The Stuff of Romance

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Starsky takes a romance test.

 

This story was first published in the Las Vegas Con zine.

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Hutch balanced two full bags of groceries in his left arm and against his hip as he fumbled with the key to his front door, finally opening it and wrestling everything safely inside before his balance gave out.

He put the bags on the kitchen counter before glancing around his quiet apartment, deciding whether to first tackle his unopened mail or neglected plants after he put the groceries away. He and Starsky stayed mostly at Starsky’s apartment these days, since it was larger and closer to work. However, since Starsky’s dentist was not far from Hutch’s neighborhood they’d decided to stay at Venice Place tonight.

Hutch snapped on the kitchen radio and found a classic soft rock station. Singing along with the Mamas and the Papas, he put the groceries away and tended to his other tasks. He was making headway on the mail when the front door banged open and his partner arrived, looking only slightly worse for wear.

“I hate going to the dentist,” Starsky announced, dropping a bag on the table and removing his jacket and gun before throwing himself full-length onto the couch. “Why do you keep making me go there?”

Hutch calmly continued sorting bills from junk mail and barely looked up as he responded. “You know the answer to that, Starsk.”

“I do?”

“Uh-huh. It’s what you’ve been saying for years: I’m mean.” Hutch had everything neatly sorted, ready to write checks, but now that Starsky was home he lost interest in the project. Getting up, he sat on the arm of the couch so he could see Starsky’s face while they talked. “Haven’t you always said that?” Hutch made sure he had Starsky’s full eye contact before he grabbed a dark curl for a quick tug and then smoothed it down softly.

“I think you’re playing fast and loose with the word ‘always’ there, partner, but, yeah, at times I guess I’ve said that. Probably after you called me somethin’ extra sweet, like jackass, or threw away my lunch.”

Hutch barely stifled a laugh. “Think of all the red dye number 2 I’ve saved you from over the years, Starsk.” The stifled laugh escaped full-force when Starsky narrowed his eyes at him. “Red dye number 2 is very bad for you!”

“Just when have you ever seen me order red dye number 2 for lunch, huh? Who the hell even serves red dye number 2?” Starsky tried to get up but Hutch pushed him back against the sofa cushion.

“Armour. Armour Hot Dogs. That’s who.”

“Says you.”

“That’s right, says me, and you’ve still eaten plenty. ”

“Because I’ve learned to swallow without chewing.”

“A man could do a lot with an opening like that, Starsk.”

This time Starsky joined his laughter, but then grabbed the side of his cheek with a grimace. “Ouch. Novocain must be wearin’ off.”

Hutch took a quick look at the slightly swollen cheek, then went to the freezer where the ice bag he’d fixed up earlier was waiting. He bounced it back and forth between both hands like an out-of-practice juggler on his way back to Starsky. “Here you go.” Hutch rested the ice bag against Starsky’s cheek. “Hold it right here,” he directed. “A couple of minutes with this on should help.”

“Thanks,” Starsky said, grimacing a little but holding the bag still nonetheless. “Damn cold, but it feels better with it on.”

“You’re talking pretty good-”

“I always talk pretty good,” Starsky broke in.

“I meant for someone whose been shot up with Novocain. What was the verdict?”

“Two cavities and I have to go back next week for a cleaning.”

“That’s not too bad,” Hutch said, his voice dropping a bit. “I think you’re up for kissing me hello as long as I go easy on you.”

“Hm, yeah, just save the fancy moves for later.”

Hutch put one knee on the couch, his body casting a shadow over Starsky’s in the fading early evening sun, and leaned over for a very gentle kiss on Starsky’s lips, followed by an enthusiastic one to his forehead. “Later. Count on it.”

“I always do. Now, lemme up. I’m guessin’ two cavities aren’t enough to buy me a night on the couch being waited on.”

“No, not quite.” Hutch removed his knee to make room for Starsky to sit up, then sat down next to him, draping a leg over Starsky’s lap.

“The dentist did say that one of those cavities was getting ready to turn into a root canal if I hadn’t had it taken care of,” Starsky said with a theatrical shudder.

“Then I’m glad you got in when you did,” Hutch said seriously. “Root canals are no fun.”

“Yep. One point for having a mean partner,” Starsky said with a grin and a caress to Hutch’s thigh. “Plus, I got a brand new tooth brush and dental floss out of the deal.”

“Is that what’s in the bag you tossed on the table?” Hutch pointed in the direction of the brown paper sack.

“Those and the magazine I stole.”

“Starsk! We’ve talked about that before. You can’t keep stealing magazines from doctors, dentists, and D.A. offices. One of them is gonna file a complaint on you some day and I’m going to have to bail you out of jail for illegal possession of a three-month old Field and Stream!” Hutch was warming to his lecture since Starsky was simply smiling at him instead of arguing his case. “And you hate to fish, too, so why you have to steal those issues is beyond me.”

“I didn’t have a choice this time,” Starsky said, still smiling but having the good grace to look at least a little guilty.

“You wanna explain that?” Hutch used the tone he normally reserved for perps trying to make him see why they had a perfectly good reason for committing armed robbery.

“It always cracks me up when you use your tough guy voice in the living room. Just what do you think I’m gonna do when you try that tone on me? Confess all my sins? Arrest myself?” Starsky removed the ice bag and wiggled his jaw. “Think this can come off now?”

Hutch looked at both the jaw and cheek. “Two more minutes. Now tell me why you had to take the magazine.”

“They made me wait fifteen minutes before they took me back to the chair,” Starsky said righteously.

“So, you decided to punish them by stealing their Field and Stream?” Hutch took the bag out of Starsky’s hand and put it back on his cheek himself since Starsky was being so slow about it.

“No, and would you quit saying I’m a Field and Stream thief, please… damn, that ice is colder now…  I didn’t steal their lousy copy of Field and Stream and when I do steal it, I only steal it for you.”

“Really?” Hutch shouldn’t be as pleased as he was by that knowledge, since it was still a theft, but stealing for him was somehow…nice.

“Of course, and I thought you knew. That magazine bores the crap out of me.”

“No, I didn’t know, but back to the topic at hand. Just which magazine did you steal?”

“Cosmopolitan,” Starsky said, giving Hutch an I-dare-you-to-make-something-of-it glare.

Hutch ignored the look, processed the statement, stared hard at the face of the most masculine man he’d ever known, and courted pure danger by snorting in an attempt to tamp his laughter down. It was no use. “Cos…mo…pol…itan…” Laughter choked off further comment.

Starsky’s glare was now a glower. “You know, with all your talk and your social activism, and all the checks you make me write to every organization trying to raise someone’s consciousness in some corner of the world, you sure do make one lousy feminist when push comes to shove.”

Hutch stared, trying to make the connection from women’s magazine thievery to feminism, then gave it up to defend himself, no matter what he was defending himself against. “That’s not true. I’m a terrific feminist!”

“Are not.”

“I am! Who was it that helped make up the petitions demanding that female officers could play on the department softball teams?”

“That doesn’t make you a real feminist, and I helped you help them with those things.”

“Wait a minute, wait just one minute,” Hutch said. “Before we get into the reasons you helped me help them, which, as we both know, was really to get Annabelle Carter on our team because she’s got the hardest swing and the longest legs in three departments-”

“Nah, you’ve got the longest legs. Still wish we’d got her, though, then I could’ve enjoyed watching both of you rounding bases.”

“That’s very enlightened of you.”

“Well, we would’ve won more games, too.”

Hutch rubbed his temples. “So, we agree that you’re no feminist at all?”

“We don’t agree! I say that my reading Cosmopolitan makes me more of a feminist than you could ever be.”

“Give me that bag.” Hutch grabbed it off of Starsky’s cheek and put it on his own forehead. “You’re giving me a headache.”

“Don’tcha wanna know why?” Starsky asked, no longer glowering but sounding quite confident and cheerful.

“Is the reason you stole a Cosmopolitan magazine going to be revealed to me at the same time?”

“If you listen real good.”

“Okay, I’m listening.” Hutch put the now leaking ice bag on the floor along with both his feet, wiping the moisture from his forehead with the back of a hand and sitting up straight to give Starsky his full attention. “Start talking.”

“You’re just gonna leave that bag on the floor to make a giant wet spot on the carpet?” Starsky asked.

“I’ll take care of it after you tell me.”

“I’ll take care of it now, ’cause you’re a slob.” Starsky took the bag to the kitchen and tossed it back in the freezer, then he went to the table to pick up the magazine in question. “First off, this wasn’t my preferred choice in reading material.”

“Good to know,” Hutch said dryly.

Starsky made a face at him. “Just because it wasn’t my first choice, doesn’t mean I was just gonna sit there like a doofus twiddling my thumbs with nothin’ to read! All they had on the table were kids books, those recipe magazines, and this one.” Starsky waved the Cosmopolitan in the air, releasing a faint odor of perfume. “If they’d had Sports Illustrated we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“Okay.” Hutch left the couch to take a look at the magazine himself. “So there was no Sports Illustrated and you were left with no other reading material except this one. I can buy that. But how does reading a Cosmo in a dentist’s office make you a charter member of N.O.W.?”

“Because I walk the walk and talk the talk, buddy. A real feminist believes in equal reading material for all! Sports Illustrated for women, and Cosmopolitan for men.”

“Did they give you gas with the Novocain? I think you’re missing some of the brain cells you had this morning.”

Starsky got right in Hutch’s face. “You wouldn’t have read it.”

“True,” Hutch said, “but not because you’re more of a feminist than me, just because I wouldn’t have been interested in it.”

“Too bad for you, ‘cause it was real interesting.”

“Is that why you stole it, so you could finish it at home?”

“I’m not telling you that; you’ll just laugh at me again,” Starsky said with affronted dignity. “Isn’t it time for us to be eating dinner or something, anyway? I’m hungry.”

“I’ll start dinner if you tell me,” Hutch wheedled on his way to the refrigerator, his curiosity motivating him to try the wheedling approach to learn why Cosmopolitan was now residing in his home. “Please?”

“No laughing?”

“Scout’s honor.”

“How many times do I gotta tell you that you were never a Scout?”

“Cop’s honor, then,” Hutch substituted.

Starsky snorted. “Just remember I can take you down if necessary.”

“For the love of-”

“Okay! I’ll tell you.” Starsky gave Hutch a nod and flipped to a dog-eared page. “I was takin’ this test inside and I didn’t get to finish it before I had to go to the chair.”

“What kind of test?” Hutch asked suspiciously, pulling eggs and cheese and milk out of the refrigerator.

“Um, it was a test about you.” Starsky moved closer to where Hutch was starting dinner preparations. “I don’t see any meat on the counter.”

“That’s good, because if you did you’d be hallucinating.” Hutch found a bowl and started to crack eggs into it. “How the hell was a test in Cosmo about me?”

“How come we don’t get any meat?”

“Because I’m mean. The test, Starsk.”

“Hey! That’s my favorite kind of cheese, though,” Starsky said, pointing to the brand new package of Gouda. “You didn’t think I could chew meat tonight if the dentist drilled on me, huh?”

“The test, Starsk.”

“Oh, yeah, well, it was a test to see if your boyfriend is romantic,” Starsky said calmly. “I was pretty sure I knew how you’d come out, but I wanted to take the test to have factual proof.”

Hutch nearly dropped his egg. “You took a boyfriend test?”

“Sure. Never had a boyfriend before you. I still got things to learn.”

The egg he’d nearly dropped before now cracked open in Hutch’s hand as he involuntarily squeezed it to smithereens. “Teenage girls have boyfriends.” Hutch looked down helplessly as yolk dripped on his shoe. “We’re grown men. Partners. Lovers.”

“Uh-huh,” Starsky agreed, “and if they’d had a ‘How Romantic is Your Grown Man Who’s Also Your Partner and Lover’ test, I’d’a taken that, but all they had was the boyfriend one, so I had to make do. Besides, what does it matter what we call ourselves privately. We’re indefinable.” Starsky finished with a grin, reaching for Hutch’s hand and leading him to the sink to rinse the goo off. “What I really needed was a ‘How Romantic is Your Slob’ test. Hand me that dishtowel.”

Hutch handed over the nearest dishtowel with his free hand and watched as Starsky knelt to wipe the egg yolk and runnier white off his shoe. “Okay, I’m your boyfriend,” Hutch said, trying out the unfamiliar term.

“You’re my boyfriend,” Starsky agreed, “but you don’t have to take me to the prom.”

“You could do worse.”

“I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing a tux in your wreck of a car.” Starsky scrubbed more energetically at both the egg and another stain on Hutch’s shoe. “Speaking of the bomb, I’ve got an appointment to take it in to Merle’s tomorrow at eleven. I wanna see if he can adjust the timing belt better than I could, and replace about a million plugs before the engine just gives up and drops out on the freeway while you’re trying to drive it.”

“I don’t have to go, right?”

“Hell, no. You drive Merle crazy. Just let me take care of it.” Starsky gave up on the shoe and straightened up. “Just take ’em off, they’re gonna need sandpaper to come clean.”

“We were on a construction site yesterday, Starsky. These are manly stains.”  Hutch toed off his shoes and carried them to the bedroom before Starsky could tell him to. “See, I’m not a total slob, I know where my shoes go.”

“I’m a lucky man.”

“Yeah, you are.” Hutch enjoyed the grin they shared and returned to his bowl of eggs. “Now tell me how high I scored as a romantic boyfriend. I’ve always done brilliantly on tests.”

“I told ya, Mr. Humble, I didn’t finish taking it yet.”

Hutch rearranged some items on the counter to give himself elbow room to whisk. “Well, just tell me how I’m doing so far.”

“How come you bought so many bananas?” Starsky fingered one from the large bunch.

“How come you’re just noticing them now, Detective? You’ve been right here in the kitchen with me.”

“I was fixing your shoes, and you just moved them from behind something else. How come we need so many?’

“They’re for later,” Hutch said firmly. “Go read me the first question on the test.”

Starsky went back to the magazine, mumbling something under his breath about budgets and bananas that Hutch chose not to hear. “Come on, first question. I bet I hit it out of the ballpark.”

Starsky found the page. “Okay, let me explain to you how this works. Each question has six possible points, with zero being the lowest, least romantic, and five being the highest, Mr. Romance himself.”

“That would look good on a t-shirt,” Hutch said, adding salt and pepper to the whisked eggs.

“You might want to hold off on that shopping trip. You only scored a two on the first question.”

“A two,” Hutch said indignantly. “How could you score me so low?”

“Would you like to know what the question was?” Starsky asked pointedly.

“Sorry. Yeah. What was the question?” Hutch tried for a nonchalance he didn’t feel and wondered just how many other twos were in his future.

“The question was, ‘Does your boyfriend hold your hand in public?'”

“But that’s not fair! That question doesn’t work for us and you know it. You also know what would happen if we strolled into work hand-in-hand.”

“We’d probably give Dobey that coronary he’s been trying to avoid,” Starsky agreed.

“So, you should’ve skipped that question entirely, not given me a two,” Hutch said loudly. “Why didn’t you just give me a one or a zero? Why’d I even get the two?”

“Because, that one night we got to spend together in San Francisco, you held my hand for half a block and it was real nice. That gave you a point.”

“Ah, Starsk. You know I wish I could hold your hand outside anytime, anyplace, whenever I wanted to. Or you wanted me to.”

“I know that,” Starsky said, lowering his eyes. “That got you the other point.”

Hutch cleared his throat. “How’d I do on the second question?”

“Um, here goes. ‘Is your boyfriend thoughtful about picking up his dirty clothes or does he leave them where they drop, ruining the atmosphere of a romantic home?'”

“Son of a bitch!”

“Yeah, I had to give you a one on that, buddy,” Starsky said regretfully. “I tried to think of something to pump the score up higher, but you’re actually worse when you’re being romantic and all hot for me. You not only dump your clothes where they fall then, but mine, too.”

“I’m sorry, but I just don’t think that was a romantic question.” Hutch began to grate cheese with more force than was strictly needed. “It was a housecleaning question. I think this test was written by an angry person with a jerk for a boyfriend.”

“Just because someone’s a slob doesn’t mean they’re a jerk,” Starsky said. “You’re not a jerk!”

“But I am a slob.”

“Well, yeah, of course you are. You know that.” Starsky left the magazine to go swipe a bite of cheese from the pile Hutch was grating. “This is good. This wasn’t on sale, was it?”

“No, the good Gouda never is.” Hutch went to the cupboard for a frying pan and dropped it on the stove. “Can you hand me the butter?”

“Sure.” Starsky handed it over, then stayed long enough to give Hutch’s ass a caress. “I’m gonna get back to the questions. You need to hear how good you did on number five!”

“What about numbers three and four?” Hutch asked, putting a generous amount of butter into the pan.

“We’re going to skip those,” Starsky said quickly.

“Son of a bitch!”

“Come on, come on, ease up, Hutch. Here’s number five. ‘Does your boyfriend take his time kissing you?’ You got a four on that one ‘cause you’re an excellent kisser. Nice and slow.”

Hutch was slightly mollified. “If I’m an excellent kisser then how come you didn’t give me a five?”

“Because sometimes the phone rings.”

“That’s not my fault!”

“It is when you answer it,” Starsky said, followed by a wide grin. “Hey, I can move more of my face now. I’ll be able to feel it when you kiss me for hours and hours tonight.”

“Dream on. And get to the next question before the omelets are done.”

“Is that all we’re having, omelets? You’re not gonna make some fried potatoes to go with them?”

“I’ve got cottage cheese with sliced tomatoes to go with them.”

“God, you’re so-”

“I know you don’t want to finish that sentence, right?” Hutch asked, pointing both his finger and his spatula at Starsky.

“Nope, I sure don’t.” Starsky was obviously bowing to the double-threat Hutch was pointing at him. “I’m just gonna find the next question. Where is that next question….”

“How far are you skipping down?”

“Not far at all. Here we go, number ten.”

“Son of a bitch!”

“Number ten is a good one, Hutch!”

“Fine,” Hutch said dejectedly, “give me my number.”

“You’re a five. You hit this one right out of the ballpark, just like you said you would!”

“I did?” Hutch asked, feeling the smile on his face. “What was the question?”

“It’s a sex question,” Starsky said, a hint of embarrassment in his voice.

“Well, since we actually have sex together, quite a lot of sex, I think it’s okay for you to read me a sex question out loud, Starsk.”

“It’s just that you’re in the kitchen making omelets and all with your clothes on.”

“If I took my clothes off to make the omelets you’d have to spend the rest of the night putting burn goop on my tender parts,” Hutch said reasonably.

“That probably wouldn’t be as much fun for you as it would be for me.”

“No, probably not.”

“I’d still rather tell you this question when you’re naked. All nice and naked, and I’d be naked, too. We could do stuff after the question.”

“Stuff? You want the good stuff tonight, babe?” Hutch brought the finished omelets to the counter to flip onto the waiting plates.

Starsky joined Hutch in the small kitchen. “Yeah, I want the good stuff. The prime stuff. Wanna get it and give it. Now lay a four on me and let’s dig in to dinner.”

Hutch wanted to do his best to turn the four into a five, so he used his fingers to stroke around Starsky’s sensitive mouth with a feather light touch, kissing around his eyelids and down to his ears, sucking a lobe slowly into his mouth, wetting it thoroughly before he sucked, all the while using his other hand to stroke and squeeze the swell of ass he loved so much.

“Hutch… God….”

Hutch released the lobe reluctantly. “You said you wanted a four, but I thought I’d work up to a five.”

“You already made my jeans so tight I gotta take ‘em off.” Starsky said in a shaky voice. “Go any farther and you might as well toss the omelets and do me right here in the kitchen.”

“Would I lose points for that?”

“You must have been a joy in the classroom,” Starsky said, laughing “The real easygoing type about your grades.” Starsky leaned in to whisper in Hutch’s ear, “Get the food and feed us fast. I have a feeling we’re gonna need the fuel for later. In the bedroom. Where we can do each other. Got it?” Starsky pulled away slightly and undid his zipper with obvious care, groaning lightly as he pulled the tight material off his ass and legs until he stood there in bright blue bikinis, red t-shirt, and red socks.

Hutch could only stare at his lusty partner, taking everything in from the hard-on to the cocky grin “Get the cottage cheese,” he choked out hoarsely.

Starsky turned his back on him to root in the refrigerator for the rest of their dinner, and Hutch had to look away before the rounded cheeks barely covered by a scrap of flimsy blue did him completely in.

“Okay, tomatoes and cottage cheese are found,” Starsky said, “and you’ve got the eggs. Let’s get this on the table and then I’ll take your pants off.”

Hutch followed Starsky stiffly to the table before his words sunk in. “Why are you gonna take my pants off now?”

“Because you’ll injure something if you sit down in them.” Starsky eased a hand into Hutch’s waistband and then drew his zipper down. “See, there’s no room in here! Gotta let the big guy out to breathe. We can both be slobs tonight, eating dinner in our underwear. We should skip the napkins, too.”

“Your underwear is sexier than mine.” Hutch glanced down at his plain white boxers and eased his way into a chair, anxious to get this meal over with.

“Always has been.” Starsky began digging in to his cooling omelet. “This cheese is so good. Actually, the whole omelet is good.”

“Glad you like it,” Hutch said, grateful that now his pants were off he could focus on something other than the pressure in his groin. And more grateful still that the lower half of Starsky’s body was safely hidden under the table and no longer providing the view that produced the pressure in the first place. Now he could concentrate on his meal and use full sentences like a competent grown up. “Since we weren’t sure how much work you were going to have done today, I figured an omelet would fill you up, at least a little, and be easy to chew.”

“That’s why you scored a five on question fourteen,” Starsky said around a mouthful of cottage cheese. “It was something like, ‘Does your boyfriend take good care of you?'”

“And you gave me a five?” Hutch felt ridiculously proud at that.

Starsky gave Hutch a wink. “Only ‘cause that’s as high as I could go.”

“I might have to throw that in your face the next time you have a cold and I have to force feed you vitamin C,” Hutch said, giving Starsky a wink of his own.

“Throw away, I can take it.” Starsky ate his last few bites quietly and quickly, then pushed his plate away. “That was delicious. The budget-busting Gouda made all the difference.”

“It wasn’t that expensive, Starsk.” Hutch gathered plates and utensils to drop in the sink. “It’s okay to splurge once in a while.”

“I thought we were puttin’ every spare dime towards the down payment on the house and doing without splurges for the rest of our natural, mortgage-paying lives?” Starsky followed Hutch to the sink and wrapped his arms around Hutch’s waist.

“I don’t think a brick of cheese is gonna throw us too far off track.”

“What about those built-ins you want in the den?” Starsky asked, but Hutch was more interested in what Starsky’s hands were doing, now that they’d left his waist and moved to his backside. “Your underwear might not be as sexy as mine is to look at, but it sure is nice and soft.”

Hutch felt a hand slip under his waistband and start to explore.

“But nothing beats the skin of your ass, babe,” Starsky continued. “That’s the sexiest thing in the world. I could rub your ass all night and never get tired of feeling this skin.”

“Starsk, there’s still dessert,” Hutch mumbled, feeling his erection bloom back to full-force. “Do you want some dessert?”

“You bet,” Starsky said softly, deeply, as deeply as his hands were foraging between the clefts of Hutch’s cheeks. “You’re my dessert and I’m takin’ you to bed.”

“But we have all these bananas,” Hutch said, feeling completely befuddled. “I bought a lot of bananas.”

That got Starsky’s attention. “Just what’s your plan for dessert with all the bananas? Because I can think of a couple of kinky things we can do with them if you need some ideas.”

“We need to get the blender down.” The position of Starsky’s finger in the particular spot it was in was going to make Hutch howl right in his own kitchen. “The blender! Oh, man…” Starsky was chuckling against Hutch’s throat, the vibration causing more sensation for him to absorb. “Oh, God, your finger, twist it, right there. Right there!”

Want me to keep doin’ what I’m doing or should I stop and find the blender?” Starsky asked, then added. “What did you want to do with the blender and the bananas?”

“Don’t stop! Don’t you dare stop… It was just a milkshake. I was gonna make you a banana milkshake with the good…Starsky, oh…with the good ice cream.”

“How good’s the ice cream?”

“Budget-busting good! I’ll make it for you for breakfast.” Hutch was amazed to hear himself panting, stunned as always at just how fast Starsky could take him to this place.

“Is there chocolate and whip cream and nuts to put on top?” Starsky asked while his free hand started to fondle and torture Hutch’s nuts over his underwear.

“Yessss! Yes, there’s nuts! And the rest.” Hutch was going to come in the kitchen, he knew it, and hoped Starsky knew it, too. There was no stopping it now. He started to pump his hips, seeking Starsky’s hand to find the friction for his cock to finish him off.

Slowly, Starsky removed his finger from Hutch’s ass and loosened his hold on his balls. “That actually sounds pretty good. How long could it take to whip up a couple of milkshakes?” Starsky let go of Hutch’s balls with a farewell pat.

Hutch wanted to howl again. “Just put your finger back and give me twenty seconds, that’s all, and then you’ll get your milkshake.”

“Twenty seconds? When we don’t have to work in the morning? I don’t know what you were thinkin’, but I wasn’t trying to take you to the launch pad here in the kitchen. Just wanted to get you a little excited.”

“A little excited! Just look at what you did, will ya?” Hutch yanked his underwear down to his knees and cradled his swollen cock in his palm, certain it weighed about ten pounds. “Look at it!”

“God, you look hot,” Starsky said, licking his lips, “but you’re not gonna blow yet. You can hold it.”

“I don’t think you really looked at me, Starsky. I’m about to burst.”

“You’re hard all right, nice and hard, but you’re not gonna burst yet.” Starsky began washing his hands. “Isn’t the blender under the sink?”

Hutch let go of his cock in defeat. “Yes, it’s under the sink. And people say I’m the mean one.”

“I’m just as hard as you are.” Starsky wiggled out of his blue bikinis as he spoke, revealing his gifts in all their natural glory. “See? Hard as a rock, but I’m not whining about it because I know you’ll take good care of me in a few minutes.”

Hutch could only stare at his bare-assed partner, the hem of his red t-shirt resting in the thatch of dark, crisp curls, with his glistening cock throbbing for his attention. Even the stupid red socks were making him hotter. “Oh, damn.”

“You should kick your boxers all the way off before you trip,” Starsky said, putting his own bikinis in Hutch’s hand. “Take ’em both to the hamper and then get back here and start peeling the bananas.”

Hutch did as he was told, moving faster than he thought he was capable of at the moment.

He was halfway back to the kitchen when Starsky shouted a warning. “Just so you know, I’m all bent over in here so don’t have a heart attack or nothin’.”

As promised, Starsky was scrunched down low, pulling the blender out from under the sink, the position of his spread legs and bent knees opening his ass and providing intoxicating invitations to Hutch’s libido. He grabbed a banana roughly, almost tearing its peel off. “Son of a bitch.”

“‘Is your boyfriend a patient lover?'” Starsky quoted, rising and setting the blender up. “I think I might have to re-score you on that one, partner.”

“You know I’m a very patient lover!” Hutch yelled. “I can go for hours and hours and hours… What was my score?”

“My boyfriend is ever so humble.” Starsky started laughing so hard the cheeks of his ass bounced. “My boyfriend is so modest and shy that he’d never brag about his bedroom abilities!”

Hutch grabbed a bouncing cheek and gave it a pinch. “What was my score?”

“Ouch! Then or now?”

“Then. Now doesn’t count. Now is when you brought me up twice in thirty minutes and are parading all over the place bare-assed. Now is off the table.”

“You brought your own self up the first time,” Starsky said, going to the freezer for the ice cream. He looked at the label admiringly. “This really is the good stuff! Thanks, babe.”

“What was my score!” Another banana lost its peel so fast that half of the banana refused to leave the skin. Hutch almost felt sorry for it. “Why do you keep making me wait for my own damn scores?”

“Yeah, you’re the soul of patience. Keep peeling and you got a five.”

“That sounds about right,” Hutch said, peeling at a better speed now. “I mean, look at last Monday night. You were ready to roll over and go to sleep after I gave you your first mind-blowing orgasm, but I kept working you…slow…easy…letting it build, and I made you hot all over again and gave you a double for the night.”

“You make it sound like I was just laying there like a lump!” Starsky threw great gobs of ice cream into the blender as he spoke. “I seem to remember that you came twice, too, and I believe that was my doing. Or my doin’ you.”

I could’ve gone for a triple.”

“Delusions of grandeur. Your exhausted dick was still in my mouth when you started to snore.” Starsky shook his head at Hutch and reached for the peeled fruit, dropping it in and turning the blender on. “But you’re still a five.”

“Yeah, I am,” Hutch said happily, moving to the refrigerator for the whip cream and package of dark chocolate shavings he’d purchased earlier.

“And I’m a five, too.”

“Yeah, you are, but my five is in writing.” Hutch skillfully dodged the piece of banana sailing in the vicinity of his head. “Your aim is off. Go get the big glasses, the ones we use for company.”

“Does this look thick enough to you?” Starsky asked, pointing at the blender with its creamy concoction inside.

Hutch grabbed a large spoon and gave the mixture a stir. “It looks perfect to me.” He brought the spoonful to his mouth and tasted it. “Oh, that’s good, Starsk.”

“Yeah? Let me taste.” Starsky ignored the spoon Hutch was holding out and instead brought his tongue to Hutch’s lips, delicately lapping at the traces Hutch had left behind. “That is good. You pour and I’ll squirt.” Starsky stepped back and started shaking the can of whip cream with vigor. “Come on, pour.”

With his lips still tingling from the brief but intense feel of Starsky’s tongue, Hutch managed to get his act in gear enough to pour the thick shakes into the waiting glasses. “They’re all yours.”

Starsky squirted and sprayed with enthusiasm, and enough sexual innuendo to make Hutch want to take him hard and fast on the kitchen floor. It was only with the knowledge that he’d managed an iota of control while the shakes were being prepared, and that a soft bed and slow loving were his just and honest reward for patience beyond an ordinary five’s capabilities, that he restrained himself. “I’m not an ordinary five, Starsk.”

“You’re not an ordinary anything, babe.”

Hutch opened the package of shavings and liberally spread the chocolate all over Starsky’s mounds of whip cream. “I think we’re done.”

“We haven’t even gotten started.” Starsky’s tone had the ability to curl Hutch’s toes.  “I get to take both of my desserts to bed now.”

“And you’re gonna give me the rest of my scores?” Hutch asked, grabbing the glasses.

“Sure, I’ll give you all your scores, and tomorrow we can finish the test together.”

“I can’t wait to hear what question ten was,” Hutch said, once again drinking in the sight of his half-clad, half-bare, all-lust partner. Sagging red socks and all.

“I’ve decided to act question ten out for you. It’ll be less embarrassing then saying it out loud, and one hell of a lot more fun for both of us.” Starsky laughed and picked up the can of whip cream, tucking it under an arm. “Turn off the light and the radio, Hutch. It’s bed time.”