Pretty Yellow Paper Dresses

What happened when two men, best friends, partners, lovers, are stuck together in an isolation room not knowing what’s going on, one of whom claims claustrophobia?

Dedicated to TT (Laura M) because I adore her, among other things. And with thanks to Kimberly for sharing several backstage photos of the boys in between scenes in The Plague.

“C’mon,” he says, wearing that cheesy grin that he thinks will get him anything he wants. Unfortunately for me, it usually works. “Just a quickie.”

I stare at him like he’s lost the last two screws in his Erector Set. “In case you haven’t noticed, pal, we’re in a hospital room, not Manny’s Peep-O-Rama down on Porno Row. Windows, Hutch. Windows. With all those nice doctors, and nurses, and….”

“So, we’ll give em a show. C’mon, Starsk, these are medical professionals. You can’t say they haven’t seen something like this before.”

“Sure they have,” I say. “Most of ’em, anyway,” I add, thinking of the big nurse with the facial hair problem and her fondness for big needles. “But not in the isolation room!”

“Starsk,” he purrs, drawing close, “you know what that black bikini does to me.”

“I know,” I reply, stepping away, “and thanks to that pretty paper dress you’re wearin’, so does everyone else. C’mon, Hutch! Gimme a break, willya?”

“Oh, I’ll give you a break alright,” he says. And pounces.

“Hutch!” I try to dance away, but the room’s too small by half—did I mention I have claustrowhatzits?—and I smash my toe into the leg of the bed.

He grabs a handful of my own pretty paper dress and yanks.

And, just like that, I’m now wearing half a pretty paper dress and my unmentionables are waving in the breeze. Or would be, if not for the damn briefs I put on this morning. At this moment, I can’t figure out if I hate em or love ’em. It’s a tie, I suppose.

Hopping away on my one good foot, I leave him with half my dress and grab my robe, yanking it on and belting it fast. Closing off the gates to temptation, if you will.

Does that stop him? Of course not. So I make my hands all grabby-like and start advancin’ on him for a change, like I’m gonna rip his pretty yellow paper dress half off. Only, I realize as I’m doin’ it that that’s just what he wants.

Damn detective.

So I stop, make my belt tighter, and cross my arms. “No,” I say, stern as I can. I try tapping my foot for emphasis, but that just makes my damn toe hurt more, so I stop.

I swear I could bite that pouty little lower lip thing he does right off. “Starsky,” he says, almost whining, “if I have to play one more round of Slap-Jack, just one more, I’m going to stop slapping Jacks and start slapping myself silly, and then you’ll have to hang around this tiny little room with no one to talk to but yourself.” He gives me one of his prized smirks. “And you know what wonderful conversation that’ll be.”

“If you’re lookin’ to see what’s behind door number one, Blondie, that ain’t exactly the way to do it,” I warn him.

His smirk disappears. “Please?”

Oh god, now it’s the puppy eyes. I always thought I did ’em pretty good, but he’s got the market cornered.

“No.” It’s hard, but I stand my ground. Someone’s gotta be thinkin’ with the big head around here.

Up goes the Finger, and I know I’m about to get it with both barrels. “Now listen here, buddy, and listen good. You know what’s gonna happen. An hour from now, two at the most, some idiot in a white suit is gonna come in here and tell us that we’re free to go, and then we’re gonna spend the next week, non stop, running around this city looking for the idiot who killed Jake and maybe a lot of other people. And in all that time, I’m going to be thinking of you in those black bikinis and…blue balls, Starsk. Blue. Balls.”

And then he crosses his arms like he really means it this time.

“I’ll close the curtains,” he adds.

I stare at him, weakening a little.

“I’ll lock the door?”

Damn, I wish I could tap my foot.

Stupid toe, anyway.

“Sta-arsk,” he says in that tone of voice that gets absolutely everything up and saluting.

“Bathroom,” we both say together.

Do you know how hard it is to get two full grown men squeezed into one of those dollhouse-sized hospital bathrooms? It’d be easier to host Margarita Night at the Pits in my Torino.

That doesn’t matter when one of the full grown men is a very determined Hutchinson. Very determined Hutchinson’s can work miracles. Take it from me. I got cause to know.

Before the door’s even slammed closed, my ass is perched half on the sink and he’s sucking me through my briefs like Jockey is the newest flavor of the month. And the noises he’s makin’ as he’s doin’ it have got to be illegal in seven states, and probably a whole buncha countries, too.

Then underneath his moans, I hear a suspicious crinkling, and by the way his right arm is movin, all rhythmic-like, I start hopin’ that there’s a stack of pretty yellow paper dresses somewhere in this tiny bathroom, cause mine’s just about gone and his is just about to disintegrate.

Then he gets his mouth all fulla saliva and starts pressing and wiggling his tongue just so, right where the wet spot is and I pretty much stop thinkin’ of anything at all.

The top of my head blows clear off and my legs shoot out around his thighs, and I’m kickin’ the shower door, but my toe isn’t hurtin’ at all anymore.

A second later, he just sorta melts into me, but, you know, my briefs are kinda slippery, and so is the sink, and well….one thing leads to another and we’re both wedged between the can and the shower stall, and I’m’s the one gonna be getting’ the blue balls cause his chin is diggin hard into them, and the lousy idiot is laughing!

Laughing!!

Can you believe that?

Some friend he is.

I guess Isolation’s got some soundproof thing going on, because no-one’s threatening to knock down the door or send in fire and rescue or anything—could you see us explaining that to Dobey?

As soon as I get the big lummox to stop laughing—and a few well placed jabs to his kidneys does the trick nicely, I might add—we manage to untangle the pretzel we’ve gotten ourselves into and stand up, chest to chest, thigh to thigh, well, everything to pretty much everything else.

“Thank you,” he says, real sweet, his face all flushed and glowy, his eyes soft and sparkling, and hell, for that look, the Chief himself could bust the door down and I’d just tell him to go to hell.

Instead, I give him a real strong, real good hug, and then we try to figure out how to get out of the damn bathroom.

We just manage to ditch the evidence and get ourselves into another pair of pretty yellow paper gowns when the door opens and a man and woman step in, smiling.

I sure the hell hope it’s good news.