Talkin’ Dirty Movies

133

How much trouble can Starsky and Hutch get into in a legitimate movie theater while watching a film. You had to ask?

 

Originally published in the S&H slash zine, Barely Legal, in 2006.

A New Chapter in the Talkin Dirty Universe

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“You sure this ain’t one of those documentaries?”

Hutch couldn’t help but smile at the manner in which the word was said: As if documentaries were only a small step above Brussels sprouts and castor oil in Starsky’s book of ‘things to avoid at all costs.’

“It’s not a documentary, Starsk. It’s a film. A film that’s been nominated for the Academy Award, in fact.”

“Oh great,” Starsky groaned. “That cinches it. Snoozer.”

“You don’t even know what it’s about and already you’re making snap judgments. You know, it’s not going to hurt you to sit through something cultural for a change.”

“Movies ain’t supposed to be about culture. That’s what the opera and junk like that is for.”

Hutch ran his hand over his face, hearing his own long-suffering sigh. He shook his head as he stood at the foot of the long aisle of empty chairs, waiting for his partner to finish getting up the balcony stairs and precede him in. Hutch always sat on the aisle.

Starsky’s pace was slowed by the balancing act he was performing. In his left hand was a giant soda cup and perched on top of the lid was a large box of Goobers. There was a jumbo bag of popcorn—the bag sopping with butter grease—in the crook of Starsky’s right arm. It was slipping down a bit against his chest where it was pressed, leaving a small, dark, greasy blotch on his red tee shirt. Starsky tried to slide the bag up with his right hand, but since his fingers were busy clutching a box of Milk Duds and a bag of Twizzlers, his reach wasn’t very effective.

“You know, ya could help me out here,” Starsky grumbled as he reached the step Hutch was impatiently waiting upon.

“Sure, buddy,” Hutch agreed, leaning in to flip the first seat in the aisle up so his burdened partner could pass.

“Gee, thanks,” was the sarcastic reply to his helpfulness.

“Look, who told you to buy all that junk anyway? It’s not like we’re even going to be staying here that long. This is not a date, you know.”

“Oh believe me, I know,” Starsky shot back as he maneuvered carefully into the aisle, trying desperately not to drop any of his precious goodies. “If this was a date, I would have insisted you take me to something better than this yawn-fest picture.”

Somehow, even as he tripped into his seat, Goobers hitting the floor with a thud and a dollop of soda splashing out onto his lap from beneath the loosened lid, Starsky still managed to throw Hutch a sexy grin, eyebrows wagging mischievously, as his voice lowered purposefully. “And you damn well would have, too, if you were looking to get lucky by the end of the night.”

“You’re not that hard to get, partner.” Despite his grousing, Hutch wasn’t as completely unaffected as he pretended to be. There was something about that tone that never ceased to rattle him. Turning quickly away from his lover before he lost his self-righteous, aloof countenance completely, he sat down in his seat, stretching his long legs out into the aisle.

“Are you saying I’m easy?”

“Shhh.”

“Why am I shushing? The borefest hasn’t even started yet!”

“You’re shushing because you’re babbling, Starsk.”

“I don’t babble.” Starsky was clearly affronted… for all of five seconds. “Here, hold this.”

Before Hutch could even protest, the slimy bag of popcorn was deposited into his lap.

“Starsk!”

Hutch snatched up the bag, his jarring motion sending kernels of popcorn cascading all over his lap as he tried to keep its grease-laden bottom from staining his brown cords. It was already too late, however. The tell-tale grease patch was already darkening the material over his right thigh.

“Damn it, Starsky!”

His partner paid no heed to his gripes, busying himself instead with getting the rest of his junk food arranged systematically across his lap. “Quit complaining, will ya? If you’da just helped me, none of this would’ve happened.”

Hutch snagged one of the napkins peeking out of the pocket of Starsky’s leather jacket and began rubbing at the grease stain on his pants, his muttered string of curses having no effect on his partner, who declared triumphantly a few moments later, “There! Perfect!”

Starsky had managed to get all his goodies positioned “just the right way.” This was an art for Starsky, something he took great pride in. Hutch had long ago given up questioning why his partner couldn’t just keep something down on the floor or lay it in the empty seat beside them. “What’s the challenge in that?” Starsky would always respond, shaking his head with bemusement over Hutch’s inability to understand the truly important things in life.

“Don’t forget your popcorn,” Hutch growled as he shoved the bag toward its owner.

“Hey, hey, easy! You’re going to upset the delicate balance.”

Starsky took a moment to re-check the positioning of each item before accepting the popcorn bag back into his hand. Hutch rolled his eyes at the sight beside him. Starsky sat, drink cup nestled on the chair between his thighs… thighs upon which balanced a box of Milk Duds on the right denim-clad thigh and Twizzlers and Goobers on the left. Hutch knew there was some Starsky logic behind what was placed where, but at the moment he couldn’t recall what it was and he sure as hell wasn’t going to ask for a replay of that twisted spiel.

Satisfied that his delicate balance was secure, Starsky took back his popcorn, grinning happily as he dug his fist into the bag and scooped himself out a handful, which he deposited into his mouth and crunched with loud glee.

“Mmmm, there we go,” he mumbled around his mouthful. “Now we’re at the movies.”

“Nirvana,” Hutch stated dryly. “Unless of course,” he added tauntingly, “it gets warm in here. You know how the air conditioning in this theater is always on the fritz. It would be a real problem if you had to take that jacket off, wouldn’t it?”

Hutch smirked at his partner’s crestfallen expression. He could practically hear the wheels squeaking in Starsky’s head as he looked at his intricate set-up and tried to come up with a contingency plan. When it was obvious he couldn’t come up with one, in true Starsky fashion he shrugged and murmured sexily, “I like it hot.” Then he dug his fingers back into his bag for another scoop of greasy kernels.

“Why the hell do you need all that? We’re not staying.”

“Hutch, this is a movie. Movie… movie food. What’s not to get? A movie without movie food is like pizza without cheese. Like a living room without TV. It would be like Christmas with no presents, Santa’s reindeers with no Rudolph. It would be like—”

“Forget it, I don’t care anymore.”

“Suit yourself.” Leaning his face down toward his lap, Starsky sucked up a loud drag of soda through his straw.

Hutch shook his head, turning his attention to the large theater around them. It was Monday, midday, so there were very few patrons here. They were alone in the balcony except for two elderly, white-haired women who sat in the very first balcony row behind the railing, and a sleeping man in raincoat in the last seat of the aisle three rows behind the ladies. From what Hutch could see, there were only a handful more moviegoers in orchestra seats below the balcony.

“Why the hell did Huggy insist on meeting us here anyway?” Starsky inquired between bites.

Hutch turned to his partner in disbelief. “Are the pathways to your brain clogged with popcorn grease? Do you think Huggy was actually going to let us set foot inside his place again? We’re lucky he’s decided to even help us at all, as mad as he’s been.”

“Oh, come on. It’s been over a month. How can he still be sore about that?”

Batting away the kernel of popcorn Starsky just spat toward his eye, Hutch responded, “Starsk, do you have any memory cells in that head of yours? We destroyed the man’s brand-new red velvet pool table. We broke up one of his good tables, shattered glassware, made a total wreck of his place… and that’s not even counting the triple X movie he walked unsuspectingly into the middle of.”

Hutch felt his entire head flush red at the memory. What had started out as a simple favor had turned into a disaster, the embarrassment from which could still cause him to grimace over a month later. He couldn’t believe Starsky could just sit there munching popcorn, acting as if he couldn’t comprehend what Huggy could be so upset about. After all, it was Starsky who got them into this mess in the first place.

They would have never even owed Huggy the favor that night if Starsky could have kept better control over the lower half of his body while doing his best to drive Hutch wild with his dirty talk over Huggy’s phone. Hutch had been in San Francisco for that trial, calling over to Huggy’s place, trying to catch up with Starsky to say goodnight. But his Lothario lover had to launch into a stream of dirty talk so raunchy, not only did it send Hutch creaming all over his hotel bed, but it left Starsky with a tell-tale wet stain across the front of his too-tight jeans… right in the middle of Huggy’s bar.

Huggy had been still ranting and complaining over the incident weeks later when finally, to get off the hook, Starsky volunteered them both to close up for Huggy that infamous night a month ago. “How hard could it be to close up a bar?” his headstrong partner had reasoned. Well, it sure became a lot harder after Starsky’s incompetence lost them all of the kitchen staff, leaving them with a huge greasy mess that Hutch had flat out refused to help Starsky clean.

But when did ‘flat-out refusing’ Starsky anything ever work for him?

Should have just left and gone home before he even had a chance to start cajoling. Sure, in retrospect it’s easy to see clearly. But when those midnight blue eyes are batting at you and that sensuous Starsky mouth is going faster than you can keep up with, what do you do then? I guess you end up in a game of strip-pool that turns into one of the most wildly raunchy sexual encounters in memory.

Unfortunately, Huggy’s pool table and quite a bit of his barroom furniture became casualties of that encounter. And poor Huggy found himself playing voyeur to the last of it, the thought of which brought another heated blush to Hutch’s cheeks. Huggy had barely spoken to them in the weeks since and he had forbidden them from setting foot inside his bar. The fact that he was even willing to meet them here today with some important information about the case they were working on was a huge surprise to Hutch. So he certainly wasn’t about to complain about Huggy’s choice of meeting place.

“It’s not like we didn’t clean it all up,” Starsky crunched out between bites of his popcorn. “And we paid for the damn pool table.”

“And you think that just erased everything from Huggy’s mind huh? He trusted us with the keys to his place… his business… and we desecrated it.”

“Desecrate. I like that. Sounds kinda sexy. Naughty and sexy.”

The wicked grin on his lover’s face, combined with the heat of his suggestive tone, sent a shiver racing down Hutch’s spine—which landed straight in his crotch.

“Yeah, well,” he stammered, trying hard to regain his composure. “I’m sure Huggy doesn’t share your colorful view on the subject.”

“His loss.” Starsky grinned before winking at Hutch in that manner that signaled he knew exactly what effect this memory was having on Hutch. That gesture only managed get Hutch’s balls to throbbing.

“Just watch the movie,” he snapped irritably.

“There is no movie yet.”

“Well, watch the previews then.”

“They haven’t started.”

“Watch the curtain then. Just eat your popcorn and shut up.”

Two kernels of popcorn were launched at the side of his head. Thankfully, the lights in the theater dimmed then and the curtain pulled open to indicate the start of the coming attractions.

Starsky loved coming attractions. If they got to the theater late and missed them, his partner would sulk through the whole picture and Hutch wouldn’t hear the end of it for days. Turning his head, Hutch could see Starsky sit up straighter in his seat, eyes already pinned to the screen.

Just to mess with him, he leaned over and attempted to talk. “So, Starsk—”

“Shhhhh!” Starsky’s butter-tinged breath hissed in his face.

Sitting back in his own seat, Hutch smiled, enjoying the peaceful respite.

It didn’t last long. Once the main feature started, Starsky began to fidget. The narrator had barely gotten out the words “I had a farm in Africa,” when this loud, snoring noise rang out beside Hutch.

“Shhhh! Cut it out, Starsk. The whole theater can hear you.”

“You mean all four of them?”

The sound rang out again a few moments later, only this time low enough to only be heard by Hutch. When it failed to garner Hutch’s attention, Starsky leaned closer, whispering, “Why don’t we wait for Huggy in the lobby?”

“Because Huggy said he wasn’t going to be able to swing by here until after two.”

“Then why are we here now?”

“Shhhhhh.”

Whispering this time, Starsky repeated the exact same damned words. “Then why are we here now?”

“Because this is the time the movie started.”

The huffy exhalation of annoyed breath warned Hutch what was coming. Hell, he could hear Starsky’s eyes rolling even if he couldn’t see them in the dim lighting. Stopping the argument before it started, Hutch put up a staying hand like a wall, Starsky’s face practically smashing into it when he leaned over towards Hutch again to complain.

“Fine,” his partner grumped, settling back into his own seat.

Only it wasn’t fine, at least not for long.

Hutch tried valiantly to ignore the childish grumbling and fidgeting and focus his attention on the extravagant photography of African landscape playing across the large screen. It was a beautiful-looking movie, and Hutch felt sure it was one he would enjoy… would have enjoyed, were it not for the bored brat squirming beside him.

It had started with the snore sounds every few moments after a particularly intricate piece of dialog. Then the groans began, quickly followed by the mock imitation of the characters’ words using exaggerated accents. More fidgeting: popcorn bag rustling, Goobers rolling, soda slurping. Hutch was jostled several times with his partner’s elbow as he thrashed around in his seat trying to get comfortable. Twenty minutes into the film, Starsky was as restless and twittery as a disobedient schoolboy sitting outside the principal’s office and Hutch was silently fuming.

“Sit still!” he finally whispered irritably. “I’m trying to watch the movie.”

“It’s not a movie. It’s a fillllllm.” Starsky shifted again, his elbow jabbing right into Hutch’s side.

“Starsk!”

“Sorry… jeez. It’s not like you’re missing anything. It’s been going on for like twenty minutes and nothing’s happened.”

“Nothing at a level that you’d understand, I suppose.”

“Oh, excuse me Mr. Filllllm-goer. I didn’t mean to impede upon your cinematic experience.”

Starsky was quiet then… for all of five minutes. But those five minutes looked to be all it took for Starsky’s devious mind to devise a new tactic to alleviate his boredom. The antsy jittering quieted, but the restless hand attached to the same arm as the elbow that had been poking Hutch suddenly found its way over to Hutch’s lap, picking at some of the kernels of popcorn that still lay pooled there from the earlier spill.

Hutch jolted at the feel of his lover’s hand moving across his lap. “Starsk!”

“What?” Starsky whispered, voice dripping with feigned innocence. “I just wanted to get this popcorn off your pants for you.”

Starsky’s fingers rolled a fluffy kernel against Hutch’s inner thigh before picking it up and depositing it into his mouth with a satisfied Mmmm sound. It was a sound familiar to Hutch, one his partner used when his lips were wrapped around Hutch’s cock.

His cheeks flushing, Hutch issued a low, annoyed warning. “Starsky, just cut it out. Cut it out now.”

“Cut what out, Hutch?” The hushed question was laced with put-upon innocence—as if David Starsky was ever innocent. “I was just helping clean up your pants. The spilled popcorn was my fault and I know how you hate when your pants get all… messy.”

It was an odd combination, contrition mixed with devilish glee. But Starsky could pull it off. There was another sound then and it wasn’t popcorn crunching or soda slurping. Whipping his head around, Hutch caught sight of Starsky in the dimly lit theater, two fingers slipping inside his mouth, his cheeks strained with sucking motion. Then the fingers were dragged slowly, provocatively, from his mouth and pressed into Hutch’s thigh, rubbing rhythmically at the grease stain there.

“Starsk….”

The rubbing continued heedlessly. “Hmmmm?”

“Stop it.”

“Stop what?”

“Stop that.”

“What? This?” Starsky’s fingers stretched and spread flat across Hutch’s thigh, kneading slowly.

Hutch felt the air catch in his throat like it always did at the touch of that gifted hand. “Y-yes… that…” Hutch sputtered, trying to shift his leg over, out of Starsky’s reach.

“Yeah, maybe you’re right. I’m probably just rubbing it in more.”

Hutch breathed a sigh of relief—or was it disappointment?—when the teasing hand was lifted off his thigh. He was then startled by the sound of junk food shifting and toppling as Starsky readjusted his seat position once more.

“But I really should finish cleaning that popcorn up for you. It’s the least I can do.”

Before Hutch’s brain had a chance to process that statement, his partner had leaned over the armrest and was dipping his head into Hutch’s lap, nibbling up bites of popcorn from his pants.

Oh my god.

Meryl Streep was starting to look pretty damn sexy up on that screen… or was it Robert Redford? Hell, it could have even been the elephant. Hutch’s hand fell into Starsky’s curls, though he wasn’t sure if he was trying to urge him on or push him back. All he did know was that he was the one who was going to end up needing to take off his jacket because of the heat.

Starsky’s fingers were rubbing over the fast-growing bulge in Hutch’s pants. “I think a few kernels may have slipped inside here, babe. I better check.” Hutch felt the tug on his zipper as it was drawn down.

Not a good idea. Stopitstopitstopit.

For all the complaining in his head, not one stopit managed to pass his lips. And then Starsky was shifting again, willingly disrupting his hard-won balance of junk food, moving popcorn and soda and whatnot wherever (Hutch refused to look) before sliding to the floor.

Hutch knew he was in trouble now. There were few things in life Starsky would forgo his movie food for—and apparently one of them lived between Hutch’s legs.

Even with his seat pushed up, Hutch had no idea how Starsky managed to maneuver himself down into the tight confine between the two rows, but when it came to all positions sexual, his partner was nothing if not inventive.

“Lower your leg a little, babe,” Starsky whispered from his position on his knees on the floor. He was trying to curl over Hutch’s right leg to get to his crotch.

“That’s as low as it goes without me snapping it off.”

Damn long legs.

Even slouching and sliding his foot as far under the seat in front of him as it would fit, Hutch’s tree trunk of a leg would only flatten down but so much. Apparently it was enough, especially for Starsky, who had an elasticity and flexibility when he was hot to trot that rivaled most yogis. From his position, scrunched practically under his own seat, Starsky reached over Hutch’s leg and got the cords undone.

We shouldn’t be doing this. Stop this now while you still can.

There was that voice again… the one Hutch always kicked himself for not listening to. He was beginning to suspect, though, that Starsky was like kryptonite against that voice, rendering it powerless. Before the voice even had another chance to complain, Starsky had worked his cock out of his pants and was climbing over Hutch’s leg to wrap his buttery lips around it.

Hutch’s head fell back against the seat, the African landscape on the screen going blurry as his eyes crossed with pleasure. Starsky had engulfed his already leaking head in the hot confines of his mouth and was slowly suckling it, just playing with it really at this point. It was kind of like the coming attractions, something to get Hutch interested and ready for the main event.

Studying the intricate pattern on the ornate theater ceiling, Hutch wondered when he’d become such a shameless pervert. Hell, he was as bad as the guy in the raincoat a few rows up, coming to the theater in the middle of the day to get his rocks off. Of course, that guy was whacking off to Meryl Streep while Hutch had his skilled, talented lover’s lips wrapped around his rod.

Starsky sucked cock like he was trained for the task at the finest institution of sexual learning. Which would be what? Cocksucker U? Hutch smiled at the thought. If there was such a place, Starsky would be the star pupil. Hell, he’d be a tenured professor.

It probably had a lot to do with Starsky’s passion in general. Everything he did, he did big. Yeah, it got a little annoying when it came to obsessing about his car or getting all riled up over the latest high-end electronic toy, or even his systematic junk food preparation for seeing a movie. But in the bedroom, Hutch had no complaints about Starsky’s gusto.

Of course, the fact that Starsky had a voracious appetite helped, too. He went at Hutch’s cock like it was a taco from his favorite Mexican joint. Already, Hutch wanted to thrust, but Starsky was just getting started. He could feel Starsky’s tongue lashing the underside of his shaft, feel the slightest scrape of teeth against the paper-thin skin covering the hardness that was his cock. Then the tip traced all ’round the ridge of the glans, before darting into the tiny slit that split his prick. It was good… altogether too good.

Shoving his fist in his mouth to stifle the moan that wanted to break free, Hutch scrunched down more in his seat. About half of his long length was engulfed in the flame of Starsky’s mouth now, but they were both fast running out of maneuvering room. Slowly, Starsky eased off Hutch’s cock, his hand rubbing the saliva into the turgid flesh as he whispered, “Can you move your leg out of the way any more?”

“Hang on.”

Hutch was not particularly lithe, but he was motivated, his cock aching and throbbing now, his balls heavy with cream. With a stifled grunt, he managed to pull his leg up, his foot completely leaving the floor. Starsky’s hands quickly jumped in with the assist, heaving Hutch’s leg over his own leather-clad shoulder and pushing it toward the far arm of his seat. The position was awkward but Hutch was too horny to take too much care in what he was doing, not realizing until it was too late that his foot had just slammed into Starsky’s popcorn bag, sending it sailing into the air.

Kernels of popcorn showered them like snowflakes before the bag landed upside-down in Hutch’s lap, gobs of butter grease leaking onto his groin. Starsky grinned up at Hutch, pieces of popcorn tangled in his curls as he declared, “Now that’s what I call movie food.”

Before Hutch could even respond, Starsky’s popcorn-covered head was going down on him, licking and sucking at his buttered cock. Hutch managed to get his leg to dangle over the arm of the seat beside him, allowing Starsky enough room to slip between his thighs fully. From this new angle, it wasn’t difficult for Starsky to take Hutch deep into his throat, sucking in earnest now.

Fingers gripping the arms of the seat, Hutch’s ass actually lifted a fraction above it as he strained to thrust deeper. Starsky had him near to the root now and the sensation of Starsky’s sweet, knowing lips upon his shaft was pure, white-hot pleasure roaring through his veins. Pumping his hips, Hutch moved in and out the tight channel, the gyrations spilling the popcorn bag more, greasy kernels rolling over his balls, tangling in his pubes. He was so hot he could feel his clothes plastered to him as if he had taken them wet from the washer and just put them on.

The popcorn-strewn head was bobbing wildly between his legs, Starsky’s moans thankfully muffled by Hutch’s long hunk of buttered meat. Then Starsky’s body jerked and the moans became a grunt. Hutch heard something crash and splash.

It had to be the soda cup. His genius lover must have left it sitting on the floor and had now knocked it over. Lifting his left foot, Hutch could already feel the pool of sticky wetness crawling across the floor. Though he had to be swimming in it, Starsky remained undaunted, only going down more fiercely on Hutch’s cock.

With the desperation of a man who must escape the rising tide or be swept away, Hutch felt Starsky begin to suck him in earnest. Cheeks hollowing, popcorn flying, he felt Starsky’s greasy hand come up and take possession of his balls, the deliciously slick fingers rolling his eggs in their leather pouch in a manner that made Hutch feel like he could fly to the moon without the benefit of a rocket.

Hutch was crazed, his balls tightening, his need for release near unbearable. His fingers were clenched so tightly around the arms of the seat, he half wondered how he was going to pry them off later. But that didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except his cock, Starsky’s mouth, and release. Already, he could feel his orgasm threatening. Like a pot left on the boil too long, he was about to spill over.

“No, no, no, no, no. I am not seeing this!”

The words sounded distant in Hutch’s lust-drowned head. At first, he thought it was dialog from the movie, but belatedly, he realized it was too close for that. Starsky? Well how the hell could Starsky be talking with a cock buried down his throat? It couldn’t be Starsky. It had to be….

Shit no! He’s too early. Why is he here? No, not again.

Just as the startling realization struck him, Starsky’s mouth yanked loose from his cock, his partner exclaiming in alarm, “Huggy!”

Unfortunately, Starsky’s timing was about as good as Huggy’s. He released Hutch’s cock just as Hutch had hit the point of no return, his cum spurting as discommodiously as soda bursting from a shaken can.

“You’re sick, that’s what you are!” Huggy was yelling now as a splatter of cream caught the sleeve of his jacket and clung there.

“Shhhh,” Starsky was cautioning.

“Shit,” Hutch muttered.

“Shut up, up there!” someone was yelling from the seats below.

“No, you shut up!” Huggy barked back. “What the hell are you watching, anyway? Finally put a movie about Africa in the theaters and all you see are pasty white faces. Where the hell are my brothers?”

“Hug—”

“Oh, no, I got nothing to say to you. Either one of ya. What kind of movie theater is this, anyway?”

Hutch had finally managed to get his leg off the chair, stepping into the pool of soda as Starsky struggled to get up. His partner’s shirt was covered in jiz, his hair strewn with popcorn. His butter-covered fingers reached for the arm of Hutch’s chair for purchase, but they were too greasy to get a good hold, slipping immediately, sending Starsky toppling back down, his forehead smacking into Hutch’s knee.

“If I wanted to watch porn, I’d go down the street,” Huggy was blustering, still over-loud. “I’m done with this. You want info, you get it yourself.”

“Huggy, wait,” Hutch pleaded, knocking the bag of strewn popcorn off his lap before he clunked heads with a slowly rising Starsky.

“Huggy wait, my ass,” their informant was muttering to himself as he backed down the steps. “And Out of Africa, my ass. When were you people ever in Africa?”

Starsky was trying to lunge over Hutch’s legs, to get out of the aisle and chase after Huggy, but Hutch took firm hold of the leather-encased arm. “Starsk, wait. Duck.”

Huggy was met at the bottom of the balcony steps by the usher, who had apparently been summoned by the two white-haired old ladies who were now standing right behind him.

“That’s him,” the shorter woman was pointing. “He just came in and started disrupting the entire theater.”

“Me? I’m the one disrupting!” Huggy sounded like an utter lunatic, arms gesturing wildly now. “You don’t know from disrupting. You should see what my pool table looks like.”

“Settle down, buddy,” the usher said sternly. “The manager just flagged down a squad car outside so you better come quietly.”

“Do you hear this!” Huggy was yelling upwards. “A squad car… for me… because I’m disturbing the peace.”

“What’s this on your jacket?” the usher asked in disgust as a second usher came up to assist him. “Hey, we don’t allow perverts in this theater.”

“Perverts! You don’t know from perverts!” Huggy wailed. “Now me, I know all about perverts. Got me a front row seat that I don’t even want to Bad Pervert Theater.”

“We gotta go down and fix this,” Starsky insisted, trying to wrest his arm free from Hutch’s grip, but Hutch wouldn’t let him get up from the seat he had shoved him into.

“Like this?” Hutch hissed as low as he could. “With a squad car outside? Is that what you really want to do, Starsk? You want to wager a guess on how long until everyone at Metro gets wind of this if we do that?”

His partner took another look at them. Hutch’s cock was still hanging out of his splayed open pants. His cords were covered in popcorn grease and his own cream. Hell, he had popcorn in his shorts… there might have even be a kernel wedged in his ass crack from the feel of it. Starsky’s jeans were soaked with soda from the knees down, all kinds of discarded candy from the movie theater floor stuck to his pant legs making it quite obvious where he had been kneeling. Starsky’s erection hadn’t fully deflated yet, his tee shirt was soaked with butter grease and Hutch’s cum, and his hair looked like a Christmas wreath strung with popcorn.

“You might have a point,” Starsky conceded, ducking down further in the seat.

“It’s a public place,” Huggy was babbling loudly as the ushers led him out, one at each arm. “I figured a public place would be safe. I should have known. If a pool table isn’t sacred, why would a movie theater be? It’s some kind of sickness, I’m telling you.”

“Let’s go, buddy, outside. These people are trying to watch a film.”

Huggy’s maniacal laughter at the comment carried all the way down the long hall until he was led out through the theater door.

“They’re going to put him in lock-up,” Starsky whispered guiltily, plucking a piece of corn out of his hair and popping it into his mouth.

“If they don’t send him to Cabrillo instead. He sounded a little crazy.”

“He’s gonna be pissed at us.”

“Really?” Hutch asked, the word laced with sarcasm. “Do you think so?” Twisting, Hutch tried to get himself back in his pants so he could close them, but his feet kept slipping on the soda-drenched floor. “Give me some of those damned napkins so I can wipe up a little.”

Pulling the tiny square scraps of white paper from his pocket, Starsky handed them over. “Ya think these are gonna help?”

Looking down at the mess that was his lap, Hutch had to concede that point. Besides, the napkins were wet with grease from Starsky’s hand. He stuffed them back in his partner’s pocket and went back to trying to get his pants closed, squirming uncomfortably. “I think a piece of your damned popcorn is up my ass.”

“Want me to get it for you?” Starsky’s tone was seductive and inviting. Apparently nothing dampened his libido.

“Hell no!”

I told you this was a bad idea. Told you to stop.

Oh, shut up!

The voice in his head obediently quieted and Hutch finally managed to get his fly closed. “Come on,” he said to Starsky in the same hushed tone they’d been talking in, not wanting to risk getting tossed out of the theater as well. “We’ll head home quick and clean up, then we gotta go bail Huggy out of lock-up.”

“Maybe we should leave him there until he cools off. He’s gonna kill us.”

“If he kills anyone, it should be you. This is all your doing… again.”

“I didn’t hear ya complaining when you were getting your pole shined.”

“Shut up, Starsky.” Hutch attempted to stand, but his feet slipped in the pool of popcorn, butter, and soda and he toppled back in his seat. Grabbing the seat in front of him, he got up more carefully this time and stepped out into the aisle. But when he looked back, his partner was still sitting in his chair, his now opened box of Milk Duds in hand, chomping away as he stared at the screen.

“What are you doing?” Hutch asked through clenched teeth.

“Well, I gotta see the end of the picture.”

“You don’t even like this movie.”

“But I never leave before the end. Besides, I got candy left.”

“Take it with you.”

“Movie candy is for movie theaters,” he explained as if Hutch was as dumb as a stump.

“Starsky!”

“Shhhh!” came the complaining hisses from below.

“Sorry,” Hutch apologized to the beleaguered movie-goers before reaching into the aisle and snagging Starsky by the collar of his jacket. He yanked, dragging Starsky toward him. The Adidas sneakers slipped in the mess, sending a splash of soda-soaked popcorn flying and Starsky hurtling toward Hutch, crashing into his chest. They almost wound up rolling down the stairs, but Hutch was able to right them in time.

“We’re leaving,” he informed Starsky, his long index finger extended in Starsky’s face.

“Okay, okay. But you’re buying me lunch. I’m starving.”