Strategy

Starsky is sneaky and Hutch is sentimental.

I don’t recall anyone ever smirking while giving me a blowjob, but that’s what Starsky is doing, in spite of or maybe because of me straddling him while I’ve got him pinned to the floor.

Starsky has this strategy of talking incessantly while playing chess, in order to distract his opponent. He knows it infuriates me. He also knows how good he looks with his shirt unbuttoned halfway. And now there’s no sound but the ticking of the clock and my own heavy breathing.

It should be obvious by now how he always manages to get one over on me. But I fall for it every time.

I pull off before I come down his throat, and I end up coming on my clothes like I’m a kid again. He’s on me before I can even try to stand up, kissing me down my neck and my chest as he unbuttons my shirt clumsily, as if I’m some kind of sweet treat that he can’t get enough of. I can feel how hard he is against me, and it makes my eyes roll up into my head.

I bury my hands in his hair. “Hey. Hey David.” That stops him; I never call him that. He’s got this look in eyes that’s a little bit confusion but mostly hopeful anticipation. I smile, maybe because I’ve gained the upper hand, maybe because he looks beautiful. “You wanna take me to bed and fuck me?”

Starsky gets this look on his face that makes me wonder how I ever manage to deny him anything. He looks like a kid in a candy store, or, let’s face it, Starsky in a candy store. But when he gets me in bed, he’s sweet and slow, like a connoisseur savoring his favorite dish.

Afterward, I’m lying awake, satisfied but not sleepy, while Starsky is lost in sleep, his limbs all tangled up in mine, as if he’s a benevolent octopus. And I have the chance to say what I’m too cowardly to tell him when he’s awake. “How’d I get so lucky?”