"Where do we go from here, Hutch?" Starsky's voice sounded puzzled.
"What do you mean?" I wanted to sleep, but my partner didn't. It was one of the things that I've learned about Starsky. If anyone had asked me a year ago, I would have said that I always thought Starsky was the kind of man who would turn over and fall right to sleep after sex. But I would have been wrong. Starsky likes to talk. It usually didn't matter about what as long as there was some talk afterwards. He'll cuddle up, petting gently, and carry on about the oddest stuff.
I guess I should have known better. Starsky's a talker. He'll talk about anything to anyone anywhere. I guess you'd say it's part of his charm. But it can be damn annoying when you're half dead from what he's just done to you and you want nothing more than to be unconscious for a few hours to recover.
Trying to focus on his question would have been difficult under normal conditions - normal for us that is - but with his hand where it was, I was having trouble concentrating. "If you keep that up, there's only going to be one place to go." I wiggled away from that searching hand and turned over to face him.
"What is it you're asking me, Starsk?" Looking at his face - with that half-wild look hovering that he sometimes gets afterwards - I knew that this was a serious question. One that could mean the difference between what we had now and just about anything. Sort of like the question he'd put forward almost a year ago.
"Where is what you and I have together going?" He put that hand under his cheek as if he was having trouble making it behave on its own. Those dark blue eyes that have haunted my dreams for years looked at me with such a quizzical expression that I knew I'd better start paying attention. Forget sleep - something big was bothering him.
Now, before you get any ideas, when I said that Starsky likes to talk after sex, it's not the way women like to talk. With Starsky, it's more like it's just an extension of the act itself. Or maybe an extension of whatever we were doing before we ended up in bed. Or on the couch, the floor, the shower, or any number of other places my creative partner has been known to ambush me. He'll talk about a case we're working on or the bad game that the Dodger's pitcher threw. We've had conversations on whether his car needs new tires or if the plant I gave him the other day has aphids. Weird, strange stuff. It serves a purpose, though. It calms him down, both of us really, after the tumult we've just put each other through. But the talks are very rarely personal, relationship kind of things. That's why this opening question had me a bit confused.
Of course, I was a bit confused right then, anyway. And it was, as usual, all my partner's fault. Starsky had gotten to go home early tonight. We'd been waiting to testify in court all day and he was called first. When he was finished, he'd gone back to the office and I stayed at the courthouse until they called me, a couple hours later. If you don't think that sitting in a cold courthouse hallway, by yourself, for two hours isn't boring, then you've never been bored. Believe me. Anyway, Starsky made it home before I was even finished at the trial, so he left a message for me to come over and he'd make dinner.
But that wasn't what my crazy partner had in mind. Not totally. No sooner was I in the door he was on me. Literally. Starsky's gotten a little weird in his old age, or maybe he always was and I just never noticed. I'm not sure. One thing I do know for sure is that courthouses make him horny. That never happened back before we quit and then came back to the force. Before I almost lost the most important person in the world to me. This is a recent development. Not that I'm complaining, mind you. But it would be nice at least to get my coat off before he's wrapped himself around me and starts French kissing me into unconsciousness.
Starsky told me once that he likes me in a suit. That that's the reason he gets the way he does whenever we're in court. But I'm not sure that's entirely it. There've been a couple of times when he's gone by himself and I'm left to work in the squadroom - wearing regular street clothes, jeans and a shirt or whatever - and he's still been all hot and bothered when he gets me alone. I think the guy should have been a lawyer if courtrooms have that kind of affect on him.
This night, while I'm still trying to breathe around the mouth doing wonderful things to mine, he's trying to undress me in the middle of the hallway. And not having a great deal of success, I might add. Between the two of us, the suit jacket hits the floor but then he ran into problems. Starsky's too impatient to untie the knot in my tie, so he loosens it and tries to take it off over my head. While still kissing me. I'm sure you can imagine what happened next.
I finally grab hold of his shoulders and push him off of me enough to rescue both of us from hanging. (I sure wouldn't want to be the officer who had to write up *that* report) The tie joins the jacket on the floor, soon followed by my gun and holster. Starsky takes advantage of this by pulling my shirt tail out of my pants and running his hands up my bare back. Something he knows I really like.
By this time, we're headed towards the bedroom, one article of clothing at a time. At this point in the proceedings, we're taking turns getting clothes off of the other. Starsky had changed when he got home, out of that great dark suit of his into old jeans and a shirt. Both of which are gone before we make it to the bedroom door. Because I've got more on, it takes a bit longer to get me naked, but by the time he pushes me onto the bed, we're both as bare-bottomed as the day we were born. But Starsky looks nothing like a baby. Let me assure you of that.
I've always considered my partner good looking, even before it really mattered to me. Dark, with the most intense blue eyes I've ever seen. I know he's not the ideal of male beauty, but what he has is more than enough. Women have always found him charming. His impressive list of conquests since he first learned what to do with a female more than proves that. Not quite as tall as me he has a long, lean body that just begs to be touched. He's beautiful nude. Almost awe inspiring if you want to know the truth.
But it's not so much physical appearance as it is presence. When Starsky walks into a room, he *walks* into the room. Everyone notices him. He has a swagger, an arrogance about him that is so natural, so much a part of him that it attracts people. I know some people don't like him because of that attitude, but if they allowed themselves to see beyond that to the sweet person underneath, they'd be glad they did.
As he straddled my legs, his long body half-laying on me, he leans in to kiss me again. I have never in my life had anyone kiss me like he does. Never had anyone almost bring me to orgasm just by running their tongue over my lips or catching my tongue in their mouth. Being kissed by Starsky is an almost spiritual thing. If you can call being driving half-crazy spiritual. And what he does while he's kissing me is nothing short of a marvel.
Starsky may come off as not too bright sometimes. But that's not the case at all. My partner is one of the most creative, versatile, and intuitive people in existence. There are times on the street when he can look at someone, just look at them, and tell you whether they're a crook or not. Or put all the pieces of a case together. Cases that other people have given up on, including me. He'll sit there, thinking things over and suddenly, like the sun through the clouds, his face will light up and you know he's figured it out.
But it's in the bedroom that my partner really shines. At least I think so. Whoever said that Starsky can't walk, talk, and chew gum at the same time was nuts. (I think it may have been me. Back before I knew better.) The man can do five or six things at the same time and make you enjoy every single one of them.
Like right then, as he's lying against me, his lips are nibbling on my neck as one hand is gently stroking my face, keeping my head still as he takes his time. The other hand is rubbing my belly, then dips down to tease me, then back up again. Even one of his legs is in on the task of driving me insane. His leg is covering my legs with the calf practically wrapped around mine. Like I said, versatile.
But it's what he's doing with his hips that's really got me going. Rubbing against me with his cock, brushing it against mine in an almost rhythm that he knows makes me nuts. Then he'll stop for just a minute and let them lean against each other, like two adversaries resting between rounds. When he does that, I can feel the pulse in his penis. Feel his heartbeat in every pore of my body. And after knowing that his wonderful, powerful heart stopped once upon a time, it's more than reassuring to feel it beating strong and swift against me.
There are times, like tonight, that I'm almost afraid of him. Remember I said that he gets this half-wild look about him after sex? Well, during the actual act, he's totally wild. With just enough civilization left to keep him from hurting me. But I still feel weird. Maybe afraid "of him" isn't the right term. I know he'd never purposely hurt me, but sometimes he's so intent on giving me pleasure that he almost hurts himself.
Once, not long after we started being together, he fell and scared the shit out of me. He was making a dive for me - you don't need to know *all* the details - and I moved. Starsky missed and fell on the coffee table. Luckily he didn't break anything - the table or himself - but he did have the wind knocked out of him. He laid there, half draped across the table, long enough that it scared me. I thought for a minute that he was dead. Really. His eyes were closed, he didn't seem to be breathing, and there was some blood on his forehead where he'd whacked it. Just as I touched him, shaking like a leaf, he gasped. I could tell he couldn't breathe right, so I gathered him up and held him, just held him, until he was okay again. Believe me, that put an end to anything sexual going on that night.
Tonight was one of those nights when all he can think of is making us both happy. And he'd do anything, and I mean anything, to bring that off. It was also one of those nights when he can't seem to get enough of me. When he literally needs to crawl inside of me, to be one with me. I don't know what brings that on. What insecurity hidden deep in his psyche causes it, but I'm always more than happy to accommodate him. It's as if whatever he's feeling, needing, awakens the same response inside of me. And tonight I was more than willing to let him do whatever he needed to do.
He lay on me, kissing every part of me he could reach without moving, when that hand on my belly made it clear what he wanted. As if it had a mind of its own it wandered down my stomach, over a hipbone, and came to rest on my cock. Stroking gently, Starsky almost made me come right then. With his tongue in my mouth, his other hand on my face, his knee lying warm against mine and that marvelous hand grasping me, he almost sent me off the edge of sanity. Then his hand releases me and continues its little exploration. Runs teasing fingers over my balls and between the cheeks of my butt. Then...oh God, then...he ever so delicately caresses the sensitive skin around my anus and I see fireworks. Everytime he does that, and he does it as often as he can, I react the same way. I don't know what it is about how he does it, but he's the only one I've ever had that happen with.
By the time I calm down enough that we can both see again, I'm wrapped around him like a limpet. My hands are doing some exploring of their own on this wonderful body pressed against me. His strong back under my fingers, soft skin stretched over taut muscles. I caress his shoulder blades, trying to avoid the scars between them. Even after all this time, they still pain him, still ache. But not as bad as the long surgical scars on his chest and stomach. Although he seems to be able to handle me touching those, where the ones on his back always make him shake. And not in a good way.
We roll around a little on the bed, crumpling the blue bedspread in the effort to find a better position to do what we need to do. Starsky reaches behind me, pulls the pillows out from under the spread, and helps me put one under my hips. Sometimes we do this with whoever's going to be on the bottom on their knees. Sometimes, like tonight, we need to be able to see each others faces as we come together. I'm not sure which way is better, each has its good points. I think that we both like to watch the other one as their eyes glaze over and they lose whatever slim thread connects them to the world.
Starsky finally arranges my body to his satisfaction, making the task as erotic as only he can. I'm practically humming with need and anticipation when he reaches for the nightstand drawer and pulls out the much-used tube of lubricant. Soon, those knowing fingers are back teasing me again as he gently inserts one inside of me. I can feel my back arch up and the muscles in my rectum clamp down on that wanton invader. Starsky laughs at me as I lay panting and shaking under him. He loves it when he does that to me. Some perverse little devil inside of him takes delight in reducing me to a quivering mass. If I didn't love him so damn much, I'd hate him for that.
Then another of those clever fingers is inside and he strokes upwards, preparing me for an even more clever member of his anatomy. He grazes across the prostate and I see stars. Now, he's kissing me again, his tongue doing to my mouth what his hand is doing to me elsewhere. I'm almost screaming with want. Actually I think I do scream, because my throat hurts, and I can feel tears running down the sides of my face.
Then, just for a minute, everything stops. His hand deserts me, his lips leave mine, and I'm alone in my body for a brief second of time. An eternity. Then, gently, so gently, he's back. His cock nudges the entrance to my body, asking to be invited in. Starsky always waits until he's invited. He never pushes his way in, never rough, never rude. And when you think that the man is almost beyond sanity with desire that says a lot about what kind of person he is.
I reach for him, both with my hips and with my hands. Push myself up enough that he's suddenly inside of me. Hot and huge inside of me. There are no words in any language that can describe how that feels. This is the person I love more than life itself, taking possession of me. Part of me. My hands are kneading his butt, running over his smooth skin as I feel him push gently forward until he's totally within me. Then he stops and his lips take their turn once more tormenting me. He kisses, licks, nibbles up my body from the pelvis all the way to my forehead. A benediction of sorts. Letting me know that I'm loved, cherished, needed, and desired. Then he makes a return trip. How he manages to bend like that, impaled inside of me, I've never been able to figure out. But I can tell you, it's wonderful.
Then, then he starts a rhythm. By this time, I'm almost comatose with pleasure but he pushes me beyond that. At first, he's so gentle that it's a soothing motion, like being rocked in a boat on a gentle surf. Slowly, slowly, he builds up that rhythm, increasing it exponentially until I feel as if he's going to push his entire body into me. And I'm loving every single thrust.
My body has taken over. My mind is somewhere above all this screaming in utter passion. No one, and I mean no one, has ever made love to me the way Starsky does. And I don't mean him inside of me either. That would have been impossible before. Not with ever only making love to women and never, ever, wanting to have sex with a man. Even when the roles are reversed, and I'm the one inside of him, he's still the one in control. Still the one who takes me over - body, mind, and soul. Brings me to screaming, shuddering release.
I have to tell you something. Something about him and me. When we first started to contemplate doing this together - having sex with each other - it was the most natural thing in the world. For years, even before he almost died, we'd loved each other. Only we had never realized that we lived for each other. We'd always known that we were best friends. Partners in almost everything, but having sex with each other just never occurred to us. Which is rather strange when you consider that we'd been making love to each other almost since the day we met.
There were times, before, when I couldn't seem to get enough of him. Couldn't be with him enough. Talk with him enough. Touch him enough. I think that's one reason I - we - started to act so stupid with each other during that awful time before he was shot. Before I almost didn't get the chance to realize what I did have and what I wanted to have. What I needed to have. We got scared. Afraid to need someone else that much. To love someone so much that living without them was impossible. But we were too caught up in our own macho, red-blooded male personas to acknowledge it.
I know that anytime anyone hinted that he and I shared that kind of relationship, and there were those who did, I either laughed it off or got mad. Depending on the person and the circumstances under which the suggestion was made. And I know that Starsky reacted the same way. Hell, when John Blaine died and his secret came out, although poor John never did, it almost destroyed Starsky. Here was the one man he probably loved almost as much as he had his dad and he was gay. Something that Starsky found very hard to believe much less forgive.
Somewhere between that day and the day that Starsky brought up the topic. And, yes, it was Starsky that first talked about us being together in this way. Somewhere in that timespan, Starsky realized that there was no sin in loving another person in a sexual way even if that person was the same gender. And even though I always thought of myself as the more liberal member of the partnership, it took some patience on Starsky's part to make me see the light too. But my partner, who loves me more than I deserve, persevered. Gently, kindly, sweetly. In the way only Starsky can be. He never pushed. Just as in the act itself, he waited to be invited. Knocked on the door and waited patiently until I worked up the nerve to welcome him in.
Thank God, I opened that door.
And now, almost a year later, here we are. Me lying on the bed, trying to hold onto whatever shred of reason I have left. Him, on top of me, inside of me, trying to snap that thread and give me everything he has to give. I'm glad that both of us are healthy - now - because if we weren't one of us would be dead by now. Just from this. That's how shattering it is when it finally happens.
He's thrusting inside of me now as if he's never going to stop. My body is almost to the point where it can't take anymore. No more of the motion. No more of the pressure. No more of the passion. No more of the pleasure. No more anything. And he knows it. He always does. Somehow, he can sense the moment when if he doesn’t allow me to go, I'll fall apart. Or implode. I'm not sure which. But Starsky always knows.
Resting his forehead against my chest, holding onto me with his hands as he keeps up that steady pace, he's gasping for air as much as I am. My hands are holding onto him too, as much as to brace him as to have something to anchor myself to as the world splinters around me. Then he lifts his head, looks me straight in the eye, and asks the question he always asks.
"Do you love me, Hutch?"
The first time he asked me that - the first time we made love - it almost broke my heart. His voice was so gentle, so sad and lost sounding, it almost didn't sound like him. And, at first, I didn't understand why he asked it. Here we were, locked together in passion, doing things to each other that only we could do, and he asks that question. Then I realized that he already knew the answer. He just needed to hear me say it. Give him permission to say what he needed to say in response to it. What I needed to hear.
"Yes, Starsky. I love you. Always have, always will."
His smile is beauteous. Like an angel. As if I've given him the greatest treasure on earth.
"I know, Hutch, I know. I love you, too. Forever."
And as if those words - and only those words - are magic or a blessing, we're both released.
He always comes first. By a split second, but enough time that I get to watch this person I love convulse in agonizing pleasure. All because of me. And as he's screaming my name, I follow him. Down a long shattering tunnel to fall into white heat and lay there with him. Together. The way we have always been. Two entities, one soul.
And that's when he'll gather me in his arms, hands gently petting me and start to talk.
So now we're back to the question: "Where do we go from here?" A simple question. But one with a thousand answers. Some of which could mean a life of never-ending happiness. Or destroy us both. I must think clearly. Answer this one question more carefully than any question I've ever answered before.
And in order to think clearly, I have to get away from those eyes that are staring so fixedly at me. Mesmerizing me with their hunger for me. Not for more sex, but for me. It's a fearful thing; to be needed like that. Especially when you feel the need, the hunger ever bit as strongly.
I sit up and turn my back on those eyes. Swing my legs off of the side of the bed and stand up. No small feat when your whole body is shaking and all you want to do is give in to the almost overwhelming desire to sleep. But I do it. To save both of us I must.
Still feeling him against my skin, just from him watching me, I walk over to the closet and grab my robe that's always waiting for me here. Shrug it on and try to think. What is he really asking me? What is it he wants to hear? Needs to hear?
Then it hits me. As always, he needs what I do. I turn back to him.
"The only place to go is forward. Together. That's where we go, Starsky."
Again that angelic smile, soft and gentle. "Okay. But how? What do you want to do, Hutch?"
"I want us to be together. For the rest of our lives."
"Like marriage?" A little quaver there. Is he afraid or does he want this as badly as I do?
"Like marriage. Are you asking me to marry you, Starsk?"
He sits up on the bed, pulling his knees up. His contemplative position. "Yeah, I guess so. Although we can't, not really. Not legally. But, yeah."
Starsky is gazing at me, so hopeful, so scared. His eyes, dark with the aftereffects of what we've just been through, seem to shimmer in the light of the single lamp he had left on before we got here. How can I not love this man?
"I accept, Starsk. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Every waking minute, every sleeping one. Forever. If that's what you want, then I want it too." I'm back at the bed now. One knee on the edge, waiting.
He smiles at me and rolls forward onto his knees. Reaching forward, he grasps one of my hands in his strong ones and lifts it to his lips. His smile, turning a touch mischievous, brightens as he kisses the palm of that hand. Shivers run down my back from the mere touch of his lips against my skin. "Marry me, Hutch. Live with me forever. I love you more than I can ever tell you. And I always will."
I drop to my knees on the bed. We're eye to eye now. His hands holding onto me. Mine holding onto him. The kiss we share is so full of promise that I feel like weeping with the beauty of it.
And so it began. Our marriage. Him and me. Me and
thee. Like always. Like it was always meant to be. Forever.
Preordained