A Rash Decision

54

Even in the Great Outdoors, Starsky can’t catch a break.  Or can he?

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Their sleeping bags were laid out and other gear unpacked, the tent left in Hutch’s car for the time being in deference to the perfect weather forecast. Hutch sank down on a log someone had conveniently placed on the edge of the clearing. His eyes closed and he just listened—birds chirping here and there, a breeze rustling the leaves, a bear crashing through the underbrush . . .

His eyes popped open.

A muttered curse from the “bear” confirmed it was just Starsky prowling around, checking the lay of the land.

Hutch sighed and shut his eyes once more. The tangy aroma of pine filled his nostrils as he inhaled deeply. This was definitely an island of bliss in the midst of their too-often crazy world. Hutch prized these few and far between forays into nature. The city got to him after a while, with all of the noise and traffic and people, especially the people . . . and the violence.

His ears automatically followed his partner’s progress, tracking the crunching of tennis shoes on dead leaves as he moved around. Even though no threat loomed in this patch of paradise, it was second nature for Hutch to keep up with his friend’s whereabouts, like having his own personal Starsky radar. As long as he knew his partner was safe, he could allow himself to relax and enjoy this little vacation.

“Hey, Hutch!  There’s a cat out here!”

Hutch suppressed a chuckle. Probably just a stray or abandoned cat, he mused. Then he frowned in sudden apprehension. “What color?” he called back, images of a cougar kitten or a bobcat springing suddenly to mind.

“Black!”

Relieved, Hutch released the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Well, just don’t let it cross your path and you’ll be fine!”

“I’m not superstitious!” Starsky protested. “B’sides, it’s not ALL black. It’s got two funky white racing stripes on its back. You gotta come see!”

Hutch stiffened. Racing stripes? Oh, shit!

He catapulted to his feet and raced toward where he’d heard his partner’s voice. “Starsk, back off! Don’t go near it!”

Abruptly he skidded to a halt. There was Starsky, leaning against the trunk of a large tree along the side of the trail, his arms crossed and a huge grin stretched from ear to ear.

“Gotcha!” his partner exclaimed with glee before swaggering over.

It took all of Hutch’s self-control to keep his eyes off of those swinging hips tightly clad in faded denim.

“You may be the Boy Scout ‘brains’ in this partnership,” Starsky acknowledged, “but I DID watch ‘Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom’ sometimes. I know what a skunk looks like, buddy.”

“Sea Scout, not Boy Scout,” Hutch corrected him automatically, then added, “So, after watching all of that educational TV, you probably know what kind of snake that is.” He gestured toward a spot by his partner’s left foot.

With a yelp, Starsky leaped sideways with cat-like agility. His eyes darted over the ground in frantic search of a slithering nemesis as he hustled over to stand by his friend.

“Who says white men can’t dance?” Hutch quipped with a smug grin.

Starsky straightened up indignantly. “Find me a disco floor, and I’ll show you some REAL dance moves.”

An image of his partner spinning and writhing to pulse-pounding music sprang to mind, and Hutch’s heart began a quick staccato.

Damn! He really had to stop doing this to himself. The two of them were friends, that’s all. Desiring anything more than that was just torturing himself.

With a start, Hutch realized his partner was staring at him.

“You okay, Hutch?” Gone was the cocky bravado, replaced by a warm whisper of concern.

Hutch blinked. Those baby blue eyes were focused on him so intently that he found he could barely breathe. “Sure,” he managed to say. “I caught a whiff of a flower I couldn’t identify . . .”

“Hey!” Starsky suddenly brightened. “Remember in ‘Bambi,’ there was a skunk named Flower? Man, I nearly bawled when Bambi’s mom got shot and—”

Listening to his friend ramble on was almost as comforting as the breeze that ruffled his hair, a gentle hint that evening was approaching.

“Uh, Starsk?” he interrupted.

“What?”

“It’ll be dark soon.  We need to get a fire going.  Since you dragged me away from my meditation with your imaginary skunk,” Hutch stated, prickling at how Starsky’s prank had taken advantage of his natural protectiveness, “YOU can collect the tinder.”

“Tender what?” Starsky asked, genuinely puzzled.

“T-I-N-D-E-R. Twigs, small branches, pieces of bark—dry stuff to help the fire grow faster.”

Assignment given, Hutch turned and headed back down the trail to their campsite. He was pretty sure he’d spotted some firewood in the vicinity, no doubt left by previous campers either out of generosity or because, in their enthusiasm, they’d cut too much for their own use. Either way, he wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

With a grunt of resignation, Starsky turned to the task at hand, meandering along the trail in search of the specified tinder. As he did so, the term tenderfoot popped into his head from Westerns he’d watched as a kid. He chuckled in imaginary retaliation as he pictured his nature-loving blond friend with twigs growing out of his toes. “Tinderfoot Hutch. Yeah, good nickname.”

Real twigs, however, were what he needed, and the faster he could grab them up, the sooner he could return to the place he always preferred to be—by his partner’s side. “The things I do to make that blond blintz happy,” he muttered. Like coming on this trip. He’d never consider Mother Nature his friend, but it made Hutch happy as a clam to get out of the city for a while and nothing made Starsky happier than Hutch being happy. The cherry on top, though, was having Hutch all to himself for a few days.

Impatiently he continued to scout around for a few minutes until he hit the mother lode. A bunch of twigs and dead leaves were banked up against a large swath of shrubs along the forest edge. Starsky trotted over and squatted down to examine his treasure. Probably blown there by wind gusts, the debris had been there a while, he judged, as branches of the bushes pushed through here and there, some of the large leaves showing the reddish hues of early fall.

Before reaching out, though, he hesitated.  A childhood encounter with poison ivy had subsequently branded the warning, “Leaves of three, leave it be,” on his brain. However, these looked like oak leaves and, while some bore clusters of three leaves, many branches had five.

“Starsk!” came a loud call from the direction of their campsite. “Are you taking a dump or what? Hurry up with that tinder, will ya?”

Hurriedly he raked his hands through the bounty until he had a nice armful of small branches and twigs. Rising to his feet, he held the mass at arms’ length to avoid getting poked in the eyes and so he could see where he was going.

“I’m comin’, I’m comin’!” he yelled in reply.

* * * * * * *

Dinner was a compromise—hot dogs for Starsky, a salad of freshly gathered native greens and berries topped with store-bought granola for Hutch—washed down with cans of beer from their cooler. Which, of course, prompted a round of “99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall” from Starsky. Brandishing his toasted marshmallow on a stick like a baton, he “conducted” the song until, with a laugh, Hutch finally surrendered and joined in.

By the time the gaily leaping flames of their campfire had simmered down to a slow, steady burn, the two men were settled in their sleeping bags and slumber claimed them quickly.

* * * * * *

Hours later, the cursing started.

“Shit, shit, SHIT!”

Grumpy at being roused in the middle of the night, Hutch rolled over toward his partner, warning, “If this is another fake skunk, I swear . . .”

Starsky fumbled open his sleeping bag and sat up, rubbing and scratching his hands. “Whad’ya do, put itching powder in my bag?” he demanded, scowling at his now clenched fists. The need to scratch was almost overpowering.

Turning on the flashlight he kept ready beside him, Hutch scuttled over to his friend’s side and spotlighted the hands extended toward him.  His first glance told him to keep his own hands to himself.

Redness colored the fingers, palms, and wrists, accentuated by scattered blisters just beginning to blossom.

“I thought you told me you don’t have any allergies.”

“I don’t, ’cept to Dobey’s lectures,” said Starsky.

A grin tugged at Hutch’s mouth despite his concern. “Doesn’t count.”

A sudden thought made him swing the beam of his flashlight around to focus on what was left of the pile of tinder. “Did you touch any poison ivy?”

Starsky shook his head. “Nah, I know what that looks like. Fell in a patch of it when I was a kid.” The fingers of his left hand danced over his right fist, desperate to scratch the horrible itching.

“How about poison sumac? Poison oak?”

The deer-in-the-headlights expression on his partner’s face caused Hutch’s stomach to sink. It hit rock bottom when Starsky asked innocently, “How can little oak trees poison ya?”

Though they’d both washed their hands in a nearby stream before eating dinner, Hutch tackled his partner’s hands with a washcloth laden with soap and water to remove any residue from the poison oak that Starsky had obviously had the misfortune to encounter.

Forbidden to scratch the intense itching himself, Starsky quietly moaned in pleasure as Hutch scrubbed the reddened skin.

The unexpected sound, breathy and sensuous, struck a nerve in Hutch, causing him to fumble and almost drop the washcloth. “S-sorry,” he muttered. He finished the job with a shaky flourish, hoping it would distract Starsky from noticing the hot flush rising in his cheeks.  Or what else was rising farther south.

“Calamine lotion next,” Hutch declared. Standing up slowly due to the growing tightness of his pants, he set off down the trail to where his Ford Galaxie was parked. He leaned against the dusty vehicle for a moment. The coolness of the metal surface against his groin helped will his recalcitrant cock into submission. He drew a deep breath then moved to the back of the vehicle and popped the trunk. As his hands zeroed in on the first aid kit, he caught sight of an old pair of work gloves tucked to one side. Perfect, he thought.

 * * * * * *

 Night in the wilderness is sure creepier than in the big city, Starsky decided. Even in low-rent districts with shot-out streetlights, the faint glow emanating from the sheer sprawling mass of Bay City was always present. Here, the tree branches overhead blocked most of the starlight, leaving him in a world of dark grays and black shadows that danced spookily courtesy of their low-burning campfire. Starsky shivered.

The bobbing beam of Hutch’s flashlight was a more than welcome sight.

“Here ya go, buddy.”  Hutch sank to the ground beside his partner. Sitting cross-legged, he opened the kit and rummaged around. “Calamine lotion,” he announced as he held his prize aloft.

To Starsky, the tube seemed to glow like gold in the beam of the flashlight. If it provided any relief for his suffering, he thought, it would indeed be as good as gold!

Hutch squeezed out the precious lotion onto the inflamed flesh and let Starsky rub the medication on by himself.  All the while, he surreptitiously watched Starsky.

They didn’t usually doctor each other. That was what paramedics and emergency rooms were for. Now, huddled together, ministering to his friend, Hutch realized what he had been missing. He could see healthy pink replacing the paleness of Starsky’s face, a grin gradually encompassing the lips that had twisted in misery.

He desperately wanted to kiss those lips.

Almost in unconscious response, Starsky pursed his lips and heaved a massive sigh. “Ya missed your calling.”

Hutch looked at him blankly.

Sparkling blue eyes fixed on him, wide with gratitude. “Woulda made a great nurse.”

“Well, I did work as an orderly in that mental institution where you went undercover . . .” Hutch’s voice trailed off as the memory of that ugly case roiled through him.

“See, you’re always there for me.” Starsky started to reach over and touch his friend’s arm but stopped himself just in time. No need to get Hutch all messy.

Almost as if reading his friend’s mind, Hutch held up the pair of gloves. “Got a present for you,” he stated and began slipping them onto the slippery hands. “These will keep the lotion on your hands and off the sleeping bag.” The fact that they would also make it more difficult for his partner to scratch anywhere was the real bonus.

His only regret was why the hell hadn’t he thought of giving the gloves to Starsky earlier, before sending him off into unfamiliar wilderness? That would’ve saved Starsk a lot of suffering. He shoved down the guilt and looked up at his partner. “Do you think you can get back to sleep now?” he asked.

Starsky shrugged. The itching had eased somewhat but still niggled distractingly.

“Give it a try anyway.” Rising to his feet, Hutch noted, “The only problem is, your sleeping bag’s contaminated now.” Without hesitation, he declared, “You take mine and I’ll go down and sleep in the car.”

Alone and uncomfortable . . . in the dark? Nope, not gonna happen! Starsky wasn’t a scaredy-cat, but the Great Outdoors wasn’t his usual territory and he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep a wink if his best friend wasn’t right there beside him.

“An’ have a bear eat ya on the way down? Nope! Guess I’ll just have to bunk with you, blintz.”
And with that, their sleeping arrangements were decided. Somehow they tucked in together and, after a bit of squirming, got relatively comfortable.

The minutes ticked by, at least in Hutch’s head. Squished against his partner’s back, he dared not move a muscle except to breathe. But even that was dangerous. His nostrils filled with his partner’s sweat-denim-musk scent even as the welcome warmth of the muscular body smoldered against him, on the verge of igniting a brushfire in his chest and abdomen and . . .

Starsky began to shift restlessly. Hutch tried to back off and give him some space but there was no place to go. “What’s wrong?” he asked finally.

“I itch!  How can I relax?” Starsky moaned. “I gotta pee, too!” He rolled over, wriggled his gloved hands out of the bag, and waved them frustratedly in his friend’s face. “Last thing I need is a major case of jock itch!”

 Hutch choked back a laugh.

“Ya gotta help me!”

There were those riveting blue eyes again—begging, pleading . . .

Starsk, babe, you have no idea what you’re asking me to do, Hutch thought. The idea was pure torture for him. But how could he say no?

He couldn’t.

“Hutch, we’re both gonna end up soakin’ wet in a minute!”

Well, THAT definitely decided it!

If the Guinness Book of World Records had ever listed a record time for unzipping a sleeping bag, Hutch was pretty sure he’d just broken it. Grabbing his flashlight, the two of them followed its beam to the nearest bush where . . . he hesitated.

“Dammit, Hutch, PLEASE!”  Urgently Starsky thrust his hips forward.

Knees shaking, Hutch shifted the flashlight into his left hand, grabbed the zipper with his right, and tugged downward. Encumbered by the gloves, Starsky clumsily shoved his jeans down, revealing bulging white briefs.

Heaven knows, they’d seen each other in locker rooms and gyms and pools, Hutch thought, but never THIS close!

Starsky grabbed the blond by the shoulders. “Pull it out!”

Hutch’s hand assumed a life of its own. He marveled as it dove into the straining underwear, retrieved the prize within, and aimed precisely. The leaves of the nearby shrub shuddered under the fire hose stream of urine.

Eyes squeezed shut, Starsky let out a spectacular groan of relief, followed by a shakily voiced, “Oh, what a relief it is, and, man, I ain’t talkin’ Alka-Seltzer!” He managed a chuckle and, opening his eyes at last, turned his head to look at his oddly silent partner.

Hutch’s eyes were locked on the penis in his grasp, only vaguely aware that his hand refused to budge, refused to relinquish its hold on the hot flesh he’d desired for so long. Frozen in place, he could only wait, terrified, for the blow to land and destroy their partnership.

“Hutch?”

The whisper of his name was soft, sweet, gentle. Hutch watched, transfixed, as the cock he held burgeoned to life, firming up quickly.

Again came the whisper, but this time coaxing, “Wanna stroke it?”

Numbly, Hutch nodded. His hand finally responded, gliding downward inch by glorious inch, loosening somewhat to accommodate the swelling flesh in his possession.

“Look at me.”

Hutch’s eyes, wide with wonder, rose to meet his partner’s. “You don’t hate me?” he asked, voice hoarse with emotion.

“Does this look like hate?” Starsky gestured at his now proudly erect penis.

“More like love,” Hutch replied. A grin dawned on his lips.

“NOW you’re getting the idea.”

Starsky pressed closer to Hutch’s side and eased an arm around the slim waist. One gloved hand skimmed up Hutch’s chest, the rough material tugging just enough on the fine blond hairs to raise goosebumps. For a startled moment, Hutch stopped breathing as gloved fingers brushed back and forth over one nipple, causing it to peak, yearning for more. Then his breath shuddered out. Reflexively his grip tightened.

“Yeah, babe!” Starsky moaned. “That’s it!” Rocking his hips forward, he shoved his cock hard into the tight-fingered tunnel of his partner’s hand. “Help me come, will ya, Hutch?”

The dam of fear broke.

Enthusiastically, Hutch set a determined pumping rhythm that had his partner gasping and groaning in seconds. His own cock swelled in response, and he swiveled to hump Starsky’s hip, reveling in the rough friction.

Never a passive lover, Starsky let out a lusty growl. His mouth hungrily kissed along Hutch’s jaw.  he blond-maned head arched backward, and Starsky zeroed in on the exposed neck, the throbbing pulse beneath his lips matching the pounding of his own heart.

Legs trembling, Starsky felt wave upon wave of pleasure rise within, rushing, pushing, shooting hotly—

“Hu-u-u-UUTCH!” His cry of success split the night air, spooking birds from their tree roosts nearby into startled flight.

Abruptly his legs gave way, and the pair tumbled to the ground. Hutch instinctively twisted mid-air to absorb most of the impact himself as they landed in the grass.

For a long moment, they lay stunned, a tangle of arms and legs and heaving chests.

And one still painfully hard prick.

Sprawled atop, Starsky let his head loll sideways, the better to nuzzle into Hutch’s pale neck, his mop of black curls tickle-soft against the blond’s left ear. “God, that was . . . was, uh . . .” His orgasm-dazed mind struggled to find a word that came anywhere close to describing the experience. “Mind-blowin’!” he declared finally.

Amazed at this crazy turn of events, Hutch let out a soft laugh which dissolved into a groan of pleasure as one of Starsky’s legs shifted against his groin, drawing attention to his own neglected need.

“Here, babe,” Starsky murmured huskily, “lemme take care of that.” He reached for his partner’s zipper and the tantalizing bulge it imprisoned.

“Gloves,” Hutch reminded him wryly.

“Okay then, YOU unzip.”  t Hutch’s quizzical look, Starsky pointed out, “Hey, my hands may be outta commission but there’s nothin’ wrong with my mouth.”

The shock in those impossibly widened blue eyes was more of a turn-on than Starsky could’ve ever imagined. He licked his lips as Hutch drew down the zipper, the gritty sound obscenely loud—and sexy!—in the darkness.

Impatiently, Starsky curled over and, supporting himself on his elbows, buried his face in his partner’s underwear. The hot, heady musk that was Hutch filled his nostrils and electrified his senses.

“Oh, SHIT!”  Hutch’s back arched off the ground as Starsky mouthed his target through the tautly stretched white cotton.

Hot damn! Starsky thought, immensely pleased that he’d made Hutch swear. He’d spent years trying to get his partner to loosen up, let his hair down—or at least grow longer—and shed those Midwestern inhibitions!

Deftly, he grabbed the elastic band of Hutch’s briefs in his teeth and tugged hard.

Hutch gasped. His eyes darted down to his wild-haired, crazy partner, teeth bared, clenching his underwear. He nearly creamed himself right then and there!

Shuddering with the effort to control himself, Hutch gently pushed his partner’s mouth aside. Determined to undress himself, he panted, “Hang on, I’m coming.”

“Not yet but soon!” Starsky promised. The moonlight cast a devilish sparkle in his eyes as he shifted backward to give Hutch room to work.

The moment Hutch’s cock sprang up in glorious freedom, Starsky blurted, “Buckle up, Blondie! I’m sending you into orbit!” His lips captured Hutch’s sizable member, and he sucked and licked it like a starving man. The slim body bucked beneath him, so he used his weight to pin Hutch in place. In spite of his temporary handicap, Starsky did his best to grope his more than willing partner’s ass while his mouth and tongue worked in perfect tandem to drive Hutch crazy.

Consumed with ecstasy, blind with lust, Hutch writhed in the dewy grass. Afraid of being swept away in the flood of euphoria, he seized hold of his partner’s bobbing head to anchor himself. Weaving his fingers into the thick mass of curls, Hutch thrust his hips upward and drove his cock repeatedly into the velvet heat of Starsky’s mouth, fucking frantically.

“Oh God, Starsk!” Hutch cried as his tight balls unleashed a magnificent orgasm that exploded into his lover’s welcoming mouth.

Starsky hungrily swallowed every last drop, desiring to make his partner a permanent part of himself. “Me and thee, together in everything at last!” he thought in triumph as the blond went limp beneath him.

They lay wrapped together, utterly spent, for some minutes, their heavy breathing like rumbles of thunder in the darkness.

Hutch was the first to speak. “I can’t believe we just did that,” he whispered.

Starsky wriggled higher up on his partner’s chest until he could look the blond directly in those baby blue eyes. “I can,” he stated firmly.

Hutch stared at Starsky, awe and fear and love all aswirl in his mind, and knew once and for all that this man was his true soulmate. He reached up and cradled Starsky’s face with both hands. “I love you,” he said breathlessly.

“I know you do, mushbrain. Took you long enough.”

“You knew?!” Hutch exclaimed, his mouth hanging open comically, which Starsky found simply endearing.

“Sure I did! You show me every day. Was just waiting for YOU to realize it.”

Tenderly, Hutch slipped his arms around his lover. “Me and thee,” he murmured, the words soft and warm in Starsky’s right ear. “Sorry I was such a slow learner, Starsk, but . . .” His lips slipped down to brush suggestively over his lover’s mouth. “I promise to make up for it really, really fast.”

The kiss they shared seemed to go on forever until Starsky at last drew back. “Uh, Hutch, I’ve got an itch.”

Concerned, Hutch offered, “I can put more calamine lotion on your hands.”

“Not THAT kind of itch,” Starsky leered. A huge grin spread across his face.

It was a magical night, the first of many for them, never to be forgotten.