He Talks About You All the Time

Hutch liked having a girlfriend. Having girlfriends.

What he liked best about having girlfriends was talking to them about Starsky.

Hutch liked having a girlfriend. Having girlfriends.

What he liked best about having girlfriends was talking to them about Starsky. He liked to steer the subject of conversation around to his partner, feel the jagged shape of Starsky’s name stealthy in his mouth, the sound of it setting off sparks in Hutch’s belly, raising the hairs on his arms.

Sooner or later the girlfriend would pick up on the fact that somehow every conversation turned to Starsky. If they chose to stick around it was usually a sign that they were a good one — happy to have fun without angling for a future, now they knew where his heart lay.

Molly, the stewardess straight out of a fashion plate with the knowing smile, had been a good one. When she’d strolled into Hutch’s bathroom to tell him “Thought you might want to know your partner’s here” in that archly suggestive way, a fly on the wall could have mistaken it for flirtation. Assuming said fly hadn’t overheard their conversation in bed the night before, their post-coital sweet nothings veering off-course when a litany of complaints about how Starsky didn’t eat right had been Hutch’s response to Molly’s teasing compliment that his weird smoothies were good for his stamina. What Hutch didn’t point out was that he’d got it up for Molly by thinking of Starsky’s easy run up and over the roof of the Torino that morning, and kept going for so long because wham, bam, thank you Ma’am didn’t turn him on enough to get him there.

Not that he wasn’t glad he could keep his girlfriends happy that way. It did no harm to have a reputation of being great in the sack. Pleasing women was a skillset like any other, and aiming for straight As was what he did in life. But for his own pleasure, stack it up against a game of pool with Starsky leaning over the table to take his shot, Starsky hitching his hip against a flashing pinball machine for a replay — hell, even Starsky beating the crap out of the chocolate machine at the precinct — and bedding women would lose every time. Not that Hutch would ever admit to that. It went against the rules of the game.

What did make Hutch happy was Molly clocking his crush on his partner, teasing him about it, then propping her chin on his chest as they lay in bed and helping him devise a plan to get Starsky to drink the smoothie.

When Hutch walked out of the bathroom next morning and stood shirtless next to Starsky at the blender, Molly knew who all that skin was on display for and didn’t bat an eyelid, just delivered her script, word-perfect, tilted her beret and left for work.

She’d called him later from the airport,

“Just tell him, Ken!”
“Maybe one day, Mol.”

And away she’d flown.

And then there was Gillian, his perfect girl who made him feel like he was walking on air, who loved him and was content for them simply to gaze at each other, who made him think that maybe this one could actually work. Until she met his partner at the bowling alley, cast her poet’s eye over his blindsided expression and told Starsky the truth.

“He talks about you all the time.”

The bowling pins crashed behind them, Starsky’s girl looked on like she wished she’d brought popcorn for this— and Hutch blushed, ducked his head, and knew he was a lost cause.