A Bottle of Beer, a Can of Shaving Cream, and Thee

177

Hutch is dealing with the stark reality of his 40^th birthday. Fortunately, Starsky knows just how to deal with it.

 

Originally published in mixed media zine, Bound and Determined, in 2002. It was re-edited and expanded and this version was published in the Starsky and Hutch slash zine, Barely Legal, in 2006.

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August 28, 1983

The end of a hot, Bay City summer day. Twilight time, cold beer in hand, feet propped on the deck railing—but gently, very gently, as the rail had yet to be fixed, like two dozen other things in the fixer-upper they’d bought last year.

They sat side by side, close enough to touch, but not touching, not needing to, each sure of the other. The sky deepened to something closer to true darkness. Stars came out, one by one, as did the fireflies.

“Happy birthday, Hutch,” Starsky said at last.

He let the words hang in the air, allowing the night to take the sting from them, before he answered. “Thanks, buddy.”

“For what?” A lean brown hand came to rest on Hutch’s thigh.

“You know… for not making a big deal about it.”

“What are partners for?” Starsky’s tone sounded light, but Hutch could hear the steady support under the brashness.

“Forty wasn’t hard for you,” Hutch supplied, wanting to respond to the encouragement in his lover’s voice, to give something back.

“No. It wasn’t,” Starsky answered.

“It’s tougher for me.”

“I know.”

They finished their beers and Starsky collected the bottles, obviously intending to get them another round, but Hutch didn’t want another beer—he wanted something that he couldn’t quite put into words. He rose and followed his partner into their small kitchen.

As though sensing his thought, Starsky didn’t bring them another beer. He set about putting the kitchen to rights, stowing the relish, mustard, and ketchup they’d used on their hotdogs a short time ago.

“I’m hot,” Hutch announced, one hand pulling his clammy, sweat-stained shirt free from his chest while the fingers of the other hand combed through the damp strands of hair clinging to his neck.

“Yeah, you are,” Starsky mumbled, a hint of laughter coloring his grunt of agreement.

“I meant I’m sweaty,” Hutch clarified, a little indignantly.

“So let’s take a bath,” Starsky suggested innocently.

As if. . . .

* * *

If there was any one thing that sold them on this house, it had been the relative privacy provided by the tall shrubs and old-growth trees… but the incredibly long, cast-iron tub had been a close second. With the right amount of coziness, a lot of soapy lubricant, and a touch of Hutch’s yoga enhanced flexibility, they could be shoe-horned into the tub for a bit of clean, loving fun with little discomfort.

“Don’t turn on the lights,” Starsky said, as Hutch shucked out of his jogging shorts.

“Why?”

“‘Cause I want to light a candle.”

“Only you would want to light a candle on the hottest night of the year,” Hutch groused, but with no real heat in his voice. He stripped off his t-shirt, tossing it in the general direction of the hamper.

“You missed,” Starsky pointed out.

“How careless of me,” Hutch answered, not bothering to pick his clothes off the floor. “Now tell me again—why are you starting a small fire?”

“It’s your birthday, babe. There’s gotta be candles somewhere.”

Leave it to his partner, the perpetual man-boy, to cling to the rituals of childhood. “Whatever,” Hutch answered, turning the taps to the coolest possible setting without the water actually being cold.

The small transistor radio that sat on the windowsill clicked on; Starsky fiddled with the tuner a bit before settling on a top-40 station. Prince’s Little Red Corvette filled the bathroom.

“Good song,” Starsky opined, stripping off his cutoffs and tank top.

“You’d like a Gregorian chant as long as it was about a red car,” Hutch shot back.

“Yeah, I probably would.” The toothy grin flashed white in the near dark and Hutch was charmed, as he nearly always was, by his lover’s infectious good humor.

“It’s my turn to take the faucet end,” Hutch volunteered.

“Nah,” Starsky answered, already lowering himself into the side with the taps. “It’s your birthday. Think of it as the start of your present.”

“The start?” Hutch asked, mock suspiciously.

“Yeah.”

Hutch folded himself into the tub, glad that it was as long as a horse trough. He placed his legs so they rested against the cool enameled sides of the bath. As usual, Starsky slid his legs against Hutch’s, pinning them wide, before worming his toes just beneath Hutch’s buttocks.

“All comfy?” Starsky asked solicitously.

“Comfy enough.”

“Good. ‘Cause now I want to give you your birthday gift.”

“Starsky, I told you I didn’t want to celebrate turning forty years old.”

“We’re not,” his partner rumbled seductively, his hand reaching between Hutch’s thighs, brushing the quiescent cock coolly curled against the wheat-colored thatch of pubic hair. “We’re going to celebrate us being forty years young.”

Hutch wanted to snort, but instead asked, “How are you going to do that?”

“I think a little TLC is in order—don’t you?” The waggling eyebrows belied the seductive tone, but Hutch played along.

“What did you have in mind?”

“How about a shave?”

“You, shave me?” Hutch asked incredulously.

“You trust me with your life—why not your razor?”

Indeed, why not? Hutch’s long hand rose in a gesture of be my guest and Starsky reached for the can of Bristol Cream sitting on the lip of the tub. A few shakes, a loud skuort, and Starsky’s palm held a creamy white pyramid of foam. Hutch felt the squirmy toes withdraw from their hiding place beneath his ass as Starsky shifted. As his partner knelt between Hutch’s spread thighs, a tiny wave broke on his chest. The small mountain of foam, guided by the lean, dark hand he so loved, crept closer and closer to Hutch’s face. He closed his eyes a second before the silky contact.

Starsky’s massaging fingertips, digging into the tight little muscles behind his jaw, were a delight. Drifting with pleasure and lulled by the humid room, Hutch shut his eyes and slid lower in the huge tub, spreading his legs wider so that Starsky could move in closer to shave him. It wasn’t often they had the time to pamper each other like this.

“Don’t move, babe,” Starsky murmured close to his ear and began to shave him to the plaintive words of Every Breath You Take. Hutch smiled: In this, and everything Starsky did that affected his safety, he was dedicated and most expert.

The cool steel touched down just in front of his ear and rested there a moment. Eyes closed, Hutch felt his partner’s breath puff outwards, cooling his damp brow, if just for a second, then the gliding razor scraped off foam and whiskers together, exposing a swath of skin to the somewhat cooler air. For just a second, Hutch cheated open an eye. The beloved face above him was infused with the concentration of a sculptor, one lovingly placing the finishing touches on what he knows is his masterpiece.

“Lift your chin a little,” Starsky commanded. He threaded the fingers of his right hand into Hutch’s hair, as though to reinforce the order. But instead of cruel command, the hand cupped the nape of his neck in a manner most comforting. Starsky continued to shave.

The scritch-scratch of the razor was both shorter and quicker now, moving over flesh that tingled. Steel visited neck, lip, chin, and jaw; in short order, Hutch could feel that almost all of his face was cleared of foam and any trace of hair. Starsky was nearly done—but Hutch wasn’t ready for him to be finished. Using his toes, Hutch pulled the plug.

“Good idea… let out some of the water and add more hot,” Starsky complimented.

“Yeah,” Hutch mumbled. “Got to be hotter.”

Cupping his hands, gathering water in the bowl of his palms, Starsky rinsed Hutch’s face, obviously admiring his handiwork. “I did a good job. No nicks and didn’t miss anything.”

“You missed one spot,” Hutch opined.

“No, I didn’t—”

“Come closer and I’ll show you.” Hutch accompanied his loving command with the force of two guiding hands on either shoulder. He pulled his lover close and whispered into his lips, “Here’s the spot you missed.”

They kissed. Briefly, they pressed together, a loving seal that only really good friends ever seemed to share. Then it turned to a lovers’ kiss. Both men opened their mouths, inviting the gentle invasion of loving tongue.

In this Hutch didn’t have to guide Starsky and he allowed his hands to drift off the broad shoulders on down to the delightfully narrow waist. Starsky responded, tossing the razor in the direction of the sink, kneeling up between Hutch’s knees, moving closer, encircling Hutch’s torso with his left hand. All the while, the right hand never left his nape, but instead clutched him possessively. Hutch moaned.

His heart thundered and the water level was down to the last three inches. “Uh, babe?” Hutch gasped around the assertive lips covering his own.

“Murf’n?”

“I can’t get the stopper back in with my toes—would you mind?”

“Sure, Blintz. I got it.”

Starsky turned and fumbled around in the low, foamy water. Hutch used this opportunity to snag the Bristol can from the rim of the tub. Determinedly, he filled one large hand with a small mountain of foam.

“Starsk,” Hutch said to his back, and a very nice back it was, despite the long-healed bullet wounds and the faded wheals marking surgeries past—or perhaps because of it. Only the living scar.

“Yeah?”

“You missed another spot.”

“I did?” Starsky answered, sounding suspicious. Of course he heard the shaving cream, Hutch thought. They don’t give you a gold badge unless you have a certain panache for putting clues together.

“Yeah.”

His mission accomplished, Hutch watched as Starsky cautiously turned around. His partner probably expected a face full of foam a la the Three Stooges, but instead he snagged Starsky’s hand. Gently, he brought the hand to his own, the one filled with shaving cream, and wrapped the graceful fingers around his wrist.

“Hutch, what do you want me to do—?”

“Let me help you with that spot you missed.”

Using his lover’s hand to control his own, Hutch guided the creamy foam to his own groin, which already twitched with interest. “That’s what you forgot to do,” Hutch whispered. He could see his partner’s breath hitch faster in his chest. The startling blue eyes that he never grew tired of—eyes that still riveted him after all these years together—narrowed down to tiny crystal rings circling a sea of black.

“How careless of me,” Starsky rumbled, in a credible imitation of Hutch.

Together they lathered Hutch’s groin. His cock responded to the attention, lengthening, filling, arching over the lean belly. His heart also responded to Starsky’s manipulations, filling with a love so profound, so big, that it wanted to displace the lungs in his chest.

Maybe that’s why we breathe harder when we make love—reduced lung capacity, Hutch thought, and gave a small laugh, content and suddenly very happy. He barely noticed when Annie Lenox began to sing of Sweet Dreams.

“Tickled?” Starsky asked, inclining his head in the direction of Hutch’s now impressive erection.

“Always,” Hutch responded.

He smiled again when Starsky snorted and rolled his eyes. He could easily guess what his partner was thinking: Sheesh! You can never get a straight answer outta this guy.

At length, Starsky disengaged his hand from Hutch’s. He gave a small sound of protest that was magnified when Starsky said, “Be right back.” Starsky’s movement set off another small wave in the low water, one that kissed the bottom of Hutch’s scrotum. His partner stood, clad only in fading bits of bubbles, and stepped out of the tub. He retrieved the safety razor then diverted to the medicine cabinet. Starsky rooted around for a moment before returning to the tub and brandishing a new razor blade. Deftly, Starsky began to unscrew the mechanism. “I wish you’d get with the times and buy disposable razors,” he grumbled, stepping back into the tub.

This was an old debate with them—one that had lost what little heat it had ever held. Starsky knew he hated over-packaging, Styrofoam, plastic bags, microwaves, and disposable anything; Hutch was a green man in every sense of the word. But he didn’t mind that his partner still occasionally rattled his cage over the issue.

“When they make edible razors—”

“—Yeah, yeah, you’ll buy disposable. Why don’t you concentrate on somthin’ else for a minute?” Starsky repositioned himself between Hutch’s legs and grabbed his partner’s hand, placing it on Hutch’s somewhat softened erection.

Hutch sank his fingers into the deep lather on his groin. He carded his pubic hair, combing the golden curls out and away from his cock, the sensation marvelous. Then he moved lower, cupping his balls, really working the foam around and behind them, enjoying the feel of velvety slick skin amid the wiry curls. Finally, he wrapped his fingers around his shaft. He stroked with a firm but measured rhythm, one guaranteed to keep him hard, but not precipitate orgasm.

He stroked his cock as Starsky finished his task, screwing the blade in place. Sloshing closer, Starsky placed a steadying hand on his thigh. “You really want me to do this?” All the answer Hutch gave was a nod. “Okay. Shut your eyes… and don’t move.”

Obeying his lover’s order, Hutch shut his eyes and leaned back, allowing his head to rest on the enamel rim. A hand covered his own, stopping his masturbatory strokes. Starsky picked up his hand and placed it in the low water at his hip, out of the way. Gun-calloused fingers closed around his turgid member and held it away from his body.

Then Hutch waited. He waited… and waited… and waited some more. He ignored the rapidly cooling water, the tiny crackle-pop of dissolving suds that burst against his skin, the sound of the tinny radio on the windowsill belting out Do You Really Want to Hurt Me?, the sputter that heralded a guttering candle, and the scent of extinguished wax. Hutch ignored everything, his entire attention focused on his groin, anticipating the first stroke of the razor.

It came.

The cool metallic kiss, as gentle as a lover, swept neatly through his curls to the base of his cock. Hutch gasped, and the hand left his cock and pressed against his chest. “You okay, babe?”

The sensation was at once airy, the swath of flesh all naked and exposed in a way he couldn’t ever remember feeling before, despite the intellectual understanding that his first ten years of his life had been spent bare down there. At the same time, a feeling that touched upon fear—not the endless warehouse of terrorizing memories that came from nearly two decades of dealing with freaks and perps, but more the controlled fear you feel when boarding a roller coaster—came to Hutch. The feeling was that he was about to take a wild ride and it would thrill rather than truly frighten him.

“I’m a hell of a lot better’n okay,” Hutch replied dreamily.

Starsky chuckled in response, then briefly pinched each nipple before returning to his task.

Delicate sweeps of the razor made short work of his pubic hair. Each scritch-scratch was punctuated by a splash as Starsky rinsed the blade in the water behind him. Hutch felt his cock blissfully manipulated back, forth, up, and over as Starsky efficiently worked on him. But it was not all business, as his lover would occasionally roll his thumb over the head of his cock, teasing the tiny slit there. Hutch could barely keep himself from squirming.

“I’m gonna do your balls now.”

“Anytime you want, lover,” Hutch sassed back.

“Hold your cock,” Starsky directed.

By feel alone, Hutch grasped his rod. He tugged it gently upwards and canted his hips—he wanted his partner to have an easy angle for his work.

A hand patted his thigh, then moved to grasp his hip, adjusting him. “That’s good, babe. Hold it right there.”

Starsky grasped his ball sac and, like some miser out of Dickens, seemed to weigh his testes. Guess that’s why they call ’em the family jewels, Hutch mused to himself. Then there was no time for further musing as the razor touched him. Involuntarily, the skin of his scrotum drew into a tight, crinklely mass. Even though his head knew there was no danger, his balls didn’t.

“Shhh—I’ve got you,” Starsky soothed. Hutch didn’t know if he was addressing him or his balls, but it didn’t matter as the razor made its first pass. It was then, as Starsky shaved his scrotum, delicately, following each natural curve with the care of a surgeon, that Hutch allowed fantasy to take him. His mind transported him to a place that had never existed and didn’t abide by the laws of Bay City….

Rather than be forced by the slave handlers who shadowed him on either side, he voluntarily stepped into the wooden tub filled to overflowing with tepid water. Despite his dire circumstances, he appreciated the touch of the cool water; it had been a hard and hot day, this very eve he was to be sold to a new master.

“You’re a tall one,” the rough handler muttered, even as he dipped the sponge in mashed soaproot and passed it economically over his body.

“Don’t get too many blonds,” the guard on the left said, showing a little interest in what was otherwise an ordinary, everyday sight.

“All that yellow hair might jack up the price a bit,” opined the other guard.

“Maybe, maybe not,” said the bath handler. “The blond bed slaves fetch the best price, but he’s a bit old for it, though. It’s probably the mines for this one.”

The bath handler had almost completed his perfunctory task when a man in a midnight blue robe covered in embroidery stars—obviously a free man, if his bold stare and costly garments were any proof—came over. He knew he should drop his eyes, as any well-trained slave would, but what did he have to lose? He was to be sold… sold! And why?

“Too old,” his last master had said, cutting his heart to the quick a moment before it shriveled on the vine.

The free man came closer and he noted many things: the thong that held a necklace of coins about the lean throat; the wealth of dark hair, a veritable crown of curls; the lean, olive face, etched with lines that he hoped were caused by laughter and not cruel sneers. But most riveting of all were the incredible eyes—eyes that matched the rich robe, as deep blue as the night sky ere the stars appeared, and just as full of twinkling lights.

“What have we here?” the free man asked, his voice infused with the accent of the East.

“New stock, sir,” answered a guard. “Just came in.”

“We’re prepping him for this afternoon’s sale,” the bath handler added. “Long, clean limbs means plenty of years of hard work left in him. Figger him for a miner or a maybe a farmhand.”

The freeman shook his head. “No… I don’t think so. Give me the razor.”

The handler bent and retrieved a blade from his tool chest. “Mi’lord,” he said, proffering the razor.

The man with the blue eyes and the blue robe must be the owner of the slave auction.

The master, for that was certainly what the freeman acted like, took the blade into his left hand.

With grave misgivings, he watched the dark, blue eyes flick to the guards. In a heartbeat he was held immobile as on either side a hulking handler clasped his arms.

“Don’t move,” the master ordered. “Do you understand me?”

“Yes,” he answered. At the bite of the steely fingers digging into his flesh, he added, “Yes, Master.”

“You are a Northman,” the master stated, even as he took up a rough cake of precious soap and began to lather his face.

“Yes, Master. How did you know?”

“Your accent confirmed my suspicions. But your pale skin and hair and eyes gave me all the clues I needed, long before you ever opened your mouth.”

Lathering complete, he tried not to tremble as the blade came to rest against his jaw. “Don’t move,” the master commanded. Then his soapy right hand patted his far cheek. “Don’t worry… I just want to see what you look like without the beard.”

Quicker than he could describe, the master had scraped away his whiskers, baring his face to the warm breeze. “I like what I see so far, but I want to see the rest,” the master said at last. With another silent command, for obviously the guards were long in the master’s service and knew his will well, the two men tightened their grips before bending forward and forcing him to his knees. He did not resist them—and what would be the use? They would only beat him and still he would have to kneel.

Fine fingers, clever and firm, rolled his jewels in their thin leather pouch. A shiver quickened his flesh and his shaft rose to meet this man’s touch.

“Shhh—I’ve got you,” the master soothed.

When it seemed that all the man wanted was to scrape away the golden thatch that surrounded his manhood, he became confused. Daring to speak, at last he stuttered, “Y-you will not geld me?”

“Do you think me a fool? I need you whole because I plan to make you mine.” The master leaned closer, the sculpted lips brushing his ear. “I will teach you how to love again, but first 1 must mark you as my own.” As if he had planned for this moment—and for all he knew, the master had planned this—the lean brown hand sank into the robe’s inner pocket. A pale leather collar, adorned with a silvery moon and star, was drawn forth. In a twinkling, and with a twinkle in the lapis eyes, the collar was clasped around his throat.

A feeling of safety immediately filled his being… and the fear that had dogged him all this terrible day faded.

“Soon you won’t need a collar to mark you mine,” said the master, snapping a short leather lead to the collar. “Soon my sperm will drip down the backs of your thighs, announcing to everyone that you belong to me.” A light tug was delivered and he followed without complaint.

“What is your name, Slave?”

“H’tūch, Master….”

His cock gave a twitch and Hutch found himself back in their claw-footed tub. Starsky was absorbed in his work and was nearly finished. It hadn’t taken him long, as Hutch was not exceptionally hirsute, but the act was performed with what could only be described as respect, reverence even. Each carefully timed stroke lifted away a section of wiry golden pubes. The sensation was exquisite. Heat from his erotic daydream clung to Hutch, arousing him more, filling his cock to near bursting. He felt as if he could come at any moment.

Starsky’s loving hands stilled; they cupped Hutch’s balls but did not otherwise move.

“Don’t stop,” Hutch mewled.

“I’m just getting started,” Starsky answered.

Hutch felt hard fingers insistently grip the base of his cock, the pressure just enough to take his incipient orgasm off the boil. Calmer, more in control of himself, Hutch noted the tiny clink the razor made when placed on the tub’s rim and was thus forewarned of the splash of water that bathed the newly shaved area. Even forewarned, the shock of the now-cool water against his bared groin caused him to open his eyes wide. “Too cold—turn on the water.”

Starsky grinned and shook his head. Instead of turning on the water, he pulled the plug. He then stood and drew the shower curtain. “I got a better idea.” His lover turned and, displaying the ovals of his fine olive ass, bent to adjust the taps. The shower sprang to life, drenching both men.

“Stand up, Blondie.” Starsky had the confident, peremptory air of the slave owner from Hutch’s fantasy and Hutch was drawn to it from the deepest reaches of himself.

He stood with trembling grace and went willingly into the circle of Starsky’s arms. The water caressed them, clothed them in a cloak of needling rain. Hungry, needy, aching, Hutch pressed his mouth hard to Starsky’s. His turgid cock bumped and dug into Starsky’s belly. Hips writhing of their own accord, the head of his cock frantically kissed Starsky’s firming member, his pelvis, his navel. It slid between Starsky’s thighs and nuzzled the underside of his balls, stroking his perineum.

A lusty moan not his own filled Hutch’s mouth. Hard, possessive hands clenched his buttocks, pulling him closer, but never close enough, never too close.

“You’re mine,” Starsky growled, causing Hutch’s knees to go weak. Any minute he expected Starsky to produce a collar and leather lead from behind his naked ass. Instead, his partner dropped to his knees before Hutch, taking the head of his cock into his throat like he owned it.

Moaning from the incredible sensation, Hutch leaned back against the tiles to keep from falling. The water stream hit Hutch full on the chest now that Starsky no longer shielded him. Reaching upward, he redirected the showerhead in the direction of his lover’s back. The spray made a pleasing sound against the long torso, one that was echoed by Starsky himself a second later.

“That feels good, but I know something that’ll feel better,” Starsky murmured, rubbing his face against Hutch’s exceptionally naked, tingling groin. Hutch could only watch weakly as his lover took him slowly into his mouth. With the ease of long practice—for it had taken some practice, given his generous size—Starsky took him to the root. Panting with pleasure, knees growing weaker and more unsteady by the minute, Hutch actually gave a bark of pure joy as his lover worked the muscles of his throat, ‘swallowing’ his cock in the most marvelously intimate fashion.

Starsky pulled back, no doubt to catch his breath, but immediately took him again into his throat. Perhaps sensing that Hutch was rapidly falling victim to trembling limbs, Starsky’s hands left his partner’s ass and dug into his hips. Hutch’s ass and his shoulder blades pressed into the elaborately tiled wall to Bowie’s imperative command of Let’s Dance.

Their extended bath had warmed the tiles somewhat, but they were still cool when compared to the warmth of Starsky’s hands. But cool or warm, Hutch was grateful for the wall’s support, as he felt that his strength, his will, maybe even his sanity was being sucked from him by the beautiful man working his cock. Again that feeling of his chest being too small to contain the love for his partner overwhelmed him. It was a struggle to remain upright, much less talk, but he had to try.

“L-love you, Starsk… love you more than—than—” Than what? What could he possibly compare to his lover, that wouldn’t beggar description? Starsky chose that moment to rake his teeth against his rigid member. Then the slick, hard press of Starsky’s muscular tongue stabbed between his newly naked balls, leaving behind a tingling, lingering trail of electricity.

Holyshit!

Now that was a sensation worth shaving every day for.

From the sound of it, Starsky wholeheartedly agreed. In fact, his partner let loose his cock altogether for a few golden moments, sucking Hutch’s bald sacs like they were the newest confection at the local candy store.

Hutch tipped his head back and mewled his pleasure, though he was certain this was a treat he wasn’t going to be able to stand for long. Gently fingering his partner’s wet curls, he tried to nudge his lover’s head back.

“No, Starsk,” he whispered desperately. “I’m too close. I want….”

Starsky released Hutch’s scrotum with a wet smack louder than the water ringing off the tiles. Eyes rich with fervor and adoration gazed up at him. “Tell me what you want, babe. I’ll give it to you.”

Had Starsky asked him that question a moment ago… ten minutes ago… hell, even when they’d first gotten into the tub… Hutch wasn’t sure he would have been able to answer. But in this instant, he knew. Right here, with his lover on his knees before him begging Hutch to tell him how he wanted to be loved, Ken Hutchinson knew exactly what he wanted.

“Pin you ‘gainst the wall. Wanna crawl inside your skin. Wanna make you mine, mine, mine….” The last was murmured into the wet cap of curls as Hutch bent to grasp his partner and haul him bodily up against his chest. Hutch didn’t want to think about birthdays or turning forty or being old or of what might soon slip away. What he wanted was to feel alive… empowered… in control. He wasn’t some damned old geezer and his body was aching to hammer that point home.

He slammed Starsky to him, lips mashing, teeth clattering against the other’s, close, so close, hips grinding together, rock-hard cocks dueling, stabbing, sliding, gliding—So slick! So smooth! Perfect….

“Turn around,” Hutch growled at last, in synch with Marvin Gaye’s Sexual Healing.

Starsky turned and Hutch reached one last time for the Bristol Cream. Filling his palm with foam, he tossed the can to the floor with a resounding clonk. Hutch’s hand swiped the cleft of Starsky’s ass, leaving a wide swath of white foam in the dark furrow. His index finger, the one he stabbed in the faces of perpetrators so often, pierced his partner, swiftly seeking the tough gland within that never failed to light a fire in Starsky. His finger found its mark unerringly, with the ease of longtime lovers, and Hutch stroked it hard, punishingly, lighting a fire—Not enough!—but wanting to set off a bomb instead. Starsky howled.

“Is that good?” Hutch hissed into Starsky’s wet ear, nipping the tender lobe.

“Too-good—” Starsk ground out.

‘What would be better?”

“More…” Starsky groaned. “More of you.”

Hutch swiftly added another finger, and received a sharp hiss in reply. He started to pull out, when Starsky pushed back, impaling himself on his hand. “Hold my cock, Hutch. Hold it tight. Don’t let me come yet, don’t let me come until you’re all the way in….”

“I won’t let you come ’til I’m all the way in,” Hutch whispered, right into the water-drenched ear. “All the way in you, right inside you, deep as I can go.” Without further preamble, for he sensed both of them clung to the precipice of orgasm by their fingernails and little else, Hutch ran his cock through the remaining foam, coating it with what was left of the shaving cream, and shoved home.

He knew he hadn’t prepared Starsky enough; he expected resistance. Instead, his cock flowed in smoothly, Starsky taking him easily. Rippling muscles relaxed, sucking him in, deep, so deep, until he was pressed snug against the hard globes of Starsky’s perfect ass. Hutch was in, right up to his pubic hairs, until he remembered that he had no pubic hair. The sensation of the few stray, wiry curls that ran down his partner’s dark furrow scraped and itched the tingling, highly sensitized patch of newly-bared skin around his cock. Hutch realized he wasn’t all the way in, that it was possible to go deeper, to sheath himself more deeply in this man he so adored, and he pushed.

Hard.

He rocked his hips and ground his full weight up and into his lover, and Starsky whuffed out a massive breath and spread his legs, opening himself more, even as his hands scrambled for purchase on the slick tiles.

Hutch let go of Starsky’s cock and grabbed his partner’s lean hips, fingers digging into the muscles, steadying this man he so loved as he pounded into him, fucking him, fucking him hard, but loving him too, so free, free to give and take what he needed, especially this day of all days when he’d felt so old. Anyway you looked at it, at least half his life was over, and so much left undone, so many disappointments. But so many gifts too! The greatest gift being the man in his arms, still living, still breathing, loving him!

Loving me!

Staying with Hutch, for better or worse—and they’d already had so much of the worst. Hutch bent his head, his lips seeking a scar, finding one, the pucker of flesh hard, not like the softness of lips, but somehow more precious. Tears mixed with the rainfall of the shower as he pounded into his lover even as Phil Collins wailed out how You Can’t Hurry Love.

“Hurry, babe,” Starsky groaned, on his toes, almost all his weight supported by Hutch.

“Come for me,” he demanded, Starsky’s fine ass pressed against Hutch’s utterly naked groin, not a hair, not even air separating them. “Come right now.”

And Starsky did, the muscles deep inside his ass grabbing Hutch’s cock, holding tight, locking him in place though the pistoning hips still rocked them. Their moans of pleasure chorused and filled the bathroom, echoing off the tiles as both men spilled over into orgasm.

For a moment, Hutch’s world stopped.

Then, legs quivering, barely able to continue supporting himself, much less Starsky, Hutch pulled his still hard cock from his lover’s body, afraid he would see a thread of blood. But to his relief, his cock came away covered only in shaving cream and traces of his own jiz. He patted Starsky’s flank in silent communication and then sank into the tub, still spattered by the shower. Starsky, more gingerly, also sat, his back pressed to Hutch’s front.

“Is your back okay, Blintz?”

Hutch chuckled, a low dirty sound more suited to Starsky than himself, he thought. “Yeah. Even if it weren’t, it would have been worth it. Are… are you okay?”

“I’m just about perfect,” Starsky rumbled contentedly, eyes shut, resting his head on Hutch’s shoulder.

“Was rough… was afraid I might have hurt you.”

“You won’t hurt me, Hutch. You can’t.”

“We haven’t done anything like… this… before,” Hutch offered tentatively.

“Like what? The shaving? The up against the wall?”

Hutch nodded, blushing

“Did you like it?” Starsky asked.

He nodded again.

“Then it seems like a couple of old dogs learned a couple of kinky new tricks.” Starsky waggled his brows, his eyes merry. “Maybe we should have birthdays more often. I could definitely get into the occasional TLC treatment myself.”

“Starsky, I’m sor—”

“Don’t,” Starsky said, twisting his body so that his quick fingers could gently pinch Hutch’s clean-shaven lips shut. “Don’t say it, ’cause I’m not sorry. In fact, I’m feelin’ damn good!” In the light of so much genuine good humor, Hutch chose not to give guilt a toehold in his heart.

They sat together in companionable silence, gently touching, until the water cooled to the point of being too cold. They stood, and in mutual unspoken agreement, Hutch stepped out, flipped on the light, and dried while Starsky washed up, rinsed his cum off the wall and otherwise tidied the tub—evidently all part of the tender-loving-care treatment being afforded Hutch on his birthday.

“Are you ready for another beer?” Starsky asked after toweling himself off and stepping into his cutoffs.

“Yeah, but let’s have one at Huggy’s.” Starsky’s bright look of approval wasn’t lost on Hutch. “And why don’t you see if Dobey’s free for a nightcap? Doesn’t hurt to have a drink with a few friends.” Starsky nodded, and hurried from the bathroom—but not without firmly kissing his partner first. Hutch finished drying his overlong hair, unable to keep a grin from splitting his face. If he knew Starsky and Huggy, Hutch was willing to bet there’d be a dozen old friends waiting by the time they showed up, ready for an impromptu birthday party.

As Hutch padded into the bedroom for a fresh change of clothes, he realized that he could enjoy a certain mellow satisfaction that comes with these birthdays in the second half of life. He’d always hated the emotional games he’d been forced to play with his family—the false joy expressed over gifts that contained little thought but plenty of money. By comparison, the warmth generated by Starsky’s love and the gift of his scarred and aging but-still-beautiful-body was far more precious than the things he’d been taught to crave from life.

In the next room, he heard Starsky hang up the phone. A little snort of amusement quirking his lips, Hutch shook his head, laughing silently as Starsky began to sing with the radio, badly off key, We’ve Got Tonight.

We’ve got more than tonight, babe, Hutch thought, heart lifting. We’ve got forever.