Eschewing the Cliff Notes

Starsky’s got chips and guacamole but Hutch wants to finish his book. What to do, what to do.

Written for the twenty minute challenge using Lady Chatterley’s lover.

“What you reading?” Starsky asked, setting the bowl of guacamole and chips on the coffee table in front of the couch.

Absorbed in his novel, Hutch held the book up high enough for Starsky to read the cover, reaching for a chip with his other hand.

“Lady Chatterly’s Lover?” Starsky snorted in surprise. “Hutchinson, you dog. Looking for inspiration in the classics?”

“You wish.” Hutch raised his eyebrows, piercing Starsky with those summer blue eye before crunching his snack. “I already know what to do with you under the sheets.”

“Which reminds me…” Starsky pushed his bare toes against Hutch’s feet on the carpet. “We haven’t done much in…”

“Starsk, I have to finish this chapter before my Lit class on Tuesday.” Hutch closed the book with a snap, tipping his head with a vaguely annoyed expression. “I want to get a good grade.”

“It’s a night course for bored geriatrics.” Starsky laughed, scooping guac on his chip and licking off the creamy, green concoction that stuck to his fingers. “You already have a degree in criminology and a minor in—what was it?”

“Darts.” Hutch mimed tossing a tiny arrow straight at his lover.

“Which I never believed, by the way.” Starsky gave him a smirk, well aware it had the power to ruffle Hutch even further. And an exasperated Hutch was a wonderful thing.

“How about wrestling?” Hutch grabbed Starsky’s thigh, flipping him enough to flatten him onto the sectional couch.

“Is that any way to treat a sixty-six year old man?” Bracketing Hutch with his knees, Starsky pulled him forward until they were chest to chest.

“Wrestling is an ancient sport, sport.” Hutch kissed the mouth directly below his own.

“What does that have to do with Constance and the amorous gamekeeper makin’ a baby?” Starsky tongued Hutch’s lower lip, tasting salt from the Fritos.

“So you have read it!” Hutch pretended to smack his upper arm, biting very gently where Starsky’s neck curved into the shoulder. “How’s it end?”

“Spoilers,” Starsky mimicked River Song from Doctor Who in a posh British accent. “I’ll tell you on one condition.”

“What?” Hutch braced himself with his hands on either side of Starsky’s body.

“Act out the naughty parts of the novel—very, very vividly.” Starsky howled with laughter, pulling Hutch’s cotton button-down clear of his pants in anticipation of a literary event.

FIN