Once Bitten

5

Starsky and Hutch meet at the Academy and a strong friendship forms. Hutch’s marriage is flailing so Hutch turns to Starsky to find some comfort.

 

Originally published in the zine Nightlight, a slash Starsky and Hutch anthology edited by April Valentine in 1986.

---

Ken Hutchinson came home on his first weekend leave from the Academy virtually walking on air. He wanted to tell all his news, and hoped his wife was home. I met someone, Van, a really great guy… I think he and I might be good friends. Dave Starsky… The tall young blond smiled to himself, as he climbed the steps of the cottage, taking out his key.

“Van?”

“Kenny? I’m out here.”

The kitchen was bright with sun. She met him in the archway with a kiss. He’d learned to read her mood in her kisses as well as in her lovemaking. A wave of disappointment washed him clean of exhilaration. She was far away, dreaming of that perfect life again. The life they could/should/would be leading if only, if ever… She was holding the best part of herself back for it; she punished him for not giving it to her.

Ken sighed. Yes, they could dream, plan a better future like any young couple, but meanwhile, was here and now so bad? “How was your week?” he asked, gingerly.

“Bit of a bore,” she said, holding his arms. “Sally called to gloat over the vacation she and Carl just got back from, sailing around the Caribbean.”

“Did you tell her your husband couldn’t afford it?”

“No, I took my humiliation in silence.”

“Humiliation, Van? Come on, willya? I’d love to give you a vacation like that. And I will—someday, honey. As soon as I possibly can.”

“I know, I know. When you retire from the force.” She drew away from him, turning. “Dinner’s in about twenty minutes.”

Feeling inexplicably defeated, spanking-new police cadet Ken Hutchinson shook his head, and began unbuttoning his uniform shirt. “I’ll shower, change for dinner.”

She turned and gave him a smile that spoke volumes. “Hurry up. It’s franks and beans.”

* * * *

There’d been a salad, too, that night, but none of the food had gone down easily. He hadn’t told her about Starsky after all. She professed no interest in the new school, or the vocation he’d finally chosen for himself, and probably couldn’t have cared less than she did about the people he would meet. It’s only because she loves me that she thinks I can be Howard Hughes and Cary Grant rolled into one. She has pride in me. Maybe the wrong kind of pride, but …

“Whatcha thinkin’ about?”

Ken looked up to find his friend Starsky in the aisle, books in hand. “My wife.”

“Vanessa?” Starsky’s smile grew, like a lop-sided white orchid.

“Vanessa.”

“I gotta meet the fabulous Mrs. Hutchinson one-a-these days.” Starsky moved into the row of seats with him.

Why not? Hutch thought. We’ve only had coffee together, so far, lunch in the cafeteria, here. Van could fix something really special, and we’d all, get to know each other better. All their friends seemed to be Van’s friends from high school and college, and their husbands. Starsky was his choice, though completely different from him or the men he knew; far more to his taste than the young BMW dealers and junior law partners, the assorted doctors, systems analysts and accountants that made up his and Van’s crowd. Children of the middle-class made good. He himself was accustomed to money and couldn’t understand the appeal of talking about it constantly. His friends talked of nothing else, it seemed; cars, acquisitions, vacations, investments.

They were, for the most part, good guys, but they disappointed him where he felt it counted. Even before the police academy, he’d bumped his head against the lack of commitment, the self-satisfaction of their lives. His life, too. He’d been becoming one of them.

Starsky was different. The man was a constant challenge to him, in fact. They’d begun as rivals. Yet they had the most important thing in common. They both wanted a friend. Once they’d made the friendship, Ken had found Starsky to be as eager as he to share their common goals, their day-to-day thoughts, dreams, and discoveries. The first night they spent in the Academy dorms had been used up talking non-stop in whispers from cot to cot, in trying to tell each other everything about themselves in one night. Finally Starsky had yawned and said, “There is gonna be a tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Ken had agreed. “In about an hour. Night, Dave.”

“G’night, Hutch.” Starsky had started calling him “Hutch” to needle him. Pretty soon though there was affection in the sound of it.

Hutch hadn’t known that kind of easy camaraderie since he was a kid in high school. Hadn’t made a friendship of that quality since then. Three weeks and they had their own language, their own brand of humor, their own shared secrets; and just maybe the beginning of a partnership. Something very good happened when they were together.

* * * *

It didn’t occur to him that Van would feel left out, until it was actually happening. Before this dinner—tonight’s fiasco, he amended mentally—he’d honestly hoped all three of them would get along, mesh Somehow. It was his fault, yes, that he couldn’t modulate his response to Starsky. He didn’t deny that. Everything was still too new; there was still a lot to learn about one another. The long blue eyes captivated him with their honesty. They were wide with interest one moment, teasing and skeptical the next, and so easy to look into… Between Van and himself there was nothing but hurt lately, and his aching heart helplessly took the solace his friend’s presence offered.

Starsky tried his considerable best to charm Van, but she remained merely hospitable to him, polite but not much more. There was a broad trace of nobless oblige in her manner with Starsky that angered Hutch more and
more as the evening went on. The worst of it was that Starsky, sensitive as anyone Hutch had ever met, noticed.

Biting his tongue to conceal his annoyance, Hutch drank more wine than he should have at the table, and took another bottle into the living room with him when he and Starsky retreated there after dinner.

Hutch didn’t realize he was lost in thought until Starsky leaned forward into his line of sight to pour more wine for them both.

“Hey, I’m sorry,” he apologized. “Falling down on my host’s duties.”

“S’okay,” Starsky murmured, looking at him. “S’okay.”

Hutch gazed down into his wineglass. There was a spell of silence, the first real silence between them. It wasn’t uncomfortable—it was comforting, and Hutch was made aware that Starsky understood, and didn’t mind not talking. “It has nothing to do with you, Dave,” he said finally, awkwardly.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Starsky said. “So you never promised me a rose garden.” He shrugged, draining his glass, setting it down on a coaster. “I’ll take off. It’s been a long week.”

“No.” Hutch restrained him. “Come on—”

Starsky touched his hand. “Hutch… Your lady’s the important one. Why don’t you straighten things out with her?” He tapped Hutch’s, knuckles and stood. “Tell her dinner was great. And maybe she’ll get used to me gradually.”

Hutch relented and stood, too. “Funny,” he whispered, smiling. “I got used to you almost, right away.”

“Well, with most people I take a lot longer.” Starsky grinned at him, slipping on his jacket. “See ya later, huh?”

“See ya. Wait, let me walk you to your car.”

They waved each other goodnight and Starsky roared off in his shiny red Maverick. Hutch tried to deny the sense of desolation that threatened him at that moment.

* * * *

They were called David and Jonathan, accepted as an inseparable pair. The idea made Hutch smile. People claimed to see Starsky with him even when he wasn’t. And the thing was, he missed Starsky a little when he wasn’t around. He’d found the kind of friend he’d been looking for. The most important relationship of his life was no longer the one he shared with his wife, it seemed.

Starsky was his equal. They held the first and second-best grade averages of their class. It was a joke of theirs to pretend it didn’t matter who was first and who second. The two positions had been unofficially consolidated.

When they competed it was always a contest between Starsky’s win-at-any-cost persistence and lack of respect for the rules, against his own superior strength and expertise. Pitting those qualities against one another in hand-to-hand combat, or on the rifle range or obstacle course usually saw them even.

Wrestling was another story. Here Starsky’s lawlessness only got him into trouble.

He was amazingly strong for his size and build, a fact which should have helped make up for his refusal to go by the book, but Hutch found himself able to exert just that much more force over him every time. It was fun, he wasn’t too proud to admit. Starsky would holler in defeat, just like he was doing now.

“Get offa me, Hutchinson! Get off, willya? Ya big ox.”

“I’ve offered to teach you everything I know, Starsky.” Hutch let him up.

Starsky glared, rubbing his hip. “Next time I have a minute to spare, I’ll take you up on that.”

Hutch chuckled. “I’m going to shower. You coming?”

“In a minute. I gotta talk to O’Donnell about my test scores.”

“Okay.”

Hutch was tying his shoes when Starsky came out of the showers. He watched his friend approach. Starsky was nude, using the towel he held to scrub at his curls. His cock was half-erect, standing in its dark surrounding of hair.

Hutch looked down, feeling his face flood with heat. Some guys seemed to have no inhibitions at all. He did. He’d developed early and a lot, and baring himself in showers at school had embarrassed him acutely for a long time. Even Starsky had given him an admiring glance—in friendly jest—when they’d first showered together here. It was then he’d earned a patented Starsky nickname—Blond Blintz. Starsky had noted with disbelief Hutch’s discomfiture. ‘You embarrassed about bein’ hung like a— ?! ‘

‘Shut up, Starsky,’ he’d ordered, dressing more quickly. Feeling his face red, he’d muttered, ‘Doesn’t mean I have to advertise.’

Starsky had looked at him, curiously. ‘You just keep surprising me, Hutch.’

Hutch finished buttoning his shirt. Starsky was still without clothes, rooting in his locker, bare ass to the breeze. The tight-fleshed pair of mounds seemed nakeder than any other man’s, somehow. They had a—Hutch was forced to admit—a kind of strong sensuousness of line that was indecently beautiful; a quality he had only ever associated with a woman’s body. Starsky’s body was nothing like a girl’s, of course, but he had a rear-end that made Hutch want to jump up and cover it with a towel.

“Get dressed will you?” he asked, snapping his sports bag. “We’ll be late for Grunwald’s class.”

“Okay, okay!” Starsky pulled on a T-shirt and a pair of shorts in a hurry. He sat on the bench and drew on a pair of white socks. “Unless you wanna go ahead.” He looked up at Hutch. “I wouldn’t want you to be late.”

“No, it’s okay,” Hutch said, remorsefully. “I’ll wait.”

* * * *

Van’s hand stroked his flank, heat over heat. “You’re so good to me,” she whispered, just now catching her breath. “So good in bed, Kenny.”

He withdrew and lay back heavily. Van flowed over him, a warm, silken darkness. “I wish you were hard again, right this minute.” She touched his sensitive cock, and he grasped her hand, holding it away.

“Don’t, Van!” He’d told her fifty times at least. “It takes a little while, okay?”

She laughed infuriatingly and kissed him. “If we’re going to make a baby,” she breathed against his cheek. “You’ve got to do better than this, my dear husband.”

“Van, haven’t you ever heard of just sleeping after sex?”

“Hmmm… ” A tiny bite at a nipple. “Maybe if you hummed a few bars…?” Another bite and then a flutter of kisses down his belly. She’d always been able to push the buttons. “I’m sooo horny… I want your big, hard cock.”

“Van—” His breath hissed cool against his tongue. Damned if she hadn’t— He felt helpless.

“I want 69.” She positioned herself lithely over him, continuing her concentration on his stirring penis.

Enjoying the process of arousal, he held her petal-smooth hips in his hands for a moment. She was good. As good as Tim… The sudden, unbidden thought shocked him. He opened his eyes to the creamy matte silk of his wife’s ass, tried hard to think of her, what they were doing—trying to  lose himself in the mounting pleasure. He squeezed her flesh hard, flashing back to images of someone else’s flesh.

A startled tremor of feeling shook his heart and gut, making his cock surge. He groaned his multi-leveled reaction, quick, hot lust, chilling shame, and desperate denial. Irreparably soft now, he urged Van away and turned over. “I can’t.”

“Ken? Oh, God. That isn’t fair.”

“It isn’t fair for you to expect me to perform, either, Van! I’m not Superman.” He was sweating, defensive. “I’m fucked out.”

“You’ve been coming twice a night since we were married, Ken.” Van sat up beside him in the dark. He could feel the prickling energy of her annoyance. “What’s happened anyway? What’s wrong?”

He couldn’t possibly explain. Not even to himself. “I don’t much feel like discussing my penis tonight, okay. I just want to sleep, so good-night!”

It was good-bye. Neither of them knew it, but the end of their marriage had really begun that night, with the disturbing vision of his best friend’s bottom captured sweetly in his two hands.

* * * *

He hadn’t been living in the closet. That wasn’t the situation he found himself in. He’d had one homosexual experience and had spent the eight years since it happened both rationalizing it and running away from it. Not because it had been bad; just the opposite. However, it had left him haunted by the possibility that it could happen again, under the right circumstances.

Why did I like it with Tim so much? Why’d I let him seduce me? Because I’m gay? Because I damn near worshipped him? Because he didn’t just take me—because he was tender and fun, and made love with me, treated me like an equal.

Tim Anselm had been one of his father’s legal assistants; a charming, intelligent—and in retrospect, very brave—young man of twenty-five who’d taken a big risk courting his boss’ eighteen-year-old son in secret.

At eighteen Hutch hadn’t known how to respond completely. Or to love precisely the way Tim wanted. He’d liked Tim a lot, sure, but he hadn’t wanted to be gay. To be honest, he wondered if he hadn’t continued the relationship primarily for the guilty pleasure of having his cock sucked regularly by someone who loved doing it. No girl had ever done it for him up to that time. Tim, on the other hand, had worshipped at his cock for most of the two months they were together. They’d broken off the relationship voluntarily when he went away to school for his junior year. Tim had taken a job in Washington…

Now this shade from his past, the side of him that could respond to a man physically, without guilt, had risen again. Only this time… this-time his heart had been captured before he knew, and the response was total, unreserved. He loved Starsky. He loved a man emotionally—as he never had before—and the physical part was taking him over, stabbing him through. He couldn’t let himself think about how it might be, of why he couldn’t look at Starsky’s nakedness anymore without his mouth going dry. No, it wasn’t possible…

He leaned his head back against the tree he was sitting under, agonized. An image of Starsky graced his mind. White, crooked grin against tanned skin, square jaw, slanted blue eyes shining with affection, close-cropped dark curls. His heart wanted to hammer its way out of his chest. “Oh God, Starsk… ” It hurt.

If he ever found out, it’d be the end of us, of whatever we would have had. The best thing for everybody involved would be for him to patch it up with his wife. He was lonely, that was all, just starving for a little unconditional love. But in his best friend’s arms was not the place to find it.

* * * *

“Hutch… is somethin’ wrong?”

“What do you mean?”

Starsky read his expression, and apparently decided not to press. He returned to his textbooks. “Nothin’, I guess.”

* * * *

Starsky’s apartment had become a sanctuary from his marriage. He liked the place, “liberated” traffic light and all. Even in his present state of mind it was a better place than home to kick off his shoes, drink beer, watch the games on TV, or to read, with Starsky as quiet companion. Simpatico.

Stealing a glance over the top of his book, Hutch felt himself color, blink rapidly at the way his thoughts were going, at the ridiculous way he’d fallen in love. Starsky was working on a twin-masted schooner, a delicate ship-model. It was another of his surprising interests. I like you, he thought. I like your—your delicacy. The way you hide it. Look at those hands …

Starsky was a volatile secret that had been revealed to Hutch only by stages. He was one year older than Hutch, an emigre out of New York City, who’d left a widowed mother and only brother behind to seek his new life here. He had his reasons, he simply hadn’t told them to Hutch yet.

Here was a complex man who could seem one-dimensional. Rudely simple and brash at their first meeting, he would now occasionally allow his subtler colors to show through. He could be the most infuriating man alive, but was also a man with whom it was totally impossible to stay angry. A smile, a daisy presented in an empty beer bottle, and all, everything was forgiven.

He was innocent—in so many ways—yet not untouched. There wasn’t much he hadn’t seen, having been in ‘Nam. The ladies loved him like bees loved nectar, but here he was alone tonight, and perfectly content.

“Hutch?”

“Yeah?” He found questioning eyes on him when he looked up.

“Whatcha readin’?”

“‘Trout Fishing in America.’ Richard Brautigan.”

“Hmph. That that weird hippie guy?”

“Define ‘weird’ for me sometime, will you?”

“I don’t understand him. I mean, what’s the point?”

“You get out of a book whatever you put into it, Starsky.”

Starsky shook his head. “I like a story to have a beginning, a middle, and an end. Nothin’ wrong with that, is there?”

Hutch stretched to get a kink out of his back. “Guess not.”

“You hungry?”

He put his book down. “I don’t know. What’ve you got?”

“Lessee… Couple of boxes of leftover Chinese food. A steak. Cold latkes. A carton of chili. Some sticky buns… Oh, and a six-pack of beer.”

“Foods from around the world. Sounds great. Let’s put it all into a big pot and make a Mulligan stew.”

“Oh, no.” Starsky stook, shaking his index finger. “No, no. Come help me with KP.”

As a team they broiled the steak and cut it in thin tender strips, sauteed it with the Chinese vegetables and shrimp. With the crisp reheated potato pancakes, it was actually delicious.

“I think we’ve invented somethin’ new, here,” Starsky said, cleaning his plate with a latke. “Kosher Chinese food.”

“And we won’t be hungry an hour later, you can bet on that.” Hutch sat back, stuffed.

“Think you can handle another beer?” Starsky was on his way to the refrigerator.

“I can sure try.” Hutch followed him with his eyes, and sighed. Easy company… But tonight he’s rubbing salt into the wounds.

Starsky wore cut-offs, a ragged Guinea undershirt, and nothing else. His body didn’t hold its secrets. The parts that were concealed by clothes always seemed ready to climb out of their confinement, like wild animals. Hutch’s groin surged secretly at his awareness of the negligible bits of cloth covering Starsky. His body throbbed, and he knew he couldn’t take much more of this. What the hell is happening to me?

His friend returned with the beers, stood by Hutch’s chair briefly as he opened his own. When he took a step to move away, Hutch, operating on impulse, reached out and grasped the waistband of his worn-out jeans. Not a shred of intellect had gone into the action.

“Huh?” Starsky exhaled.

Hutch looked up into eyes that were violet, now. Starsky scanned his face like a seasoned cop who’d seen it all. “That why you been lookin’ at me?” he asked softly, with pinpoint accuracy.

Hutch nodded. “Yeah.” He could feel the sleek skin under his knuckles. “Yes.”

Starsky sighed heavily, made a move to touch his hair. “Hutch, I—I’m straight.”

“Me, too, I thought.” Hutch swallowed. “Dave, I don’t want to lose your friendship.”

The hand touched his hair then, rested gently atop his head. “You’re scarin’ me.” Another sigh. “Is that a condition? That I sleep with you?”

He’d misunderstood. Hutch was horrified, and indignant. “No! I don’t even know if I—if I want to.” He let go of the warm, faded denim. “I just know that I could. I probably would—”

“—if I gave you half a chance.”

“Not even that much.”

A silence.

“Is this about Van?”

“No. In a way. I don’t know—”

“You love me?” Starsky hadn’t moved away from him, yet. The simple, remarkable question sounded very close in proximity to Hutch.

“That happened first,” he stated, determined to communicate the point clearly. “You’re the best friend I’ve ever had, and I—I love you.” He felt the fingers stroking separate strands of his hair. “How do you feel about me, now? Does this change—?”

Clearing blue eyes examined him. “I don’t think so. No. Not where it counts.”

Hutch smiled ruefully. “Oh, yeah, I’m wonderful. And probably queer.” He shrugged. “Why don’t you sit down? I won’t hold you.”

Starsky sat in his own place again, looking straight at him. “Hutch… A lotta guys have—” He moved his hands, seeking words. “—how can I say it? A lot of guys have—let me know they were interested in me. Since I was a kid, you know what I mean?”

“So I’m not first in line?”

“Hey—”

“Nice to know my taste is shared.”

Starsky was scowling with anger. “Stop it, you big, blond jerk. I like you so much; you’re the only one I’ve ever wanted to—to think about maybe tryin’ it with.”

Hutch stared.

Starsky went on. “Thing is, I ain’t never been scared of it before. I’m no—what’s the word?”

“Homophobe?”

What’s that mean? Fear of fags?” He flushed.

“More or less. Fear of homosexuals.”

“No, I’m no homophobe. I don’t run around keepin’ my back to the wall. I’ve just never wanted… you know.” A swallow, shy lashes revealing apprehension and curiosity. “You ever been with a guy?”

All Hutch really wanted, he realized with a prick of tenderness, was the right to protect this man, to stand at his side, to shield him. “Yes. But I don’t want it to matter, Starsk. I’m not asking you for sex. Our friendship—”

“Did you fuck this guy?” Bluntly, Starsky’s words swept aside all the platonic ice cream castles. “Did he fuck you?”

“What?”

“You heard me. Did you ever fuck anybody? The real thing, I mean.” Starsky was quietly insistent for the answers, body still. He seemed to want to know how serious Hutch intended to be if they were to get involved that way.

“I’ve been with one guy, and we never got past giving each other head. But—”

“You sucked his cock?”

“Yes.”

“And let him come in your mouth?”

Starsky’s candor was like steam melting away his resolve like the seal on an envelope. “Once or twice.” He saw the look. “Why? Because I liked him a lot. He wanted me to… We were together for two months, for pete’s sake. He was my—lover, I guess… Look., why are you doing this to me? Entertainment? The story’s just not that interesting.” He wasn’t angry at Starsky. It was that he had been ready to retreat, and talking like this was not helping him do that.

“I wanna know what I’m getting into,” Starsky said.

Hutch felt his hands sweating. “Why would you want to get into anything like this, Starsky? It’s completely nuts.”

To his surprise, Starsky smiled a little. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“You’d have to tell me that to find that out.”

“I dig the way you underestimate yourself.”

Starsky wasn’t looking at him anymore. Hutch could see him trembling, now. “Why’d you say—just now—why’d you say you’d never been scared before? Does it mean you’re scared now? Scared of me?”

Still no look. “I told ya. It’s different this time. With you, it’s different.”

Hutch had endured enough. “Come here,” he ordered, knowing Starsky would probably have come to him of his own free will in a minute.

Starsky must have known it, too. He got up and came around the table, sidling against it as if childishly self-conscious.

Hutch pushed back the chair he was sitting in, opening his thighs to receive his friend. Starsky placed both hands on his shoulders. He was breathing hard and fast. The furry belly, on a level with Hutch’s eyes, quivered. Holding the slim waist, Hutch leaned forward and kissed it.

“Hey,” he whispered. “Stop shaking. Nobody’s gonna hurt anybody.”

Starsky’s fingers tightened. “Can I tell you a secret?”

Hutch closed his eyes for a moment. “Yes.”

“Been wantin’ to tell ya… I like your face.”

Hutch looked up.

Starsky leaned over and kissed both his cheeks, almost ceremonially. Straightening, he breathed. “What do you wanna do?”

“I just want to love you. Any way you’ll let me.”

Hutch’s arms went around his friend, squeezing tight. Lust was warring with love inside him, and he couldn’t tell which flame was hotter. He kissed the tender bronze skin over the muscles of Starsky’s chest, and stomach, used his teeth to pull at the current of silky hairs that ended somewhere down in the dark inside the cut-offs. With shaking fingers, he reached to unsnap them. Starsky moaned with pleasure for the first time, abruptly as if he’d been holding back. “That’s nice,” murmured. “Don’t stop.”

Hutch continued loving the strong, silken chest, stretching up to reach Starsky’s neck.

“Can’t get at you—” He pulled Starsky into his lap, one hand carelessly mapping his partner’s thighs and crotch, his tongue making patterns on Starsky’s neck. The zipper came down, and he stroked the crisp pubic hair.

“Let me get these off… ” Starsky stood. They both did. Hutch pulled off his plaid shirt, watching Starsky push the shorts down and off, lifting shapely legs. He stood again, cock springing up completely erect, hard as— Hutch felt his mouth water, heart pound.

Starsky approached and helped him with his own pants. The slim fingers were sure, eager, stripping Hutch down, then grasping his hard cock, pumping it with unconcealed curiosity. “Never touched another man.”

Hutch pulled him close, held him at last. It was like holding a sable teddy-bear, custom-made to fill his arms. The male ass he touched, held, was finer-textured than he could have imagined. The flesh had a beautifully muscled inner consistency. He squeezed, just to feel the sweet give—all the way to the bone. They both moaned at the sensation.

Starsky, who’d been treating his chest to passionate attention, pressed close, arms stealing further around Hutch’s waist. He growled, placing his whole open mouth over one and then the other of Hutch’s nipples, scraping gently with teeth, laving with tongue—fanning the twin fires. He began to grind his cock against Hutch’s, to thrust hard. In the excitement, they both lost their balance and almost fell over the chair.

Hutch kissed the hot sandpaper cheek pressed against his own, bracing Starsky’s weight. “Let’s get in your bed… ”

They left their scattered clothes, and with Hutch following close, Starsky led the way to his bedroom. As they reached the bed, he grabbed for Hutch and

Hutch tumbled him in, possessively. They wound tight to each other, as if they never intended to separate again. They rolled, slowly, pressing hard. Starsky was a deliciously firm cushion of muscle into which Hutch thrust, sighing at the immediate answer. “Oh, yes… ” He was burning inside, as he hadn’t for so long—maybe never in his life.

Starsky smelled good, tasted good; felt so good—it didn’t much matter if he was male. It would have been the same for them if he’d been female; Hutch would have ended up being unfaithful to Van. They’d have gone to bed sooner, in fact.

He looked at his friend. The exotic features were almost unfamiliar to him; Starsky was softened, aroused, ready for sex now, asking for it. He was made for loving and his eyes said he knew it perfectly well. “You gonna
kiss me?” he asked, warily. “Did you do that before?” It was almost a taunt, seductive yet timid.

Dizzy, Hutch just kissed his lips, gently. “I don’t remember. Was that all right? Like that?” Starsky nodded. Hutch kissed the soft, scented mouth again and then again, becoming addicted.

Starsky responded aggressively, raising his head to take Hutch’s mouth. With a wordless, hungry sound, Hutch sought inside, tasting honey on Starsky’s tongue; clover, earth, bark, spice—warm, living human man. They tasted each other, mouths melting, meeting addiction with addiction. “You’re good,” Starsky breathed.

Not much foreplay. They were moving, already wild. A sweating thigh slid up Hutch’s side as Starsky changed position, offering more of himself. Hutch pinned him, held his beautiful ass, locking them together as they ground on an exquisitely sharp point of pleasure. The hot breath against Hutch’s ear panted in crazy unison with his own. He pounded harder, making the bed complain, feeling and hearing the subtle smack of balls making contact, the wet sound of their cocks. Lost, he ordered Starsky to come with him, help him, be there with him at the end. He wished he could be inside when it happened, and that thought was too much. He yelled, Starsky joining him in harsh harmony. It was if they shared the identical sensations, everything down to the last quiet flutter of ecstasy.

They’d drenched each other in semen and sweat. Hutch could feel it cooling between them, uniting them.

Starsky sighed, brokenly. “God, Hutch, I love ya. I love you, right now.”

“Love you, too,” Hutch whispered, not wanting to part from him. “That was so good, Starsky. So fucking good…”

“To coin a phrase… ”

After a long spell, they caught their breaths. Hutch moved off his lover carefully. To his surprise, Starsky put out a hand, as if he didn’t want to part either. The hand rested on his shoulder. They were quiet, awake and aware, together.

Starsky cleared his throat, after a time. “Um… This is when I usually like cuddling—an’ kissing… After—”

Hutch grabbed and embraced him, kissed him. He’d been longing to again. You love me.… The next kiss was gentler, a learning touch. When it ended, Starsky brushed noses with him, and he delighted in the sensation. They nuzzled like two lovebirds.

“When I met you I never thought we’d be this way about each other.”

“What way is that?” Hutch smiled.

“Crazy.”

They both laughed, mildly. And it was the final touch of grace, a blessed relief. Starsky expressed it in his own way.

“This doesn’t change things. Not so much… We can have both—the ladies, and us. If we use our heads.”

“You want both?”

“Yeah. I still love ladies. An’ I want to be a cop. But you’re special to me.”

Hutch had a sudden thought. He looked into Starsky’s face, overwhelmed with a need for honesty. “Van isn’t—I mean, you’re the—”

Starsky’s fingers covered his mouth. “Ssh. I want excitement in my life, but not that much. We both know you’re here partly because things aren’t goin’ real well with her. An’ if she found out—”

“You’re not ‘wrecking a home.’ Van and me—we’re doing that ourselves. That’s not why I’m with you.”

Starsky silenced him with a firm kiss. “Don’t talk about it while you’re layin’ here with me. Never. This isn’t the place, okay?”

“You’re right.” Hutch looked down at the soul he held, wondering why the two of them had been given this. All happened so fast … like it was meant to. Like we were born for each other. “Just be with me?” he requested.

Starsky nodded. “Any time you say.”