Garden Boys

This past week, every spare moment I could find was spent in my garden. There, among my newly awakened plants, my thoughts invariably to turned to plant-loving Hutch, then to Starsky, ending with the boys together. This little story is the result.

Hutch’s Venice Place garden was dressed for high summer, with plants crowding the windowsills from corner to sunny corner. Vines dangled above in hanging pots – their tendrils curling around rainbow bright blossoms.

Hutch tucked a baby lemon tree into its new pot, mounding the soil. His motions were delicate, precise as a surgeon’s. Finally satisfied, he leaned down, brushing his nose to the fragrant blooms and fanning the tender new leaves with his fingers.

From three feet away, Starsky observed him, silent as a birdwatcher in the field.

I love how Hutch and his plants thrive under warm winds and blue skies.

I love how sunlight causes partners and plants to tilt their faces skyward.

Hutch rubbed his fingertips across his t-shirt, over a stain of potting soil already smeared there. The brown smudge on dark green cloth was woodsy and damp.

Starsky winked.

Hutch looked up, losing his clumsy grip on the watering can. Water sloshed, spilling down the side of the potting table.

Starsky laughed.

Hutch scrunched his eyebrows and watched the wet flowing evidence of gravity at work.

Starsky admired his partner’s predictable blush.

Hutch the klutz.

Hutch slunk close, snared Starsky’s waist. “You think it’s funny when I trip over myself, Starsk?” he asked.

“You know I do.” Starsky grappled at Hutch’s waistband and groped for flesh, seeking and hitting pay dirt several inches below Hutch’s navel.

Hutch gave as good as he got, exploring Starsky’s groin and tweaking hard. His fingers found their mark and scored a solid hit in Starsky’s southern hemisphere.

Starsky yelped. He shoved Hutch against the plant-cluttered work table. A press of his palm to Hutch’s crotch signaled a crop ripe for picking.

Hutch poked his tongue between the buttons on Starsky’s shirt. “Looks like I could do some watering and weeding in here,” he whispered. He undid Starsky’s jeans button and zipper and continued a clever fingers-to-cock dance.

Lightning arced from Starsky’s cock, straight to his brain. “That so?” he asked.

It was a feeble retort, but under Hutch’s assault, he was running out of words, stamina, and bravado. He felt a puff of Hutch’s heated breath against his right nipple, followed by the sting of teeth plucking a chest hair.

With a groan, he grabbed Hutch and swung him around.

The worn fabric of Hutch’s t-shirt ripped, exposing one shoulder.

Plants swayed in the summertime breeze as Hutch went down, taking Starsky with him.

They tumbled onto the floor like wolf pups, pummeling one another – stripping, rolling, tasting, offering and accepting. Their jousts were passion-rough, flowing in a familiar sequence – foreplay to climax to meltdown.

In the aftermath, as Starsky sprawled and panted with one cheek against Hutch’s chest, he remembered the cooling scents of mint and lavender, simultaneous with the searing heat of Hutch’s body.

Hutch moaned.

Starsky raised his head, chuckling at the sight of his partner.

Hutch resembled nothing so much as a nearsighted guppy – eyes unfocused, mouth puffing air. He scowled at the sound of Starsky’s laughter and reached his hand up to the plants on the window ledge.

The flick of Hutch’s wrist was a blur.

A just picked cherry tomato landed in Starsky’s open mouth.

Starsky bit down. The taste of summer freshness exploded across his tongue, joining the lingering flavor of kisses. With one final swallow, he slid back down to rest atop of Hutch, relishing the sweet harvest gifts from his August-born lover.

~finis~