Missing His Touch

He lies in the big bed, the bed that has been too big for three weeks now, and holds the pillowcase that still has his lover’s scent on it over his face. Of course it still smells like him because he hasn’t washed it since he left.

In the dark, he imagines the touches he misses so much. The warmth on the back of his neck that meanders up into his hair. The tweaking and rubbing of his nipples. The squeeze of his shoulder. The pat of his thigh. The guide at the small of his back. The heated caress of his balls. The hip check. He feels every one and more, but they’re spectral, with substance only in his mind, heart, and soul.

Most of all, he imagines the meeting of their lips in affection, passion, desire, lust, love, sometimes all at the same time.

Oh, God, I miss him!

The sound of a thundering motorcycle drawing near and then stopping near his house (it’s not a home, not without him in it) yanks him out of his rumination, starts his heart pounding in his chest, his blood galloping through his arteries and veins.

It can’t be, he thinks as he hears what has to be a tired body climb the stairs. Please let it be him. Then the sound of a key turning.

He shoots out of bed like a meteorite, somehow avoiding getting tangled in the sheets. He reaches the door just as it opens.

And there he is. Big, lopsided grin on a haggard and jubilant face that now has a beard longer than it was when he left. Body in dusty, black riding leathers that serves to accent his fitness despite the slumping posture.

Home. Safe.

He snatches the helmet from his hand, which elicits a joyous laugh from his lover, and tosses it behind him. Something breaks but he doesn’t care. He pulls him into the room, slams the door, embraces him fiercely, which is returned in kind.

“I’m so glad you’re home, Starsk,” he whispers fervently in his ear. “I’ve missed you.”

He feels a nibble and tug on his earlobe. “God, it’s been torture, babe,” is whispered in his ear. “At least I get to keep the bike. I ain’t ever gonna go undercover for the feds again.”

They sigh together as if to underscore Starsky’s statement, making it a promise, a pledge.

“Love you, Hutch.”

“Love you, Starsky.”

They separate just enough to touch their lips in affection, passion, desire, lust, and love, all at the same time. Perfection, Hutch thinks.

the end

July 2021