The Scheme of Things

Not quite sure where this came from: Dryden and Simmonetti together after investigating Vanessa’s murder.

“You’re a cussed son of a bitch, I’ll give you that.” Chauncy Dryden ran the back of his knuckles along his lover’s sharp jawline, admiring the contrast between his rich coffee color and the other man’s fair skin. The single lamp in the bedroom cast angled shadows around them, all dark triangles and shafts of sudden brightness.

“Sweet talker,” Joe Simmonetti growled in his usual ill-tempered manner, shedding his tightly knotted tie with a jerk.

Dryden had never been sure what attracted him to Simmonetti, but somehow his own laconic personality fit into Simmonetti’s prickly disharmony. “Cool down, Joseph Aurelius. Sweep away any and all thoughts of what has just transpired.” He eased Simmonetti onto the bed. “Your job is safe…you weathered another round with those two.”

“Should’ve been able to break Hutchinson.” Simmonetti tilted his face up to Dryden, slightly relaxing into his caresses. “You’re the only one allowed to call me by that name.”

“My privilege, lover.” Dryden smiled, capturing his lips in a provocative kiss. “Never tell another soul your secret. But I doubt you’ll get rid of either of them. They’re all but welded together.”

Sliding his hand around Dryden’s neck, Simmonetti gazed into his eyes, his whole attention finally on their lovemaking. “That’s it.”

He was nearly purring when Dryden unzipped his own well-tailored trousers to release his pulsing cock. “Yes, it is.” Dryden looked down at his magnificent length. He was taller than most people, and was fairly certain that was reflected in his penis. His was longer than Simmonetti’s, although that did not lessen the prominence of Simmonetti’s erection.

When Dryden crawled onto the bed, his cock arched upward proudly, like a soldier ready for battle.

“I was referring to Starsky and Hutchinson,” Simonetti replied with a curled lip, closing his fingers around Dryden’s cock.

“Do we have to share a bed with those two?” Annoyed, Dryden would have backed away, but Simonetti had a firm grasp on his shaft.

“Hear me out.” Simonetti had always been a man who could multi-task. He stroked his fingers along the ridge underneath, fisting the end like a farmer milking a cow. “It’s obvious, isn’t it?”

That felt incredible, and Dryden was in no mood to contemplate the detective duo when his arousal was sky-rocketing. He drew in air through his nostrils, panting audibly.

Simmonetti increased his speed, his fist hot around Dryden’s cock, the friction about to start a blaze. All it took was for him to fondle Dryden’s balls in one hand like a croupier rolling dice, and Dryden went off like a fire hose.

“Damn, Joseph A, you know how to manipulate a pool queue,” Dryden gasped.

“What d’you want to bet those two do it every night?” Simmonetti speculated with licentious glee in his eyes, his chin jutting out at the challenge. “We could bring them down on a morals clause. After that broo-haha with Hutchinson’s wife, it’d be so easy to implicate him on any number of illegal activities.” He smiled craftily, unzipping his own slacks.

Dryden imagined Joseph with a thin, curled mustache like that bad guy in the Saturday morning cartoon his daughter watched every other weekend when he got custody from his ex-wife. What was his name? “Snidely Whiplash,” he said out loud.

“What are you going on about?” Simmonetti snarled, his cock as red and blustery as he was.

Maybe not the dastardly villain, more like a cock-of-the walk rooster. Dryden snickered at his own punnish joke, and swirled his long finger around Joseph’s penis counter-clockwise.

“We could prove they’re boffing each other and they’d be off the force….” Simmonetti’s voice trailed off with a sigh as he finally gave in to sex. He gulped fast, his chest under that crisp white shirt rising and falling as rapidly as runner dashing for the finish line. “Fu—uuck,” he slurred, surrendering to the inevitable climax.

“And what about us, lover?” Dryden asked very quietly, tucking himself back into his trousers and zipping shut.

“Us?” Simmonetti sounded confused. He snugged onto his side in post-coital slumber.

“Where does that leave us?” Dryden asked, even though he already knew.

They were fuck buddies. Co-conspirators in the crime of homosexuality after hours to drain off the stress and tension of the job. This was fun, and it felt amazing in the moment, but it would never last.

He wished it would. He wished he had a Starsky who would go to bat for him, the way Starsky had for Hutch. That love had shone so brightly when Starsky handcuffed Dryden to the table to allow Hutchinson to escape the arrest warrant that Dryden knew then he’d been screwed.

He’d seen perfect love, but he would never attain that. Not with Simmonetti, for all that they fit like two puzzle pieces. Their edges were too sharp and they didn’t listen to each other.

“G’night, Joseph Aurelius,” he whispered sadly, tucking a blanket around Simmonetti. “Can’t call them out,” he said into the quiet room, “without calling out yourself.”

FIN