Why I Live at the Best Western

Someone once said that “Experience is a hut constructed from the palaces of our illusions.”

I say, “Loneliness is a motel room at the Best Western.”

 

Ever notice how the so-called art in motel rooms is always the same color as the bedspread? How the pictures are always hung so low on the wall that you have to be flat on your back to appreciate them? Ever notice how they’re either sunsets or birds? Or maybe an abstract that looks like a chimp painted it?

Ever notice how opposites attract? How nice easy-going normal people fall in love with over-achievers?

 

Hutch is one of those over-achiever types. He needs external validation to make him feel worthwhile. He’s a Golden Boy, always has been, always will be. I can live with that.

He lives with the fact that I’m a career cop in Homicide. We started out as partners and cops. He accepts the fact that my cases are important to me just like I accept the fact that he needs a leash to curtail his over-doing, and that I’m the one holding it.

 

Ever notice how you can hear the guy in the room above yours take that first long leak in the morning? The kind that sounds like Niagara Falls and makes you wonder if he’s going to dissolve his kidneys.

Ever notice how if the person you live with just does what you want them to, everything is hunky-dory? And that they never do?

 

Just my luck his book on the criminal mind got noticed in Newsweek. That book was his “What next?” after he left the police department. He gets a PhD in Psychology of Criminality, something he made up when none of the degree programs suited him.

And was his mother proud. “My son, the doctor.” Finally, he’s met his potential, he hasn’t “wasted all that talent and ability.” He’s got her off his back.

I lived with that book for four — no, make that five — years. It took him forever to write it. I’m not known for my patience, but the project was important to him. And I was in for the long haul. That’s what being partners means. I lived with Mr. Over-achiever, so I lived with The Book.

Do you know that it takes books to write books? You’ve got to read a skazillion books by other people first, and then you analyze all of that, and then you think a long time about what it all means, and then… and, only then… you finally, finally write it down… in a fucking first draft.

Books! There were books in the bedroom, books in the bathroom, books in the kitchen. Books stacked up in mountains of information. We had our own personal branch of the public library in our fixer-upper. That was our first house, before we bought the one we’re in now. It was this nice and cozy little house where we could be together and really get to know each other. Only how can you get to know someone when they always have their nose in a book? No wonder he needs reading glasses now. You can’t read that many books and not get eyestrain.

He says it’s the aging process that changed his eyesight. I say it’s too many books. But does he listen to what I say? Does he ever?

 

Ever notice how the air conditioner in motel rooms has only two settings, North Pole or OFF? How the extra blanket that they keep in the dresser drawer is never there? How sleeping all night rolled up like a meatball makes you feel stiff and old? How when you look in the mirror over the sink in the morning you have more gray hair than you did the night before?

 

Did you know that it takes paper to write a book? Tons of it. Piles of yellow legal pads for notes, and notecards for notes on your notes. And the notecards get grouped together in little color-coded families with rubber bands and numbers on them. (Did I mention anal retentive yet?) And then it takes drafts. But I don’t mean pitchers of that cold foamy stuff we used to go out and drink.

The whole damn book goes through about eighty or ninety drafts until it’s more perfect than God himself could make it. (Have I mentioned perfectionism yet?) I say, If you’re such an ecologist, why kill so many trees?

And files. Fucking files. Manila folders. I have to deal with them at work. I don’t want to live with them at home. Was it my fault when crumbs got on one? He was using the kitchen table as a desk. I had to eat. You know what a real mood killer is? Coming into the bedroom and seeing your lover’s body buried under files. I hate files. I really do.

So don’t tell me I don’t understand about writing!

 

Okay, I’ll admit I don’t always know when he’s writing in his head. You heard me. In his head. I mean, I come home. He’s lying on his side by the fireplace. He’s got on that midnight blue velour robe that I bought him. He’s kind of curled up on some big pillows and the robe is riding up so that I can see part of his ass. I thought he was waiting for me. How the hell did I know that he was writing!

I slipped off my shoes, walked up behind him, and stuck my toes in the crack of his ass. He says leave him alone, he’s writing. I figured he was just playing hard to get, so I ignore what he says, and start stroking his crack with my foot. He says if that’s my idea of foreplay, I should read his article on fetishists!

There was a time I could stick just about whatever I wanted wherever I wanted. And he let me. And, more than that, he liked it. So don’t tell me my idea of foreplay is weird.

 

Ever notice how the remote control for the TV is bolted to the bedside table on the side of the bed you’re not on?

How the only things on at 2:30 in the afternoon are shows where people spill their guts in front of a live audience, and the audience applauds their pain? It’s either that or the tail end of a soap opera where the only gay character is dying with AIDS. They always kill off queers, ever notice that? Like we can be in a storyline, but only until we croak.

It’s either that or reruns of Andy Griffith. You watch back-to-back Andy of Mayberry and you start wondering why there are no black people there. Like, is good ol’ Andy really a closet bigot and leading lynching parties in his spare time? Like maybe him and Barney keep their white sheets in that back room.

Ever notice how you think too much about other things when you’re trying not to think?

 

I mean, I knew he wrote things. He was always scribbling ideas for songs or poems or stories. He was like that when I first knew him.

I have a great memory of Iron Mike Ferguson reading one of Hutch’s love poems out loud to our Academy class. Sgt. Ferguson was checking up on our ability to keep proper case notes in our notebooks and here Hutch had been missing his wife, Van, and writing about it. And there’s that tough old bird reading that poem in this sarcastic voice. But Hutch got him right back. Iron Mike finishes reading and says, “Hutchinson, do you call these notes?” And Hutch says, “No. I call that poorly-read poetry.” “You think you can do better?” says Iron Mike. “I know I can,” Hutch tells him. And then, Hutch reads his poem out loud in this really serious way and we all stop laughing and start listening. When he finishes, Iron Mike says, “Only case notes go in your notebook, not grocery lists, not laundry lists, and not la-di-da rhymes.” “Yes, sir,” Hutch says. “And, Hutchinson, ‘reveal’ and ‘navel’ don’t rhyme.”

So, yeah, I knew he wrote things. I just never thought of him as a writer. Listen, don’t fall in love with a writer. They’d rather spend time with their characters than with you. They’re always working on an idea and only half-listening to you. They’re right there beside you, but far away in their head. Don’t marry one. You end up living in a motel room.

 

Ever notice how they don’t give you enough hangers in motel rooms? How the bars of soap are for midgets? How the toilet paper could be used to sand down the woodwork?

Ever notice how the ice machine is always on the floor you’re not on? How the candy machine never has the candy bar you want? And how the cold Coke machine only gives you warm Pepsi?

Ever notice how you can love someone and still hate them?

 

Like I said, I survived the birth of The Book. And let me tell you, it was a long labor. But I figured, let him write it, get it out of his system. He’ll get his advanced degree, get over his “My mother thinks I’m a failure” thing. Then, hell teach some classes and the rest of the time be waiting at home for me.

But no, he gets on his high horse and away he rides as a consultant on some really big cases. He interviewed Dahmer, and actually came to (and I use this term with a great deal of caution) like him. That is, if you can “like” a cannibalistic serial killer.

Yeah, there he goes, Dr. Expert, the sicko serial killer’s friend. I spent a lot of my off time dropping him off at airports, picking him up at airports, and acting like a valet for all his damn luggage. Half of my love life has involved blowing kisses to the back of his head while he goes off to catch a plane somewhere.

Lectures, travel, seminars, international consulting. After the Soviet Union broke up, he was invited over to meet with their resident extreme weirdo perp and interview him. You know the one I mean, he did all those little boys and girls, picked them up at train stations and then murdered them. Hutch interviewed him in Russian and said old Sergei actually had a great sense of humor! Don’t ask.

Maybe it takes weird to know weird.

Did I mention that if you partner an international consultant that your sex life is for nothing? Because who can find time for that when you’re busy taking someone’s shirts to the dry cleaners, or washing his socks, or helping him pack or unpack or re-pack, or watching him work at his computer?

You know the problem with computers? They’re not really a two-person thing. That’s why it’s called a PC… PERSONAL computer.

Who ever thought that my macho cop partner would end up a computer geek, or is that nerd? I think secretly he wants to use a plastic pocket protector in his shirt.

You should see him sitting there staring at the computer screen. The same guy who tells me I watch “entirely too much TV.” I talked him into one of those great big color monitors, too. I wanted to save those two baby blues of his. And there he perches on that special back-saver chair I got him with the hydraulics and the fifteen positions…

Yeah, positions. I used to do all kinds of those with him once.

See, the trouble with computers is you have to sit down so long in front of them and type things. I wouldn’t mind one that you could talk to and it would answer back. Like Star Trek, or something. That way, I’d have someone at home to talk to besides the four walls or the animals. Plus, who can sit for so long? No wonder he says his back hurts.

I don’t hear about headaches, when we’re not on. I hear about sore backs. And when I offer to rub it for him, he says he’ll take some aspirin instead.

Anyway, who can feel sexy about a guy with granny glasses stuck on the end of his nose, wearing his so-called writing robe? It’s this old faded plaid bathrobe that the dog won’t even lie on. I got him that nice new one, but he hardly wears it, he says its sensuality distracts him. I say, a little distraction is a very good thing. Once he’s wearing that green and red rag and those glasses, it’s a cold night in a big bed for yours truly. Once he went on-line, and had access to all that information “at my fingertips, Starsk,” he started touching the computer more than me. His idea of foreplay is turn the screen on. I blame myself. I really do. I never should have bought him the computer.

I already knew that he wasn’t ever going to stop being a Golden Boy. I was resigned to it. I accepted the fact that he was handicapped with that, just like I accepted the consulting thing.

All right, he accepted that I was a career cop and he was supportive way before I got used to him being Dr. Expert. But once I did, I went all the way. Because if you want the truth, he wasn’t going to not do it. But overall, you could call me Mr. Really Supportive and not be going overboard.

Finally, I just had to put my foot down. He was offered a seat on The Governor of California’s State Crime Commission, which would have put him in Sacramento and me on commuter planes. I’ll tell you right now, I don’t do small planes. They always seem to be ending up nose first on the ground with no survivors. I said No. No Commission. No commuting. No me hooked on Valium because I’m too scared to get on flying tan cans. And he agreed with me!

Right then, I should have known something was up. He doesn’t give in without a fight. But since I was on a roll, I went for the jackpot. You’ve got to cut back on the traveling. Blow jobs in airport restrooms are not my idea of a sex life. I clipped his wings. And he let me.

Ever hear the term “hidden agenda”?

 

I got to say, though, that those two months before the roof fell in were like a second honeymoon. Sex gets better when you get older, did you know that?

I’ll tell you why it does. You know each other, you’re used to each other, you can move from the preliminaries right into the main event You can ask for and get what you want. Like, for instance, I always wanted to do it on the kitchen table. Did you ever see that scene in the re-make of The Postman Always Rings Twice, where the two lovers end up together on that table where she’s baking? There’s flour all over. Our version involved a zucchini and some olive oil. And I used to hate zucchini.

The other great thing about sex when you’re older and living together is that you don’t have to spend money on them to get some. You want it, they want it, and it’s no dinner and dancing first, and an overdraft on your VISA. With married love, you can go to bed and stay there until starvation sets in and you have to get up. You can go to bed early to watch TV or stay up late doing private investigating. You can tell your partner you need help with some research, put on a skin flick and have him take notes about what turns him on. And then use his notes to give it to him, but good.

When you’re on your second honeymoon, if you got to fart you do. If you wake up with bad breath, he tells you your mouth is a sewer, go brush your teeth because he really wants to kiss you. When you’re a couple for fifteen years, you can just feel good watching the sunrise together.

It was terrific. For two whole months. I even took a leave, so that we could be together. I figured people would croak each other whether I was there or not. It was a really special time. I was loving him and he was loving me back. We were in synch, in tune, simpatico.

Then, he sprang it on me.

 

I remember it like it was yesterday. It was a Sunday morning. I wasn’t on call. No phone was going to ring and a voice say, “Lt. Starsky, can you come and view this stiff? I was sitting at the kitchen table. To my left, hot coffee in my Yankees mug, an onion bagel with a shmeer in front of me, and, to my right no bitchin’ and moanin’ about my cholesterol levels as I troweled on the cream cheese. I was all smiles A half hour before, he’d given me a soapy hand job in the shower. It started when he got in with me and asked me if I needed help washing “it.” It ended with me cummin’ all over his belly. I was at peace with the world.

Then, it happened.

I was behind the sports page wondering why I even bothered with baseball. Ever since they canceled the World Series because of the strike, it just wasn’t the same. I was seriously thinking of selling off my baseball card collection and becoming a hockey fan, when he said my name.

“Starsk…”

“Yeah?”

“I’ve been thinking…” He took a deep breath and then exhaled. He always does that when it’s something serious. So I figured he found out about the new VCR I ordered (I told that guy at the electronics store not to call me at home) and it was budget review time. “…About writing another book.”

The cream cheese curdled right then and there. My coffee went stone cold in the mug. My stomach flopped to the floor and my heart fell in my lap. I heard sirens wailing in my mind, “Sex life, DOA!”

 

You think writers are clever, creative people, don’t you? Wrong They are sexless word processors who get off on punctuation. Again he’s with the “I want to be alone” routine. He has to “spend time with” his characters. You do that with a novel. That’s all I need. If I wasn’t real, he’d be having wet dreams about me. If I was a character in a book or an imaginary person, then he’d want to be with me.

Ever notice how too much time alone makes you start thinking weird thoughts and talking to yourself?

 

So, there he’d be writing notes for his novel about the Vampire Killer, René Nadasy a case we had in the mid-70s. I’d come home after a long hard day, hungry and really needing to talk, and he’d throw a sandwich at me and disappear into his office.

I was swamped. My latest crisis was three homicides committed during the robbery of a convenience store. One of the victims was only nineteen. Our leads were a green getaway car — or it might have been gray, the eyewitness being color blind — and two perps wearing ski masks over their faces.

You could say I was a little stressed out, but did the great American novelist notice? No, he was too busy playing with his dictionary.

 

Then he got a DO NOT DISTURB sign for his office. It was the same sign I lifted from that hotel we stayed at on our honeymoon. It was cruelty to use it that way.

But I showed Lady, our Golden Retriever, how to scratch at the door to get him to open it.

“What do you want?” he’d say.

“Nothin’. I heard Lady and came in to see what was wrong.”

“Oh.”

“How’s it going?”

“Not bad.”

“You coming to bed soon?”

“No.” Then he lets the dog in and shuts the door on me. It’s a date with Mrs. Thumb and her four daughters again. tonight.

 

Ever notice how motel bathrooms are too small? You sit on the toilet and your knees practically touch the wall across from you. Plus, there’s something about a paper strip saying “This crapper was cleaned” that I just don’t trust. I mean, what if they just put the sanitized strip on it and never really cleaned it?

And they put the bathroom sink outside the bathroom. Ever notice how it’s too low and the hot water is warm and the cold water is warm? And the shower either hits you full force in the face or just kind of spits the water at you?

 

Then, his characters stopped talking to him. That’s when the siege began.

“My characters need room to breathe,” he tells me.

“Write by the window,” I say.

“I need room for them to speak to me.”

“Build an addition.”

“Listen, smart ass, I’m serious.” Then he took one of those deep breaths and I knew the next pronouncement would be bad news. “I’m thinking about moving into the guest room.”

“Think again.”

Maybe it was something in the way he called me smart ass that made me try to stare him down with my intimidation look. Maybe it was the way he told me I looked like I was constipated when I did that. Maybe it was when I tried to wrestle him into a sexy mood and he not only didn’t feel like wrestling, he used a headlock to prove it.

After that, we both got stubborn. He hunkered down, I dug in. When he moved his pillow from our bed and into the guestroom, battle lines were drawn.

 

So, me and Lady and Diego Garcia, our orange tiger-striped sometimes cat (sometimes he’s here, sometimes he’s not) were eating our dinners alone together. One thing about Diego, he shows up like clockwork for meals. The rest of the time he’s invisible. Maybe he’s a writer, too.

I was working my way through the Healthy Choice frozen dinner menu alphabetically… for the third time. I was starting to notice that the chicken and the fish kind of had the same taste no matter what sauce they put on top of it. Mutt and Jeff, the guinea pigs, were in their cage in the guest room because Diego thought anything rodent was something to nosh on. When who should emerge from the sanctum sanctorum in his ratty bathrobe but the friend of vampires, Mr. Anne Rice?

“Starsk, do you think the Vampire Killer would be more interesting if I made him Afro-American?”

“Oh, are you speaking to me?”

“Yes.” He goes over to the stove and starts boiling water for a cup of tea. Writers drink tea, not coffee, I don’t know why. They also forget to buy coffee for their partner, who isn’t a writer and hates tea. Long Island Iced Tea is something else again, but that other stuff tastes like brown hot water.

“You’re coming down off your perch to consult me about our case?”

“What is your problem? I told you I was having trouble getting a feel for the character. He isn’t speaking to me yet.”

“Have him write you a letter.”

“This is important.”

“Make him Swedish.”

“Oh, grow up!”

“Or, why not Scottish? He could wear a fuckin’ plaid bathrobe, drink tea, and be a writer.”

“Never mind. HI figure it out myself.”

“Yeah? At the rate you’re going, I’ll be retired before you get the fucker written. I think you writing a novel is cockamamy!”

“Well, thank you for your undying support, partner.” And he slammed the cupboard door.

Well, two can slam doors and I can slam better than he can any day. He learned to slam from me. I taught him everything he knows about door slamming and expressing your emotions. Before I got a hold of him, he was just a walk-away-and hold-it-all-in type. Now, KA-BANG. He can slam a door with the best of them. I was just getting ready to find my own door to slam, when he says he’s sorry. “Me, too,” I say.

“Not to you, you illiterate asshole. Them. Animals don’t like loud noises.” Then he pets the stupid cat and gives Lady a doggie treat.

“You know something, you double-jointed dilettante, I could drop over dead right now, for all you care.”

“Try it.”

Try it? “Fuck you.”

“You wish.” Then, he left the kitchen with his tea in my Yankees mug and Lady at his heels. I looked over for comfort from Diego. No sympathy there; he had his leg over his head cleaning himself.

He’s probably going into the guest room to turn Mutt and Jeff against me now. He’ll tell them I’m not being supportive, that I just don’t understand what it means to be a writer. That I’m not meeting his needs.

But you know something? I have needs, too. So I got up and wrote this message on a Star Wars note pad stuck on the fridge: “Your writing is more important than me.”

I didn’t even slam the door when I left. Someone has to act like an adult.

 

Ever notice how motel beds are either too firm or too soft? That you end up spending most of the night trying to get comfortable in them?

I used to sleep in a really great king-sized bed with my partner. It had dark blue satin sheets and a comforter we bought from a catalogue, after only two arguments. Next to sex, we like fighting with each other best because making up is so good. Except now, we’re not even talking. We’re just two ships that pass in the night; one a patient, caring, loving, understanding guy and the other one a big blond shmuck in a ratty bathrobe.

Yesterday I used to share a beautiful master suite with Hutch. Now I live in a stinkin’ motel room near the freeway. It shouldn’t happen to a dog. But a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do. This is war!

Still, I figured it wouldn’t hurt to call my contact just to see if there’d been any word.

“Huggy’s Bar. Huggy speaking.”

“Anything?”

“He says calling him double-jointed was hitting below the belt.”

“Yeah, well, he called me illiterate. Anything else?”

“Nada.”

“Shit.”

“Hey, Starsk… Is he, you know, double-jointed?”

“Only when he wants to be.”

 

Ever notice how motel sheets are always stiff like they starch them or something, and they smell like bleach? The sheets at home are soft and they smell good.

I remember this time when Hutch and me were first living together in our little fixer-upper. After I was shot and almost died in ’79, we realized life was too short. We came out and admitted we were meant for each other, that we were supposed to be together. So two years later I told him, It’s stupid to pay two rents, since you’re always waking up in my bed, anyway. And we’ve got a perfectly good — all right, semi-perfectly good — house, once we paint it and repair the porch and have the electricity rewired, and maybe put on a new roof and get the plumbing working well enough so that you don’t have to stand by with a bucket and mop every time I flush.

Okay, okay, it needed a little work. But it was ours. And he said, Are you asking me to live with you? And I said, Does a cow give milk?

We were always destroying the bed and killing the sheets back then. This one time, we’re at the laundromat with the evidence. Hutch is getting ready to put the sheets in a washer, while I help by staying out of his way. This little girl drags one of those orange plastic chairs across the room and parks it right next to Hutch. Then she climbs up on it and starts talking to him.

“Whatcha doin’?”

“The laundry.”

“What’s those?”

“The sheets.”

“They dirty?” (Boy, you could say that again, kid, I think.)

“Yes.”

“How’d they get dirty?”

“Uh… sleeping on them.”

“I sleep on my sheets; they don’t get dirty.”

“Uh, huh…”

“How come yours is dirty?” It was getting real good. Hutch looked at me for help. I pretended to be reading a magazine.

“Honey, where’s your mama?”

“Over there.” She pointed to a young black woman on the pay phone.

“I think she wants you.”

“No, she don’t.” She watched him stuff the last sheet in the washer and said, “Did you pee the bed?”

“No.”

“How come there’s a wet spot on it?”

“I think I hear your mother calling you.”

“No, she ain’t. That your quarter?”

“Yes.”

“You using it?”

“Yes.”

“What’s it for?”

“The laundry.”

“That your quarter, too?”

“Yes.”

“Can I have it?”

“No, I need it to wash the sheets.”

“How ’bout that quarter? Can I have that one?”

“No.” He was starting to sound firm. “I need them all to wash the sheets.”

“Oh.” She stood there thinking for a second then said, “That your dollar?”

“Yes.”

“Can I have it?”

“No. I need it to make quarters to wash the sheets.”

It was beginning to sound like “This-is-the-house-that-Jack-built,” when all of a sudden, an even smaller girl popped up on the washer across from Hutch.

“That your quarter?” she said.

“Yes.”

“Can I have it?”

“He needs it to wash his sheets,” her older sister told her. “Cuz he pee-peed on them.” She starts laughing like a maniac with her sister joining in.

“No, I didn’t.”

“That your dollar?” the little sister asked.

“I think I hear your mother calling you,” he said, trying to get rid of them both with that same old line.

“No, she ain’t. She on the phone over there.”

“Oh.”

They watched his every move until their mother got off the phone and called them over to her. It was priceless. That night he tells me we’re buying a washer and dryer and putting them on the roof, if we have to; he’s not going through that kind of interrogation ever again.

Those were the days of stripping the bed of love-stained sheets after a session, and putting on fresh ones all soft and clean. I’d fall asleep still tasting him on my lips.

 

Ever notice how motel bed pillows are flat and dead? No matter how much you try to fluff them up, they lie there and ignore you. Back home I have a special neck pillow that Hutch got me. He’s probably letting Diego use it now that I’m gone.

Ever notice how motel beds complain and make noise every time you try to get comfortable?

Our bed at home makes the best sound when you’re flat on your belly and getting it on. You turn your head to one side, your ear is pressed into the mattress and you can hear this sound that’s kind of like “gonna cum gonna cum”. The bed here makes a sound like “sleeps alone sleeps alone” when I try to jerk off. Now, I can’t even do that.

The first night I was here, I ate a pizza with double everything and I ordered one of those pay-for-view skin flicks. The guy in it was tall and blond and reminded of the asshole I just walked out on. I was trying to forget, not get indigestion.

Hutch says skin flicks are stupid and offensive. I’ll admit they usually have little to no plot, but I do pick up pointers from the better ones. I consider it research. I mean if I hadn’t rented Randy Does Raleigh, I never would have mastered the double thumb alternating butt fuck, which someone, who will rename nameless but is a writer, really gets off on. That little technique is one of his favorites. It drives him crazy. I can get him to do anything I want once I start with that action.

Ancient history now. The last time we were together, he sucked me off in about two seconds. I was so desperate, who could hold onto it?

“How was it?” he asks.

“I feel like I’m a duty on your to-do list,” I tell him as I pull up my pants. “Can’t we get together for some real down and dirty?”

“Sure.”

“When?”

“Soon.”

“Tonight?”

“Starsk, I need to spend time with my characters.”

“I know, I know. Sometimes I think they turn you on more than I do.”

“Oh, don’t be silly.” He patted me on the head and left the room.

Just like one of his animals, I thought, a pet. We didn’t even get the bedspread wrinkled, since we did it standing up. Well, I was standing up, he was sitting on the end of the bed putting on his socks when I came in and begged him to get me off, or I’d explode. Now he can open his Filofax and put a check mark by my name.

You know, sex isn’t sex unless you mess up the bed.

 

We went back East after Hutch got his PhD. In the city, we did the tourist thing, saw plays, did museums and galleries, ate at expensive restaurants. We even went to the top of the Empire State Building. In the Village, we acted as gay as we wanted; nobody knew us there. It was great walking down the street and holding hands. We made out in a little park and no one gave it a glance. At a club, we ordered one of those fruity rum drinks; it came in this glass that looked like the rounded curves of an ass. We shared it using the same straw.

We went to Brooklyn to see my mother. We were going to come out and tell her about us. When we got there, she gave us her double bed. It wasn’t news to her. She introduced Hutch as “Dave’s partner, the author”. They’d always be holed up in the kitchen laughing. I kept getting the feeling it was about me. Me and my brother, Nick, she loves; Hutch, she likes.

 

After seeing Ma, we had to go to Duluth. Hutch’s mother was having a big dinner party to celebrate his degree. He was finally a success in life, in her opinion. She couldn’t not invite me because I showed up in the rental car with him. But she could be overly polite, which is her way of ignoring me. At the cocktail party, she introduced me as “Mr. Starsky, who used to work with Kenneth when he was only a detective.” Get the picture? As if I just happened to be going the same way as Golden Boy, so he gave me a lift. Sure, and bats eat ice cream. Nobody believed her. They knew who I was and what I was and what I was doing with her darling.

Hutch’s dad surprised me. When he took me to his study and offered me a brandy, he raised his glass to me and thanked me for being in his son’s life. That caught me so off guard that I took a big swallow of the stuff instead of sipping it like you’re supposed to. So here’s his dad hitting me on the back while I’m choking. And you know what? I saw Hutch in him, that long arm and big hand reaching out to help. He’s got beautiful white hair with just a little bit of blond still left in it. If Hutch looks like that when he’s old, it’s fine with me.

Better than looking like Mrs. H, who’s all Nancy Reaganish thin and face-lifted. Don’t get me wrong, she’s a good looking woman, only she’s trying too hard to look young. Because, in my opinion, no matter how many lifts a lady has, her hands and neck give her away. Unless she plans to wear turtlenecks and gloves all the time. Anyway, Mr. H thanked me for saving his son’s life and for being there for him. He showed me some of Hutch’s trophies from school sports. And you know what he had on his desk? A pair of those bronzed baby shoes and a photo of Hutch as a little tiny kid. We clinked glasses and this time I sipped.

Then it was time for dinner. That formal dining room had been the scene of many a family “conference”, where they told him he was a moron for getting one “B” instead of all “A”s. Shit, at my house, a “C” was cause for celebration.

They have this great big long oak table. It has carved feet that look like they belong to an animal, toenails and all. It was covered with a fancy antique lace tablecloth made by little old ladies in Ireland or Iceland or something. On it were a zillion plates, a ton of silver, and enough crystal glassware to outfit Huggy’s classy new restaurant/bar for life. I knew to start with the first eating utensil you come to on the side farthest away from your plate. They had it set for a right hander, but beggars can’t be choosers. I’d manage.

His mother stuck me next to this large lady who used to sing opera. Between her spilling over into my personal space and me being left handed, we weren’t really enjoying each other’s company all that much. She started talking to the guy next to her about why Bizet was passé and Carmen was a cliché. I happen to like that opera. It’s one of the few I can understand when I listen to all the noise. Carmen’s hot. She uses guys, but when she meets up with the wrong one and uses him, he offs her. I was going to put my two cents in, then decided why bother?

On my right was this elderly man who used to be a banker. He was wearing two hearing aids, but neither of them seemed to be working. Any time I tried talking to him, I had to get real close and talk into his ear. Maybe his batteries were low, I don’t know. I decided just to smile and nod and look interested while he droned on about interest rates, capital gains, and why a Republican administration was good for the country. Since I thought Reagan was a better actor than he was a President, and as an actor he stunk, I just worked on my salad and nodded.

The old guy was going on about why the stock market was the best place to invest, but you had to “Stay the course, sir, stay the course”. Whatever that meant. I caught Hutch watching me out of the corner of his eye. He was smiling like the Mona Lisa.

I was sawing into the entrée, while my dinner partner went on about truth in lending. He finished his monologue, and told me I was a good listener. Like I really had a choice, right? Then, he asks me what I do for a living.

“I’m a detective. I work Homicide,” I say.

“Did you say homogenized?”

“No, Homicide.”

“What?”

“Hom-i-cide.” I get close to his ear hole and enunciate every syllable for him. “You know, dead people. Stiffs.”

Maybe I was talking too loud or something, because all of a sudden I felt like everyone was watching me. Like nineteen pairs of eyes were all staring at the Jew eating pork loin and yelling about corpses. I looked up and they all looked away real quick. Hutch had his napkin in front of his mouth and his eyes were closed. I thought he was going to spew right then and there because his partner was such a shlemiel. Boy, did I lack couth big time.

Finally, and I do mean, finally, we finished dinner. I got up from the table and went to find a rope to hang myself. I went to my room, which was at one end of the house; Hutch was sleeping at the other end. Short of having me sleep in Wisconsin, it was the next best thing his mother could come up with for our accommodations. I was sweating my ass off. My dress shirt was sticking to me and the silk lining of my Bill Blass was sticking to that. B.O. and Blass don’t mix, let me tell you.

I could smell myself a mile away. I reeked. I had to change my shirt pronto and get back to the execution. Since I only had one dress shirt with me, it wasn’t going to be easy. I decided to use Hutch’s hair dryer to dry the armpits of my shirt and then douse myself with some of his cologne. I’m sitting on his bed with my arm up in the air and the hairdryer in my armpit, when he comes in. He takes one look at me and starts laughing.

“What’s so damn funny?” I say. Then I switch hands and stick the dryer in my other pit. He just keeps laughing and pointing at me. “Shut up,” I tell him.

He gets his “I’m-sorry-Daddy” look on and comes to sit by me. I finish drying the wet spots, get up, get the cologne, and splash some on under my arms. Then, I test out the results with my nose. When I do that, he starts roaring, falls back on the bed and just points at me. I start getting pissed off until I realize what a jerk I must look like with my nose in my armpit.

“How’s it smell?

“Like B.O. and Polo,” I tell him. And we both start laughing.

When we finally calm down, he says, “I couldn’t believe it when you were trying to talk to Mr. Evans. I thought I was going to have to leave the table. It was so funny.”

“Yeah, a real riot.” And I go over and sit on the bed.

“Homogenized?” he says in the old guy’s croaky voice. “‘No, Hom-i-cide. Stiffs,'” sounding like me. And he starts laughing at me all over again. So I decide to shut him up by lying on him. He’s laughing and squirming under me, trying to push me off. I start getting hard and feel like I want to start grinding into him. “Get off me, you weigh a ton!” Which means, pin him and rub off on him. “Not here, dammit!” I start working his legs open with my knees. “Don’t you understand the word no?” But he’s getting hard and I can feel it. Which means go for it, until he can throw me off.

And it seems that the bed was an antique, a family heirloom or something. Anyway, it was real old. And while he was saying no and trying to push me off and I was saying yes and trying to stay on, the bed broke. There was this cracking sound and then, BAM! — half the bed is on the floor with me and Hutch on it.

We went silent as stones. Both of us thinking of how we’re going to explain this to his mother. When all of a sudden the other side lets go and we’re flat on the floor, with me on top of him. I know any second now, his mother is going to charge into the room and I’m going to have to explain how I ended up between her son’s legs on her priceless busted antique bed.

That night we did something really sneaky. We got some wire from the garage and some duct tape from the basement, and we put the thing back together. With the dust ruffle on it, it looked good as new. Hutch slept in my room, after that, sneaking out before dawn to go back to his. We figured we were home free until they changed the ruffle. Then, our plan was to blame the opera singer. Yeah, we used to have some wild and crazy times together.

 

Ever notice how McDonald’s tastes great until you have to eat it for breakfast, lunch, and dinner? How ordering Chinese food to go costs more than eating it in? That you can’t order a large pizza with double everything and finish it in one sitting? That next day cold double everything pizza smells like cat food because of the anchovies?

Ever notice how your stomach rules your head? How it will wake you up at three a.m. and tell you, “I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take it anymore?”

For my gut’s sake, I had to do something and fast.

 

I called my contact

“Huggy’s Bar. Huggy speaking.”

“Anything?”

“He says to tell you to come home.”

“Tell him I’ll come home when I’m good and ready.”

“He says he’s making pot roast.”

Ready! my stomach yelled. Hold out, be a mensch, my heart said. You’re drinking Pepto like water and eating Rolaids like candy, my brain reminded me. My tongue said, “Tell him I’m on my way.”

I was doing my stomach a huge favor. I hoped it would be eternally grateful.

 

My stomach may be easy, but I’m not, I told myself as I entered the kitchen. Hang tough.

“Oh, there you are,” he says like I had just stepped out of the house for five minutes, not been gone for four whole days. “Want a drink?”

“No.”

“I was way out of line calling you illiterate. Forgive me?”

“Yeah. I was out of line, too, I guess.”

“Your note was wonderful”

“It was?”

“You really do understand.”

“I do?”

“About my writing being more important.”

“You know, I could use a drink.”

“Coming right up.” He starts bustling around the kitchen and I’m just staring. I can’t believe it! He thinks I left and lived in that crummy motel because I love him. I was trying to teach him a lesson, didn’t he know that? Ever hear the phrase “dumb blond”? He wasn’t even punished. He was glad I was gone! “Want anything with your drink?”

“No, thanks.”

“Suit yourself.” And he starts chopping off the tops of carrots.

What I want is for him to cut off his fingers so that he can’t type on the computer any more. What I want is for him to forget about this being-a-writer thing and start acting normal. What I want is to bend him over the kitchen table, pull his pants down, and give it to him fast, hard, and dry. What I want…

“Starsk.”

“Yeah?”

“Come here a minute.” Hey, I’m nobody’s dog. I don’t just come when I’m called. I go over to him. He takes me in his arms and gives me a hug. “Miss me?”

“Not really.”

“I’m giving up the novel idea.”

“Really?”

“I want to taste it,” he says. So I start to pick up a carrot. “Not that, Gordo. The big enchilada.” Then, he gets on his knees right there by the kitchen sink and starts to unzip my jeans. I push his hand away. He waits on his knees and puts his face in my crotch. I’m not a sexual plaything to be used only at his whim. I unzip my jeans. But I’m not taking it out. I take it out. I’ll be damned if I’m going to get hard, just so he can make it up to me with his mouth. Because when it comes to his mouth and his blow jobs, I turn into a quivering mass of Jell-O.

I can’t help myself. I’m trying to stay soft, but my dick is forgetting and forgiving. “Feed it to me,” he says.

I’ve got him now. I’ll refuse. That’ll show him. I’m nobody’s toy. He’s waiting and breathing on it. I look down and see the top of his head where he’s got that little bald spot. I’m glad he’s got a bald spot; otherwise, he’d be perfect. I love his bald spot. I want to kiss it and lick it. No, I don’t. I want to move back into the Best Western and really teach him a lesson. Am I crazy!?

I want to make him open his lips and take the head of my dick between them. I want him to run his tongue all around it. I want to push it into his mouth, all wet and warm, real slow and then pull it out. And, each time I push it back in, I want to make it go a little deeper. I want to start pumping it with my fist for all it’s worth. Maybe I’m bruising his lips with my knuckles. I hope I am. No, I don’t. I just can’t stop. I want to fuck his mouth and shoot all of my cum into him and down his throat. I want him to swallow me whole and own me. And he does, and we’re together.

When I open my eyes, the brisket that used to be on the stove is now on the floor. Lady is chewing on it; Diego is helping. I guess I should tell Hutch. But I’m still in his mouth and it feels like he never wants to let me go. Man, I love that mouth action. Unbelievable. I’m his and he’s mine. And he’s not writing that damn book and he’s still not letting me go. And me, I’m getting hard again. Closing in on fifty, and my turn-around time is better than it was at thirty.

“Lady, Diego, no!” I say. They ignore me. What else is new? He keeps me in his mouth, clicks his fingers and  points, and they hit the road. I touch his face and his ears and his closed eyes. I feel like a man, the king of my castle. Then, he releases me.

“My knees are killing me,” he says.

“Good.”

“What did they do?” And he starts to get up.

“Remember the roast that used to be on the stove?”

“Shit. I guess we’ll just have to order a pizza.”

“No pizza!”

“Then what’ll it be, bubee?”

 

Was I happy? I was dancing on air. When we got into the bedroom, there was his pillow right where it ought to be. He was tearing his clothes off and telling me to hurry with mine. I’m thinking, Do I do him first, or should he do me?

He lays down on the bed and holds out his arms to me. He opens his legs. I come over and get in the saddle. Then he lifts them up and wraps them around me. Yeah, he wants me. I’ll do him first. Fine with me. Where’s the KY?

He’s hanging on to me and breathing hard. Tm trying to stay on, not break the mood, and find the KY. I almost dislocate my shoulder when I snag it.

I’m trying to get loose from him long enough to put some on. He’s got me wrapped up in his arms and legs for dear life. They didn’t call him “The Spider” in collegiate wrestling for nothing.

He’s gotta let me go, if this thing is gonna happen. Or we’re gonna finish on each other’s bellies. Let’s rock and roll! I’m staring to melt into him, like he’s butter and I’m a hot knife.

“I know why it’s not working.” He’s pushing against me. Yeah, your knees need to be up around your ears more. “I know what it is,” he’s gasping out. Yeah, my dick’s trying to make a bullseye the hard way. “It needs to be non-fiction.” A book?! Did he say something about a book?

My spine went stiff and my stiff went spineless.

 

Ever hear the term “lost erection”?

It’s smaller than a lost continent and a lot harder to find.

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