Pump It Up

Hutch has a little problem. Starsky wants to help him solve it. But will the solution be worse than the problem itself?

Originally published in the SHarecon 2006 zine, October 2006.
Special thanks to Flamingo and Cyanne for accepting this little bit of madness into their nice, sane SHarecon zine, and my forever thanks to Flamingo and Molo for letting me drag their good names into this S/H craziness.

“We need to talk.”

Words Hutch never wanted to hear. Starsky rarely used them, and they usually preceded something unpleasant if not actively nauseating. He had an idea this time fit squarely in the latter category, because Starsky was holding up the pamphlet Hutch had reluctantly brought home from the urologist. How Starsky could talk at all after the lung-bursting blowjob Hutch had delivered only–he glanced at the bedside clock–three minutes ago, was beyond him.

“I’m not talking about that.” Hutch promptly turned over on his side, smushing his pillow up around his head, careful to cover every inch of his ear in hopes Starsky could take a hint.

Starsky could take anything, including a cock up the ass at five o’clock in the morning–when there was still a cock capable of entering said ass–but he had never learned to take a hint. “Hu-u-utch.”

“You got off. Aren’t you happy?”

“You didn’t.”

“Don’t remind me.”

“Hey, partner, I’ve been not reminding you for weeks now. I didn’t remind you when you tore a fifteen-inch strip off that new rookie’s hide for turning in his report a day late. Didn’t remind you when you lit into Huggy for bringing the wrong kind of wine over to dinner last week. Didn’t remind you when–”

“I get the idea!” Hutch growled.

“We’ve been bumping and grinding for almost thirty years now. I got plans for us to bump and grind the next thirty, too.”

“Why are you telling me? Tell my prostate. What’s left of it!”

“Hutch–”

Hutch sat up in bed against the head rails and flung the pillow across the room, connecting squarely with his newest guitar and past caring. “You know the ludicrous part of all this? I took care of myself. I was healthy. I’m the one who drank all the organic shakes and watched what I ate. Meanwhile, you guzzled sodas, ate every spicy food you could get your hands on, and have the smallest bladder known to mankind. But who ends up with benign enlarged prostate? Me.”

“Hutch–”

“I still swear it’s because you’ve been on top sixty percent of the time over the years. How much furious rubbing can one little gland take?”

“You didn’t complain at the time.”

“Yeah? Now I’m complaining.” Hutch stabbed a finger in Starsky’s direction. “YOU did this to me!”

Starsky was visibly trying to squelch laughter. He failed. “You sound like a woman in labor.”

Hutch thought about pressing his middle finger right into the skin between Starsky’s eyes until he left an imprint on Starsky’s other exceedingly small internal organ. He restrained himself to a casual flip-off and left the bed. “That’s the thanks I get for taking a laser to the prostate for you, you son-of-a-bitch?”

“Oho, wait a minute, buddy boy. You took the laser to the prostate so we wouldn’t have to fuck in the shower just to be close to the john. You didn’t do it for me!”

Hutch paced the small strip of floor directly in front of the bed. “And why they call it a Green Light laser, I don’t know. Ever since the damn procedure, it’s been a red light in the bedroom all the way, even if the doc swears the procedure isn’t to blame. And now you want to talk?”

“Yeah, I wanna talk. ‘Cause you’ve about sucked a hole in my dick. Compensatory sucking, Hutch. Before Davey Jr. starts going the other way when you bring your beautiful lips across my equator, I figure we gotta deal with this.”

“Deal with it?” Hutch stopped halfway across his six-foot stretch of floor and finger-squeezed his throat in some irrational hope of forcing out the words pinned inside by his frustration and embarrassment. When his throat relaxed, he shifted his nervous energy into scratching an old bug bite on his chest. “I’ve tried Chinese herbs. I’ve tried Inuit herbs. I’ve tried Indian herbs. I’ve become the United Nations of herbs! If watching you pump iron in the gym with half the guys under thirty nearly drowning in their own drool over you doesn’t get me in the mood to attack you in the showers, then my prick’s dead, end of story. The sooner I face it, the more complete human being I’ll be.”

Starsky gave him the heated, head-to-thigh once-over that usually inflated Hutch’s libido as well his ego. “They drool over you, too, gorgeous. Which just makes me want to attack them, and not in the way you mean.”

With neither his ego nor his soft penis in the mood for inflation, Hutch resumed his pacing. “Not anymore they don’t. They have radar for snoozing dicks. ‘Best not look at him, boys, his rod’s not even good for hanging curtains these days.'”

“Who cares what they think, anyway? We go to that gym for the cheap rates and good equipment, not to impress the gym bunnies. This is about us. Didn’t the doc suggest some conservative measures?”

Hutch decided the peace plant by the greenhouse door required immediate attention. “If you call chemicals conservative,” he said, crouching down to pluck a browning sheath away from one of the phallic blossoms. “I don’t.”

“Oh, those little bunny-fucking pills, huh?”

Hutch gave up contemplation of how a plant could look more erect than he did and looked over his shoulder at Starsky. “You mean the fuck-like-bunnies pills.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Difference is, I don’t plan to be having sexual relations with rabbits in the near future!”

“I think you’ve decided not to have sexual relations with any species in the near future!”

Hutch returned to the bed and sat down on the edge with his back to Starsky. “How is it you’ve managed to escape this catastrophe?”

Without looking, he knew Starsky was shrugging and brushing fingernails on his chest in masculine preening. “I dunno. Probably all those spicy foods kept my juices flowing, y’know? And, hey, if all else fails, I’ve got Flamingo as a fluffer. Works every time.”

Hutch shot off the bedside and ended up at the chest-of-drawers where his holster rested beside his badge and Starsky’s weapon. He pulled the Magnum and began waving it wildly. “You better take that back, Don Juan, right now. That woman does not want to deal with me tonight. This apartment building would crumble if I put holes in her feathers where her feathers weren’t meant to have holes.”

Staring at Hutch’s groin, Starsky snapped his fingers. “Damn.”

“What?”

“Well, I thought if I got your adrenaline flowing, some hydraulic action might, you know….”

Hutch sheathed his gun before he could use it on his partner. He started to leave the alcove. An amused “Where you going?” stopped him. He answered with a sly look over his shoulder. “I’ve got a fluffer of my own, thank you much.”

In an instant, 175 pounds of jealous, chest-heaving, wild-eyed male barred Hutch’s way to the living room. “You better not even be thinkin’ of going to that computer-techno-chick’s apartment!”

Hutch folded his arms over his chest. “Funny, how you automatically assume I meant Molo. You been thinking things you shouldn’t, Starsk? Thought when you went inside your head you were doing the girl-on-girl thing.”

He got a satisfying pink flush over Starsky’s cheekbones. “Yeah, I do that, too.”

“Too? Wait a minute! You mean, you have been thinking–”

“No, no, I meant–ahem. Girl-on-girl. Yeah. Right.”

When the flush deepened, Hutch reached for Starsky’s shoulders and squeezed overly hard in his surprise. “Not the nun-on-nun thing again! I saw you get heated during that L- Word episode with the two nuns on a bus. I don’t know if I can compete with the closeted lesbian nun fantasy right now.”

“‘Course I ain’t been thinking about nuns!” Starsky snarled, twitching away from the hold on his shoulders. He then mumbled a few unintelligible words.

“I didn’t hear you.”

“Scully and that Asian doctor babe from Grey’s Anatomy, okay?”

“Scully from the X-Files?”

“What other Scully is there?”

Hutch began hooting. Nothing riled Starsky more than Hutchinson Hooting at his expense. “Woo hoo! Sorry, lover, but–oh man. Wait, before or after she was pregnant with Mulder’s kid? Or during?”

Starsky’s eyes narrowed to slits of cold blue. “You know, ever since your dick went into hibernation, you’ve been a sick man.” He wagged the pamphlet in front of Hutch’s nose. “Which is why, for your own good, we need to talk about the Pump-Effx penile prosthetic implant.”

“I’m not going near anything with a name like Pump-Effx, so you can just forget it.” Tired of standing around naked and limp, when thanks to the benefit of his nudity, Starsky was standing around naked and already half-erect again, Hutch returned to bed, drawing the covers all the way up to his chin. So there. Starsky would have to amuse himself some other way.

Starsky parked his tantalizing ass right down at Hutch’s feet, patting the lumps they made under the covers. “Says here it’s a fluid-filled device implanted inside the body. Can’t even see it on the outside.”

“Yippie kai yay.”

“Two cylinders go up inside your dick.” Wincing, Starsky absently fondled his growing proof of natural virility. “Ouch. Thing is, I don’t know where’d they find cylinders big enough for your engine, babe.”

“Can we turn off the light and pretend I sent my cock off to the dry cleaners or something? This is just making me sick.”

Reading aloud under breath, Starsky squinted at the pamphlet. “Small print here.” He walked over to his nightstand for his reading glasses, grabbing also the rubbery stress squeeze ball he kept beside the phone. Back on the bed at Hutch’s feet again, he squeezed the ball repeatedly. “Oh. Small print says the device won’t increase your length or girth.” He grinned at Hutch over top of the pamphlet. “No problem, there. You get any bigger, I’ll need a room added on at the end of my asshole.”

“You’re all asshole. No add-ons necessary. Starsky, if you think this is helping–”

Starsky had ducked his head down toward the pamphlet again, squeezing the stress ball furiously at his side. “Thing works by a pump that’s down in your scrotum.” Starsky actually looked delighted, damn him. He held the squeeze ball up proudly in his left hand. “Hear that, Hutch? Way I’ve been practicing with this ball, and with my gun hand, too, already strong, I’ll be able to pump you all the way up to the ceiling. I’ll need to climb a stepladder to sit down on your big boy.”

“You just said it won’t increase my size, Starsky. If you’re going to appoint yourself ambassador for the Pump-Effx system, could you at least provide accurate advertising?”

“Uh-oh.”

Hutch sat forward, trying to see around Starsky’s side at the pamphlet. As if he had a prayer of seeing the fine print from that distance anyway, his eyes having decided to throw up the white flag to middle age before his cock got the notion. “What, uh-oh? I don’t like uh-oh.”

“Can’t have sex for four to six weeks after the surgery.”

Hutch shrugged. “Big deal. Not exactly having any right now, am I? Were you expecting to come in for a quickie on the operating table before they wheeled me to recovery?”

Starsky glared at him. “I’ll have you know, once you pulled me kicking and screaming into the whole bottoming thing, I developed a real flair for it. Your dick, my ass, good combination. I’m missing that combination. I need that combination every once in a while for my overall well being and positive outlook on the world. Without that combination, the station coffee goes down like engine sludge, your tofu casserole’s no longer edible, and the Torino overheats.”

Hutch groaned. “For God’s sake, you’ve browbeaten me into it, okay. Just put the pamphlet down and get back in bed. For once in my fifty-nine years, I’m actually not enjoying watching you get all hard over there.”

Starsky peered at him over the glasses rims. “Nuh-uh, Hutch. Says right here, before you can get approved for the procedure, you have to be able to accept your real age. You haven’t been fifty-nine since–”

“STARSKY!”

Certainly aware he courted more anger than he could handle, Starsky scrambled with the agility of a nineteen year old over to his side of the bed and slipped beneath the covers. He did not abandon the pamphlet. “You can’t wear tight underwear after the surgery.”

“Good thing you’re not going in for it, then. I’m sure airbrushed bikinis are what they’re warning against.”

“Oh, and–uggh.” Starsky removed his glasses and set the pamphlet on the nightstand, plunking his glasses down on top and reaching for the lamp switch. “You win, turning out the light.”

Hutch grabbed at his arm. “Oh, no, you don’t. What prompted the uggh?”

“Nothin’, Hutch.”

“Partner, if I’m gonna spend the next thirty years of my life artificially pumping up my penis for you, the least you can do is hit me with the truth so I don’t have to read it for myself.”

“It was just talking about the possibility of infection, that’s all.”

“Meaning my dick could turn green and fall off.”

“It didn’t use the words ‘turn green and fall off,’ no, but–”

“Was that all?”

“Well, there was the mention of the pump giving the appearance of a third testicle.”

“And?”

“And if the cylinders sit wrong, your penis could be crooked.”

“Oh, this is getting better and better. I’ll end up a three-balled, crooked-dicked freak with gangrene.” Hutch gasped, and grabbed tighter to Starsky’s arm.

“What? Hutch, what’s wrong?”

“I’m–I think I’m–”

Starsky gasped, too, and lifted the cover for a look. “Aw, don’t play me, Hutch, are you really–?” He moaned low in his throat. “Man, you are really!”

“Quick! Drawer, lube, before it changes its mind.”

But Starsky was already kneeling on his pillow, holding on to the bed rails, and hoisting his ass at the perfect height for the kind of pumping Hutch liked best. “No lube needed, just ram that bad boy up where he belongs.”

Hutch was too relieved and excited to argue, but resting behind Starsky, blanketing him, encircling his chest with one arm and drawing his hand down to see just how tight his favorite tunnel had become without activity, he realized he’d been suckered all the way down the line. “You’re already lubed, you sneaky bastard!”

Starsky chuckled. “I know my Hutch. Figured the problem was probably more in your oversized brain than your oversized whatzit. All you needed was the proper motivation, and probably a convoluted one, to get the motor running again.”

“Avoiding the Pump-Effx qualifies as proper motivation, all right.” Hutch drew away from his over-the-back hug and gripped Starsky’s hips, nudging his cock tip against the slicked opening. Contact with that slightly moistened flesh firmed him to thrusting hardness and he went for a hilt-deep lunge. Starsky cried out, victorious, trembling. Hutch held himself still inside the beloved channel. “Umm, I missed this. Just might spend the night in here.”

“No complaints from me, but you better have a goose down butt donut for my office chair tomorrow morning.”

Hutch stretched forward and kissed Starsky’s shoulder blade. “You know, I would’ve gone through with that surgery for you. For me, too, but….”

“I know. You love me, you softhearted boob.”

Caressing up Starsky’s side, Hutch reached around to his lover’s groin and began to lightly pump his balls. “This is where the pump would’ve gone?”

Starsky started a combination hiss-groaning that stirred Hutch’s juices. “Oh, yeah. Yeah, fuck yeah. Babe, I don’t need any cylinders to get my dick going with you doin’ that.”

Smiling, Hutch withdrew slowly, angled his cock for a thrust to the special but temperamental gland that had caused the ruckus, and drove in for contact that would send Starsky flying. Sure enough, Starsky let out a string of erotic profanity with sufficient heat to melt the brass rails. In between Hutch’s thrusts, he gasped brokenly, “Be careful…with that prostate rubbing, willya? We don’t need two lasered glands in the family.”

Sucking in all the air he could and determined to enjoy the heat of Starsky’s ass for the entirety of the next thirty years, Hutch laughed. “What’re you worried about? You have a pink feather boa wearing fluffer down the hall, remember?”