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Hutch wasn’t sure why that particular issue of Cosmopolitan magazine caught his eye. But what held his gaze now was an article provocatively entitled, “First, Take Off His Pants.” Hutch stared at the headline and its subheading: “How to Fulfill Your Man’s Every Fantasy.” Did women really read these things? Did articles like that actually help them find ways to satisfy boyfriends, lovers, husbands…friends? Did anyone ever take this stuff seriously?

Did they?

Originally published in the SHareCon 2018 zine.

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Hutch wasn’t sure why that particular issue of Cosmopolitan magazine caught his eye. Maybe it was the buxom redhead spilling out of her dress on the cover. Or it could’ve been the small headline that declared, “Bay City: Hottest Cops in the U.S.” But whatever captured his attention, what held his gaze now was an article provocatively entitled, “First, Take Off His Pants.”

Hutch stared at the headline and its subheading: “How to Fulfill Your Man’s Every Fantasy.” His eyes fastened on the magazine, but the woman on the cover had become invisible.

How to fulfill your man’s every fantasy, he thought. Did women really read these things? Did articles like that actually help them find ways to satisfy boyfriends, lovers, husbands…friends? Did anyone ever take this stuff seriously?

Did they?

“Hey, Hutch!” Starsky’s voice shattered his reverie, pulling his attention away from the magazine rack. “I’ve paid. We can go.” Starsky gave him a big smile, holding up the bag that held his purchase.

Hutch looked his partner over the way he always did. Starsky had on his worn leather jacket, the one that hugged his waist, especially when it was zipped halfway up the way it was now. The red shirt under it highlighted his coloring. His wildly curly hair was perfectly in place. Starsky stood in slight profile to Hutch as he turned to respond to a question from the teller. Hutch’s eyes traveled from Starsky’s hair to his chest, his waist, and then below.

Men weren’t supposed to look at other men below the waist. Hutch was well aware of that. Maybe it was because of the Cosmo headline. Maybe it was because Hutch had been trying not to look at this part of his best friend’s anatomy for longer than he wanted to admit. It didn’t matter. Hutch suddenly found himself eyeing Starsky’s overly tight jeans, the prominent bulge below it, and the graceful curve of the ass that every female cop in Bay City admired.

For the first time, Hutch let himself really look at that part of Starsky—the part forbidden to him. And for the first time, Hutch found himself thinking, First, take off his pants.

He’d hesitated too long. Starsky, ever attuned to Hutch’s reactions, looked to see what had distracted Hutch and spotted the magazine. His eyebrows rose. “Pretty lady! But if she bends over in that dress there could be consequences.” He picked up the issue and thumbed through it. “You buying this?”

A surge of adrenaline shot through Hutch and he flushed with guilt over—what? Staring at Starsky’s crotch? He blinked and snapped out of it. “No, of course not. Put that back!” He glanced around as if someone nearby could be reading the dark corners of his mind that he didn’t want to confront. “What’re you looking for?”

Starsky flipped a few more pages. “Just checking to see if there’re any shots of her leaning forward. A guy can hope!”

Hutch snatched the copy away from him and shoved it back in its slot. “Very funny. We’ve got to interview Mrs. Alvarez about the convenience store robbery and we’re running late. Let’s go.”

Starsky chuckled as if thinking of a private joke.

Jokes on me, Hutch thought, mentally itemizing the questions they needed to ask their witness just so his brain would stop fixating on Starsky’s pants.

~~~

Like so many of their days lately, this one was too long and full of the boredom unique to police work: interviews that went nowhere, witnesses that saw nothing, reports they had to write that said nothing. The string of robberies that had lately plagued their district were escalating. The robberies seemed spontaneous and the assailant never used a gun, though he did enough damage with a pipe he could conceal in his jacket. He either came up from behind the victim, or wore a ski mask to hide his identity. The evidence pointed to a sole perpetrator. After ten days, they still had no leads as to who it might be.

Their lack of progress was frustrating both of them. By the end of their shift, Starsky, who handled boredom badly at the best of times, was driving Hutch crazy. His incessant patter of trivia, puns, and knock-knock jokes had devolved into complaints about the state of their job and eventually full-blown whining about the state of his stomach, which was empty. Starsky was in the mood for something hot, spicy, and greasy. It was easy for Hutch to deflect his attention by countering with suggestions for the new vegetarian place he hadn’t yet tried  near his apartment in Venice.

He felt a little guilty when they separated for the evening, but only a little. His larder too empty for a decent meal, he felt vindicated when the vegetarian place, Holy Cow, put together a thick hummus on rye with sprouts. He added some coleslaw and fruit salad as sides and reached for his wallet as the wholesome young woman behind the counter wrapped it all up.

The magazine rack by the cash register caught his eye with its eclectic mix of alternative newspapers reflecting Venice politics, environmental issues, gay glossies advertising businesses and personals, Vegetarian Times issues, underground comics, the ever-present Playboy, and—

A familiar redhead grinned at him over her cleavage, as if to say, “Hey, big boy, nice to see you again.”

What was she doing here? Was she following him?

“Go on,” she seemed to say. “Pick me up. Take me home. You know you want to.”

“No, I don’t!” he said out loud.

“No coleslaw?” said the young woman behind the cash register, whose nametag said Giselle. “I’m sorry! I thought you wanted it. I already packed it.”

Confused, Hutch turned to her. “No, no, I want the coleslaw.” He felt his color rise.

“Uh…okay,” Her brow furrowed as she clicked the keys to ring up his purchase.

Without intending to, Hutch glanced back at the magazine rack.

“If you don’t take me home,” the redhead said telepathically, “you’ll never find out what to do after you take off his pants.”

Why would I want to take off his pants? Hutch thought as he reached for his wallet.

“To see what’s underneath, of course,” she replied.

Hutch gritted his teeth as he fumbled for cash. I already know what’s underneath. I’ve seen him naked a million times. No big deal. He’s got the same equipment I’ve got. Who cares?

“You do, big boy. You do.” Her grin seemed broader, saucier. For a second, Hutch thought she winked at him.

He dropped his wallet and cash spilled out, fluttering across the floor. He bent to scramble after it.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, sir,” Giselle said, coming around the counter. “Let me help you.”

“No, no! I’m fine, I’ve got it!” Hutch almost shouted, his face flaming.

As he scooped up his wallet and errant bills, he also grabbed the offending issue of Cosmo, as if taking it off the rack would somehow shut the cover girl up. As he rolled it up, he realized it was the only copy. Why would they only have one copy?

Giselle glanced at the hand clutching the tightly rolled magazine. “Are you taking that, sir?” She said it as if giving him an excuse to say no.

“Uh…yeah, uh…” He realized he had to hand it over for her to ring it up on the cash register. No big deal, he told himself. This is Venice. People buy all kinds of weird— He grabbed a Playboy off the rack and dropped it on top of the Cosmo. “That’s for me,” he told Giselle. “The Cosmo‘s for my sister.”

She nodded without looking at him, the same way he nodded at crime witnesses who were blatantly lying. She bagged up the food and the magazines as he handed over the cash. She looked at the bills as he realized he hadn’t given her enough.

How expensive are those magazines? he thought as he fished for another five. As he left, he hoped the sandwich wasn’t that good, because he doubted he’d ever have the nerve to come back here.

~~~

By the time he got home to Venice Place, he was mad at himself. What a waste of money! He was never going to read that article. He was never going to look at any of the contents geared to modern women. He dropped the magazine into his nightstand drawer, trying not to look at the lube and condoms that hadn’t been used in far too long.

“Really?” the redhead seemed to say as he moved to shut the drawer. “You’re leaving me alone in the dark? Maybe you should check the date on those condoms, big boy. They expire, you know. How long a dry spell have you had?”

He slammed the drawer shut, nearly clipping his finger. He left the Playboy in the bathroom for Starsky, and moved back to the kitchen table to eat, grabbing a beer from the fridge.

The sandwich was perfect, with ripe tomato slices, crisp cucumber, a sprinkling of olives, and a heady seasoning of garlic and other spices slathered on fresh, chewy rye Starsky would adore.

You can’t even eat a veggie sandwich without thinking of him, he realized. Or was that a message from the redhead in his drawer?

“Nothing wrong with that!” he said. “He’s my partner. Our lives depend on each other. We spend all our time together.”

He could almost hear her laughing as the partner in question opened his front door. Hutch was so surprised, he nearly knocked over his beer.

“Hey, Hutch,” Starsky said, rushing in. “Glad you’re home. Need the bathroom!”

“Of course you do,” Hutch agreed as Starsky dashed into it, shoving the door shut. Starsky’s small bladder was a constant inconvenience whenever they had stakeouts.

“Hey, a new Playboy!” Starsky called from behind the door. Hutch could hear a steady flow of liquid into the bowl.

Hutch took another bite and chewed. “You can have it,” he said around the mouthful. “I got it for you.”

He could hear Starsky splashing in the sink as he washed his hands. “Thanks, buddy!” He opened the door, already browsing through the magazine. “But it looks untouched. Don’t you want to read it first?”

Hutch washed down the food with a swallow of beer and shook his head.

“That reminds me,” Starsky said as he opened the centerfold and stared at it appreciatively. “Got a date tonight. Redhead.” He winked at Hutch as if they were sharing a joke. “Can I borrow some condoms?”

“Borrow?” Hutch said drolly. “Only if you promise not to bring them back slightly used.”

Starsky laughed and strolled toward Hutch’s sleeping area while still admiring the centerfold.

Hutch suddenly remembered the Cosmo sitting in the drawer. “Wait!” He got up from the chair so fast he nearly flipped it over and rushed past Starsky, narrowly avoiding slamming into him. “I’ll get them!”

Starsky paused, staring after him. “S’matter. Are you out?”

“No, no!” Hutch insisted, using his body to block the view of his drawer as he opened it and grabbed for the box.

“Don’t drop them, big boy,” the redhead warned, as she peeked out of the drawer, nearly causing him to upend the box all over the floor.

He juggled it for a quick second, recovered, slammed the drawer shut, then went through a charade of checking the date on the box.

“Are you okay?” Starsky said, leaning against the post separating the sleeping quarters from the open living area. “You’re acting kind of weird.”

Hutch tried not to think about how red his face might be. “According to you, I’m always acting weird. So, clearly weird is normal is for me.”

“That’s true,” Starsky agreed too easily, the open Playboy magazine now hanging forgotten from his hand.

Hutch handed him the whole box while trying not to stare. Starsky was slouching in that casual, cross-legged pose he typically struck when leaning against a structure for support. It reminded Hutch of all the gay boys hanging around Venice in similar poses, showing off their wares, looking for action.

“Nice basket,” the redhead in the drawer projected.

Hutch stared at Starsky’s crotch and thought, Nice basket… He forced his eyes to meet Starsky’s.

“The whole box? You taking a vow of chastity or somethin’?” Starsky asked, without reaching for the condoms.

Huh? Hutch thought, before realizing he was holding the nearly full box in such a way that he seemed to be offering it to his friend. Hutch shrugged. “Thinking of changing brands, that’s all.” He tried to sound matter-of-fact.

“Dry spell, huh?” Starsky said, reading through it. He took the box, flipped the Playboy magazine closed with a practiced gesture and turned toward the door.

The relief that washed over Hutch surprised him. “Maybe. Kind of… Yeah. It’ll pass. I’m okay.”

He’d said too much. Starsky looked back at him. “I’m meeting Gina at a dance. Why don’t you come?” He grinned. “We could share the box!”

That made Hutch laugh. “No, thanks. These long boring days are more tiring than running down alleys. I just want a quiet night. You go have fun. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Starsky shrugged. “Okay.” He lifted the box of condoms. “Let’s hope these bring me luck.” He walked to the front door.

“You don’t really need luck,” Hutch said without thinking.

Women gravitated towards Starsky. They couldn’t stay away. His blue eyes, saucy grin, and lush ass framed in tight jeans were all the come-hither they needed. Men were drawn too, Hutch knew. Because—

Nice basket, Hutch’s brain provided. His face flamed again.

Starsky glanced at him over his shoulder as he opened the door to leave. “A compliment? You are acting weird.” He grinned.

Hutch marched over to his half-eaten sandwich. “Will you get out of here so I can eat my dinner in peace?” he said gruffly.

“That’s your problem,” Starsky said at the doorway. “Too many sprouts. Go to Huggy’s and get a real steak. You need some iron.” He shut the door behind him with a click.

Hutch attacked his sandwich in large bites, barely chewing it as he listened for the Torino’s distinctive growl as it drove away. As the car’s roar faded in the distance, Hutch finished his beer, put his plate in the sink, and wiped the table.

Enough, he thought, irritated. He just needed to grab that magazine, settle on the couch, and read the stupid article so he could laugh at it and toss it out. Get it out of your system.

“Can you really get Starsky out of your system that easily?” the redhead asked as he reached for the drawer.

“You bet your boo… boots I can,” Hutch told her. He would be damned if he would cower before his own errant thoughts. He faced armed felons every day. Saw every kind of human depravity. His imagination was just something that helped him let off steam. It was harmless. It was creative. Like making music or writing poems. Everyone experienced curiosity about things they weren’t really interested in doing. There was nothing wrong in indulging in a little fantasy.

He grabbed the magazine, shutting the nearly empty drawer. The unused tube of lubricant seemed a sad commentary on his love life. He suddenly wondered why he hadn’t even used it to jerk off. When was the last time he’d masturbated?

He moved a little slower to the couch, but finally sat against the arm and looked at the woman on the Cosmo cover. He was startled to realize he wasn’t the least bit attracted to her. She evoked nothing in him.

She’s more Starsky’s type, he told himself. But then again, what living woman wasn’t Starsky’s type? Was there any man who loved women as much as his partner?

The redhead seemed to be pouting at him. “First, take off his pants,” she said.

“And then what?” he said testily as he turned to the article.

“The Sexy Strokes He Craves…But Won’t Ask For,” the interior subtitle read.

Hutch tried to imagine Starsky craving a hand job from him and laughed out loud. “Yeah. Right.”

“Of all the perks your guy loved back in high school…there’s pretty much nothing he misses more than hand jobs,” the article said.

That gave Hutch pause. Of all the things that defined his and Starsky’s differences, their educational opportunities were probably at the top of the list. Starsky had been drafted into the Army right out of high school, like so many of his peers. Hutch had enjoyed a deferment thanks to his parents’ insistence on a college career. His marriage to Vanessa was another deferment, making it likely that he’d never have to deal with either the military or Vietnam, unless he volunteered.

Starsky accepted their differences at face value, never judging Hutch for not serving. Others on the police force weren’t so magnanimous. He remembered a bitter argument with a patrolman over his being a “draft dodger.” Starsky had quickly intervened, defending Hutch and keeping the situation from escalating, but it had stung nonetheless.

He shook off those thoughts and turned his attention back to the article.

“Treat him to an expert hand job tonight and watch his whole body melt with pleasure.”

That was an image Hutch had no trouble conjuring up. Starsky loved his pleasures! More than anyone he’d ever met, his partner never did anything halfway, especially when it came to enjoying himself. Whether it was a simple baseball game, fudge ripple ice cream with raspberry sauce, or the hottest taco he could get his hands on, Starsky relished life’s pleasures with full abandon.

They’d double dated more than once, so Hutch was well aware of Starsky’s sultry approach to the carnal side of romance. Despite his tough cop persona and often coarse sense of humor, Starsky was a gentleman with women. He never badgered a date for more than she was willing to give, never pushed once confronted with reluctance. Starsky held a special contempt for men who didn’t respect any woman’s boundaries, and it didn’t matter to him if the woman in question was a nun or a working girl.

What would it be like to watch Starsky ‘melt with pleasure’ under my hands?

Without even trying, the image came to his mind’s eye—Starsky sprawled on this very same couch, legs spread, pants—

Hutch shook his head, dispelling the image. Tackling the article like a homework assignment, he went back to the printed page.

“…A hand job’s throwback appeal can be a turn-on for both of you, reminding you of your first sexual encounters and the anticipation you felt back then….”

Hutch wasn’t sure he wanted to be reminded of his first sexual encounter. You mean, disaster, don’t you? As usual, Jack Mitchell had been responsible. A double date, Jack’s convertible, and the Cleary twins who were all too eager to land Mitchell and Hutch as future marriage prospects. Jack had no qualms about taking advantage of that, but Hutch wasn’t comfortable with the whole situation. Jack never took him on a double date again.

Years later, the Cleary girls both married local politicians and helped steer their husbands to higher office. They were redheads. He wondered if that’s why he had a propensity to date blondes now. Or brunettes like Vanessa.

Starsky’s brunet….

Frowning, he focused harder on the printed page. Will you just read the damned article?

“Then there are all the sexy side effects: The rush of not knowing what you’ll do next, the view of his bod, the feel of your palms against his most sensitive skin, the naughty things you’ll say as you work him to a frenzy….”

Hutch couldn’t imagine it. When it came to putting the “moves” on his dates, Hutch could sometimes manage to be smooth and suave and figure out the right things to say. But other times he’d be tongue tied, stammering, clumsy. Starsky never seemed to have that problem. Even in the backseat of the squash on a double date, Starsky’s cool patter would soon have his date giggling and purring and before long eating out of his hand. He tried to imagine himself saying something so sexy, so cool, that Starsky would sprawl helpless before him, melting in his hands. Yeah. Not likely.

He sighed. Turning back to the article, he realized after the introduction, it was taking a systematic approach to this imaginary seduction.

“Step 1: Touch his package. Being stroked through the fabric will arouse him. Gently squeeze him, rub him, grind against him. Get him super hard.”

“Right,” Hutch said out loud. “More like, get him laughing super hard. This is ridiculous.” He tossed the magazine to the side. If he tried to put moves like that on his partner, Starsky would think he was fooling around and start cackling like crazy.

Why was he even entertaining this notion? What put this crazy idea in his head? Starsky loved women. Only women as far as Hutch had ever seen. He’d never shown any interest in men. Well, neither had you until you met this Cosmo redhead! Was that the truth? Was a silly magazine article the catalyst for Hutch facing some uncomfortable truths about himself?

The comfortable truth was Hutch had never had any relationship with anyone like the one he had with Starsky. They practically lived in each other’s pockets, spent all of their work time and most of their free time together. They knew everything about each other, and shared all of their personal secrets. Except for this one. There had never been anyone in his life he’d ever been able to trust the way he could trust Starsky. The one human being he knew without a doubt would take a bullet for him, stand behind him no matter what. As he would for Starsky. It was a level of trust and dependability he might never have again with anyone else, even a wife.

Why would he risk all of that for a moment’s pleasure? Is that all I’m looking for? Or was he longing for something else with the one person who meant more to him than anyone else ever had?

Not wanting to examine that thought too closely, Hutch got up, grabbed the magazine, and dropped it back into his nightstand drawer face down. He was beginning to believe the old saying was true—redheads were trouble. He shut the drawer firmly.

~~~

Starsky was quiet the next day. There’d been another robbery, an old woman. Nearly blind, she’d seen nothing when the assailant came up behind her, almost knocking her unconscious. They continued their fruitless round of interviews in the neighborhood, but his partner was oddly subdued through it. By mid-day, they were sitting in Hutch’s car, writing up notes that could be easily summed up with “nobody knows anything.”

Hutch asked finally, “How did things go last night?”

“Huh?” Starsky said, distracted.

“With your date? Did you use up the whole box of condoms or what?”

Starsky turned to him, obviously confused. “Condoms?” He glanced back at his open notebook, as if something he’d written would give him a clue.

Hutch frowned. “Did you get any sleep last night? You’re on automatic pilot this morning, leaving me to do all the heavy lifting. What’s up?”

Starsky blinked and frowned. “I slept. I’m here. I’m just thinking, that’s all.”

Hutch was about to make his usual sarcastic comment about the dangers of starting new trends but the words died in his throat. Starsky was clearly working something through.

“Problems last night?” he asked softly.

Starsky shrugged and looked out the window. “You could say that. Your box of condoms is still intact. Let’s just say we realized we were incompatible.”

“Oh. Sorry, buddy. I know what that’s like. Better luck next time?”

Starsky huffed a sigh. “Let’s hope so.” He turned to Hutch with a soft smile. “Thanks for asking. How about dinner tonight? Maybe we can spend some time with all these notes that say nothin’ and come up with a new approach.”

Hutch nodded. It would be good to focus on police work with his partner and not…something else. “Sounds like a plan—”

He caught something moving out of the corner of his eye and turned to follow it through the back window. “Starsk… isn’t that Jake Winslow?”

Starsky saw the direction of Hutch’s gaze. “Hell if it ain’t. He’s out? I thought New York had locked him up for at least five more years.”

Hutch looked at his partner. “We were close to pinning that botched bank job on him when he skipped out of Bay City for the East coast. He wasn’t quite as lucky in the Big Apple as he thought he’d be.”

“I remember the report. Got busted robbing a bodega, and nearly killing the counterman… with a pipe.”

“A lot like the M.O. we’ve been dealing with. Jake Winslow… Never known to carry a gun or use one… The very guy nobody ever sees until it’s too late. If we’d had any idea he was in the area, he’d have been a prime suspect. Starsk…do you think—?”

“We should ask him a few questions? Oh, yeah!”

They glanced at each other. “He’s cutting down that alley,” Hutch said, turning the key in the ignition.

“I don’t think he saw us,” Starsky said, easing out of the seat and exiting the car. Starsky took off at a jog after Winslow.

Hutch gunned the car around the block to head off any possible exit from the alley. If Winslow hadn’t seen them in Hutch’s nondescript car, they had a good chance of taking him by surprise. Hutch skidded the car to a halt across the mouth of the alley, blocking off the exit. Hutch could see Starsky rounding the far end of the long alley and picking up his pace.

Winslow looked up, startled, spotting and recognizing Hutch. He turned to run back the way he’d come, only to see Starsky barreling down on him.

“Jake, we just want to ask you a few questions,” Hutch called.

As Hutch climbed out of the car, Winslow reached into his jacket. Hutch frowned, wondering if he was planning to fight his way out of it with a pipe. As Winslow turned in Starsky’s direction, Hutch realized he wasn’t holding a pipe.

“GUN!” Hutch yelled in warning as Winslow fired.

Starsky dived behind a dumpster, or maybe fell from being hit. Hutch had no way of knowing. His adrenaline kicked into high gear as he shouted at Winslow, pulling his own gun, “Police! Halt! Drop it, Jake, now!” and fired a warning shot over Winslow’s head.

Starsky was nowhere to be seen.

Winslow spun in Hutch’s direction, panicky, waving his gun. But Hutch was blocked by the bulk of his car and had taken deadly aim. As if the sight of Hutch’s Python was more than Winslow could face, he dropped his gun with a clatter and raised his arms.

“Okay, okay!” he yelled, clearly terrified that Hutch would shoot.

“On the ground, now! Face down.” Hutch came around the car cautiously in case Winslow was hiding another surprise weapon. He had to fight the urge to run to his partner. “Starsky!” he yelled. “Starsky!” As he approached the now supine suspect, he kicked Winslow’s gun away, then quickly cuffed the man who was now suddenly sobbing incoherently.

“Didn’t mean it. Didn’t mean it. He scared me. Didn’t mean to shoot him,” Winslow babbled as Hutch tightened the last cuff.

Running over to the dumpster, his heart racing, Hutch found Starsky sitting on the ground, patting himself and rubbing the knee of his now torn jeans. “Are you okay?”

Starsky looked up at him. “I’m not sure. I thought he got me. But I can’t find anything.”

Hutch could see tiny flecks of blood on Starsky’s cheek and forehead, and started searching his friend’s body. “What do you mean, you’re not sure?”

“I saw him shoot, and felt something hit me as I jumped for cover. It stung—”

Hutch thumbed away a spot of blood on Starsky’s face and started to relax. “I think his shot must’ve struck the bricks. You probably got hit with a spray of shrapnel from the building.”

“These were my best pants,” Starsky complained bitterly.

Hutch didn’t know if he wanted to hug his partner, kiss him, or shake him till his teeth rattled. “You could’ve been killed. Who cares about your damned pants? I’ll buy you a new pair.”

“It takes forever to break ’em in!” Starsky said, still focused on the minor problem as Hutch helped him to his feet.

“At least we’ve got something to hold him on now,” Hutch said. “I wonder where he got the gun. If he’s responsible for these robberies, we might be able to put this case behind us. Is your knee okay? Can you walk?”

Starsky stood a little shakily and flexed his leg. “Yeah, yeah. I’m good.” He hesitated as Hutch held his elbow for support if he needed it. “I’m thinking we won’t need to spend the evening going over our notes on this case.” He sounded disappointed.

“Who knows? We could question this idiot and decide he isn’t responsible and be right back where we started. But if he is good for it, I’ll buy you the biggest pizza you ever saw with everything on it you could ask for.”

“Everything?” Starsky said as they approached the blubbering suspect. “You’re still acting weird.”

“At least I’m consistent,” Hutch said.

~~~

They were due a little luck, Hutch thought, and they got it. Winslow had gotten out of prison in New York on a clerical error and left the area before anyone could realize the mistake. He financed his trip with robberies, which made him wanted in at least three other states. He’d grabbed the gun on impulse during his last convenience store holdup in Bay City, but the store owner hadn’t reported it since it wasn’t licensed and he didn’t want to get into trouble.

Winslow’s robberies were funding his increasing drug habit. The blind woman he’d robbed identified him by voice since he yelled at her when she struggled to keep her purse. One of the convenience store clerks was also able to identify his voice. And since he’d shot at Starsky, they had no trouble holding him.

It was late by the time they processed Winslow and completed the necessary paperwork. Dobey couldn’t be more pleased.

Hutch lived up to his promise, and on the way to Starsky’s they hit their favorite all-night pizzeria for a large pie with the works. They were both so hungry that the aroma in the car was nearly overwhelming. No discussion was needed as they entered the apartment, dropped the pizza on Starsky’s kitchen table, and attacked it without even removing their holsters.

“How long has it been since our last meal?” Starsky asked around a mouthful.

Hutch shrugged. “Too long. I nearly burned my mouth.”

Starsky nodded, Then, indicating the pizza, he said, “Thanks for indulging me. I know the meat lover’s special is not your favorite.”

“It is right now!” They both grinned as they chewed. “Besides, you told me I need more red meat.” Having demolished almost half the pizza himself, Hutch finally stood and removed his jacket and holster. “I’m gonna go wash up. Better late than never.”

Starsky, still working on his last piece, only nodded.

Taking the holster off at the end of the day was always a relief, its weight a constant reminder of the heavy responsibility they carried. That made Hutch think of Starsky’s close call and what might have happened. He washed his hands and face, not wanting to dwell on it, focusing only on what was. Starsky was safe with only a few minor scrapes to show for it.

When he pulled the towel away from his face, he spotted the magazine. He stared, uncomprehending.

It was lying open on the hamper, on top of the Playboy Hutch had given him. The front and back covers were spread like wings, as if it might take off, flapping like a bird. The redhead looked even saucier, if that were possible. Her presence in Starsky’s bathroom was so unexpected it gave Hutch a jolt. Was she still following him?

He shook his head. That was ridiculous. It was just a magazine. Paper and ink. And there was only one way it could have gotten in this bathroom.

He picked it up thinking Starsky probably wanted to see pictures of the redhead, hoping she’d been given a Playboy-like spread. But when he turned the magazine over to see what Starsky had been reading, he found the same article that had grabbed Hutch’s attention. Even more incriminating, the article was dog-eared for emphasis.

“And you call yourself a detective,” the redhead seemed to say.

I am a detective! Hutch insisted, But this makes no sense. Maybe he got it to give his last date a hint?

The redhead sneered. “And left it on top of a Playboy to inspire her? Yeah, I’m sure that would work to sexually arouse any woman. Get real.”

She was right. But Hutch couldn’t come up with any other reason why Starsky would have bought this magazine and focused on that article.

So why don’t you just ask him?

He was no longer sure if the suggestion came from his own mind or the imaginary redhead. But he couldn’t stay in here forever. And he suspected ignoring the situation was just as impossible.

He read through the article quickly. He had a feeling it wouldn’t be a good idea to face Starsky with less information than his partner had.

Wondering if he were stepping into a minefield, Hutch took a deep breath and, carrying the magazine, left the bathroom.

Starsky was sprawled on the couch, but he wasn’t asleep. He’d discarded his own jacket, holster, and shoes. He’d unbuttoned his shirt to the waist. Propped up on pillows against the arm of the couch, with one arm behind his head, and his knee poking through the new hole in his jeans, he seemed both strangely vulnerable and dangerously seductive at the same time.

Hutch had only one thought as words died in his throat. Nice basket… He was rooted to the spot, as if doing or saying anything might cause disaster. He hadn’t felt this much anxiety when facing Winslow.

“I thought you never read anything in the bathroom,” Starsky said. His eyes were lidded as he stared at Hutch with a small smile.

He’s toying with me, Hutch realized. “Well, I never did get around to reading that article—”

“Liar,” Starsky said, smirking. “What, you realized it wasn’t illustrated like an owner’s manual and gave up?”

“I’m serious. I didn’t finish it because I lost interest.”

A nearly imperceptible change came over Starsky’s face, but Hutch, who knew his every expression, had no trouble interpreting it. Disappointment. And a touch of chagrin.

Now who’s being played? Hutch moved closer to the couch. “But you clearly didn’t lose interest. I’m surprised the print isn’t smeared from being handled so much. Or were you just searching for pictures of the pretty redhead on the cover?”

Starsky shook his head, his expression wary, apprehensive. “What redhead? I like blonds… Blondie.”

Hutch recognized how dangerous that last crack was. Starsky wasn’t just making himself look vulnerable, he was letting Hutch know he was willing to be vulnerable. Hutch melted. Their years together made them both so transparent to each other he couldn’t deny the route this confrontation was taking. Was he brave enough to take the final steps to carry their intense partnership into such risky waters?

He looked at the article, as if scanning it for the first time. “Truth is… I lost interest, because it was clearly written for a woman. For someone who hadn’t had a lot of practice with a man’s…equipment. If it had been written for a man, it would’ve focused more on the finer points.”

Starsky visibly swallowed. “Such as?” he said softly. The bulge in his pants grew more prominent under Hutch’s gaze.

“Well,” Hutch continued browsing the article, “since we’ve grown up with this equipment, we don’t have to be told how best to handle it, or that our perineum—there’s a two-dollar word for you—is hypersensitive.” He approached the couch, tossing the magazine carelessly onto the coffee table. “I think we all know what a turn on it is to have someone we care about… someone we trust… handle us through our pants.”

Hutch’s own reaction was clearly obvious to Starsky as his gaze traveled from Hutch’s face to where his erection strained under his zipper.

“But my main problem with the article,” Hutch continued as he sat on the couch at Starsky’s feet, “was what it didn’t say.”

Starsky shifted to give Hutch room, moving the foot resting on the edge of the couch to the floor so Hutch could settle between Starsky’s legs. They’d sat like this a million times on this couch, but never with this sense of anticipation. Hutch felt like they were hovering on the edge of a cliff. One wrong move and they’d fall without a parachute. He had to be careful.

“The article never addressed what could happen afterwards….”

Starsky looked confused. “After—?”

“…In the relationship,” Hutch explained. “It didn’t talk about the relationship at all. Since the whole article is geared to a casual event, that’s understandable. But what happens in a long-standing relationship—a relationship that’s critical to each partner’s safety and well-being—?”

“A relationship that’s stood the test of time in every other way?” Starsky said. “I’m not really worried about that. Seems to me… it’s just the next obvious step. That’s what I was thinking when I saw the article. Was I wrong?”

It wasn’t just Hutch’s erection that was swelling. Starsky’s words made his heart expand, dazzling him with its courage and honesty. Just like Starsky to face this kind of change without fear. How did Hutch get this lucky?

“No,” Hutch said softly. “No, partner, you’re not wrong.” Hutch leaned forward, cupping his hand over the increasing mound in Starsky’s pants.

Starsky lurched up into Hutch’s palm, his mouth dropping open.

“Nice basket,” Hutch said, applying more pressure.

Starsky’s eyes closed and he moaned softly.

Hutch took his time, rubbing and stroking the cloth over Starsky’s hardening erection. It continued to grow until it felt as though he were massaging a steel rod. Slowly using both fingertips and palm to elicit the best response, he waited until Starsky was humping gently against his hand and gripping the couch as if he needed to hold on for dear life.

First, take off his pants, he remembered. But he wanted to savor every moment. This was their first time. It would be nothing like the disaster in Jack’s car. This would be memorable in all the right ways. He’d make sure of it.

He stroked Starsky’s groin, then slowly rubbed his thighs down to his knees then back up again. He ended by rubbing his knuckles gently where the base of Starsky’s zipper hovered near his perineum.

Starsky moaned again, saying, “C’mon, Hutch, you’re killin’ me here.”

He chuckled, feeling more confident. “Slow down, buddy. It’s not a race. We’re taking the scenic route.”

“Oh, jeez!”

Reaching for Starsky’s zipper, Hutch realized they were about to take a step that would change everything. He realized, too, he was ready. He was unafraid. Because he trusted Starsky. He trusted their relationship that “had stood the test of time.” It was the next step. He wondered why he’d been so resistant to the idea.

He eased Starsky’s zipper down with all the care he would his own. As he expected, Starsky wore no underwear. “Hedonist,” he admonished. “Have you no shame?”

“None at all,” Starsky said, grinning.

“Good thing,” Hutch agreed. He reached for the waistband of Starsky’s jeans and debated the most efficient method of peeling Bay City’s tightest jeans off his partner. As if reading Hutch as easily here as he did on the street, Starsky lifted his ass to facilitate the effort. Hutch grinned and cautiously towed the blue jeans over his ass and down his thighs, making sure he didn’t snag an inflamed dark cock on the way.

Discarding the pants over the end of the couch and pulling off Starsky’s socks as well, Hutch’s confidence wavered as he was confronted with the reality of Starsky’s aroused state. His own erection suddenly flagged as his internal hall monitor questioned what the hell he thought he was doing.

As if coming to his rescue before his second thoughts could derail everything, Starsky said, “Don’t tell me you need a refresher course from the redhead.” He glanced at the discarded magazine lying haphazardly where Hutch had dropped it.

Hutch laughed. “Not only do I not need any instructions from her,” he said as he stood, “but she’d benefit from some editorial changes from me.” He noted Starsky’s look of surprise as he stood and walked the short distance to his partner’s bathroom.

Rummaging through Starsky’s medicine cabinet, he thought, His lube is probably in his nightstand like mine is— then spied a pristine tube on an upper shelf, tucked behind two medicinal ointments and an ace bandage. Probably his spare. Good. Hutch wasn’t in the mood to see the squashed and battered condition of whatever tube might be in Starsky’s bedroom. Who knows where that one had been?

“Feeling a little weird hanging out here,” Starsky called.

Hutch held the blue and white tube behind his back as he came back to the couch. “Are you?”

“Well, I mean, I’m lying here with nothing but my shirt to keep me company while you disappeared.” He blatantly eyed Hutch up and down before asking, “What kind of editorial changes did you have in mind, Prof? Not enough two-dollar words? Too few commas?”

“How about—” he glanced at the magazine cover to recall the subtitle, “when giving him ‘the Sexy Strokes He Craves…But Won’t Ask For…’ don’t forget the lube!” He showed Starsky what he’d brought from the bathroom.

Like a trained seal, Starsky’s cock bobbed at the sight, making both of them laugh.

Hutch eased himself back onto the couch as he uncapped the tube. Starsky was smiling again, folding his arms behind his head as if open for anything Hutch had in mind. The moment had been a perfect ice-breaker, easing some of Hutch’s nerves and taking the focus away from this “first time experience” and back where it belonged: on taking the next step in this, the most important and successful long-term relationship he’d ever had.

He squeezed a healthy dollop of the clear gel in his palm and made a show of warming it. As he tucked the re-capped tube under his thigh, where the whole thing would absorb his body heat, he was aware of Starsky watching him intently while trying to appear nonchalant. But Hutch could read through that the way he always had.

Without thinking, Hutch said softly, “I’m a little nervous, too.”

Starsky exhaled in a rush as if Hutch had touched a nerve, and no doubt, he had.

Then Hutch touched more than just one nerve. Wrapping his hand around Starsky’s extended length, Hutch used the lube to ease his grip as he slid his palm around his partner’s substantial circumference.

Even though he’d been watching Hutch’s every move, Starsky gasped in surprise, his whole body tensing under Hutch’s touch.

Tightening his grip to what he instinctively knew would feel best, Hutch murmured, “I’ve got you, partner. I’ve got you….”

Starsky’s eyes closed as he thrust up into that grip as if savoring the sensations.

Hutch felt his own heartrate pick up as he focused on the unique feel of a man’s—this man’s—very masculine cock slipping and sliding against his palm as he stroked up slowly then down again. It felt so different than stroking himself. Starsky’s shape, his length, his girth, even his heat was new, unique… Hutch never noticed the heat when he touched himself. But Starsky’s cock felt like it was on fire.

For me, Hutch thought, realizing Starsky’s erection, his sounds, his responses, were all due to Hutch. He swelled so hard in his own pants he thought he’d strangle. He relished that feeling, too, as part of this experience, this moment of togetherness. He wasn’t in this alone.

Make it last, he thought. Make him harder. Was that possible? Starsky already felt as if he were made of steel. Dimly, he remembered the article’s advice, “Switch your rhythm…keep him guessing…watch his whole body melt with pleasure.”

He didn’t have to think about it. The rhythm of his hand moved and changed, first slow, then faster, then tighter, then easing. He switched to his fingertips for a few strokes then gripped him tighter again with his whole hand. Under his grip, Starsky writhed, gasping, panting. Hutch realized Starsky was clutching the pillow under his head as if it were a lifeline anchoring him to the couch.

Hutch smiled. He’s hard… for me. Writhing for me. For my touch. How different must it feel for Starsky who was so used to a woman’s smaller hand to be held by Hutch’s big palm and strong grip? Did his callouses from handling a gun and playing the guitar add to these sensations or detract? Was his skin too rough—?

Starsky moaned throatily, muttering, “Damn…Hutch! So good—”

Hutch stopped worrying about his callouses. He watched Starsky, marveling at his uninhibited responses. That he was willing to lie here nearly nude in front of another man, even Hutch, demonstrated a level of trust that Hutch hadn’t allowed himself to imagine. This was Starsky, a cop who had seen too much, a man ever skeptical of others’ intentions, always aware of the potential for duplicity. This was Starsky, openly yielding to Hutch’s touch, inviting Hutch to do whatever he wanted, however he wanted. Giving himself. Hutch felt his eyes start to water and had to blink back his emotions.

To get a grip on his feelings, he pulled out the tube from under his thigh and filled his palm again with the lube.

Starsky muttered, “Tryin’ to kill me?”

“Only with pleasure, partner,” he said without thinking, taking hold of Starsky’s cock again.

“Partner!” Starsky gasped, arching up. “Partner…?” he said again, as if latching onto that word and what it meant to have Hutch use it in this situation.

Hutch wanted him to have no doubt. “That’s right. Partner. My partner. In this as in everything. Partners. Together. Never doubt it. You trust me?”

Starsky lurched as if the word “trust” hit him like an electric prod. “With my life!” he choked out.

“Then trust me with this, too.” Hutch switched hands so he could stroke smoothly with his left while his slick right hand cupped Starsky’s tight balls.

Starsky shouted incoherently but amazingly did not come, making Hutch grin. “Good boy,” he whispered as he rolled the delicate organs in his hand. He could imagine what it felt like. He stroked them gently, then rolled them again, then stroked.

Starsky was incoherent, his body rigid and thrashing. Wanting to see how far he could take it, Hutch slid two fingers down Starsky’s perineum and pressed. Starsky’s reaction was intensely satisfying, even more so because he still did not come.

Hutch had heard stories about Starsky’s sexual stamina and always wondered how much was legend and how much was real. Watching Starsky dance under his touch as he prolonged the teasing with both hands gave him new respect for his partner’s ability to hold out so they could both enjoy this new experience.

And Hutch was enjoying it. His heart was racing, his erection strangling in his pants, his breath coming in shallow gasps. As they worked together on the couch, Starsky suddenly seemed more aware of Hutch’s response. He shifted slightly, and brought his bare foot up, cautiously pressing it against Hutch’s groin.

That simple action rocked Hutch, making him pause and shudder all over.

Starsky grinned. “Don’t stop now, partner! We’re in this together, aren’t we?’

Hutch couldn’t help himself and rubbed against Starsky’s foot, nearly losing his composure. His reaction had less to do with the pressure Starsky used than it did the realization that Starsky wanted to touch him. Starsky wanted to excite him just as much as Hutch wanted to please Starsky. He tried not to think about Starsky gripping him with his hand, about Starsky stroking him, but the mental image came too easily to mind. He fought it, needing to concentrate on the delicate task under his palms. There’d be time for that later. He rubbed against the sole of Starsky’s foot, accepting that simple gift, and focused more intently on Starsky and how far they were from their goal.

It was the hardest thing he’d ever done. Starsky’s cock was swelling under his hand, his balls tightening even more. Starsky was humping rhythmically, the muscles in his ass and thighs tightening over and over. He started muttering Hutch’s name like a prayer, asking for something he couldn’t name and trusting Hutch to know exactly what he meant.

Hutch did. He stared at Starsky, gripping his cock now with both hands, getting serious with his stroke. Starsky was so beautiful under him that Hutch suddenly wanted more from his partner’s body. He stared at his cock dark with blood and felt his mouth water, knowing at that moment he could easily do something he’d never imagined before—take Starsky into his mouth, into his throat, suck him to completion, hear him cry out when he came. Hutch knew he could do it, and right then he knew he would, someday soon, but not now. Starsky was too close and Hutch too inexperienced to rush that.

Gripping Starsky’s shaft with his left hand, Hutch rubbed the head of Starsky’s cock with his right, playing him as deftly as he did his guitar to pull out the most keening sound he’d ever heard his partner make. The sound went right to his own cock as Starsky pushed against Hutch’s groin, lost in his passion. Hutch groaned, watching Starsky climb even higher.

His voice rough, Hutch coaxed him. “Come on, Starsk. It’s okay. Give it to me.”

Starsky nearly lifted off the couch, humping into Hutch’s hands. He was gripping the back and sides of the cushions as if an earthquake were tossing him around.

“I want it, partner,” Hutch said. “I want it. You know I do. Come for me—”

Starsky shouted and obeyed. His sudden response took Hutch by surprise even though he’d been expecting it.

The warm flood pulsing against his palm triggered a sympathetic response in Hutch’s own body, and as Starsky ejaculated, his foot curled hard against Hutch’s aching crotch. Hutch jerked against it and came himself. Bowing over Starsky’s leg, he groaned, the sound both pain and pleasure, the feeling unique in all his experience.

Starsky came in his hands. Starsky made him come in response. Our first time…together…just like we work on the street…

As Starsky’s reaction slowed, he gripped Hutch’s wrist, as if asking him to ease off what now had to be a hypersensitive organ. As he reluctantly released his partner and sat back to catch his breath, Starsky pulled his foot away. Both of them were breathing too hard to say anything. They looked at each other and smiled.

Hutch’s eyes started to close as he leaned back against his end of the couch, but Starsky kicked his knee gently. “Don’t even think about going to sleep,” he warned.

“Hmmm?” Hutch asked, a little dazed.

“Can you get a towel?” Starsky indicated the mess covering his groin and belly. “Gettin’ chilly.”

Hutch laughed lightly, then looked down at his own crotch and the spreading stain there. It was already growing colder. “Please tell me I left a pair of jeans here.”

Starsky grinned. “Lucky you. No underwear though.”

Hutch sighed. That meant either a pair of Starsky’s uncomfortably tiny bikini pants or nothing at all. Neither appealed, but he’d manage.

He stepped into the bathroom and grabbed a towel, then reconsidered and ran warm water over a washcloth as well. “Don’t expect me to always do all the work around here,” he called from the bathroom.

Glancing at himself in Starsky’s bathroom mirror, he was surprised to see he barely had a hair out of place. He looked no different from when he’d gotten up this morning at Venice Place. How was that possible when the whole world had tilted on its axis?

On his way to the couch, he stopped in his tracks, looking at Starsky’s elegant sprawl. He could take a picture of his partner right now—nude but for a denim shirt draping his shoulder and highlighting the rich tone of his olive skin, eyelids with drooping lashes any woman would kill for, a lush mouth partly open that begged for kissing—and frame it to define the expression, sexual afterglow.

I did that, Hutch thought proudly.

“Don’t look so smug,” Starsky said, his voice rough. “And don’t worry. I’m not about to let you do all the work around here. That would be letting you have all the fun. Partners share the work. You know that.”

Hutch sat on the edge of the couch and Starsky shifted to make room for him. Gently, he covered Starsky’s cock with the washcloth, eliciting a gasp of surprise. Cleaning Starsky carefully, he said, “Sounds fair.” Then drying all the wet places he’d cleaned, he asked seriously. “You okay?”

“Give me ten minutes and I’ll show you okay,” Starsky promised even as he shuddered under Hutch’s attention. His cock was still semi-rigid.

“Stop bragging,” Hutch told him. “I’m serious. How’re you feeling?”

Starsky sat up and swung his legs over so he and Hutch could sit side by side. For a moment, he looked like he’d make a joke, but then must’ve realized Hutch needed his honest answer. He turned to Hutch, meeting his gaze. “I feel… happy. Lucky. I feel… loved.” Then he surprised Hutch by leaning forward and kissing him on the mouth.

Hutch met his kiss with the barest hesitation, feeling Starsky’s arms steal around him, pulling him close, his mouth more insistent, Starsky’s tongue touching Hutch’s lower lip.

Hutch yielded, opening his mouth, accepting the trusting, loving gesture Starsky offered. As they embraced, the kiss deepened, a mutual giving and receiving—a promise.

They separated and as they did, they touched foreheads in one of their oldest gestures, a moment of intimacy they’d always shared. They had always used it to say so much without words over the years: “I’m here, partner.” “I’ve got your back.” “Trust me.” And so much more.

“C’mon,” Starsky said, grabbing up the lubricant from where it lay on the couch. Standing, he took Hutch’s hand and headed for his bedroom. “I know where your spare jeans are.”

“Yeah,” Hutch agreed. “I really need to get out of these.”

“Funny. Getting you out of your pants is at the top of my agenda for the day.”

“It is?” Hutch was startled when Starsky’s teasing words made his cock twitch in response.

“Definitely. First things first. I mean, isn’t that what the lady said? ‘First, take off his pants….’“