Talkin’ Dirty Pool

280

Starsky, the master of opportunity, jumped quickly at the opening. He laughed good-naturedly, smiling that Cheshire cat grin. “See, you don’t even have much to worry about then, right? So let’s do it. Come on, Hutch. The worst that can happen is you get to have a nice, fun, relaxing game of pool.”

“No, the worst that can happen is I end up in that greasepit with you scrubbing off the remains of dozens of ‘Huggy Specials.’”

“Oh, I see. Losin’ confidence in the ol’ pools skills, huh?” Starsky’s voice was taunting. “Hey, that’s okay. I understand.”

All the voices inside him that had a shred of common sense were screaming at Hutch to just turn and walk away—walk away and stay completely out of range of those devastating eyes and that ‘charm-the-skin-off-a-snake’ smile. Yet in spite of the warning bells ringing like Times Square on New Year’s Eve, Hutch heard himself saying, “Fine. You want to play pool, we’ll play pool. And when I’m finished wiping the table with you, I’m going home. With the mess you have waiting for you in there, I won’t expect to see you before dawn.”

The grin on Starsky’s face seemed to stretch wider than the Grand Canyon. He clapped his hands together, rubbing them eagerly. “Great. This is gonna be fun, Hutch. You won’t regret it.”

“I already do,” Hutch groused as he walked toward the bar to get a beer. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Starsky heading in the opposite direction. “Where are you going?”

“Just gonna play a few tunes on the jukebox. I always play pool better with music. You don’t mind, do ya?”

Hutch shrugged as he pulled the handle on the tap to start the flow of beer into his glass. “Knock yourself out.”

As Starsky worked to get his hand into the tight confines of his jean’s pocket to fish out some change, he called over his shoulder.

“This will only take a second. You can start rackin’ em’ up, babe. You can even break if you wanna.”

“Oh, joy,” Hutch deadpanned before taking a long sip of his beer. Carrying the glass, he approached the pool table. He set the glass down on a nearby table and began racking the balls on the pristine felt Huggy had just had installed that day.

The bartender had regaled them half the night about his second-cousin-twice-removed who was going to make a killing on customizing pool tables. Huggy had already invested in the enterprise and was using his own pool table as an example of his cousin’s art. Hutch blinked as he rolled the balls into place, unsure of the business wisdom of elaborately-colored pool table felt. The Torino-red shade of this new felt was enough to blister the eyes, and Hutch found himself longing for the plain old green felt he was used to. Of course, Starsky had fallen in love with the table as soon as he’d seen it, insisting it would look even better if it only had a white stripe on it.

“It sure is warm in here,” he heard Starsky call from over by the juke box. “Huggy really oughta get that air conditioning checked.”

“The temperature is perfectly fine. Now will you hurry up and get over here? Stop dragging this out.”

“I’m almost finished.”

Hutch sighed irritably as he slid the rack of balls over the foot spot on the table and lifted the wooden frame. The balls positioned, Hutch moved toward the row of cue sticks on the wall. Selecting his favorite, he chalked it up, then laid it across a corner of the garishly-colored table. He then picked up the small container of talc and sprinkled some into his moist palms. Rubbing his hands together, he distributed the powder evenly before moving back toward his beer. Another sip for luck, and he’d set the cue ball, and break the rack.

But before he could do that, several things happened in quick succession.

The blare from the jukebox filled the quiet room just as Hutch lifted his glass. Recognizing the first notes immediately, the blond’s head swiveled towards his partner. At the same moment, Starsky turned towards him, his shirt front opened down to his navel, his hips gyrating to the pulsing rhythm of the song “I’m So Excited.” The top button on Starsky’s impossibly tight button-fly jeans was opened and parted, exposing the line of dark hair that led to–

Hutch’s powdered hand shook, causing the glass to slip straight through his fingers; hitting the floor, it shattered loudly. Beer and glass exploded around his feet, yet Hutch was oblivious, his gaze locked on his partner. Starsky was singing now, one hand cupping the back of his head, while his entire body shimmied provocatively.

“Just what the hell do you think you’re doing!” Hutch spat out. He hated his Pavlovian brain-freeze, hated even more his body’s betrayal, but an unexpected, intense arousal was suddenly battling with fierce anger for supremacy within him.

“Wha’d’ya mean?” Starsky asked, once more the picture of innocence. “You said I could play some music.”

“So you pick this song?” Hutch asked, incredulously. Starsky knew damn well what this song—combined with the patented “Starsky choreography”—did to him. It was painfully obvious that his lover intended to play to win, even if it meant playing downright dirty—especially if it meant playing dirty. In Starsky’s mind, Hutch knew, that would only make it more fun.

“What are you trying to pull, Starsk?” Hutch demanded, fighting to appear unflustered by the tempting, teasing sight before him.

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, Hutch. It’s just a song. It was the first one I came across and you kept rushing me.”

“Really? And what about the shirt? And-and-and–” he pointed toward Starsky’s groin, waving his hand irritably, “what’s with that?”

More eyelash batting, more why-officer-what-are-you-implying? looks. “I told ya I was warm. I was just trying to cool off a bit. What’sa’matter? It’s not…bothering you, is it?” Even Starsky couldn’t hide that much smirk.

“Yeah, well, it does bother me, so close it back up before you shed hair all over Huggy’s new felt. And who the hell could concentrate with that racket? That juke’s volume is cranked up for a full house. So, you can just turn that damn song off, too.”

“I can’t just turn it off. It’s a jukebox, not a turntable.”

“Well, then, pull the plug!“

Starsky never even looked at the jukebox. Instead, he moved seductively towards Hutch, smiling slyly, his body oozing raw heat as his eyes lured the blond into an almost hypnotic stupor. The mongoose stalking the cobra. His voice was low and raspy.

“Sure, Hutch, if that’s what you really want. I didn’t mean to rattle ya. But if it’s too much for you–”

“I-I-I am not r-rattled,” Hutch snapped, obviously rattled. Taking a step back, he turned away from the tantalizing body before him. Damn you, Starsky, you dirty little–

Hutch took a deep breath, struggling for control. He knew exactly what Starsky was up to and he’d be damned if he let him get away with it. You can handle this, Hutchinson. You’re a grown man. A senior detective. You’re not some teenager on a hormone binge over his first lover. You are the master of your emotions. Turning back around slowly, an icy gleam in his eyes, he spoke with measured coolness.

“Okay, Starsk. You want to play dirty pool, we’ll play dirty pool. Just remember, you started this.”

He knew Starsky well enough to know that the grin spreading across his face meant the curly-headed imp figured he now had Hutch right where he wanted him.

 You think so, huh? Hutch thought. A plan began formulating that might make this a more even playing field. “So, if this is gonna be dirty pool—let’s pull out the stops. Let’s add to the stakes, make the game more…” he eyed Starsky blatantly up and down “—interesting. Let’s play strip pool.”

Finally, Starsky faltered. He blinked, thinking furiously. Hutch could almost see smoke coming from his ears. “Strip pool–?”

“Yeah. Strip pool. In the same nature as that lovely game of strip poker you taught me a few months ago. Or the version of strip Monopoly you talked me into. Or those complicated rounds of strip pinochle–”

Starsky held up his hands to stop the recitation. “I gotcha, I gotcha, but…strip pool? In Huggy’s bar?”

Hutch looked around, encompassing their environment. “We’re all alone. Huggy won’t be back till he comes in to open the business tomorrow morning. Besides, don’t you want to inspire me?” It was Hutch’s turn to feel smug.

Starsky considered the offer. “Okay. But you said we should pull out the stops.”

“That’s right. A real down and dirty game of pool. After all, it is a very sensuous game—the long cue sticks, the way you ‘stroke’ the balls—why don’t we let it all hang out. Anything goes. It should be permissible to do anything to distract the shooter except interfere with the actual shot itself.”

Starsky started smiling again. “That sounds interesting, Hutch. Okay. You’re on.”

Hutch returned the grin, feeling confident once more. If he was a complete sucker for Starsky’s seduction scenarios, well, Starsky had his weaknesses, too. If Hutch didn’t know how to exploit them after all these years, then he deserved to spend the night up to his elbows in soapsuds.

Rechalking his cue, and moving to the head of the table, Hutch focused on the unbroken rack. “You can kill that music anytime, buddy.”

“Uhn-uh,” Starsky said, as he moved to the table’s foot end. “The music is to my advantage. It stays.” He was smiling.

Hutch shrugged as if it made no difference to him. As Starsky hooked his thumbs in his jeans pocket, pulling the taut denim just that much tighter across his groin, and separating the waistband just that much more, Hutch stared at the cue ball, telling himself, Just concentrate. Forget the music.

He picked up the cue, leaned over the red felt, and lined up his breaking shot. Forget about the night Starsky left this song playing on the turntable, over and over and over while the two of us started on the couch, then did it on the floor, over the coffee table– He blinked, pushed hair out of his eyes, and, forming a bridge over the cue with his forefinger, stared at the cue ball. Break hard. You break soft and he’ll call a foul.

Just then he noticed that Starsky’s crotch and his cue stick were lined up perfectly with one another. If he looked at things just right, it was almost as if he were about to fire the cue ball right at his partner’s groin.

Starsky had to know it, too, because just as Hutch drew back to make the shot, he grazed his fingertips over his fly, slowly, seductively, then purred, “Yeah, break hard now, babe, really hard.”

Like a stud bull trained to a bell, Hutch’s cock stirred at Starsky’s words at the exact moment he made his stroke. He broke hard all right. As colored balls caromed every which where across the table—none of them having the consideration of going into a pocket—the cue ball smacked a side rail with sufficient force that it bounced over the rail and hit the floor.

“Awwwww–” Starsky commiserated insincerely. “That’s a scratch, pal.” He caught the bouncing cue ball expertly, and jogged over to the wall rack to selected a cue. “My turn!” He was positively jubilant, all seduction gone.

Hutch nodded, irritated. Not only would this give Starsky a turn, his turn would be started with every ball on the table and he would have the extra advantage of “ball in hand”—which meant he could put the cue ball anywhere he wanted. Grinding his teeth, Hutch stalked over to the jukebox, just as the first song was clashing to an end.

“Hey, shouldn’t you be losin’ a piece of clothing?” Starsky called as he looked at the cues.

Yanking his shirt out of his pants, Hutch scanned the record selections, and quickly made a choice, hoping the juke would cooperate with him. A lot of older boxes, like Huggy’s, would play the songs in order, unless someone plugged a new selection in during the first selection’s run. In that case, it might bump the new selection in place before finishing the old selection out—moving the remaining numbers of the first group behind the most recent choices. If Hutch was lucky–

As Starsky prowled around the table, determining where to place the cue ball and making side comments about the table’s “perfect color,” the first strains of Ten CC’s “I’m Not In Love” filtered through the bar.

Starsky stopped and stared at his blond lover. “I didn’t pick that.”

“No, I did. You said music helped you play. So play. It’s your turn, pal.”

Starsky visibly swallowed, but turned his attention back to the game. As the music and words rolled around them, Hutch smiled and strolled back towards the table. He knew there was no way Starsky could concentrate fully with this song playing at top volume, especially not while staring at that red felt. It had been on the radio that night in the Torino—the first night. The night they’d been arguing, the night Starsky had pushed Hutch to his limits, the night his partner had demanded to get to the bottom of the tension between them and Hutch couldn’t take it any more, just couldn’t handle it, as Starsky pushed him to a stuttering, stammering denial that there even was a problem. Then, finally, Starsky demanded to know, getting right in Hutch’s face there in the car–

“Tell me the truth, dammit, what the fuck’s goin’ on with you? Things ain’t been right with us since the shooting. You can’t stop nursemaidin’ me, hoverin’‘round me, can’t keep your hands offa me, but you’re bitchin’ at me at the same time. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were in love with me or somethin’ and was mad about it.”

“I-I-In love with you?” Hutch had stammered, horrified that Starsky had hit so close to the mark. “W-w-w-where’d you get such a s-s-s-stupid idea–?”

And then that song had chimed in, perfectly timed.

“I’m not in love, so don’t forget it,
“It’s just a silly phase I’m going through
“And just because I call you up
“Don’t get me wrong, don’t think you’ve got it made
“I’m not in love, no no, it’s because...

The words had been so clear as the singer proceeded to deny the obvious, even to himself.

And the two of them had stared at each other as Hutch’s protests had completely collapsed. Then, in perfect time with the singer, Starsky had asked, “…It’s because–?” Then, before Hutch could even attempt to answer, Starsky had grabbed him by the back of the head and pulled him into a searing kiss, right there in the car, parked on Wilshire, in front of God and everyone. In the next instant, they were like two teenagers, frantic to get each other off.

It had been wild, and impossibly romantic, and Hutch knew damned well neither of them could ever hear that song without feeling that impossible jolt of surprise and excitement as they finally crossed the invisible barrier between them and became lovers.

Starsky was grinding his teeth, but finally placed the cue ball on the table, carefully keeping his hand on it while still considering if this was the best placement.

Hutch moved up close behind his partner. As he spoke, he slowly unbuttoned his shirt and drew it off. “Interesting name for this rule, isn’t it? If the cue ball hits the floor the opposing player gets to play ball in hand. Mmmmmm. Ball in hand.” As the song continued to play, Hutch knew Starsky had to be thinking about how Hutch had taken his balls in hand, that night in the Torino, gentle and rough, possessive and loving.

As Hutch finished taking off the shirt, he ever so lightly brushed his groin against his lover’s rear, then draped the shirt over Starsky’s left shoulder. Stiffly, Starsky snatched up the cue ball, shrugged off the shirt, and moved to a safer place around the table.

Hutch grinned and waited for him to settle.

Once he stood as far from Hutch as he could get, Starsky nearly slammed the cue ball down, focusing on his shot—entirely too quickly, Hutch knew—and leaned over the table.

“Now, don’t rush on my account,” Hutch drawled, as Starsky jerked the cue stick into the ball before he barely had the chance to line it up.

Predictably, balls banged around the table violently left and right—going nowhere in a hurry. Not one single ball of any color combination found its way into a pocket. Hutch chuckled. When he was rattled, he slowed down; when Starsky was rattled, he rushed. They were both so predictable it was pathetic.

“Shit!” Starsky swore, glaring at his partner, his blue eyes like glaciers.

“And you think I’m a pushover,” Hutch said, shaking his head. He waggled a finger in Starsky’s direction. “Shirt. Off. It’ll just save time for later when you’re bent over that sink.”

Starsky’s expression changed ever so subtly, but Hutch didn’t miss it. “That’s just what you’re waiting for, isn’t it? For me to bend over that sink.” Slowly, Starsky started pulling his shirt tails out of his tight jeans. “You have no intention of going home if you win this game.” He drew the fabric off his shoulders with a casual grace that made Hutch’s breath catch in his throat. “If you win, I know damned well where you’re gonna be—and it ain’t gonna be home.”

He prowled towards Hutch even as the blond found himself backing up, one step at a time, until he bumped into a chair, corrected himself, tripped, and crashed sideways into the bar, which was where Starsky finally cornered him. The curly-haired seducer tossed his discarded shirt over the bar and pressed himself against his partner, front to front, sliding his arms around Hutch’s waist.

By now, Hutch’s body was on full alert and there was no hope of hiding it, so he didn’t even try. His blood was racing, and he was flushed all down his neck and bare chest. “W-w-where do you th-th-think I’m gonna be?”

Starsky’s eyebrows raised as he pulled their bodies tighter together. “Where you always are, partner,” he purred, smiling. “Right behind me. Watchin’ my back. Ready for action–”

At the word “action,” Hutch sprang, unable to resist the taunting any longer. Burying a hand in Starsky’s hair, he anchored his lover’s head in place and zeroed in for a kiss. Apparently, Starsky was ready, too, because he latched onto a healthy handful of Hutch’s hair and the two of them mouth-wrestled for long, lovely seconds.

Hutch pulled away first. “I know what you’re doing,” he gasped, searching for air. “It’s my turn. You’re just tryin’ to spoil my game.”

Starsky’s smile was pure seduction. “Maybe I just wanna play with that big, pretty cue stick of yours.” His magical left hand emphasized his intentions by rubbing Hutch’s swollen crotch hard through his pants.

“Oh, damn you, Starsky,” Hutch swore and captured his mouth again, his tongue plunging, searching, storming the yielding mouth as Starsky stroked him. The blond’s hands traveled down Starsky’s back to cup the beautiful mounds of his ass. And Hutch knew he was in trouble. All he could imagine now was Starsky bent over that sink…up to his elbows in suds…the front of his pants all wet…Hutch was losing it.

Of course, Starsky knew that, too, and pulled out of the kiss. Drawing his hands down Hutch’s arms, he took hold his hands, pulled on them. “Come on, blondie. It’s your turn. Ya gotta beat me at this game, or you’ll never get to stand behind me and watch me bend over that sink.”

Hutch was breathing like a bellows, trying to get his brain out of its sexual fog and back on business. Could he even do that? If Starsky wasn’t careful, he’d push too far, and– Sometimes his wicked demon lover could whip Hutch into a frenzy of need, make him forget everything—who he was, where they were, why they were there—just by running his mouth. When Hutch got like that, anything could happen. Starsky knew that—and he loved it. Even when it got him in trouble.

Starsky placed Hutch’s cue in his hands, while the blond tried to blink the sexual haze out of his eyes. “Gotta drop summa those balls in their pockets, big boy,” Starsky purred, stroking Hutch’s groin with the back of his hand.

“You think I can’t?” Hutch stammered, his voice quavering.

Starsky cocked his head to one side. “Oh, I’m sure you can. Hutch, I can barely imagine all the things you can do to a set of balls. Come on. It’s your turn.”

He’s playin’ me like a violin, Hutch thought in some cooler, more collected portion of his mind. But, really, he didn’t care. He found himself making his own plans, seeing his own future, and it had nothing to do with dishes, or sinks, or even winning this stupid game.

Without another word, Hutch forced his attention back to the table. He blinked sweat and hair out of his eyes, and tried to make some sense out of the mess of balls lying there so innocently. He found the cue ball, glanced around at the possibilities. Since a single ball hadn’t been sunk yet, it really didn’t matter whether he put a stripe or solid in a pocket, so he had his pick.

Take something easy, he told himself. No glitz. A nice, short, straight-in shot.

He swallowed, lined up something sweet and neat, and leaned over the table. His palms were sweating, but that was okay. Indicating which pocket he was going to send the ball in, he formed a bridge around the cue, and took aim.

Starsky, barechested, one button opened on his jeans, was standing right beside him. “It’s an easy shot, partner. Just line it up, and hit the ball. Easy.” The imp grinned as a bead of sweat tracked down Hutch’s face. Then Starsky slid a hand slowly over Hutch’s ass and between his legs.

The blond froze, and squeaked a protest. “Starsky…!”

“I’m not interfering with your shot, babe,” his lover insisted. “You set the rules. Anything goes. Go ahead and make your shot. I’ve got a set of balls of my own to play with.”

Hutch shut his eyes as he was subjected to the heavenly sensation of Starsky toying with his sac, fingertips skimming the taut denim that encased them, the touch impossibly light, yet able to travel through the jeans as effectively as if Hutch were nude. Unable to stop himself, he groaned softly and felt his rear lifting to assist the wonderful hand petting and stroking and rolling his balls in its palm.

“Now, don’t lift your butt, Hutch, it’s bad form!” Starsky chided even as he squeezed the sac just the way the blond loved it.

In spite of Starsky’s admonition, Hutch’s rear moved higher as he forced his eyes open and took his shot just to get it over with so he could tackle his lover.

“Hutch!” Starsky warned as his partner drew back his arm to make the shot. Starsky actually sounded serious—not that Hutch cared. “The butt! Don’t lift the butt! Hutch!”

Too late, Hutch realized Starsky wasn’t talking about his buttocks, but rather the butt of his cue, which he’d also been raising along with the feline-like reaction of his rear. His brain on sensation overload, he jerked the cue too hard, and with the butt elevated, hit the ball wild. There was an ugly tearing sound as Hutch’s cue gouged a one-inch tear in the pristine crimson felt. In addition, the shot forced the ball into a violent backspin, knocking it into three other balls before one of them smacked the eight ball, sending it into a side pocket. Hutch stared at the devastated table.

Starsky clucked in commiseration. “Tsk, tsk. Huggy’s brand-new stylish red felt. Are you in trouble.” He sidled around to the pocket that swallowed the eight ball. “And, to add insult to injury, you just lost the game.” He reached in, plucked out the eight ball, and held it up in three fingers as if to prove his point.