Hutch Fever

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Starsky is unsettled when his feelings for his partner suddenly become X-rated–but Hutch, currently involved with a fetching blonde, remains oblivious.

 

This story was published in “The Fix 10” in 1991, and later that year won the Huggy for S&H’s best humorous story of the year.

Before submitting this story I cut out two scenes because I thought it made the story too long for “The Fix”, which usually ran less than 100 pages. (For those who are curious, it’s the scenes that take place on Friday afternoon and Friday evening.) In 1993 the extracted part was printed in the S&H letterzine “Frienz”, titled “Missing Scene from ‘Hutch Fever.'” I have reinstated the extracted scenes in this version, so on this archive, for the first time, is the story as it was originally written.

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It all started when a lady said no.

I’ll withhold her name out of gallantry, but she was a dishy redhead in Juvi that I’d been trying to con into going out with me for about a hundred years. By this particular day, I was so desperate I got my partner to wait in the car. I’m not saying no woman would look at me with Hutch in the room, but why take chances?

We were alone in the office, she was putting files away, and I was giving her what I call the Starsky charm and what Hutch calls a load of bullshit when she finally snapped at me, “How many times do I have to tell you? I’m not interested.”

“C’mon, it’s just bowling and pizza,” I wheedled. “I mean, I’m not askin’ you to come with me to the casbah or anythin’.”

“I’m still not interested.”

“Why not?” I persisted.

“Because.”

“Because why?”

“Because I don’t do the type of scenes you have in mind.”

I swear to God I didn’t know what she was talking about. “Huh? What?” I said brilliantly.

She turned to me, looking exasperated. “The three-way, all right? Look, I didn’t want to say it, but you forced it out of me. I’m definitely not into sharing a man, any man, with another man.”

I still didn’t get it.

“Come on, Sergeant. Don’t look so innocent. Everyone knows you and Hutchinson get it on.”

Hutch and I were queer for each other? Was that what she was saying? That was so stupid I almost laughed. Then I started to get mad that somebody would think that about my partner. “Hey, wait a second–”

“I’m not saying it’s wrong,” she said quickly. Ms. Liberal. “But don’t expect me to share you with a man, okay? I like my men one at a time–I’m kinky that way.”

I moved to the door. All of a sudden I couldn’t stand the sight of her. “Fine,” I said coldly. “Hutch is probably a better kisser than you anyway.”

As I walked out to my custom-painted, candy-apple-red Torino, I was getting madder by the minute. But I wasn’t quite sure why.

I didn’t mind that she’d turned me down. Who needed her? And I didn’t mind being called queer. Well, not a lot, anyway. And even hearing Hutch being called queer–anyone who knew him would know that was bullshit. What I guessed bugged me was somebody lowering Hutch’s and my relationship to that level. My friendship with Hutch was probably the best thing in my life–hell, it was the best. For someone to try and turn it into something perverted pissed me off.

I was not in any better humor as I got in my car and found Hutch slouched with his feet up on the dash, doing the crossword puzzle in the L.A. Times in ink–he does that, crosswords in ink, just because he knows it annoys me.

“You mind gettin’ your big feet off my car?” I asked in a polite snarl.

He gave me a grin and moved his feet off the dash, not in a hurry. “She turned you down again, huh?” he observed, throwing the L.A. Times in the back seat. “Maybe you should come along with me when I go out with Dorey tonight, I’ll show you some winning techniques.”

“Fuck off.”

“Ah, c’mon, Starsky. Who cares? If she doesn’t have the brains to appreciate your charm and sophistication, she’s obviously not worth bothering about.”

I looked at him.

Honest, intelligent blue eyes smiled back at me.

I felt a kind of chill run down my spine. A warm chill. I know that doesn’t make any sense, but that’s what it felt like.

“Right,” I muttered, and put the pedal to the metal and took off, burning rubber, and got Hutch to clutch the seat and start bitching about my driving within less than ten seconds–a record.

***

I was lying on a beach somewhere. Sun pouring down. Seagulls cawing. And Hutch was lying next to me. We were both completely naked, lying on a beach in the middle of the day with a bunch of people around, including some kids playing frisbee, and nobody looked at us twice. And I realized I must be dreaming.

He reached for me. Nuzzled my face. Fondled my curls. His smooth, hard-muscled bare chest pressed against mine.

I moved my hand down his body. Teased a ring of fair hair around a nipple and then spread my fingers across the plane of belly. All the while watching his face. His eyes were looking up at me, hot with desire. Need.

My hand moved down farther. Ran a finger through gold silk. Took his cock in my hand. It swelled up against my palm. I swear I could feel the blood pulsing through it as I held it, stroked the vein.

Hutch was smiling at me, one of his slow sensual smiles. He leaned forward, kissed me. His breath was as sweet as strawberries. Long, slender hands cupped my ass, tickling the hairs between the cheeks, as he kissed me.

I moaned his name into his mouth, thrusting a hard cock against his flat belly.

Then Hutch pushed me off him, climbed on top of me. And his eyes holding mine like a vise, he rammed his cock up my ass.

I came all over the place.

And woke up, of course. Lying–alone–in my waterbed, panting like crazy. Morning light was filtering in. Sticky threads of come were all over my belly and all over my blue satin sheets. I felt like I’d been hit with a Mack truck.

And then, as my heart rate returned to normal and I could think whole thoughts again, the guilts started.

God–what kind of pervert was I?

Hutch was my partner!

***

At first I thought the wet dream was just from the power of suggestion. It’d been on my mind all day, after that snotty redhead had told me she didn’t want to share me with Hutch. My dreams have always been a little on the crazy side. I once dreamed I was being eaten by a giant taco. Another time I could swear I dreamed I was Godzilla in 3D, although Hutch keeps insisting it’s impossible to dream in 3D. Well, you get the idea. I was used to nutty dreams.

But most dreams you forget in a few hours. This dream I kept remembering.

And each time I remembered my dream, I came all over the place. With a little help from my hand, of course. Not just once or twice, either. Every single night–and every morning unless I was running late for work.

Weird, huh? It gets weirder.

I started Hutch-watching.

Just watching him drink from a bottle of apple juice turned me on. Watching the long throat move, tracing with my eyes the clean line of his jaw, the strength of his hands…

And he has the most beautiful ass. Some women have told me they like mine better, but Hutch’s is definitely superior. Hard, firm, with a round, masculine curve. And the way he walks…for someone who can’t dance worth shit, Hutch has a beautiful walk. Smooth and graceful. Every time I saw Hutch walking away, I thought I was going to croak.

And when he touched me! God! I felt like the Fourth of July was going on in my belly. And I’m talking about a touch on the arm or shoulder, for God’s sake.

A week went by and I was still Hutch-watching. And still playing with myself every night, thinking about my dream–or variations. Hutch–my pristine, my beautiful, my devotedly heterosexual partner–was giving me some of the best orgasms I’d ever had–or at least the best I’d had in years.

And I began to wonder if I was losing my mind.

***

Are you wondering why I didn’t talk to Hutch about this? That is, after a week or so went by and I realized this whatever-it-was, fixation, obsession, insanity, whatever, was not wearing off.

Yeah, why not? I mean, he’s my friend, right? And pretty liberal. John Blaine’s secret life hadn’t upset him at all–I’d been the one in shock when we’d found out John was gay. So why didn’t I wait till we were alone some night, share a beer or two with him, and then say off-handedly, “Hey, Hutch, you wouldn’t believe the weird dream I had the other night…”

Let me see if I can explain why I didn’t. Talk to him, I mean.

Maybe you saw a guy on the news a couple of years ago, a psycho named George Prudholm. A cop-killer. Before he was caught, the bastard jeered at me on the phone that he was going to start killing the kids of cops next. Now, maybe there’s some justification for killing some grownups. I’m not saying there is, but just say for the sake of argument there might be. But not kids. Never.

Anyway, after Hutch and I nabbed him I looked into Prudholm’s hate-filled eyes, dark as hell, and I knew what was going to happen. Even if a jury convicted him of his murders he’d never get the pill dropped on him; nobody in California went to the gas chamber anymore, they died of natural causes while the long, long appeals process dragged on. He’d be sent to Q, or maybe some fruit farm if he had a slick lawyer who could sell the insanity defense, and he’d eat and sleep and watch TV and have a normal lifespan just as if he were a real human being instead of garbage. Maybe he’d even make a bundle writing his memoirs, like Nathan Leopold and that bitch Susan Atkins–one of Charles Manson’s killer family–had. Some punishment for what he’d done–and what he’d planned on doing, if we hadn’t caught him first.

Looking right back at me, he knew what I was thinking. And he jeered at me to kill him.

And I raised my gun to blow him away.

You know what stopped me? Not the fact that I might not get away with it, even though the three of us were alone. I wasn’t thinking that clearly at that point. Not even the fact that it would be murder, since Prudholm was wounded and helpless.

What stopped me was the fact that Hutch was there. And even though I knew Hutch would cover for me, lie for me, say Prudholm had been still armed when I’d shot him–I knew that without even looking at him–my partner would still know the truth. That I’d shot a guy who couldn’t defend himself. For the rest of both our lives, Hutch would know I was a killer. And I knew I couldn’t live with that.

And that’s what was stopping me now. As I think I said before, my friendship with Hutch was the best part of my life. And if I told Hutch his nice Jewish-boy partner had a secret letch for his ass, something in our friendship–trust, respect–would be gone.

And I knew I couldn’t live with that either.

So there was nothing to do but keep my mouth shut and tough it out. What the hell, in fifty, sixty years tops, Hutch’s hair would all fall out and he’d shrink up and lose his sexy ass, and then maybe I could stop watching him and dreaming about him. And wanting him.

But then again, maybe not.

***

Another week went by, and guess what? Things were worse than ever.

My fantasies were getting crazier. Bizarre even. Fantasies like I found out I had only six months to live and Hutch couldn’t refuse my dying request. Fantasies like I was a Vulcan and went into pon farr–all the women in the world had conveniently dropped dead and I knew Hutch wouldn’t let me die. Stuff like that.

Just being with Hutch was sheer torture. I swear I could taste the clean maleness of his skin, feel his hair threading through my fingers, from just looking at him. I know that doesn’t make any sense, but you don’t expect a crazy man to make sense, do you?

Then, about two weeks after my turndown from the redhead in Juvi, my partner the master detective turned to me and said, “Starsky, is something wrong?”

We were playing Monopoly at my place, and I’d been counting my stash, which was pretty pathetic. At Hutch’s question, I looked up.

“What?” I said.

“‘What?'” Hutch mimicked, making an exaggeratedly stupid expression. “You, that’s what. For at least a week now you’ve been walking into doors, bumping into things, not hearing things I say to you, staring at me as if I were a stranger or something, and acting even weirder than usual–if that’s possible. Yesterday when I got lunch and brought it back to the car, I gave you falafel in a pita instead of a chili dog with everything, and you never even noticed. You ate the whole thing.”

I guiltily remembered the day before. If you’d given me a thousand bucks I couldn’t have remembered the falafel, but I remembered what Hutch had been wearing. A white flannel shirt, open enough to show the gleaming skin of his chest. A leather jacket that creaked when he moved. And button-fly jeans that were fashionably faded and nice and tight, reminding me of an old joke we used to say in Brooklyn, “pants tight enough to show your religion.” I’d spent a lot of time between bites of my lunch staring at his crotch.

I felt my face get warm and looked down.

“Starsk?”

I looked up, not because I particularly wanted to but because I think the entreaty in that voice would’ve made me come back from the dead.

“Is it a girl?” When I didn’t answer: “It’s not that lovely in Juvi, is it?”

“You sure are askin’ a lot of questions,” I snapped, taking the offensive. “You a cop or somethin’?”

“Look, Starsk, there isn’t exactly a shortage of women in L.A. If you want I can fix you up with a friend of Dorey’s. We could even all go out together.”

Great. That was all I needed, to see Hutch putting the moves on his lady while I pretended I wasn’t dying an inch at a time.

“No, thanks,” I said with dignity. “Seein’ you in action always makes me wanna throw up.”

“Jealous of my success, partner?” Hutch gave me a sunny smile. Then, when I didn’t answer, he reached out, clutched my arm. “Hey, what the hell is bugging you, huh? Whatever it is, let me help.”

I avoided looking at him. His touch was killing me. “Nothin’ I can’t handle. It’s nothin’ terrible anyway. It’ll probably all blow over in a day or two.”

Hutch shrugged. Releasing my arm, he leaned back against the sofa, and a shaft of sunlight caught his hair, setting it on fire.

“Suit yourself,” he said finally, unaware of the vision he was creating. “It’s your move, unless you want to give me two turns in a row.”

I threw the dice, my heart pounding like crazy.

***

I tried some physical therapy.

I called an old friend. A lady. Someone I liked a lot. We went to see “Star Wars” (it was about the twentieth time I’d seen it) and while we watched we repeated the lines of the movie along with Han and Leia and Luke. I even had R2D2’s beeps down pretty good.

Then we went to Taco Bell for a junk food orgy.

Then back to my place for a different kind of orgy.

Nothing. Oh, I got it up okay, and the lady said she was happy. But still nothing. It was like a lukewarm shower.

I drove her home and walked her to the door. Gallant to the end, even if I was a fake and a liar. I felt so empty inside I wanted to put my fist through a wall.

We kissed good night.

“Dave?”

“Um?”

“You want to come to my place Saturday for dinner? I’ll cook.” By the tone of her voice, it was pretty obvious what was going to be dessert.

“Ah, no, thanks, Nance.”

She looked surprised, then concerned. “You okay, Dave?”

“Yeah, ‘m fine.” Fine except that I’m a screaming pervert, is all. “I just…I think ‘m comin’ down with a fever.”

She looked so worried I felt even worse. “Well, take care of yourself, huh, Dave?”

“Sure.”

She went inside, and I got back into the Torino.

At least, for a change, I hadn’t lied. I had a fever, all right. Ken Hutchinson fever.

The question was–was there a cure?

***

Of course, just to pile on the agony, Hutch was hot and heavy at the present time with a lady named Dorey, who–according to Hutch–was the eighth wonder of the world. No, King Kong was the eighth. Okay, the ninth.

Dorey was a real looker and Hutch’s type to a T–all cheekbones and blonde hair, athletic body, smile that could make you snowblind. And she had the bucks, too–she was a realtor and was raking it in selling houses. She carried a Gucci purse and drove a powder-blue Mercedes and lived in a ritzy condo in Venice. She and Hutch probably spent lots of time discussing the merits of black versus red caviar.

But was I jealous? No, I was not jealous. I was a fucking wild man.

“Does she give good head?” I asked Hutch. We were in the Torino, heading up Wilshire Boulevard; we’d just passed the tar pits.

Hutch looked at me. “Who?”

“The blonde. The one with the caps.”

A little coldly: “I assume you mean Dorey. And her teeth are real.”

“If you say so.” I deftly swung around a Volkswagen that was going too slow. “So, does she?”

“Does she what?”

I wanted to plug him. “Give good head, dammit!”

“Come on, Starsk. Don’t you ever think about anything else?”

I goaded him. “In other words, she doesn’t.”

Hutch smiled. “Actually, not that it’s any of your business, she does.”

I wanted to kill her for that smile she put on Hutch’s face. Or, more accurately, myself. But then, if I killed myself, I wouldn’t be able to suffer anymore, and I’m into pain. I must’ve been, because I refused to drop the subject.

“Sounds like you really like her.”

Hutch gave a non-committal grunt. The damned Sphinx.

“You gonna marry her?” I blurted.

Hutch didn’t answer for two seconds that seemed like about two years. Finally he said, “Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“Yeah. Maybe. Who knows?”

I felt as if my guts were being ripped out. “You told me you’d never get married again.”

Hutch shrugged. “So, I was wrong. I’m not a lone wolf, Starsk. Maybe I should find somebody to spend my old age with.”

It was bright and sunny out, a typical L.A. afternoon, but I felt as if I’d been plunged into darkness. A dark tunnel.

Like a starving man hoarding a crust of moldy bread, I clung to the little bits of Hutch I had. I couldn’t have his body, I couldn’t look into his eyes and see the hungry gleam of desire, but at least I could have his friendship. And now, if he married this dizzy blonde of his, I wouldn’t even have that. No more weekends drinking beer and playing Monopoly or bowling–Hutch would be too busy with bridge foursomes and mowing the lawn and painting the white picket fence. And taking the kids to the Little League and dancing lessons and washing the station wagon…

“Hey.” Hutch distracted me from the miserable one-reeler in my head by clutching my leg just above the knee. Giving it a squeeze.

I didn’t look up. His hand on my leg was killing me, but if I yanked away, Hutch would know something was really wrong, so I gritted my teeth and stayed put.

“Starsk? Listen, whether I get married or not, you’ll still be my best friend. Okay? There’ll always be me and thee.”

Yeah, as long as you don’t guess how I feel about you.

“I know,” I mumbled. Eloquent as always. I pulled my leg away, unable to stand it anymore, and Hutch watched me.

“Starsk–listen. Any time you want to talk about it, I’m here, okay?”

“Talk about what?”

He just gave me an “oh come on” look. Then, when I didn’t react, he shrugged. “Okay,” he said. “Suit yourself.”

“I will,” I said. I was amazed at how cool my voice came out.

Nobody would’ve guessed my heart was breaking.

***

That Friday afternoon, near five o’clock, I gazed at Hutch through my eyelashes. He was busy painting white-out over a typo on a report–Dobey’d been bitching at us lately about getting our reports in on time, so Hutch was trying to toe the line. The fluorescent lights glinted on his hair. You might’ve noticed I have a thing for Hutch’s hair.

“You have a date with whatshername this weekend?” I asked. (Still into self-torture.)

He didn’t look up. “Whatshername? Yeah, I have a date with whatshername. Tonight, Saturday night and Sunday night.” He painted more white-out and then blew on it. “And her name is Dorey.”

Another Hutchless weekend. Terrific. “Dorey,” I snorted. “What a stupid name. Sounds like a boat.”

Hutch rolled his report into his Royal and typed in the correction. I watched his strong, slender hands type deftly. As I noted before, Hutch has beautiful hands. “It’s just a diminutive of Dorothy,” he said. “And I seem to remember last year your going out with someone named Bambi.”

“That was only a stage name.” I put my feet up on my desk, knowing that annoyed him. “So where you goin’ with the boat, anyway? Ah, sorry, Dorothy. Where’re you goin’ with Dorothy? Over the rainbow?”

Hutch politely ignored my attempt at wit. “No, we thought we’d probably go to the Sand Castle in Malibu.” Still typing. “Who are you going out with tonight?”

“Haven’t decided yet,” I muttered.

“Yeah, it must be hard picking out only one of all the ladies in your little black book.” Hutch cast me a heart-stopping grin.

Abruptly I couldn’t stand it anymore. I got up. “Yeah. Well, see ya on Monday, huh?”

I could feel Hutch’s eyes on me as I walked out, but I didn’t look back.

***

I told you I was nuts, didn’t I? Because that’s the only explanation I have for what I did that night. I already knew Hutch was crazy about Dorey, and also, of course, that he wasn’t crazy about me. So why did I put my balls in the wringer by deciding I had to be sure? As I said, the only explanation I have is that I’m nuts.

I went to Merle. “I need a car,” I told him. “A nice, unnoticeable car–the crummier the better.”

Merle, who was busy fondling a carburetor, grunted without looking up. “What happen to that fire engine of yours?” he asked. “It break down?”

Fire engine! “I need a car that nobody’ll recognize,” I said through gritted teeth.

“Yeah? Try Avis.”

“Merle, c’mon. Those guys charge an arm and a leg. I only need it for a couple hours.”

Merle sighed. “When ya need it?” he asked.

“In about an hour.”

“Glad you’re not in a hurry,” he said sarcastically. “Okay, come around in an hour and I’ll see what I can dig up.”

“Thanks, Merle. You’re a lifesaver.”

“Uh-huh. Just don’t bring it back with no bullet holes.”

I came around in an hour and sure enough, Merle had found a car for me. At least I think it was a car. It was a battered Volkswagen Beetle from the sixties, painted pink. It made Hutch’s LTD look like a Ferrari. But at least it had the advantage of looking like a car I wouldn’t of been caught dead in.

I drove it to Ocean Boulevard and waited across the street for Hutch to leave for his heavy date, still wondering why I was putting myself through this torture. The lengths a man will go to for love are enough to make you want to puke.

Finally I saw him, leaving on the dot of seven o’clock. He was wearing a faded denim jacket, crisp white shirt, and 501 jeans–with cowboy boots. If Dorey didn’t cream her panties the second she saw him, I thought, then she had a serious hormonal problem.

I waited till his LTD was half a block away, and then followed him, still wondering what I was doing, spying on Hutch like this. My partner. My best friend. I felt guilty as hell. Not guilty enough to go back home, though.

He got to Dorey’s condo, whistling as he walked jauntily to the door. I enjoyed the vision of his ass for a few seconds, and then picked up a copy of the L.A. Daily News to hide my face. Even though I was in disguise–horn-rimmed glasses, fake beard, Yankees baseball cap–I wasn’t taking any chances.

Exactly twenty-three minutes later they came down together, both of them laughing about something. Dorey looked pretty, wearing a sundress that showed off a fabulous tan and an equally fabulous cleavage. And Hutch was taking in both these assets with appreciative eyes, and Dorey was noticing his noticing and loving it.

It was sickening.

I waited for him to kiss her–for a private person like Hutch to kiss somebody in public is practically a proposal of marriage. But he didn’t. Thank God. They just got into Hutch’s junkyard of a car and drove off toward Malibu.

I followed them up Route One, being sure a few cars got between us. I was in a good disguise, and I was sure Hutch was too horny to notice he was being followed, but you never knew–Hutch is a good cop and sometimes he has eyes in the back of his head. I was close enough, though, to see that Dorey sat right up against Hutch for the whole ride, sticking to him like glue.

At last they pulled in to the Sand Castle–a ritzy seafood place–and I hid under some eucalyptus trees in my passion-pink VW.

Hutch opened the door for her and she climbed out, showing off a flash of nylon leg. Then she took Hutch’s arm, her eyes glowing at him. And was Hutch basking in all this adoration? He looked at her like she was the answer to all his prayers–his eyes glowing like two candles’ flames as he gazed down at her.

Then he bent his head and kissed her.

After a couple of hours they pulled away from the clinch and went into the restaurant.

And I just sat there in my Pepto-Bismol Special, wondering if the world had ended.

I should’ve been glad Hutch had found somebody–somebody who almost deserved him. I mean, at least she wasn’t a hooker like Gillian, or a crook like Vanessa, or a psycho like Diana. Or so I kept telling myself.

It wasn’t easy driving back to Merle’s because my eyes kept misting up and my throat was so tight I could hardly breathe. Maybe it was the smog.

Or maybe it was the fact that I’d finally realized what I should of realized a long time ago–that I was a damned fool.

***

The next morning I had some root beer and Cheese Nips for breakfast and cheered myself up by thinking maybe I was gay.

It happens–guys who think they enjoy it with women and then all of a sudden want to do it with guys. I’d read an article once, while in the waiting room at the dentist’s, that’d said that. Maybe that’s what had happened to me. Yeah, that would make sense. Maybe I had the hots for Hutch because he was close to me. Available, so to speak. Maybe I just wanted a man. Any man.

So, I was gay. Now what? The obvious solution was finding some guy–any guy–who would get me off my fixation on Hutch. Someone who’d fuck Hutch right out of my system.

The problem was that I knew nothing, absolutely nothing, about gay culture except what I’d picked up on the job. And the only gay bars I knew about were the gay bars all cops knew about, and therefore not what I wanted. I needed some help.

I knew only one guy who could help me. Only one guy, besides Hutch, that I trusted enough with something like this.

Huggy was in the back room, playing with his new pinball machine, when I got to The Pits. Although I came and stood next to him, he ignored my presence, too busy trying to get the silver balls in the right slots.

When he finally realized I wasn’t going away, he straightened up and gave me a look that told me he was something less than thrilled to see me. Well, it was Saturday afternoon, he was trying to relax before the Saturday night crush started, and since I wasn’t with Hutch he knew I wasn’t there on business, so why pretend I was welcome?

“To what do I owe this unwanted intrusion?” he asked with acid politeness.

“I need a favor.”

“What a surprise.”

“I need the name of a bar. One off the beaten track so there won’t be any busts. One with a classy clientele–no rough stuff. And no big drug scene.” I paused. “A gay bar.”

I suppose it was kinda flattering that Huggy, who has a face made for playing poker, looked completely flabbergasted. “A gay bar?” he repeated blankly.

“Yeah,” I said. I could feel my face heating up. “You know, a place where guys go to get laid by other guys.”

“For whom do you need this valuable information?”

Who’d he think, Captain Dobey? “It’s personal, Hug.”

“You want to do it with a guy,” Huggy said, as if he were repeating a lesson he was trying to learn.

I looked at the bosomy blonde, in bikini and parachute, on the pinball game. The legend said LADY SKY DIVERS. “Yeah,” I said.

“I don’t believe it.”

“Believe it.”

“Starsky,” Huggy said patiently, “you’re no more gay than I am Ronald Reagan. So why don’t you take a nice hot shower and forget about the other side of the street, ya dig?”

“I don’t want to forget about it,” I said. “Look, you gonna help me find a guy or not?”

Huggy was giving me the once-over. I felt acutely uncomfortable. I suppose I should’ve turned and left, but where else could I go? Hutch was driving me nuts, and I was getting tired of my hand, if truth be known.

“Any particular type of guy you have in mind?” Huggy asked finally, his voice soft. “Like maybe tall, blond, blue-eyed? The type that carries a Magnum and likes carrot juice?”

I was horrified it was that obvious.

Huggy, seeing my face, said quickly, “Hey, Starsky–don’t go runnin’ off the deep end, ya dig? Nobody would notice except somebody like me, to whom consorting with both sexes is not exactly inconceivable, if you get my drift. I’m sure the blond one doesn’t have a clue.”

“No, he’s too busy ballin’ beautiful real estate agents.”

“Nobody means to him what you do, females included. Why don’t you talk to him about it? That makes more sense than goin’ to some bar.”

Yeah, sure. That was just what I needed–losing Hutch’s friendship. That would really make 1978 a red-letter year.

“Forget it, Hug. Now how about the name of a good place to go and get fucked?”

Reluctantly, Huggy said, “The Elegant Pelican’s a good leatherette bar. No rough trade. Mostly older guys–like you.”

I ignored the dig. “Where is it?”

He gave me an address and I thanked him and split.

***

I’m not gonna go through with it. I’m not goin’ to a fairy hangout. Dammit! Am I nuts or what?

I was thinking this as I took a hot shower and then shaved again. Not since Terry had I shaved for a date. And then went to my closet to find something suitably seductive, all the while still arguing with myself.

Too bad myself wasn’t listening.

I selected some clothes and pulled them on. My best (and tightest) jeans, long-sleeved red shirt unbuttoned just enough to show some manly chest hair, leather jacket. Lots of Brut. A gold chain around my neck. I even wore fancy underpants–with zebra stripes.

I looked pretty good, I thought critically as I gave myself a once-over in the mirror. Nobody would’ve guessed I was a virgin in these woods.

I drove to the Elegant Pelican–an unassuming pink adobe hangout with a picture of a bow-tied pelican in the window–and, after paying a ridiculous cover charge, walked in.

Inside I got a shock. Not that the place looked weird or anything. In fact it looked a lot like any singles bar-cum-disco I’d seen. One side was nothing but a big mirror. The other side was a bar, with people lined up three deep. Roberta Flack was singing from someplace. A strobe was flashing from the ceiling, throwing colored speckles over everybody.

What was a shock was that the room was all guys. Not one woman anywhere. Young guys, older guys, beautiful guys and some kinda weird-looking. All of them dressed to the teeth–tight pants, muscle shirts, bandannas, chains, leather, you name it. I saw one guy wearing an Indian headdress and padded leather loincloth. (At least I assumed it was padded.)

I imagined telling Hutch about this. Hutch, d’you believe what some guys go through just to get fucked? But, of course, I’d never tell Hutch I’d come to this place because I’d never tell him I was gay. I still wanted Hutch’s respect, even if I couldn’t have his body.

Several of the guys noticed me, even though I was doing my best to look invisible. Somebody said, “Hey, beautiful!” and somebody else said, “I think I’m in love.” I ignored them and crossed the room to the bar.

And felt two hands grab my ass.

I whirled around ready to deck whoever it was, and saw a guy the size of New Jersey. Skull-and-crossbones t-shirt, grimy jeans, tons of chains, one gold hoop earring and acres of tattooed muscles. He could’ve snapped me like a toothpick if he’d wanted to bother.

“Sorry,” I muttered. “I guess my ass bumped into your hand, huh?”

The guy just laughed and buried his unshaven face in a tankard of beer.

I went to the bar and ordered tequila.

The bartender–a John Boy type–brought me a Tequila Sunrise and I took a careful gulp. It tasted like lighter fluid. For several minutes my entire train of thought was absorbed in not coughing. As I stared at the wall and concentrated, I noticed there was a picture of a guy on it. A Robert Redford clone who was lying on what looked like a bed of tinfoil and playing with his cock.

In a few seconds the picture changed to another guy. I looked up and saw a projector on the ceiling. A slide show. I looked back at the picture. A guy about nine feet tall, with red hair and red beard, wearing a leather belt and cowboy hat. Nothing else.

He had his thumb up his ass.

If this was Huggy’s idea of a tame bar, I’d hate to go to a wild one.

Several guys gave me the eye. I ignored them and sipped my drink, concentrating once again on not choking.

And then one of the guys walked up to me. A kid really, maybe twenty-two or so. Sandy-haired, 5’6″, maybe 150 pounds, wearing a “Star Trek Lives” t-shirt. He sat down next to me and said, “My name’s Alex.”

“Dave,” I said.

“Kinda crowded in here, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” I sipped my tequila again.

Bette Midler started to sing “Friends.”

“Nice music, huh?” the kid offered.

I should’ve told the kid I wasn’t interested. I should’ve told him to use his witty conversation on somebody who’d appreciate it. But I didn’t. I kept hoping against hope that I’d feel something sometime within the next year.

Go figure. Sitting next to Hutch in the Torino, watching him eat a taco, made me practically wet my pants. Sitting here in a gay bar, surrounded by gorgeous guys, the air reeking of sex, and my cock was nothing but inert matter.

Intrepid Alex, obviously deciding our inane conversation had gone on long enough, reached over into my lap and started feeling me up. I closed my eyes and tried to will myself to feel something. Anything. But even as his hand landed on my cock, stroking me along my zipper, I still felt zilch.

After a few more minutes of frantic activity on Alex’s part, I finally looked at him apologetically and muttered, “Sorry.”

The kid smiled bravely. “It’s okay. Guys as gorgeous as you can afford to be fussy.” He slid off the bar stool and left me for greener pastures.

I ate some popcorn from the bowl on the bar. It was stale, but I didn’t care. Some guys were dancing to Bette, rubbing their bodies together, fondling each other’s butts to the rhythm of the Divine Miss M. I turned my head as I sipped more tequila, and saw two guys necking in a corner.

These guys, all of them, guys I’d called fags and pansies all these years–they put me to shame. They were, at least, honest about how they felt.

I wasn’t. I’d been lying to myself from the beginning, thinking my lust for Hutch was just a passing phase that could be cured. Bullshit. Doing it with a woman hadn’t worked. Seeing Hutch with somebody else hadn’t worked. Even trying to be with another guy, trying to convince myself that I was gay, hadn’t worked. I didn’t want a guy. I just wanted Hutch. And it looked like I was going to feel that way the rest of my life.

So what do you do when you finally get to your moment of truth, when you finally reach the pinnacle of self-realization? Easy. You get plastered.

I ordered another Tequila Sunrise.

I’d polished off quite a few when a guy came up to me again. I didn’t look up, even when he put his hand on my arm. I yanked away and said rudely, “Go ‘way,” and took another drink.

The guy, brave soul, sat down next to me. “Starsky,” a voice said. A voice I recognized, even in my inebriated condition.

I looked up and saw the face of my partner.

“Hi, Hutch,” I said inanely. What was I supposed to say?

A guy sashayed up to us–a good-looking Hispanic. “Hey, gorgeous,” he said to Hutch. Hutch ignored him.

“What are you doing here?” Hutch asked me.

“Ain’t it obvious? I’m tryin’ to get trashed.”

“Hey, baby, how about a dance?” the Desi Arnaz clone asked Hutch.

I looked at him. “Get lost, you prick, or I’ll cut your balls off and ram ’em down your throat,” I said.

Desi looked at me, then at Hutch, then shrugged and slunk off.

“I can fight my own battles, Starsk,” Hutch said mildly.

I reached for my drink. Hutch’s hand stopped me. I glared at him.

“Come on, Starsky. Haven’t you had enough? Let’s go home.”

“I’m not drunk enough yet. How’d you know I was here anyway?” I yanked my arm away from Hutch’s hand and took another defiant gulp of my drink, even though I didn’t really want it. The room was already spinning around.

Hutch watched me and didn’t say anything for a second or two. Then, grudgingly, he answered my question. “Huggy called me.”

“Huggy is gonna get my fist down his throat one of these days.” I helped myself to more popcorn.

“How about coming home with me and getting plastered there?” Hutch suggested. “I’ll even join you.”

“Nah,” I said after a moment. “I wanna see how the movie turns out.” I gestured toward the slides. The one showing now was a semi-naked guy who looked like a Nazi, all chains and leather and tattoos, holding a whip. Hutch looked to where I was pointing, his eyes widening as if he didn’t quite believe what he was seeing, and then looked back at me.

“I can tell you how it ends. He marries his whip and lives happily ever after.” He stood up, signaling he was tired of arguing. “C’mon, Starsk. Let’s go.”

I didn’t want to go anywhere with him. I didn’t want to look at him or even think about him. “No,” I said.

Hutch was not in the mood to take that answer. He took my arm and pulled me up.

I tried to yank away. “Dammit, Hutch! Leave me alone!” I said loudly.

“Come on, Starsk. Let me take you home. You know you can’t drive like this.”

“No!”

I was not too drunk to notice that lots of guys were watching this exchange with interest. I heard one guy say, “Five on Blondie,” and another guy said, “Stay if you want, Curly! I’ll bet he screws around on you too.” It occurred to me that everyone assumed we’d had a lover’s quarrel and Hutch was trying to make up with me.

Great. Everyone in the whole fuckin’ world thinks Hutch and I are lovers–except Hutch.

My partner, who is stronger than he looks, used my momentary distraction to propel me out the door. I think I heard some guys cheering him on, but I’m not sure. I gave up trying to struggle and instead just tried to remain upright, which wasn’t easy even with Hutch holding me up.

Out on the street, the cold, smoggy air hit me like a freight train.

Hutch, still holding me up, said, “Okay, let’s have the car keys.”

I looked at him helplessly, incapable of thinking of an articulate response. When I didn’t move, he reached inside the left pocket of my jacket and found them, and then, his arm around me, guided me toward the Torino in a more-or-less straight line. Even in my condition, I enjoyed the feeling of his arm around me. How many times had I felt Hutch holding me when I was hurt, or sick like with Bellamy’s poison, heard his voice say, “I’m here,” and known that somehow, everything was going to be all right?

“Hutch?”

“Yeah, Starsk?” He was struggling to unlock the door, which, since he was holding me up with one arm, wasn’t easy.

“Tell me you’re here.”

He looked at me. “What?”

“Tell me you’re here,” I insisted. “I love it when you say you’re here.”

Hutch, by the expression on his face, obviously thought I was a few chocolate chips short of a cookie, but he obliged. “I’m here, Starsk.”

“Thanks.” I burped. “I think somebody put somethin’ bad in that popcorn, Hutch.”

“I know. You’ve got to watch the popcorn you eat, Starsk, that stuff can be deadly. Get into the car.”

I obeyed, sort of. Actually, I more fell in than got in. Hutch slammed the door shut on me and then went to the driver’s side.

Once we got onto 101 I started to get woozy. My head felt stuffed with wet feathers, and the gas fumes and motion of the car were making my stomach fluttery.

Finally I muttered, “Hutch,” in a half-moan, half-plea.

Hutch stopped the Torino on a dime–and just in time, too. I barely made it out of the car and onto the shoulder before losing all my Tequila Sunrises.

Hutch knelt next to me, holding my head, rubbing my back and my neck and, when nothing more was coming up, handed over a wad of kleenex.

I think I started to cry a little at this point. It wasn’t the tequila, and it wasn’t even the fact that it’d been a crappy evening. It was the fact that Hutch, my partner, had seen me like this–getting loaded in a gay bar and now puking my guts up on the Hollywood Freeway.

It was not David Michael Starsky’s shining hour.

Hutch put an arm around me, comforting me. He stroked back my curls, murmuring softly. I leaned against him, burying my face in his jacket, clinging to him as if he were a lifeline.

“Babe…babe,” Hutch said, still murmuring.

Cars were zinging by us, stars shimmering through a smoggy filter above us, and all I knew or cared to know was Hutch’s arms around me. I went on clutching him, and he went on stroking my hair. Giving me wordless comfort, even though he didn’t know what the hell for. That was Hutch for you. I need him and he’s there. Anyone out there still wondering why I love this guy?

I didn’t want to let go, but after awhile I became aware that it was cold, that the gravel was cutting into my knees through my jeans, and the smell of gas fumes from all the cars was not helping my stomach any. And that Hutch must’ve been equally uncomfortable, even if he didn’t say anything.

In a small voice I said, “Can we go home?”

“You sure you’re okay now?”

“Yeah.” I mopped up my face with the kleenex, and Hutch took the tissues and put them in the pocket of his jacket.

“Okay. Come on.” He helped me to get up.

We went back to the car and Hutch drove us to Venice Place. I went to the bathroom just in time to throw up again.

I brushed my teeth–I always keep a toothbrush and a razor at Hutch’s–and took a blistering hot shower. That cleared my head a little. In fact, after the puking and tooth-brushing and shower I felt almost human. Disgusted and sick of myself, and ready to think about joining the French Foreign Legion, but human anyway.

When I came into the living room Hutch handed me a glass of V-8 juice and two white pills that I assumed were vitamin C. Hutch is of the opinion that V-8 and vitamin C is the best thing to prevent a hangover and nothing anybody says to him can talk him out of it.

I popped the vitamins into my mouth and chased them with some juice, not because I wanted to but because I knew Hutch would nag if I didn’t. Then I sank down on the couch and Hutch sat next to me.

For a while neither of us said anything. I was sobering up fast, and feeling acutely embarrassed. Why I didn’t know. I’d been drunk in front of Hutch before. I sipped more V-8, hoping my stomach would settle enough pretty soon so I could drive home.

“Nice outfit,” Hutch said finally, breaking the silence.

“Thanks,” I returned. “I like yours, too.”

He did look good–brown cords, white cable-knit sweater. I realized belatedly that a date with Dorey had probably been interrupted. After all, it was Saturday night.

“‘M sorry I spoiled your evening,” I mumbled.

“I’m not mad about that. I can see Dorey another night,” he said. “What pisses me off is your pulling a stunt like this and not telling me. When Huggy called me I was sure you’d gone to meet a snitch or something all by yourself, and you were going to get killed.”

“I wouldn’t meet a snitch without my partner.”

“So what were you doing there, if not meeting a snitch?” Hutch asked reasonably.

I was still avoiding looking at him. Even Hutch, with his pure Minnesota-bred mind, was going to figure it out eventually, and I didn’t want to see the disgust on his face when he did.

“Didn’t Huggy tell you anything?” I evaded.

He shook his head. “All Huggy said was that, quote, ‘Starsky’s going to the Elegant Pelican tonight and I think he’s about to make the mistake of his life. I think you should go check him out.’ Unquote.”

“Huggy should mind his own business once in awhile,” I said. I sipped the V-8 again for something to do.

“Does this have anything to do with what’s been bugging you the last few weeks?” Hutch asked.

“Look–drop it, willya?” I snapped.

He didn’t, of course. He went on, still reasonable, “Starsky–I’ve been giving you space, thinking if you needed to talk with me you would, but this is obviously something that’s tearing you apart. And my patience, to be frank, is just about gone.”

“I told you to drop it. This ain’t nothin’ that concerns you.”

“Starsk, that’s ridiculous,” Hutch said, almost pleadingly. “What concerns you concerns me. You’re my best friend.”

I looked at him.

He was right. How could I have forgotten it? He was my best friend.

And you could tell your best friend anything.

So I did.

“I love you,” I said.

His gaze didn’t drop. He knew I wasn’t just saying “I love you” the way we usually said it.

I didn’t drop my gaze either. And after looking into my eyes for a couple of years, he said finally, “You mean–the way you loved Terry.”

“Yeah.” I pulled in a breath and exhaled, wishing to hell my mind were a little clearer, as I looked away from him again.

“Ah, babe…” No pity in his voice. Only a kind of sadness. “Is this what’s been on your mind the last few weeks?”

“Yeah.”

“You could’ve told me before.”

“I kept hopin’ it’d go away.” I swallowed. “That’s why I went to that bar. I thought maybe another guy could cure me. As usual, I was wrong.”

Hutch reached up, stroked my hair back, a feather-light touch.

“You’re not shocked?” I whispered.

“I think I’m mostly shocked that you kept this a secret,” he said, gently teasing. “I’ve never known you to be able to keep your mouth shut about anything for this long.”

“Yeah. I’m kinda amazed myself.” I managed a smile as I gazed into his eyes. I was looking at him, knowing my heart was showing on my face, and Hutch was looking back at me, not disgusted, not afraid–accepting me. Accepting my feelings for him.

I felt dizzy–not from the booze this time. From happiness.

And then–as often happens in real life–I spoiled the mood completely by yawning.

“You want to sack out? You can stay here if you want,” Hutch suggested.

“It won’t bother you? My stayin’ here?” I felt suddenly shy.

“No, but if you ask me one more dumb question like that I might smash you one, drunk or not.” Hutch stood up. “Go to bed. I’ll lock up.”

“I’ll sleep on the couch,” I said.

“Don’t be a dope, Starsk. The couch is too small for you. Now go to bed.”

I was too tired to argue, so I went into Hutch’s bedroom, stripped down to my zebra-striped underpants, and crawled in under Hutch’s snow-white goosedown comforter.

Inside a few minutes I heard lights click off and Hutch walk into the bedroom. And then I heard the bedsprings creak as Hutch climbed into bed with me.

My eyes shot open. All of a sudden I was completely sober–and wishing I were drunk again.

“Hutch–I thought you said I could have the bed,” I said, feeling my heart pound like crazy.

“There’s room enough for two of us here,” Hutch said.

He moved his arms around me, and I felt my back go stiff. At that moment I was more scared I would lose control of myself and do something Hutch would hate me for than I’d ever been scared of bullets.

“Relax,” Hutch said. I felt his breath caress my face. Did I mention Hutch has terrific breath? Now it was faintly scented with spearmint toothpaste.

And–weird as it sounds–I relaxed, just because he told me to. Of course, at that point I would’ve jumped off a cliff if Hutch had told me to. I even managed to hug him back a little.

“What’d I ever do to deserve a best friend like you?” I whispered.

Hutch whispered back: “Damned if I know.”

He moved closer, and our noses bumped a little as he kissed me.

Not exactly a brotherly kiss–not a peck. And not a lover’s kiss either; no tongue, no licking. Somewhere in between. An indefinable kiss–passionate but not sexual.

I kissed him back gently. Then in a few seconds I broke the kiss but didn’t move away, didn’t drop my arms from around him but still held him close.

And we both fell asleep, our arms still around each other.

***

I guess this is as good a place as any to end this thing.

The day after the bar scene, Sunday, Hutch and I spent together. We walked on the beach. Ate a pizza from Round Table. Listened to the Jefferson Starship. Hugged a lot. Touched a lot. Talked a lot. Necked a little.

We still don’t know if we’re going to be lovers or not. He broke off a date he had with Dorey that Sunday, though, just to be with me, so that told me a little where the two of us each were in his list of priorities.

Even when he tells me he doesn’t know if he can ever go to bed with me, it doesn’t bug me. He’s never done anything with a guy before, but I can tell the idea isn’t repulsive to him. He’s just nervous sex might affect our friendship. Obviously he hasn’t yet come to realize what I realized that Saturday night–that our friendship is indestructible. Sooner or later, though, it’ll hit him.

I can wait.

***