Sex is the great amateur art. The professional, male or female, is frowned on: he or she misses the point,
and spoils the show. ~David Cort
“Starsky... it’s awake.”
Starsky turned his head, his cheeks scraping the sheets. There, looking over the edge of his bed, was a pair of shiny black
eyes – extremely interested shiny black eyes.
“It’s a she, Hutch.” Starsky raised his hips, trying to encourage Hutch to continue with his earlier activities.
Hutch didn’t move. “She’s staring at us.”
“So what?” Starsky pushed himself up onto his hands and knees. He tried a little sideways shimmy. Ah, now that
hit something interesting inside... If Hutch wasn’t going play, he’d just have to carry on by himself. Starsky
did it again.
Hutch grabbed his hips. “Stop that! I’m not going to do this with her staring at me!”
At the edge of the bed, a small black nose wiggled.
Starsky sighed irritably. Reaching above his head he grabbed a pillow and threw it at the face on the edge of the bed. A
surprised whuff was immediately followed by a scrabbling of nails. “I don’t know why you’re so freaked.
She’s just a puppy.”
“Oops,” said Hutch.
“Oh, jeez!” Finding himself suddenly bereft, Starsky flopped over on his back and glared up at Hutch, who looked
And completely limp.
“How could you lose it?” demanded Starsky.
“She was staring at us! While we were… You know!” Hutch’s cheeks were pink and his ears were red.
Starsky couldn’t see the back of his neck, but if he could he knew he’d find it all but on fire. “I don’t
want her seeing me naked.”
Starsky squinted at him, considering this unexpected new development. Hutch was normally Mister Urbane. Sexually liberated,
cool as a cucumber. Starsky paused for a moment, distracted. Cucumbers. Heh.
With some effort he dragged his mind away from certain vegetables, Hutch’s personal attributes and the close structural
resemblance between them.
“Hutch,” said Starsky. “You see that dog naked every time you look at her, and you’re worried she’ll
see you once? I, for one, do not intend to go without sex just because you’ve got a hang up!” He grabbed Hutch’s
thigh and squeezed it encouragingly. “Come on, it’s gonna be a whole week before we can tie a big red birthday
bow around her neck and hand her over to Rosie!”
Hutch flopped down onto the bed beside Starsky, his hands covering his face. “Oh God, Starsk! What’s Dobey going
to say when he finds out we’ve corrupted the morals of his daughter’s dog? And a minor dog at that!”
“Who’s gonna tell him? The dog?”
There was a clear, piercing yip from beneath the pillow.
Hutch lifted his head. “Can she breathe under there?”
He sounded genuinely worried, so Starsky rolled onto his side. The pillow was balanced precariously on the edge of the bed.
He lifted it and peered underneath. “One puppy, alive, in a laundry basket. No prob-augh!”
“What?” asked Hutch, alarmed.
Starsky dropped the pillow on top of the basket and rubbed his nose with the palm of his hand. “She kissed me. Ew.”
“Okay, that’s it!” Hutch sat up. “I’m going home.”
Starsky lunged for him, wrapping both arms around his waist. “Oh, no you’re not!”
“Let me go!”
His head in Hutch’s lap, Starsky contorted himself to look up without letting go. It gave him a decent view of Hutch’s
chin, but not much more. “Look, just because L’il Hutchinson has wimped out, doesn’t mean we have to call
it a night.”
Hutch froze. “There’s nothing little about it.”
Starsky snickered. “At the moment?”
Hutch’s fingers dug into his ribs, cruelly.
Starsky howled and struggled to get away. Hutch rolled him over and trapped him under his knee.
“Lemme go! Argh!”
Hutch grabbed one flailing foot and lightly dragged his fingernails from heel to toe. Then he abandoned the foot and turned
his attentions to the back of Starsky’s left knee. Starsky thrashed helplessly as, with methodical precision, Hutch
proceeded to attack all his most ticklish spots.
“Okay, okay! I take it back! You’re a monster!”
“Damn right, and don’t you forget it.” Hutch tickled his side one more time for good measure.
“How could I?” gasped Starsky. “A minute ago you were drilling for my tonsils.”
With a heroic squirm, Starsky slid out from under Hutch’s leg and rolled right off the bed. He crouched on the carpet
for a minute, laughing breathlessly.
Hutch leaned forward to look down at him. “How about if we just put her in the bathroom? I don’t think there’s
anything she can destroy in there--.”
Starsky bounced up, knocking Hutch back onto the bed. He scrambled up on top of Hutch and pinned his shoulders to the tangled
sheets. “If we lock her up, she’ll cry. Forget about her! Lie back and let me do all the work.”
“How come the only time I hear that is when we’re in bed?” Hutch paused and tried to tip his head back.
“Where’s the puppy?”
Starsky checked the far side of the bed and found that the pillow had lifted an inch and one small damp nose was just barely
visible beneath it. “She’s gone back to sleep,” he lied.
“Are you sure?” Hutch was still trying to look.
“Would I lie to you?” Starsky gave him his best wounded look. Then he slid off Hutch and turned around. “Aw,
will you look at this? Your poor little monster’s passed out. I think I need to apply some resuscitation techniques...
not mouth-to-mouth, of course, but some CPR, maybe...”
“Starsk!” Hutch sounded strangled.
“Definitely CPR,” said Starsky, draping his arm over Hutch’s stomach and eyeing his goal. Before Hutch
could object he wrapped his fist around not-so-L’il Hutchinson.
Hutch jerked away, coming within an inch of kneeing Starsky in the nose. “She is looking at me.” He sounded
“For cryin’ out loud!” Starsky grabbed Hutch’s leg and hung on. “What’s your problem?”
“I don’t like being stared at.”
Starsky blinked. Of course.
Hutch had frozen the night Sue Ann invited him up on stage with her. Couldn’t sing a note. And then there was that
time he’d got a small part in Steve Hanson’s movie. Forgot his lines. But what about amateur night at the Old
Backwoods Inn? Sure he’d walked up on that stage like a man going to the gallows, but once he’d got into the
swing of things he’d been...
Starsky suddenly released Hutch. Before Hutch could react, Starsky scrambled forward and covered Hutch’s eyes. Leaning
in close, he whispered, “Don’t look.”
“What are you doing?” Hutch tried to move his head out from under Starsky’s hands.
Starsky remained where he was, refusing to let go. “Trust me,” he said. “Do you remember Marsha, and her
“Yeah...,” said Hutch, cautiously.
“Remember how we had the room bugged? Taped you and her doing the nasty?” Leaving one hand securely over Hutch’s
eyes, Starsky reached for the plaid flannel shirt he’d spotted down at the end of the bed. It was too far. He slung
a leg over Hutch’s stomach and leaned across.
“What’s that got to do with anything? I was undercover!” Hutch was holding onto Starsky’s wrist
now, not trying to force his hand away, but clearly contemplating the option.
“Yeah, you were undercover, alright. Under the covers and over the covers and hanging from the chandeliers. You were
the hottest thing this town’s ever seen, and you did it even though you knew everyone was gonna be listening to you
the next day.” Starsky had the shirt in hand now. “Keep your eyes shut,” he ordered.
“Why?” asked Hutch. He sounded grumpy, but Starsky could see a grin beginning to tug at the corner of his mouth.
“Don’t make me hurt you,” Starsky warned as he lifted his hand away from Hutch’s face.
“You could try,” said Hutch. “I’d kick your ass.” But his eyes stayed closed.
“You and what army?” Starsky sat back and quickly twisted the shirt into a long strip. The pillow at the end
of the bed lifted another inch and a pair of bright eyes glinted from the shadows. Starsky held one finger to his mouth and
grinned conspiratorially at the dog.
The puppy’s mouth opened, showing just the tip of a pink tongue.
Quickly, Starsky covered Hutch’s eyes with the shirt and began trying to work it behind his head.
Hutch obligingly tilted his head forward as Starsky tied the ends of the blindfold. “I’ll still know she’s
staring at me. Even if I can’t see her.” He let go an irritable puff of air, blowing an edge of the shirt away
from his face.
Starsky tucked the edge of the shirt up and Hutch tilted his head back until he was looking down the sides of his nose.
“I can see you,” said Hutch.
“Stop that!” Starsky adjusted the blindfold. “I bet you cheated at Pin the Tail on the Donkey, too, didn’t
“Of course. Who wants to pin it in the right place? I made sure I always pinned the tail on the Donkey’s nose.”
“What have you got against furry, four legged creatures?” Starsky sat back to admire his handiwork. Naked, blindfolded
Hutch. Does it get any better than this, he wondered.
“Nothing! I just don’t want them staring at me when I’m making love to the furry two-legged variety.”
Well, naked, blindfolded and gagged might be better.
“Forget about her,” said Starsky. “You’ve got bigger things to worry about.”
“Huh?” Hutch’s voice was an octave higher than usual.
“Did I forget to mention this room is bugged?”
“It is not!”
“Better than that, it’s got a closed camera system. High tech. The very latest. And a live feed. In color!”
“I don’t believe you.”
“You’d better. Everyone’s watching you, Hutchinson. You want them to think this is the best you can do?”
Starsky knew Hutch. He knew just how much Hutch hated to look foolish, and how closely he guarded his dignity even when they
were just playing pretend. Appeal to his pride, and he’d do practically anything.
Hutch reached for the blindfold. Starsky grabbed his wrists, forcing them back down onto the bed. “Want me to tell
you what they’re seeing right now?” he whispered.
“No.” But Hutch wasn’t struggling. He was listening.
“They’re seeing you. You, with no clothes, no disguise, and nothing to hide behind. Just a gorgeous blond, on
his back, about to get fucked by his stunningly handsome partner.”
A small disbelieving laugh escaped Hutch.
Starsky moved his hips. He was straddling Hutch, and he could feel definite stirrings of interest beneath him, a gradual
thickening and firming of flesh. “You’re not going to let me down now, are you? In front of all these people?”
“Oh my God!” Hutch’s knees came up, colliding with Starsky’s rear end.
“They’re watching you,” whispered Starsky, just before he released Hutch’s wrists, and slid down between
his legs. For a moment he was afraid that Hutch would simply take off his blindfold and call an end to the game, but instead
Hutch’s hands came down to weave themselves into his hair. Oh yeah, Hutch was willing to play.
Starsky licked his fingers and traced them down the length of Hutch’s cock, feeling him twitch in response. He explored
a bit further, and then brought his hand back and licked his palm. At the end of the bed the nose had disappeared, and he
could hear the puppy turning circles in her basket.
“They’re still watching you,” said Starsky, as he slicked his hand over himself. Spit wasn’t his
preferred lubricant, but they’d done it this way before, and he didn’t want to break the mood. He slipped his
fingers under Hutch’s tail bone and drew them up along the sensitive skin.
Hutch made a soft sound in the back of his throat, a hum of pleasure. One of his hands left Starsky’s head and landed
on his own chest, his fingers rubbing distractedly.
Starsky leaned forward and gave Hutch’s nipple a quick lick, before positioning himself between Hutch’s knees.
“They’re all just on the other side of that wall, staring at you on the television screen. And they’re
thinking, man, that’s one lucky guy.”
“Who?” Hutch asked, as he drew his knees back.
Starsky slipped under his legs, so that they were now draped over his shoulders. He had to consider this one. The wrong
answer would be sure to put Hutch right off.
The problem was that there were so many possible wrong answers. “No one you know,” said Starsky, as he adjusted
his angle and nudged forward. There, that should be safe enough.
Hutch had a look of intense concentration on his face. Starsky strongly suspected his eyes were closed under the blindfold.
He pushed, felt resistance, and Hutch blew out a long breath and deliberately relaxed.
“Who... are they, then?” asked Hutch.
Starsky couldn’t answer. A sensation of impossibly tight heat had gripped him and his mind had gone blank. He strained
forward, and felt Hutch grip his shoulders, holding him back.
“Who?” demanded Hutch.
“Oh, God!” managed Starsky. He was halfway in, and it was killing him.
“God?” asked Hutch. Impossibly, he sounded amused.
Bastard, thought Starsky. He tried to collect himself, tried to activate something other than the part of his brain that
wanted him to pound himself into Hutch, wanted to drill him right through the mattress and into the floor... “Not God,”
he said, finally.
“Then, who?” Hutch was pitiless.
Starsky’s hips moved, despite his efforts at controlling himself. He slipped out, and whined with frustration.
“You started this,” said Hutch. “Finish it!”
“Everyone!” Starsky grabbed Hutch, and this time he sheathed himself fully, his stomach pressed up against Hutch.
He reached down and began to slide his hand up and down Hutch’s cock, in time with his own movements. “Huggy,
Dobey, Anita, Minnie, Angie...”
Names were tumbling out of him, and he hardly knew what he was saying, except that it had a rhythm that matched. “Bernie
Glassman, Paco Ortega...” Hutch had his hands under his own hips, lifting himself off the mattress, meeting him stroke
Starsky was running out of names. “Sugar, Sweet Alice, that other hooker with the red hair...”
“Little Red,” said Hutch, gasping. The blindfold had slipped and was sliding up his forehead, pushing his hair
up in spikes. His eyes were still closed.
“...my mailman, your mailman...”
“The President of the United States, and...” Starsky could feel the end coming like a locomotive, steaming down
the tracks at impossible speed. Hutch was right with him, or maybe a fraction ahead. As he came inside Hutch, even as he
felt the spill of warm liquid over his own fist, Starsky gasped out the last person he could think of.
There was silence in the room, broken only by panting as they both tried to catch their breath.
Finally, Hutch said, “Okay. That was just wrong.”
Starsky snickered. He felt drained and content, and ridiculously pleased with himself.
Hutch kneed him in the side. “Get off me! I’m not lying here with your dick up my ass, and my mother in my head!”
Starsky slipped free and sprawled on the bed, exhausted. The more he thought about it, the funnier it seemed. Hutch’s
mom. Watching him have sex on a closed circuit TV, and no doubt judging his technique and offering helpful, motherly advice.
Starsky’s snicker became a tired chuckle. “But I bet you’re not thinking about the puppy any more are
Hutch grabbed the closest pillow and threw it at Starsky, hitting him in the face. Unfortunately, it also happened to be
the pillow Starsky had used to subdue the puppy. Finding herself suddenly freed from confinement, the puppy popped up onto
the bed, her entire rear half wagging enthusiastically.
Hutch hollered and tried push her away from his face. The puppy, finding her attentions thwarted, headed for more southerly
climes. Hutch clapped his hands over his groin, a tactic which only had the puppy heading back up his chest to lick his face.
“Starsky! Get her the hell away from me.”
“Hey!” said Starsky, sitting up. “C’mon, baby!”
The puppy immediately changed course and charged toward Starsky. He caught her as she lunged for his face, tongue flapping.
“You’re supposed to be asleep,” he told her sternly. He wrapped his hands around her chest and held the
puppy up to look it in the eye. Four small limbs waved ineffectually around the round pink belly and the puppy licked her
own nose in a futile attempt to reach Starsky.
“Back to bed with you!” Starsky deposited the dog in her basket, and replaced the pillow.
Starsky turned and found Hutch sitting on the edge of the bed. He was using his shirt, previously a blindfold, to clean himself
Hutch smiled at him, his entire attitude relaxed. “What’s our audience doing now?”
Starsky moved up behind Hutch, and pulled him into a hug. In her basket, unseen, the puppy chewed wetly on something and
growled quietly to herself.
“They’re applauding, of course,” said Starsky. “Can’t you hear them?”