see how Hutch would respond.

Hutch was speechless for a moment. Then he recovered. “Starsky. Starsk, that’s terrific.” A great white smile spread across Hutch’s face; then he got up from his chair and gave Starsky a hug. “I’m so proud of you, buddy. I told you those pictures weren’t half bad, and what I really meant was that they were good. You are a really good photographer. This is terrific news.” Now Hutch was the one with a big grin on his face. “When’s the show? Which gallery is it? Tell me everything.”

Starsky suddenly realized how nervous he’d been about how Hutch would take the news. Hutch did some painting in his spare time; he’d taken a figure-drawing class last summer. Starsky had been afraid that this would turn into another one of their stupid competitions, that Hutch would be jealous instead of happy for him. It had been a long time since Starsky had had anyone tell him that they were proud of him.

Hutch caught Starsky staring at him. “What?” he asked.

Starsky shook his head. “Nothing. I just . . . I love you, that’s all.” He went back to his steak and potato.

Hutch patted his hand, then went back to his own meal. Then, something seemed to occur to him, and he blushed.

“You didn’t . . . did you show them any of the ones you took of me?”

Starsky looked up, surprised. “Of course not. I told you, those photos are just for me. You know I can’t show them to anyone.”

Hutch looked puzzled. “Why not? No one can tell who I am from the pictures.”

Starsky put down his fork. “But they’ll know I took them. They’ll know I have a male lover.”

“Not necessarily. How would they know that?”

“Remember what you said, Hutch? You can see love in the pictures. You can see I’m in love with the subject. And anyone who knows us, who knows we’ve been living together, will put two and two together…”

“And end up with queer.”

Starsky smiled. “Right.”

Hutch sighed. “I wish you could show them. They’re your best work yet.”

“He said, modestly.”

Hutch smiled. “It’s got nothing to do with me-I’m not talking about the subject, I’m talking about the photographer.”

Starsky was serious. “It’s got everything to do with you. Hutch.”

“Hmmm?” Hutch chewed on a piece of steak.

“I’m sorry I can’t show them. I really wish I could. I wish I could tell everyone in the world how I feel about you.”

“But a gay cop is a dead cop, you know that.” Hutch said this matter-of-factly, with no trace of malice. Starsky knew that he’d come to accept their fate.

“I know that,” said Starsky. But it made him sad; it always made him sad to think about the way they had to hide. Someday he would show people those pictures. Someday, he thought, someday the whole world would know how he felt about Detective Hutchinson. But not yet. Not quite yet.

the end