Dirty Stories and Dirty Underwear or: Steve Jobs Is the Great Satan

221

Hutch freaks out when he overhears Starsky talking to someone and he reaches the wrong conclusion. The ladies in Venice Place are not much help!

 

Originally published in SHareCon 2008 zine, this is another VenicePlace story.

What Are “VenicePlace Stories”?

In the mid-1990’s, email discussion lists, like VenicePlace (the first S&H slash discussion list), were the primary social media for S/H fans. The mailing list treated VP as “…a virtual apartment building with unlimited space where we all live next door to those two gorgeous cops, and where every window has a great view of the boys when they come home after work!” (From the FAQ) (Thanks to Fanlore.)

The 2004 SHareCon zine featured Partners in Adversity by CrowRow (Rosemary’s VP name) and Flamingo. It focused on the Starsky and Hutch movie with Ben Stiller and Owen Wilson released that year. In the movie, after the “new” Starsky drops his Torino in the bay, the original Hutch (David Soul) sells a Torino to him over the protest of the original Starsky (Paul Michael Glaser). On VP, we decided that replacement Torino was only one of the original Starsky’s cars, since he had one for every day of the week. It became our “fanon.”

The 2006 SHareCon zine continued the saga with Afternoon Delight, when Starsky decides to create a vid to prove he and Hutch are the One True Pairing.

Okay, that’s the Cliff Notes. Remember Cliff Notes?

---

Hutch picked his plaid boxers off the floor. They were a mess. The fly was split along the seam, the hem of one leg stiff and nearly glued to the other, and the stains—!

He felt his fair skin flush all over as a sly smile crept over his face. He’d just have to sew them up again, and Stain Stick worked miracles on— He shoved the battered underwear in the laundry basket. He had too much to do. If he started down last night’s memory lane, he’d never get anything done.

It was Sunday morning and the Venice Place apartment was trashed. Clothes were strewn everywhere—besides his own boxers on the area rug, Starsky’s miniscule black bikinis were suspended off the branch of his ficus, Hutch’s jeans were in a puddle of denim by the stove where Starsky— He yanked his mind away from that visual image even though he couldn’t help but grin and blush deeper. He wondered if he’d ever be able to cook on that stove again.

Forcing himself back to the task at hand, he gathered up his jeans, followed the trail of socks to the middle of the room, then found one of Starsky’s blue Adidas hanging over his head, suspended from a loop of shoelace from the artistic hunk of driftwood near his ceiling. He had to crawl halfway under the coffee table for its mate, nearly upending his lovemaking cherubs in the process. As he stabilized the garden statue he’d picked up in a neighborhood secondhand store, he couldn’t help thinking about Starsky calling them “those dirty boys” and luring Hutch into mimicking their pose. That’s what started all the trouble.

He shook his head. Laundry. He was trying to get the laundry together.

Starsky’s jeans had been kicked under the kitchen table—don’t think about that don’t think about that—but were easy to retrieve since every one of the mismatched chairs had been upended while they—DO NOT THINK ABOUT THAT.

Starsky’s skin tight Torino-striped shirt nearly smothered his Boston fern; Hutch extracted it carefully. Gazing at the shirt, he rubbed the slick, silky fabric between his fingers, wondering what kind of fabric could feel so sensual and yet fit so well. As much as he hated that car, he couldn’t transfer his disdain to this shirt. That artist, Suzan, had designed it for Starsky, and one of the ladies in the building made it by hand. The shirt, with its brilliant red color and the contrasting shock of white striping blazed across the chest, quickly became Starsky’s favorite. It fit as if painted on him, hugging his shoulders and upper arms and every one of his individually sculpted abs—

Hutch quickly shoved the shirt inside the jeans where he couldn’t see it, couldn’t remember how his own big hands traced that stripe, stroked over those abs and, only after teasing Starsky’s nipples mercilessly through the sensual fabric, slowly peeled it off—

LAUNDRY! LAUNDRY! LAUNDRY!

He forced his mind to repeat the focusing mantra over and over, but it stuttered to a halt when he scooped up his favorite shirt, the blue one with the guitar on the back. There wasn’t a single button left on it. He closed his eyes, unable to escape the memory-feel of Starsky’s urgent need to remove it from his body, or the expression on his face as he wrenched it open, buttons popping off and flying in every direction. How many times had he sewn those buttons back on? He once swore he was going to have a tailor replace them with snaps, but Starsky begged him not to. This shirt had so many memories, had lost its buttons so many times in the heat of their passion, Starsky swore that snaps would ruin it, make it too easy.

“Snaps are for old guys who don’t have what it takes to strip the shirt off their partner. You think I’m too old to do that?” He shook his head and knew he’d sew the buttons back on, yet again.

Hutch had already gathered the laundry from the bathroom hamper where, under normal circumstances, Starsky meticulously deposited their daily wear. Once Hutch gathered the strays from the bedroom, he could carry his load to the basement and get started. If this Sunday followed the pattern of many, after a night like last night, Starsky wouldn’t wake up until the dryer was almost done. He’d have a cup of coffee, throw on nothing but his indecently short cutoff jeans—Hutch never could figure out why his testicles or the tip of his cock didn’t just fall out of them the way the bottom curve of his ass always did—and Hutch would find him scrubbing his cars into a soapy froth when Hutch brought the clean clothes upstairs.

Starsky would be soaping up the Torino and himself in the process and every woman in the building would be hanging out the street-side windows, threatening to turn the old place into the leaning tower of Venice, as word somehow got out that Starsky was washing the six Torinos he’d managed to collect over the years. Hutch would watch, too, but discretely, from just behind the window sash. How could he not?

His cheeks were beginning to hurt from grinning. He couldn’t help it. It had been a spectacular night, and it was a beautiful Bay City day. Perfect for car washing and Starsky watching. He entered the bedroom with that thought in mind and was caught short by the body sprawled bonelessly across the expanse of Hutch’s brass bed. Starsky was, as always, glorious in his nudity as he slept the sleep of the totally satiated. Lying on his stomach with his finest attribute seeming to invite Hutch to its own plunder, Starsky never moved as Hutch forced his eyes away from the promise of Nirvana so he could snatch up the few shirts that had been left out of the hamper from Friday. As soon as he’d collected them, however, his eyes couldn’t help but stray back to that which he loved the most in this world.

Glancing over the totally disheveled man in the totally disheveled bed—mattress partially askew, pillows on the floor, the top sheet spilling onto the floor and covering only the heel of one of Starsky’s feet, and the fitted sheet popped off of two corners—Hutch’s eye caught the blemish of smeared handprints on the top rungs on his antique brass bed. Blinking in dismay, he realized he’d have to spend hours polishing the thing to remove the evidence of— His eyes traveled up and over the fantastically elaborate headframe that was almost as tall as he was. Starsky was right. It really was sturdy enough to do chin ups on. Good thing considering— He forced himself not to relive that joy by turning away from the headboard, but even the footboard had not escaped their romp. Shit. Semen played havoc with brass. It would take hours—

A sudden snort and broken snore distracted Hutch. For a moment, he thought his presence might’ve disturbed Starsky’s sleep, but then his partner only sighed, and, his eyes still tracking in REM sleep, smiled innocently and went back to the rhythmic breathing that told Hutch he was no doubt reliving their extravagant evening in his dreams.

I should paint him this way, so beautiful, so peaceful, yet still rampant with his own earthy sexuality, Hutch thought. The only thing that marred the beautiful portrait Starsky’s pose suggested was the thin line of drool extending from the corner of his mouth to the mattress. Well, nobody was perfect.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Hutch turned away from the bed and marched resolutely to the front door. They’d never get anything accomplished if he didn’t get down to the basement and get the laundry done. And early Sunday morning seemed to be the only good time to do it. That was when all the “neighbor ladies,” as Starsky called the women in the building, either slept in, or were otherwise occupied. Hutch tried to avoid meeting his neighbors in the basement laundry. They were nice enough, always willing to help, or even do it for him, but anytime he’d actually let them, there would always be missing pieces when the clean folded wash got back upstairs. For some reason the parts that went MIA were always underwear, never socks.

Closing the front door quietly behind him, he balanced the laundry basket on his hip and started down the hall for the stairs. Sure enough, there was blessed silence behind every door. Traversing the hallway could be like going through a gauntlet as every lady in the place opened the door just as he went by to say hello, wish him well, offer him coffee, cookies, or— Hutch wouldn’t dwell on the other things they offered. Starsky always said they were just really friendly. It was a miracle the man didn’t weigh a thousand pounds with the amount of cookies, ice cream, and assorted treats he packed away.

As Hutch reached the top of the stairs, he paused momentarily. Starsky always seemed so charmed by the Venice Place ladies, who were always ready to offer him whatever it was he seemed to need at the moment. Hutch thought again about the other veiled offers that sometimes came his way. Would Starsky ever—

Snapping out of his sudden reverie, he castigated himself. How could he even let such a traitorous thought slip into his mind? Starsky was nothing if not faithful. Besides, as busy as he kept Hutch—he started grinning again—Starsky didn’t have time to fool around. This was just his typical Hutchinson over-analytical self kicking in. Starsky was right. Hutch was always second guessing their relationship because he still found it hard to believe he’d gotten this lucky.

He was almost at the basement staircase when he passed by Flamingo’s door and heard some low murmuring. Well, it was none of his business. All he needed to do was keep going and start the laundry. But the murmured tones were so odd coming from this apartment that his detective nature asserted itself. Usually just walking near Flamingo’s place set off a riotous barking as crazed Chihuahuas, a flooded-out mixed Lab, and an insane Feist dog vied to be the noisiest burglar alarm system in the world. He inched over to the door and listened more closely. Still no barking. He slowed his breathing, his cop sense on alert. This just wasn’t normal. Finally, he could make out words. Someone was speaking softly, surreptitiously. It wasn’t Flamingo’s voice.

“When I look at your powerful arms, all I can think of is the way you held me tight last night when you penetrated me fiercely—”

Hutch jerked away from the door, nearly bumping into the nearby wall, his face flaming scarlet. Shit. He was eavesdropping on someone making pillow talk to their lover. It must’ve been Anne talking to Flamingo, which was even more embarrassing. Anne was the only person in the building who even had a sense of privacy. He was mortified. Of course, Sunday morning would be the best time for them— He blushed harder, the blood rushing to his face so fast he felt lightheaded. But it was the only time the building was quiet. The dogs had to be sleeping. He wondered if Flamingo wore those crazy pink boas while— Now he needed to put his brain in with the rest of the laundry to rid himself of that mental image. He was ashamed of violating their privacy, and tiptoed the rest of the way past their apartment, easing open the basement door carefully so they wouldn’t hear his passing.

If Starsky ever found out about this, he’d never let him live it down. Which was why Hutch would die before ever confessing it. He took the basement stairs two at time.

********

Hutch put the first load in dryer and the second in the washer before realizing he was out of laundry soap. He frowned. Well, he’d just have to run upstairs and get another bottle. Starsky would probably still be asleep. There was a small niggling part of him that was reluctant to walk past Flamingo’s door, but . . . they had probably finished a long time ago. He dismissed his concerns and went up the stairs.

However, the voice behind the door was no longer murmuring. Just keep walking, Hutchinson. It is none of your business!

He nearly held onto that resolution as he stepped silently by the Pink One’s door until he heard, much clearer than he wanted to, “Oh, Starsky, Starsky! You’re the only one I’ll ever love! Tell me you love me, too!” He nearly raced by the door to get away.

What the hell was that all about? He knew everyone in the building read slash stories and that he and Starsky were often the subjects, but . . . that person wasn’t reading. Whoever she was, it sounded as if she were talking on the phone. At least one thing was clear. It wasn’t Anne. The whole slash thing bored her to death, and very little bored her more than hearing about anything having to do with him or Starsky. At times he thought she was the only sane person in the building. No, he didn’t recognize that voice.

He didn’t want to admit it, but he was rattled by the whole experience. Forget it. You don’t understand half the things that go on in this crazy place. There’s bound to be a reasonable explanation— No, not here. Okay, even an unreasonable explanation that makes sense to the residents of this lunatic asylum. Don’t think about. Just get your laundry soap and go back to the basement. You can’t hear anything from down there.

He entered his apartment quietly, assuming Starsky was still asleep. Grabbing the laundry soap from under the kitchen sink, he headed back to the front door. As he passed the bathroom, he realized the door was closed. It had been open when he left. Was Starsky in there?

He was just about to knock when he heard his partner’s voice. “I’m right here, baby. I’m here for you. Like I promised. I’ll always be here for you. Me and thee! You know that—”

Hutch lurched away from the bathroom door. Was he on the phone in there? Who the hell was he talking to? The words coming from behind Flamingo’s door suddenly made a horrible kind of sense. And then he remembered. Flamingo and Anne had said something about going away for the weekend. He couldn’t remember if it were this weekend or the next. A friend was supposed to come by to dog sit. Someone he didn’t know. Hadn’t met.

Hutch’s heart stuttered for a moment as he held his breath, feeling dizzy. Starsky and . . . some strange woman? Starsky . . . using their most sacred phrase, their personal vow, with some other lover . . . ?

Impossible, he told himself. Starsky wasn’t the cheating type. He was too honest. Too decent. His morality was simply too black and white to do something like that to his partner, his best friend, his lover of so many years.

So, open the damned door and ask him! Hutch’s sensible side ordered him. But the side of him that had always questioned his luck at landing Starsky in the first place was too strong. Clutching the laundry bottle he fled the apartment with a heavy heart to take refuge in the laundry while he tried to sort out the problem.

********

Inside the bathroom, the snick of the front door closing was loud and clear. “Shit!” Starsky blurted, then stumbled over his words and said clearly, “Pause.” He clicked the recording program on the laptop off. Carefully putting the small computer on the bathroom rug, Starsky opened the bathroom door cautiously and peered around it. Not seeing anyone in the apartment, he muttered, “Hutch, that you?” No one answered.

With a relieved whoosh, Starsky went back into the bathroom and sat on the toilet lid before picking the laptop back up. The PodFic challenge deadline was Monday, and Starsky was determined to get his short story included with everyone else’s. Sunday morning would be his only chance, while Hutch was doing the laundry. And the wood-paneled bathroom was the only place in the whole apartment with decent acoustics. He’d just have to edit the sound file later. Hutch was used to seeing him with headphones on while at the computer. He wouldn’t think anything of it.

Hutch was by no means a Luddite, and had gotten pretty computer savvy over the years, thanks to some help from the neighbor ladies. Of course, he didn’t appreciate a lot of the technology, like the new digital cameras in their apartment that recorded not only hi-def video but sound. Hutch had even started using live journal a little more, though he didn’t really like it and never would friend anyone back. So Starsky knew he was oblivious to the PodFic challenge that had been posted on the SH community. In fact, Starsky had managed to keep the whole PodFic issue under the radar. Hutch was still coping with zines and netfic and only had a slight inkling about the size of the live journal community, the vids, the cons—Starsky wasn’t sure how he’d handle finding out their love life was being posted as audio files for the new IPods. Hutch really didn’t like IPods either, which was just as well.

Taking a deep breath and finding his place in his story, he picked up the microphone and began again. “Starsky took Hutch in his arms. The big blond’s hesitant vulnerability spoke volumes to the handsome, dark-haired detective. Gazing into the limpid pools of his lover’s glacier blue eyes, Starsky said, ‘I’m right here, baby. I’m here for you. Like I promised. I’ll always be here for you. You know that—”

********

Laundry soap in hand, Hutch stumbled down the stairs, barely able to see where he was going. Starsky was cheating on him. The idea was so incomprehensible, he didn’t know how to deal with it.

“Hi, ya, Hutch!” a frighteningly cheerful voice greeted him as he headed towards the first floor landing. He turned to see a gaggle of the neighbor ladies heading his way, loaded down with laundry baskets. So much for his quiet solitude in the laundry room.

“Hi,” he answered, unwilling to be rude. The woman who had spoken, the lovely Keri, was one of the few he didn’t feel nervous around. He relaxed a little as he saw CC, Cyanne, and Tayawulf behind her. He suspected they all read lurid slash stories about Starsk and him, but at least they were polite enough not to undress him with their eyes.

Their eyes might not be undressing him, but they were certainly staring. It took a while for his beleaguered mind to catch on to the fact that the ladies’ gazes were focused considerably higher than usual. He glanced down at his chest.

Damn. He’d forgotten what he was wearing. He’d thought he’d be alone down in the laundry room. The light blue tee shirt was one of the few clean shirts he had left. The smiling white bunny on the front was a little out of character. If anything, it was in keeping with something their neighbor, Crowrow, might wear. However, the sentiment printed on it would not be to her liking. Flamingo had given it to him as a funny Christmas gift one year, but he rarely wore it. Now, the women in front of him couldn’t take their eyes off it. Flamingo had a dozen of these shirts, so they had to know where it came from. Especially with the happy bunny’s slogan declaring brazenly, “I’m not mean. You’re just a sissy.”

Tayawulf shook her head as if to rid herself of the sardonic bunny image and stepped forward, bracing her white basket on her hip. “Are you okay, Hutch? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Er . . . .” What he hell was he going to say? That Starsky was cheating on him? Even if he could talk about it, he couldn’t let this get around the building. The last time they had quarreled, the neighbors had left so many cakes and cookies in front of their door that they could barely climb over the offerings to get out of the apartment.

“Are you doing laundry?” CC asked, nodding at the laundry detergent in his hands.

“I was,” he answered.

“Did something come up?” Cyanne asked.

Keri checked her watch. “You’re definitely behind schedule this morning.” She was the most organized person in the building. He wasn’t the least bit surprised she knew his schedule better than he did.

“We could finish the laundry for you if you’ve got police business to attend to,” Tayawulf offered, with a big friendly smile.

Normally, he would never agree. But, if he didn’t, he was going to be trapped down there in the basement with all of them, and, given the concerned, not so surreptitious glances all four were shooting his way, he knew there’d be questions he wasn’t ready to answer.

“I couldn’t ask you to do that,” Hutch insisted.

“Sure you could,” the generous Cyanne assured him. “That’s what neighbors are for!”

When she’d first moved into Venice Place, Hutch had been convinced she was selling drugs through the mail, she sent out so many flat parcels a week. But Starsky had cleared him of the misconception. Apparently, Cyanne was providing episodes of every show ever filmed that had two guys in it to every fan on three continents. While he knew damned well copyright violations were involved, it wasn’t narcotics, so he decided he really didn’t have jurisdiction over it. Hell, if they ever raided this place over copyright laws, there wouldn’t be a single soul left in the building besides him. Even Starsky would be hauled out with the rest of the inhabitants.

“Yeah, we’d love to help,” all three women offered eagerly.

“We’ll be down there anyway,” Tayawulf said.

“For hours,” CC added, perhaps a little too eagerly.

“It’s much more efficient if we do it for you,” Keri told him, as if that were the only argument that mattered.

Mentally kissing at least four pairs of briefs goodbye, Hutch caved in for the chance to escape. “Thanks. That’s real kind of you.”

“No problem,” Keri said.

“It’s definitely our pleasure,” CC assured.

As he started to stumble blindly to the front door, Tayawulf stopped him with a gentle hand on his arm. “You, uh, don’t want to take the detergent with you, do you?”

“Ah, no, here.” He handed her the bottle of Tide.

“Which machine were you using?” asked Cyanne, the maven of technical issues.

“The first one near the wall. Thanks again, guys,” Hutch said and fled, aware that they all watched his every step until he was completely out of the building.

Once out the door, bright Bay City sunshine assaulted him. It glistened in a blinding display off the six identical white-striped Torinos parked in a line in front of the building. Behind them, his own dented, ancient green Volvo absorbed light, rather than reflecting it.

He felt a huge lump in his throat as he stared at those six garish cars that were the very embodiment of his lover’s flamboyant spirit. Starsky . . . . His Starsky . . . no more?

Still unable to wrap his mind around the idea that his partner would cheat on him, Hutch stumbled blindly away from Venice Place.

How long he walked or where, he couldn’t say. He felt . . . lost, emotionally and mentally. He couldn’t even think. All he could hear was Starsky’s voice on that phone, whispering the same sweet nothings to a stranger that his lover had murmured into his ear last night. And worst of all, using their special vow. Me and thee . . . How could he? How could Starsky have the kind of sex with him that they’d had last night if he was seeing someone else on the side? How could he fake passion like that?

Eventually, his path brought him to the neighborhood park, the one the where Starsky had met Rosie Malone.

“Hi, ya, Hutch,” a blur called out as it whizzed by on a bike, going faster than his Volvo when he floored it. “Love the shirt!”

“Hi, Morgan,” he called to her quickly receding figure. Thank god she was out for her long ride this morning, so she wouldn’t stop and chat.

He’d barely entered the park when a familiar cacophony of barking brought him up short. Hoping that he was mistaken and that the Park Department had installed a dog run since the last time he’d been here, Hutch walked warily down the tree-lined path. He stopped as his eyes confirmed what his ears had recognized. His neighbors hadn’t gone away, after all.

It was Flamingo and company. They were hard to miss. Both the Pink One and a huge black lab had their respective hands and front paws braced against a gnarled eucalyptus tree. The entire park seemed to be gaping at them.

Little wonder, Hutch thought, as he peered into the tree’s highest branches.

The pink-garbed Flamingo ordered sternly, “Foxy, get down!” while the Labrador barked in agreement.

Hutch recognized the little red dog standing on a stout branch at least twelve feet up into the tree. Clinging to the limb, she barked madly at a squirrel, making her branch and the entire tree bounce and shake, yet she never lost her footing. The squirrel simply remained on a slender outlying twig as if it understood she couldn’t get any higher, which clearly was making the dog crazed.

People were taking pictures of Foxy with their cell phones, while a Japanese tourist videotaped the scene. Hutch figured Flamingo and her Feist hellhound would be on YouTube by the end of the day. It wouldn’t be the first time.

He was relieved Foxy was busy in the tree. She had a disconcerting habit of leaping from the ground right onto his chest uninvited, with all the subtlety of a pouncing cougar. Foxy liked to French kiss as much as Starsky did, and she wasn’t nearly as good at it.

He stared at the weird scene for a long time, until an even louder commotion pulled his gaze towards the playground. He turned to the small foot-propelled merry-go-round, getting lost for a moment in his memories. He and Starsky had once made out on it late at night when the park was empty. The park was anything but empty now.

Hutch’s jaw dropped as he took in the sight before him, equally as bizarre as the dog in the tree. His neighbor, Crowrow, was on the merry-go-round. Her insane black and white border collie, the bane of Venice Place, had his leash tied to one of the rungs on the other side of the ride from his mistress.

Crowrow kept calling, “Come, Cody, Come!”

As she did, the border collie struggled to reach her. As he raced towards her, he pulled the merry-go-round with him, making it spin dizzyingly fast. Crowrow’s other two dogs, the sweet, blond Fiona, and the latest addition to the household, the short-legged Princess of Evil, lovingly known as Mitzi, trailed behind Cody, barking as they chased their mistress around in never-ending circles.

“Welcome to my life,” a wry voice said from behind him.

It was Anne. Unlike her housemates, she wasn’t making a spectacle of herself. She had an old black Chihuahua in her arms that was contentedly devouring a tiny rawhide, while a grey mixed-Chi patiently sat at her feet.

“Hi,” Hutch forced himself to try to act normal. Of course, considering the company Anne kept, he had to seem boringly sane by comparison. He gestured with his chin towards the merry-go-round. “They always do that?”

“Every week. It helps tire Cody out, and keeps him quiet the rest of the day so we can all get something done. Why do you think I take my bike out alone when I come here?” She laughed.

Hutch tried to join in, but he couldn’t dredge up even a smile.

“Flamingo will be happy to see you’re wearing the shirt she gave you.”

He nodded distractedly. He’d noticed Flamingo was wearing a pink one with the bunny saying, “I heard what you said. I just don’t care.”

“You okay?” Anne asked, when he didn’t say anything. “You don’t seem yourself.”

Hutch tried to lie, but couldn’t do it. It was eating him alive. If he didn’t talk to someone about this he’d go nuts. Not for the first time, he realized how limited his social connections were. Starsky was his whole life, best friend and lover. After Starsk came Huggy, but . . . he couldn’t imagine himself telling Huggy that Starsky was cheating on him. There wasn’t anyone else. At least, no one he trusted enough to keep his confidence.

Anne was quiet, giving him time to think. It was a comforting silence. She’d helped him out a time or two, and had proven she knew how to keep a secret. But could he tell her this? Could he trust her that much? Thinking about it, he realized she was probably the only person he could trust. She not only had no real interest in either Starsky or him as the celebrities of Venice Place, she had even less interest in them as men. She never ogled them with that expression, never stared openly at Starsky’s ass or his own crotch. In fact, she never looked at them much at all, and if she did, she met their eyes and only their eyes every time. She considered the whole slash fandom thing as mystifying as he did, and was bored by all the fannish activities that kept the building buzzing. And she never, ever gossiped or participated in the information grapevine that everyone else did. In fact, she just didn’t talk that much at all. She was the sanest, and therefore, safest woman in the building.

“I, um, had a bit of a shock at home,” Hutch began, still not certain he could talk about it.

“They didn’t corner you by the mailboxes again, did they?” Anne asked, something in her attitude suggesting that the neighbor ladies might be facing Anne’s notorious Voice of God scolding should he give an affirmative answer.

“Ah, no. It’s, ah, more personal than that.”

“Hutch,” she said quietly, “you’re as white as a sheet.”

He closed his eyes, knowing his expression was pained. It was foolish to think he could hide this.

Anne gave him a stern look. “You haven’t been drinking cold soup again, have you?”

That startled him out of his funk for a moment. “You know about that?”

Anne jerked her thumb in the direction of tree climbing dogs and pink Flamingos. “I know about that.”

“No, no soup. It’s more serious than that . . . I . . . I think my partner’s cheating on me.” There, he’d said it.

“What?” The normally unflappable woman appeared as shocked as he felt. “Are you sure? I’m not prying, but it sure as hell didn’t sound like Starsky had lost interest in you last night.”

The color returned to Hutch’s cheeks in a rush. He knew how thin the walls in Venice Place were. “Be that as it may, he’s cheating on me.”

“You’re sure of it?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“Um, the way Starsky was sure you were cheating on him a couple of years ago?” Anne asked.

Recalling that whole fiasco when his drunken partner had accused him of having an affair with the young librarian who was helping him figure out livejournal, Hutch tried to re-interpret what he’d heard. But what the hell else could it have meant?

“He was on the phone with his lover. He was hiding in the bathroom, so he wouldn’t be overheard, and he thought I was doing the laundry. I came up to get more soap and heard him through the door.” Now that he’d started he couldn’t stop. “He said the same things to her he’d said to me just last night. He even . . . even said things . . . I’d always considered sacred between us. He sounded like a cheap porn novel, just the way he used to when he was coming on to a new girl. It was . . . .”

“Starsky. On the phone with a girl. Saying the same things he’s said to you.” The concern in Anne’s face shifted to amusement. “Sounded like a cheap porn novel, huh? Um, Hutch?”

“What?” He tried not to snap, but he didn’t appreciate her amusement while his world fell apart around him.

Anne had trouble meeting his gaze. “Starsky didn’t tell you about the Podfic Challenge, did he?”

“The what?” This was too much. It didn’t matter how bizarre things got in the apartment building, there was always something more deranged around the corner. Were his neighbors now writing slash stories about vegetables? “You mean like peas? What now? They’re doing it with the carrots in the crisper? A ménage a trois with the cucumbers?” That only made him recall stumbling on that copy of the old zine, Cucumbers and Crisco. By the looks of the art, he’d thought that was about Starsky and him, but obviously, there was more to it. He was appalled. Was nothing sacred? Innocent vegetables?

Anne shook her head, struggling not to smile. “I mean like IPOD. People are recording things for downloads onto IPods—news programs, classes, public lectures— So fans started recording their fan fiction and posting it to the internet so people could download them onto IPods and listen to them at their convenience. They call it PodFic.” At that moment, Morgan whizzed by again on another lap and sketched them a quick wave. Anne indicated the marathon biker. “See the earphones? She’s probably listening to PodFic right now. She records some herself. Flamingo got all worked up because there wasn’t any PodFic about—” She came up short, clearly not wanting to rub his nose in the lurid details of what went on in their name. “—Well, you know. So, a bunch of fans got together and started a PodFic contest that ends tomorrow. We had to clear out of our apartment for a few hours so a friend could get hers done before the deadline. If Starsky’s whispering sweet nothings alone in a room behind closed doors, he’s probably trying to make the deadline.”

Hutch just stared at her in astonishment. It was the most outlandish excuse he’d ever heard. Which, in his world, meant it was the most likely.

“If he’d told you about the Challenge, how would you have reacted?” she asked.

“How would I react to Starsky reading aloud about our relationship?” Hutch sputtered. “I would’ve . . . would’ve . . . ”

“Thrown the computer out the window?” she suggested. “Gone ballistic? Threatened physical mayhem? Podfic isn’t nearly as easy to get rid of as 400 zines.”

That drew him up short. He hadn’t forgotten how Anne had helped him pulp Starsky’s lurid magnum opus before every person in Bay City had a copy. An electronic recording was a hell of a lot more insidious.

He blinked. A recording. Of their relationship. Their relationship, not Starsky’s with someone else. His broken heart and innate insecurity wanted to protest, but now that he thought about what he’d overheard, he realized that Starsky hadn’t sounded like he was waiting for any kind of response to the endearments he’d been murmuring. And . . . hadn’t he seen Starsky and Kimberly FDR talking after band practice earlier in the week? Whenever Starsky made any new forays into innovative web trends, Kimberly was always the first person he consulted for advice.

Suddenly, it made sense. Starsky wasn’t talking to someone else, he was talking about them. “Do you really think that’s what he’s up to?” Hutch asked, a world of pain lifting from his heart as he considered the possibility.

“Starsky never struck me as the cheating type. I guess you won’t know for sure until you ask him.”

“Yeah,” Hutch said, thinking it through. The more he considered this PodFic idea, the more it made sense. Starsky knew Hutch really didn’t understand the whole fandom thing. Whenever Starsky got carried away by the latest fandom trend, he always tried to conceal his involvement until he had no choice but to ‘fess up. Like when 400 copies of Hutch and Me Get It On a Whole Lot showed up in their living room along with an astounding printing bill on perfumed purple paper.

He felt his furrowed brow start to relax. It was just fandom! Starsky still loved Hutch, and only Hutch. His face relaxed more, and he couldn’t help smiling slightly. Starsky still loved him. He loved him so much, he was writing stories that he wanted to read out loud to share with—

His expression froze.

“Starsky’s reading about our—love life, isn’t he?” he asked Anne bluntly.

For the first time in their conversation, she seemed uncomfortable. Shifting the Chihuahua in her arms, she glanced around the park. “Uh . . . well, I have no idea what he’s actually reading about—”

“Sure you do,” he said with confidence. Starsky’s dialog now made a chilling kind of sense. “He’s preparing this thing for download?” Hutch knew what that meant. It would be available to the universe, not just Venice Place. He gritted his teeth. “I’ll kill him!”

Anne looked worried. “Really, Hutch, I’m telling you he’s not cheating—”

“I believe you,” he said abruptly. He had to get home. Pronto. He reached out to give her a friendly pat on the back, when the benign-acting Chihuahua in her arms lunged for him without warning, teeth bared like a piranha. Hutch barely snatched his hand back in time. “No wonder you guys never worry about break-ins.” The Chihuahua-in-arms kept snarling, and the one that had been sitting at Anne’s feet immediately got in the act. Hutch backed away cautiously. “You should register those things as lethal weapons.” She waved at him as he backed away. “Thanks, Anne. I’ll, er, see you later. I owe you a beer.”

“I’ll need one after this,” her hand gestured at the merry-go-round and eucalyptus tree, where Flamingo was climbing up to get her dog. The black lab was now circling the tree barking frantically.

Hutch stared at the pink-clad figure making its careful way up the tree. Foreseeing how that expedition was bound to end, he decided to be somewhere else when the fire truck arrived.

His heart much lighter, he started back to Venice Place. Before he reached the entrance to the park, he’d figured out how to stop this whole PodFic thing in its tracks.

********

Halfway home he started jogging. His feet felt lighter in spite of his concerns. Supposed Starsky had finished reading the thing? Suppose he’d already posted it? He tried to imagine their reception at the precinct if that became public. Why didn’t Starsky ever think about practical things like that? Yet, despite his concerns, part of him was singing: Starsky loves me, only me! Still, it would be a short romance if Starsky released that story, because then Hutch would have to kill him.

He’s bound to be still reading it, Hutch told himself. He goes on forever in those stories. They’re just like his police reports, long winded and full of detail and purple prose. He had a sudden flush of nostalgia for the days when Starsky only wrote lovingly about the Torino.

His concern made him pick up the pace.

When he approached Venice Place he slowed down. There was a crowd gathered at the entrance—never a good sign. Uh-oh, he thought. Getting into his apartment could be like walking a gauntlet. This was bound to slow him down, which would only give Starsky more time to finish his reading.

As he moved closer to the knot of women standing by the front door, he noticed each of them had some small, brightly colored object in their hands. A few of them had noticeable white ear phones in their ears. IPods, he realized anxiously. I swear, someone should arrest Steve Jobs for . . . for . . . He couldn’t think of a single thing to charge him with, but he was convinced Steve Jobs was the Great Satan. Those damned little file players were insidious, and Jobs kept making them smaller. Hutch suspected there would come a day when they would be nothing more than a tiny micron chip directly imbedded in the wearer’s brain that would hold every song ever published in the universe. And Starsky would be the first person to get one.

He had a moment’s pause. Where the VP ladies already listening to Starsky’s story?

Keri was there with the group, and being the tallest, spotted him first. She nudged Suzan standing next to her who nudged SHaron next to her who nudged Lorraine . . . and suddenly, like a flock of high-strung birds, the whole group went on what Starsky would refer to as Hutch alert. IPods and earphones disappeared into pockets and bags like some bizarre magic act, and everyone pasted on a too-friendly, overly-innocent grin.

“Good morning, Hutch,” they said in unison. There was so much guilt dripping from those words, he was half tempted to order them up against the wall and tell them to assume the position—but he knew better than to ever utter those words to this group.

He nodded politely. “Ladies.” He glanced at Keri and noticed a familiar swatch of plaid peeking out of one of her jeans pockets.

Tucking a thumb into the pocket and shoving the fabric out of sight, she smiled innocently. “We’re still working on the laundry, Hutch, but it won’t be long.”

He smiled back as if he hadn’t just witnessed the kidnapping of his favorite boxers. At least he wouldn’t have to worry about it ending up on eBay, like so much of their stuff seemed to do. Keri would never part with something of his, of that he was sure. “No problem,” he assured her. “Take as much as you— I mean, as long as you need.”

Enednoviel made a point of looking at her watch and glancing at the line of Torinos. “He’s running late today,” she said wistfully.

Pepper nudged her, as if warning her not to say too much.

Hutch smiled, as he reconsidered his initial plan. Adaptability was the key to survival! “Yeah. Whatever it is he’s doing—” every set of female eyes darted back and forth from one to another—”sure is taking a while.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “And if there’s one thing that shouldn’t wait, it’s the Sunday carwash. Don’t you agree?”

Pepper blinked as if taken by surprise. “You mean, you watch, too?” It was Enednoviel’s turn to nudge Pepper back and frown at her.

Suzan laughed, obviously not surprised at all. “Of course, he watches,” she told them. “How could he not?” She gave him a knowing wink.

He returned her smile. Who knew Starsky and him better then Suzan? He could only imagine what illos Starsky’s Sunday ritual must inspire. No wonder Enednoviel seemed so disappointed.

“Don’t worry,” the soft spoken Lorraine consoled Enednoviel. “I’m sure he’ll be out soon. You know he’d never let his cars go a whole week without a good washing.”

“Still, it is odd,” SHaron complained in her lilting English accent. “Here it is a lovely Sunday morning without a wet Starsky to make the day brighter yet. It’s not natural, I tell you! It goes against the very order of the universe! Or something . . . ”

The four artists sighed in unison and looked at one another as if mentally communicating, which always made Hutch nervous. There were nights when he’d wake up in a cold sweat after dreaming that every artist in Venice Place had gotten together to paint a four-story high mural on Wilshire Boulevard of Starsky and him stark nude in an improbable sexual position.

“Y’know,” Elaine V. said cheerfully, “if he’s in a hurry today, he could take the cars to that new car wash down the block . . . : ”

The entire group turned a baleful eye on her. “You didn’t tell him, did you?” Suzan snapped.

“We’ve been trying to keep that quiet,” Keri reminded her.

Enednoviel said something rude in German.

“A mechanical car wash?” SHaron said, outraged. “For the Torinos? Are you mad?”

Lorraine just looked anxious.

“We’re doomed,” Pepper said pessimistically.

“Hey, lighten up!” Elaine insisted. “I never said a word to him. But, y’know, it is just down the block, and it’s not like he doesn’t drive around the neighborhood every day in one of those six cars! Besides, he’s running late today because he’s gotta finish his—”

Six sets of eyes glared her into silence. Elaine was lucky she didn’t burst into flames from the force of their stares.

Hutch smiled. Playing right into my hands. “That’s right. Starsky’s gotta finish his Pod Person story.”

There was an audible gasp from the group.

He felt smug. It wasn’t often he got the drop on them. “What, you thought I didn’t know? Please. It’s all he talks about. And I gotta tell you, I’m beyond bored.” Now he had their complete attention. He never shared much of their private life with them. He didn’t have to, since they somehow knew everything about them anyway. Still, they seemed hungry for his insight. “I look forward to the Sunday morning carwash all week.” He waited a beat. “Don’t you?” he asked slyly.

There was a collective sigh and enough head bobbing to remind him of the local sports store bobblehead display.

He glanced up at his window, and their eyes followed his gaze. “Well, I’m tired of waiting.” He turned back to them and moved closer. “I’ve got an idea . . . but I’ll need some help.”

Gotcha! he thought, as their eyes grew bright.

********

Starsky stuttered over a clumsy word construction and cursed under his breath, turning the recording off. Charlton Heston made this kinda thing look so easy, but reading aloud was complicated. He’d had to rewrite a whole section because he couldn’t get through it without his tongue getting all tangled up. He should’ve been done by now and washing his third Torino, but he was only halfway through. Worse yet, he was going to have to do a whole lot of audio editing.

He sighed and turned the recording program back on. “Hutch looked over his shoulder and batted his soft golden lashes at his dark haired lover. ‘I’m ready for you, Starsky,’ he whispered, his voice low and anxious. ‘But please, be gentle—'”

The front door slammed shut so loudly, Starsky nearly juggled the laptop off his knees in surprise. “Oh, shit!” he hissed before remembering the recording program was still running. He slapped it off and closed the laptop quickly, shoving it under the vanity beneath the sink and behind the toilet paper. Hutch could walk right in any minute. There was no privacy between them.

He could hear Hutch whistling loudly as he moved noisily through the apartment. Wondering why Hutch wasn’t calling out for him, Starsky peeked around the bathroom door. “Hutch?”

The whistling continued from the bedroom. It sounded like the Battle Hymn of the Republic. He followed the sound.

Hutch was shoulders deep in the closet, rummaging. He’d stripped down to his boxers.

“What’s goin’ on, buddy?” Starsky asked.

Hutch pulled something out of the closet. “Hey, yourself! It’s a beautiful Sunday, Starsk. And time’s a’wastin’!”

“It is?” Hutch’s cheerfulness was nearly overwhelming. How much fun could someone have with the laundry? Which made him wonder . . . where was the laundry?

“Those cars aren’t going to wash themselves,” Hutch announced, and dropped his boxers.

That big beautiful white butt distracted Starsky so much he just stared, speechless. He’d spent the last hour reading salacious details about his and Hutch’s love life, so suddenly having the real life object of his passion totally voluntarily starkers nearly short circuited his brain. “They’re not?”

“Hell, no!” Hutch bent over—making Starsky catch his breath—and slipped something over his legs. He pulled up—

Starsky’s brain really did short circuit. Hutch was buttoning up the fly of a pair of Starsky’s own cut offs. He blinked, trying to compute. Hutch. In his cutoffs. Legs up to his neck, and the world’s biggest basket barely contained by a scrap of denim and few measly buttons. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Gonna wash some big red cars. Wanna help?”

“Wash . . . cars? My cars? You? Since when?”

“Since it didn’t look like you were gonna do it. You’re breakin’ a million hearts here, Starsk. You’ve got ladies hanging out their windows for no reason, sad eyes scanning the street. You should be ashamed. You used to be so reliable. We’ve got a responsibility here. Since you weren’t holding up your end, I figured it’s my responsibility to pick up the slack.”

Whistling, Hutch started for the door. Starsky could see the bottom curve of his ass peeking out from under the cutoffs. His brain slammed back into gear. Racing to the door, he put his back against it, barring the way. “You’re not going anywhere dressed like that!” he sputtered. “You’re not wearing any underwear! Your dick’s gonna fall outta those shorts. It’s not nearly big enough to cover you! And once it gets wet—”

“Yeah? What about that?” Hutch said, his voice suddenly two octaves lower. He leaned in close to Starsky. “What’s gonna happen when these shorts get wet?”

Starsky felt his throat close up and he choked on a reply.

Hutch smiled his most seductive smile as he carefully pushed Starsky out of his way. “If you’re worried that much, why don’t you join me? I’ll be right outside . . . washing your cars.”

Before Starsky could regain his aplomb, Hutch opened the door and strode out, wearing nothing but a pair of flipflops, the tiniest shorts in the universe, and a smile. Starsky was so dismayed he just stood rooted to the spot. A minute later he could hear the familiar sound of thundering footsteps of dozens of women dashing over to the front windows of the building. Footsteps that normally were for him.

Unable to help himself, he followed the sound until he, too, was standing at the windows, watching as his partner walked over to a conveniently placed bucket of soapy water and lathered up a car he hated.

Where the hell did that bucket come from? Starsky wondered. He kept his special car washing soap, bucket and special sponges locked in the trunk of one of the cars. That’s when he noticed some of his neighbor ladies carrying buckets of soapy water and leaving several by each of the six Torinos for Hutch’s convenience. Starsky frowned. He’d always had to carry his own buckets!

Hutch pulled a large natural sponge, the only thing Starsky would allow to touch his precious paintjob, out of the nearest bucket, and slapped a quantity of sudsy water across the hood of one of the cars. He was messy about it, too. Messier than Starsky normally was, and Starsky liked to use a lot of soap. Suds were flying everywhere, lathering up the car and Hutch’s arms, then spilling over his crotch as he leaned against the fender, then running down his legs as he stretched across the car to reach. The muscles in his long, lean form and powerful arms were tensing and reaching, spreading soap everywhere across the red expanse of the hood.

Starsky could hear the woman’s audible sighs from here, and realized his own echoed theirs. Hutch was so beautiful. His bare blondness contrasted against the hood of the Torino like a moving work of art. Starsky was mesmerized for long moments. But, finally, he blinked and snapped out of it.

It would take Hutch a long time to wash six cars. Starsky should take the opportunity to finish his PodFic if he wanted to make the deadline. He glanced back at the bathroom, but his gaze automatically returned to the hypnotic sight of a nearly nude Hutch washing his car. Hutch. Washing his car.

All thoughts of relating a fantasy version of his love life fled his mind as the man at the center of his genuine love life flaunted his assets in front of the entire neighborhood. Assets that were only meant for Starsky. Launching himself at the dresser, he yanked open a drawer so hard it pulled completely out and landed on the floor with a crash. Throwing half the contents of the drawer around the room, Starsky hurriedly found what he was looking for. Flaunt his ass in front of all of Venice Place, would he? Well, two could play at that game!

********

I’m beginning to understand why he does this, Hutch thought, startled at the sudden insight. The hood of the car was warm, but the water was cold. The suds were slippery and made everything impossibly slick. As he rubbed big circles of soapy water against the bright red skin of the warm car and felt the California sun beating down on his bare back and legs, he felt an odd sense of freedom that he hadn’t felt in years. He felt uninhibited.

Of course, the cheering squad of women fetching him pails of soapy water and encouraging him didn’t hurt one bit. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had this much female attention. It was kind of . . . fun. He soaped up the big windshield and when it was white with suds, drew a big heart in it, then looked up and grinned at the building. The crowd went wild, and he laughed in delight. What a great day it was turning into. All because Starsky still loved him.

As he scrubbed lazily at the hood, he was distracted by a sudden hush that fell over the crowd, which was immediately followed by an awed, “Ooooooooh.”

Glancing over at the building, he discovered the cause. Starsky was sauntering out of Venice Place with his trademark overconfident strut. For some reason, the women found his hipshot, ass-waggling sashay irresistible. Hutch would die before admitting that he did, too, so he pretended to pay no mind to his partner’s entrance. But glancing up through his lashes, Hutch took in Starsky’s appearance. Starsky apparently had decided to dress—or un—for carwashing. He was wearing nothing but his trademark hairy bow-legged body and—

Hutch’s eyes stopped at crotch level. Instead of the ratty, frayed teeny tiny denim cut offs that Hutch had appropriated, Starsky was wearing the tightest, shortest, whitest tennis shorts that had ever been made. White white. Very white. And short. And tight. Which meant that once they got wet—his dark skin and pubic hair would show through as though he were wearing nothing at all.

Hutch nearly lost his resolve.

That’s what he wants you to do, he realized, pulling his attention and his libido back from the brink. He realized something else, too. Starsky abandoned his peapod story to wash cars with me.

He abandoned his attempt at nonchalance and grinned openly at his lover, the joy inside him too great to contain.

Starsky continued sauntering over to the car Hutch was washing. He pointed to the soapy heart dripping messily over the windshield. “Was that for me?”

Hutch shook his head. “No, it was for them.” He pointed toward the building and scores of women leaning out the windows. They waved and hooted and shouted, calling to the two men. Hutch waved back amiably, and blew them a kiss. Cocking his head to one side, Hutch said, “They think I’m hot.”

Starsky did a double take. “They think you’re hot? You gotta be kidding. I’m the one they come here to see every Sunday.”

“Sorry,” Hutch drawled, using the supercilious tone he knew made Starsky nuts, “but the noise level is never this high when you’re out here on your lonesome. Clearly, I’m the hottie here.” Hutch could barely keep from giggling at the outrageous claim. He suspected his cheeks were as red as the soapy tomato dripping in front of him.

“Is that so?” Starsky challenged in that silky tone that usually preceded shirt-buttons flying off in all directions.

Hutch forced himself to brave that smoky gaze and gave what he knew to be his most arrogant response. “We both know it.”

The fact that he was lying through his teeth wasn’t helping his cause any. He knew who the hottie was in their relationship, as far as he was concerned. It was the man before him who had the power to melt his bones every night.

“You wanta put your money where your mouth is, hotstuff?” Starsky asked, his stance pure dare.

Hutch couldn’t help but notice how the stiffening of Starsky’s spine had stiffened another area as well, an area that was enticingly highlighted by the zipper of those stark white shorts.

Suddenly, the ambient temperature seemed a hell of a lot hotter. And was it his imagination, or had the air actually gotten thinner?

Swallowing hard, Hutch asked in a nearly normal voice, “What did you have in mind?”

“How ’bout a contest? You and me’ll show off our, um, assets, while cleaning the cars. We’ll let the neighbor ladies here decide who’s the hottest,” Starsky suggested.

“What are we gonna do? Poll them?” Hutch was mortified by the idea of asking these women, who seemed privy to their most intimate secrets, to grade who was sexiest. There was a time when all he had to do to cause sighs and near-fainting was bat his wheat pale eyelashes at them, but ever since Starsky had joined their fandom activities, Hutch wasn’t sure he could get a fair deal from them.

“Nah, we’ll just let the sound effects be the deciding factor,” Starsky said, smirking. “Whoever gets the most squeals wins.”

“Wins what?” Hutch tried to sound disinterested, but he was already hooked by the idea.

Starsky’s voice dropped so low that even the most sharp-eared onlooker wouldn’t overhear what he said. “How ’bout anything the other one wants in bed?”

The cutoffs he’d snitched from Starsky’s drawer seemed to shrink three sizes at that suggestion. Gasping at the sudden constriction, Hutch tried to think clearly. After last night, it was hard to imagine what either of them might request that they hadn’t already done.

It wasn’t like they held anything back in bed. Of course, there were a few places the remnants of their inhibitions wouldn’t let them go. Hutch debated whether he was really ready to be coated in chocolate sauce over a silly bet. But if he won, it would be Starsk who’d have to pay up. His nature-phobic lover might just find himself spread out under starry skies on a bed of pine boughs up at Bear Lake next weekend.

Deciding it was worth the risk, Hutch grinned. “You got yourself a deal, partner. Prepare to be trampled by my je ne se quois.”

“Your what?” Starsky joked.

“My irresistible sex appeal,” Hutch translated. Just to see what would happen, he switched the wet sponge to his left hand and wiped his soapy right hand on the back of his cutoffs, effectively pasting them to his butt cheek, the same cheek he knew was peeking out not-so-discretely from the bottom of these shorts.

The roar that came from behind them was pretty damn impressive for a couple of hundred women. It sounded more like a Bruce Springsteen or John Denver concert.

Not to be outdone, Starsky gave a challenging lift of his left brow, and bent from the waist to retrieve a sponge from another nearby bucket. The noise from the building was equally deafening.

The contest began in earnest then. Hutch stood up on his tiptoes, spread-eagling himself over the warm, wet Torino as he reached up with the sopping sponge to clean the roof of the car. The sound effects his move caused did amazing things to his ego. Feeling like a god, he glanced over to rub Starsky’s nose in the success of his gambit, only to have the breath pulled from his chest as he caught sight of Starsky in nearly the same position as he cleaned the Torino’s back window and trunk.

Damn, those white shorts were a work of art. As Starsky leaned across the car trunk, they hugged his butt so tight they looked as if they’d been spray painted on. Maybe it was all that bright afternoon sunlight reflecting up from the glistening, wet car, but it sure felt like the temperature had spiked again. And the starkness of the white tennis shorts was blinding in this unrelenting light. Hutch had the nearly irresistible urge to abandon his own sponge and just spoon himself over Starsky’s back.

With the innate sensuality that had captured his heart so many years ago, Starsky straightened up.

Hutch could only gape at the effect contact with the wet trunk of the Torino had had on the shorts. See through didn’t half describe it. The shorts were now nothing but a thin film of white, barely enough to keep him from being arrested for indecent exposure. Starsky’s pubic hair could be clearly seen through the translucent material, as could the rosy tinge of that hungry cock that was threatening to burst through the fly. Hutch’s gaze could actually trace the shadowed line where Starsky’s dick was straining against the sodden material.

Hutch wasn’t the only one affected by the wet shorts. When Starsk stepped back from the car, that sound he’d talked about years ago, the sound a football crowd makes when the ball’s in the air, came from the building behind them.

And, brother, were those balls in the air! Hutch could nearly see their dusky velvet softness peeking out where the soaking wet shorts had hitched up on Starsky’s left thigh. Damn, if his partner weren’t careful, Starsky would be the one whose shaft escaped confinement.

Not that that would be a bad thing.

Hutch’s own erection made a play to be heard, well, to be attended to. He was so captured by the sheer carnality of those wet white shorts that he forgot where he was and what he was doing. His hand moved of its own accord to his own straining organ. He completely forgot that he had a soaking wet sponge in his hand.

Hutch gasped as the soapy brown sponge made contact with his front, dousing his needy erection with cool water. Shocked by the icy wetness, he snatched his hand back. He’d never heard a sound like the one the neighbor ladies released right then. The hooting and cat calls would’ve embarrassed a group of construction workers.

Belatedly, Hutch realized that they’d never discussed just how they were going to determine which of their hot bods caused the loudest reaction from their watchers. It wasn’t like they had a lust-o-meter they could turn on to compare the amplitude of the reactions.

Starsk and he both seemed to catch themselves staring at each other at the same time.

Starsky’s eyes were hot and smoky as he reminded Hutch, “We’ve got five more cars to wash after this one.”

Shaking himself back to the task at hand, Hutch muttered, “Yeah, right.” Five more cars. How the hell was he supposed to keep his act together long enough to wash five more cars with Starsky flaunting himself like that?

Taking a firmer hold on the soggy sponge, Hutch reached up to get a part of the roof he’d missed, the part over the front window. Simultaneously, Starsky started scrubbing the side of the car on the opposite side from Hutch. Two soapy minutes later, their sponges banged into each other.

“Hey, I’m working here,” Hutch complained, leaning over the hood.

Starsky stared him down. “It’s not my fault you’re doin’ such a crappy job I’ve got to go over everything you did. I shoulda known you didn’t have clue as to how to wash a car.” He jerked a thumb at the drab, dirt-encrusted Volvo. “I rest my case.”

Hutch looked at him slyly. Starsky was trying to pick a fight. “You’re only trying to make me mad because you know you’re losing.”

Starsky’s eyes widened and he started sputtering. “Losing? Who’s losing? You’re sayin’ that to piss me off so I’ll forget that you’re only doin’ this to show off.”

Hutch’s eyebrows rose. “Says the biggest show off on the planet! Who else would need to own six striped tomatoes! Or who else would have to flaunt himself in front of an entire building full of women every Sunday? Who else would put his personal sex life on display by reading about it over Bean Pod radio?” Hutch stopped short. He hadn’t really said that, had he? Oh, shit . . .

“What the hell are you talking about? Bean po—” Starsky’s face froze, but only for a second. Almost immediately, it shifted into pure outrage. “You knew?” He came around the hood of the car and shook the soapy sponge in Hutch’s face. “This was all a ruse. You weren’t worried about the ladies. You did this to keep me from finishing my PodFic? I don’t believe you!”

Hutch could hear the worried murmuring behind them, but he couldn’t let himself be distracted by their witnesses. This was too important. The anguish he had felt earlier when he thought Starsky had been cheating on him was still trapped inside. He loomed into Starsky’s personal space, nearly nose to nose with him. “You don’t believe me? Well, let me tell you something, partner. When I heard what you were saying in the bathroom, I couldn’t believe that, either. I thought you were talking to another lover. I thought you were cheating on me with a woman. How the hell did you think that made me feel?”

A sudden hush fell over the building. Starsky just stared, apparently flabbergasted.

“Hutch . . . you didn’t . . . I’d—”

Hutch threw his hands in the air. He was still holding the sponge but was oblivious to the quantity of water he’d just flung everywhere. All the hurt he’d felt in the park came flooding back to him. “What the hell was I supposed to think? You were hiding in the bathroom, talking really low . . . saying things you normally said to me, but since I wasn’t there, you weren’t saying them to me, were you? The only thing I could think of was that you were saying them to someone else.” He turned to Starsky, his expression fierce. “When I heard you say, ‘me and thee,’ and thought you were saying that to someone else—”

“Hutch—no, I would never—” Starsky’s expression was pure anguish.

“—Our phrase, ours alone—”

“—You thought I’d ever say that—?”

“—Didn’t want to believe it, but—”

“Oh, baby, I’m sorry—I’d never ever—”

Starsky reached forward without realizing he was still clutching his own dripping sponge. When Starsky’s soapy sponge brushed against Hutch’s sun-warmed skin, the cold contrast sent an electric charge directly to his groin. His heart was beating so loud, it drowned out the sharp gasp from the women in the building behind them.

His nipples drew up painfully tight, as Starsky said, “I love you, Hutch. Only you. There’ll never be anyone else.”

Hutch couldn’t say for sure what happened next. One minute, his lover was professing his undying devotion while teasing his chest with the nubby wet sponge, and the next—

. . . the next minute his arms were full of a wonderfully wet Starsky kissing him for all he was worth. A soaking sponge was pinned between them, running soap and cold water down their bellies and over their overheated cocks. It didn’t help. If anything, it made things worse. Hutch wondered absently if the water running over them might turn to steam as the shivery stream of water flowed over his belly. Hutch’s sponge was pressed against Starsky’s back, and distantly, he was aware that chilly water had to be dripping between the crease of that luscious ass, but he didn’t care. All there was was Starsky—Starsky, who still loved him, and only him. Starsky, who wasn’t having an affair, who swore he would never even consider having an affair.

The reality of his amazing, sexy partner consumed him. He was drowning in Starsky’s kiss, living for their shared breath.

Hutch’s brain didn’t even voice a rudimentary protest as Starsky eased him back onto the hood of the half-washed Torino. The metal was a strange mix of sun-warmed car and soapy cool wetness against his bare back. When Starsky clambered on top of him, all awareness of the car vanished.

They were in that space where they lived to be, that place where they ceased to be two separate beings and became one. Even the appreciative roar of the crowd couldn’t penetrate the fog of lust enveloping them.

Starsky’s hands were spreading fire everywhere they moved, and they were moving everywhere, over his arms, his sides, his hair, his face, the slippery soap making his hands slide seductively. Hutch could barely catch his breath between his lover’s hands, his passionate kisses, and the straining erection stropping against his own. This was where Hutch needed to be, with a squirming, slick Starsky in his arms, doing everything he could to make him insane. Hutch reached around, finally dropping his sponge, and used his big hands to latch onto Starsky’s ass, pulling a shattered groan out of his man.

“Come on, big boy,” he urged, grinning, “ride that thing.” He pulled Starsky tighter against him, wanting to climb inside his skin. He thought he could hear the ocean’s roar, the sound pouring over them, combining with their runaway passion.

“All night, babe,” Starsky promised, “all night long . . . ”

Their mouths joined again, their tongues battling as they rubbed frantically against each other. Their desperate gasps for air were all Hutch could hear as the blood pounded in his ears. That, and their madly beating hearts, the thunder of the blood in their veins . . . and some really shrill barking just before a tsunami of cold soapy water slapped the breath right out of them.

We’re not that close to the beach! Hutch thought, distracted, just as another wave caught them unawares.

Starsky yelled, and rolled off him, falling completely off the hood of the Torino as another gallon of water hit Hutch full in the chest. He lurched off the hood, sputtering, spitting out the water that splashed him in the face. At least that last bit wasn’t full of soap.

“What the . . . ?” He stood up just as Starsky got up off the asphalt, shaking water out of his eyes. Before he could figure out what was going on, a solid twenty pound weight covered in fur leaped against his chest. He grabbed it in self defense and started to yell in protest when a long slick tongue slithered in between his teeth. With a grimace, he dropped the dog, who immediately jumped on the hood of the Torino and attempted to French Starsky.

Hutch blinked as his partner warded off the amorous, tree-climbing Foxy.

That’s when he saw Flamingo and Anne standing nearby, holding suspiciously empty buckets.

“You threw cold water on us?” Starsky asked, outraged.

“Well, it’s not like you guys heard us calling you,” Flamingo told them.

“Again and again . . . ” Anne added.

“You threw cold water on us!” Starsky sputtered, working up a good head of steam.

“Are you two nuts?” Flamingo scolded, ignoring his temper. She turned on Hutch. “You’re in a public place! I know he’s capable of almost anything,” she jerked a thumb in Starsky’s direction, “but I never thought I’d see you on the street, plastered across the hood of a Torino, soaking wet, nearly nude, about to be—”

Anne put a hand on her shoulder, “Okay, they get the picture.”

“There was a black-and-white from your precinct cruising down the block,” Flamingo told them.

“And you were worried about PodFic,” Anne teased Hutch with a smirk.

He knew he was blushing from head to toe.

“When we couldn’t get your attention,” Flamingo continued, “we had to resort to the only method that works with animals in rut!”

Starsky glared at her sullenly. “I can’t believe you threw cold water on us.”

As soon as Flamingo paused in her tirade, the women hanging out the windows started booing loudly.

She turned to the protestors. “Don’t encourage them!” They only booed louder.

“I can’t believe they threw cold water on us,” Starsky complained to Hutch. His voice was edging into a whine.

“You’re just mad because you were losing,” Hutch said, unable to resist poking the hornet’s nest.

It worked. “Losing? I wasn’t losing!” he got into Hutch’s private space. “Or have you forgotten who was on top?”

Hutch smiled. Gotcha. “Y’know, Starsk. There’s on top, and then there’s on top.” With that, he leaned down, grabbed his partner around the thighs and hoisted him over his shoulder in a classic fireman’s carry. He headed for the entrance of the building.

“H-u-u-u-u-u-u-t-c-h!” Starsky protested. It lost a lot of its effectiveness, however, as his voice kept wavering as he bounced.

“Stop complaining,” Hutch said. “You’re on top!”

A rousing cheer went up from all the women. Distantly, Hutch heard Flamingo say, “We’re gonna lose the lease someday . . . ” followed by the quieter, “I thought you said Hutch was wearing the shirt I gave him . . . ”

Hutch took the stairs two at time, with Starsky protesting the entire way.

“We can’t leave the Torino like that! Once that soap dries, it can wreck the paintjob. H-u-u-t-c-h!”

Hutch gave his partner’s rear a hearty slap. “Quiet down. You want the neighbors to hear? Oh, of course you do. That’s why you were ready to give everyone a blow-by-blow description of our sex lives over their Lima Beans. I hate Steve Jobs!”

“Lover, I think those shorts have cut off the circulation to your brains,” Starsky protested, “which are obviously in the seat of your pants, because I don’t have a clue as to what you’re talking about!”

Hutch marched through their apartment and dropped Starsky unceremoniously in the center of their big brass bed. Standing over him, he growled, “Time to buy a clue, boy.”

Starsky’s eyes roamed over Hutch’s dripping wet body from head to toe. His eyes suddenly came to rest at the hem of the soaked cut off shorts. His eyes widened, the pupils dilating so much his eyes looked black. “You’re gonna catch cold like that,” he murmured in a husky tone that made every blond hair on Hutch’s body stand on end.

Hutch glanced down at himself and wondered absently how long the head of his cock had been hanging out of the leg of his cut offs. Long enough to make my enormous hard on even harder, he realized.

Starsky was staring at his crown with the kind of hunger a mongoose reserved for a snake. Which, come to think of it, was a pretty apt analogy. Without moving his gaze, Starsky slid to the edge of the bed. Placing his feet on the floor, and pressing his knees on the outside of Hutch’s knees, he gripped the waistband of the shorts to pull himself closer to Hutch’s groin.

Wait for it, Hutch thought, standing rigidly still, not wanting Starsky to recognize his yearning. Just wait . . .

“Can’t let you get cold,” Starsky muttered, more to himself than to Hutch, or maybe more to Hutch’s cock.

Hutch held his breath. Wait for it . . . If Starsky didn’t hurry up, he wasn’t sure he could.

Tilting his head, Starsky’s wet tongue tip traced the edge of the small opening at the end of his cock. A completely involuntary shudder ran through Hutch’s body, and he struggled to hold his breath to keep from gasping. Starsky did it again, more delicately than the first time.

Starsky glanced up at Hutch through his thick lashes, an expression of sheer wantonness on his gypsy features. “No soap,” he said, as if to explain his tentative touch. “Guess we should be grateful for the fireman’s shower.”

Before Hutch could frame a half-lucid reply, Starsky’s tongue darted into the small hole, then worked a wet path around and around the very end, tracing higher and higher in hot wet spirals with just his tongue tip.

Be strong, Hutch told himself, locking his knees to keep from collapsing. God, this was good.

Starsky kept watching him, gauging his reactions, waiting, no doubt, to see him yield, to fall apart from the power of Starsky’s lovemaking. He knows me too well, knows how much I love his mouth.

Still watching him, Starsky sucked just the blunt end of Hutch’s cock into his mouth and sucked gently.

Hutch swayed dizzily, his eyes shutting involuntarily at the incredible sensation. God, he wanted this man.

Starsky knew it, too. There was no hiding it from him. He pulled away and Hutch couldn’t stifle the moan of frustration.

“Climb in the bed,” Starsky urged, still holding to Hutch’s waistband.

Obediently, Hutch put one knee on the bed, but Starsky stopped him.

“Climb up. On your feet.”

There was too much blood in Hutch’s cock. He couldn’t follow what Starsky wanted.

As if to demonstrate, Starsky scooted backwards in the bed on his butt until he pressed against the brass headboard. “Stand here,” he indicated the space in front of him. “Hang on to the head board. It’ll support you. While I . . . buy a clue.”

Don’t think; just do it. If you think too much, you’ll lose it completely. Hutch kicked off his flipflops and stepped onto the mattress. Wobbling as the springs yielded, he grabbed the curling brass headboard that was as tall as he was. Is he gonna make me do chin-ups?

“Hang on,” Starsky urged him. “Don’t want you to fall.” Still hanging on to the waistband, Starsky went after Hutch’s crown with enthusiasm. He lapped and sucked and nibbled at the tip, toying and teasing until Hutch was gripping the bars of the headboard with all his strength.

“God damn you, Starsky,” Hutch swore.

“Looka that, Hutch,” Starsky boasted. “You just keep gettin’ longer. There’s more of you outta those pants than in ’em.”

Hutch glanced down, feeling almost as if he were suffering from vertigo or on a rolling ship. His cock was trapped in the pants, bound by the denim as his erection slid down his leg.

“Looks painful,” Starsky teased, then licked up the length of the shaft as far as he could reach, his tongue doing incredible things to the constricted flesh.

It was painful in the most wonderful, exciting way. Hutch gripped the brass bars as if his life depended on it, and threw his head back in ecstasy.

“Mmmm,” Starsky purred, shifting to his knees and making the bed sway even more. Pulling away for a moment, he unzipped his damp tennis shorts and wiggled out of them, grimacing as he freed his own cock, dark with blood.

Speaking of painful, Hutch thought, he had to be aching in those pants.

Starsky tossed the shorts away, and they landed on top of Hutch’s poor Boston fern. He’d worry about that later.

Liberated from his own restrictive clothing, Starsky went back to his exploration of Hutch. “Well, lookit this. Found something else . . . ”

Hutch felt a broad wet tongue bathe a testicle and suddenly chin ups seemed like a perfectly reasonable response. His arms strained as he stood on tiptoe while Starsky licked and sucked at one of his testicles. He was gonna die if he didn’t get out of these pants.

He looked down at his lover, but that was nearly his undoing. He would never get over the shock of this image: Starsky, the proudest, strongest man he knew, willingly on his knees before him. The sight of it was nearly enough to make him come right there.

And Starsky knew it. Hutch had never hidden his wonder of it, so Starsky watched him now, plainly wanting that reaction of passion and astonishment, the same expressions Hutch always wore whenever Starsky dropped to his knees before him.

Starsky pulled away from him for a moment, and undoubtedly reading his mind through Hutch’s blatant expression of awe, said, “Because I love you, ya big dumb blond. Only you. Only ever you. You think I’d ever get on my knees for anyone else? Ever roll over for anyone else? I oughta kick your ass just for thinkin’ it.” He pried open the buttons on Hutch’s fly viciously, nearly knocking him off his feet.

Hutch grunted as Starsky forced the buttons open and wondered for the millionth time how Starsky could stand wearing such tight pants.

With focused intent, Starsky pulled and tugged at the wet shorts, peeling them off Hutch’s body. “Leave the skin behind, willya?” Hutch snarled through clenched teeth.

“Stealin’ my pants was your idea, bright eyes,” Starsky said, smirking. “Now you gotta pay the piper.”

Tugging and yanking, Starsky finally got the shorts over Hutch’s ass and cautiously slid them over his hips, finally freeing his trapped cock. But before Hutch could revel in his tender organ’s new found freedom, it was quickly trapped once more in the wet furnace of Starsky’s hungry mouth.

Oh! thought Hutch. That piper . . . oh, yeah, let me pay . . . he clung to the brass bars as Starsky devoured him, swallowing his aching erection that somehow managed to grow bigger yet. He stared, unable to pull his eyes away from the sight of this most masculine of men on his knees sucking his aching cock as if it were all that he ever wanted. He yearned to tell Starsky how beautiful he was like this, how hot it made him, how Starsky definitely was the hottest thing he’d ever seen in his life, but he needed every molecule of air just to breathe as he clung desperately to the brass bars that were keeping him on his ever shakier feet.

Last night, I did this to you until you begged me to end it, and I wouldn’t just to watch you writhe, knowing it was my mouth making you so crazy. It made me feel like the strongest man in the world, to reduce you to such hunger, such need. Is that how you’re feeling now? Starsky’s eyes stared back at him, blazing in intensity, and Hutch knew the answer without asking. God, I’m dissolving in your mouth.

Without warning, Starsky’s hands slid from their purchase on Hutch’s ass to carefully collect his balls and roll them gently. He shouted, his knees sagging, and saw Starsky grin.

“You think that’s funny, huh?” Hutch gasped through gritted teeth. His right hand risked releasing the brass bars to dig his fingers into Starsky’s hair. He tightened his fist in the thick curls just to enjoy the illusion of control, but that’s all it was. Illusion. When Starsky traced the outline of his ass, he knew just how much of an illusion it was. He lurched, helpless under this new assault. The minute the tip of Starsky’s little finger penetrated him, he exploded with a yell, pouring himself into his lover.

Starsky never left him, just hung on tight, taking all that he gave and searching for more.

Finally, there was nothing left, and Hutch sagged to his knees as Starsky released his cock. Hutch still clung to the overhead bars, afraid that if he let go, he’d melt into a completely formless puddle . . . and he still had work to do.

He parked his knees around Starsky’s hips and settled against his thighs.

“You okay?” Starsky asked, his voice rough. His lips, glistening and swollen, were too much of a temptation for Hutch to resist. He took Starsky’s mouth as if he were starving and Starsky all the food he’d ever need. Finding his own flavor on Starsky’s tongue made him hard all over again. How do you do this to me? You make me feel like I’m eighteen again.

Starsky chuckled around the ravenous kiss, feeling Hutch’s erection pressing against belly. Pulling back enough to speak, he taunted Hutch. “Can’t get enough of me, can you?”

Hutch shook his head, happy to admit it. “Never. Never enough of you.”

“You are so fucking hot,” Starsky said, and went after Hutch’s mouth himself.

Breaking again, Starsky leaned over to the end table and scrabbled around in the drawer until he found their lube. As he pulled it out, he managed to yank the drawer free and it spilled across the floor.

No wonder the place is always a wreck when we’re done, Hutch thought, amused.

Starsky squeezed so much lube over his hand it got everywhere, making them both laugh as if a bed dripping with lube was the funniest thing in the world. But when Starsky coated Hutch’s ass with it, it quickly became incredibly unfunny, incredibly hot, incredibly passionate, all in the space of a heartbeat. Starsky coated himself in a rush, and even before he was done, Hutch was pulling himself up on the bars so Starsky could position himself against Hutch’s slick portal.

Hutch was hot all over again, as if he hadn’t just come minutes ago, and lowered himself in a rush, taking Starsky in completely. It made his lover shout and lurch against him.

“Jeezus, Hutch, take it easy!” he groaned, as Hutch clenched around him, tightening down.

“Never,” said Hutch, kissing him. He pulled himself up then came down again fast, and it was Starsky’s turn to toss his head back in passion. “It’s never easy with you. There’s nothing easy about you.” He pulled up and then slid down again. Damn, it was good. And Starsky was losing it over what he was doing.

“Look at you,” Starsky said, watching Hutch take his cock inside over and over. “So fucking hot. Never anyone as hot as you. Ever. Never. Goddamn, Hutch—who’s fuckin’ who?”

Hutch was almost as lost in his passion as Starsky. This wouldn’t take long at all. He was pounding Starsky against his own prostate, and in a few minutes, he’d be nothing but sensation climbing towards orgasm. But he remembered one more thing he wanted it.

“Say it,” he ordered. His arms ached but he didn’t care. Starsky felt so good inside him, so deep inside him, he felt like he could do this for hours. He’d pay a different piper later. “Say it.”

Starsky gazed at him, his eyes half-lidded, the sweep of his dark lashes so beautiful it took Hutch’s breath away. He didn’t have to tell Starsky what it was he wanted him to say. “Me and thee,” Starsky whispered. “Forever.”

He barely got the words out before Starsky’s hands tightened on his hips, pulling him down hard and holding him there. He felt his lover’s organ swell inside him and they both came at once with a sharp gasp. It shocked them both, as Hutch felt himself come hard as though he hadn’t already done this once. All night with you. I could go all night with you.

“Damn, Hutch,” Starsky said, his voice shattered. “Damn. I love you.”

Hutch released the bars cautiously, as though he might fall apart without their support. Wrapping his arms around Starsky, he felt the answering hug of his lover’s strong embrace. Carefully, Starsky eased them over to their side, and cautiously slid out of him.

They kissed each other gently, as though they needed to be tender after such raw emotion. They whispered of their love over and over, as if they both needed to hear it.

“The room’s trashed again,” Hutch muttered, after long moments of afterglow.

“S’okay,” Starsky mumbled back. “We’ll fix it later.”

“What happened to the dresser drawer?” Hutch asked.

“It kinda slipped.” After another minute’s pause, Starsky added, as if just remembering, “The Torinos never got washed. Hope the ladies ain’t mad about that.”

“Oh, I suspect they got more of a show than they were expecting,” Hutch reassured him. Then, to be helpful, he suggested, “There’s a new carwash down the street.”

“A mechanical car wash? For the Torinos? Are you crazy?”

“I live with you, don’t I?”

They both laughed weakly and fell asleep in a tangle of damp arms and legs.

********

“I need a cigarette,” said Suzan, fanning herself with her hand.

The cluster of women stared at their video IPods in wonderment. There were appreciative murmurs around the room as they watched the tiny screens.

“This is amazing,” Tayawulf said. “I would’ve never believed those teeny tiny cameras could capture such detail.”

“And who would’ve thought you could see so much on these screens,” CC agreed.

“Cyanne, you’re a genius for setting this system up,” Pepper said, and everyone in the group agreed.

Cyanne just grinned. “I can’t believe it works this well, myself! Steve Jobs is a genius!”

Enednoviel glanced at her friend. “Keri, are you all right? You seem upset!”

“Hey, girl,” Elaine said cheerily, “all’s well that ends well. We can finish their laundry, and get the cars washed before they even wake up.”

Keri shook her head, as if that wasn’t going to solve her problem. She looked up from her video IPod and showed it to the group, her expression stricken. A tendril of smoke curled up from the small device. The screen was blackened. “I think they melted it!”

~end~