The ABCs of True Romance
You'll be sort of surprised what there is to be found once you go beyond 'Z' and start poking around! ~Dr.
“Aquamarine.” Starsky braced himself on an elbow, and looked down. Hutch couldn’t imagine how Starsky
expected him to see anything, much less the color of his eyes. Yes, the lights of Bay City gave off a permanent star-quenching
glow, even up here in the hills, but it was still dark under the trees.
“Believe me, your eyes are not aquamarine. Or any other kind of gemstone.” Hutch tried to wiggle
back. Starsky was three inches from his nose, and he was starting to feel claustrophobic.
“Cerulean, then.” When Starsky got his teeth into a topic he was almost impossible to shake off. A great
quality in a detective, not so terrific in a lover.
“Did you swallow a thesaurus? Your eyes are blue.” In fact, Starsky’s eyes were also beginning
to bug out. Hutch wondered how long it had been since he’d last blinked. “And right now you’re scaring
me,” added Hutch.
“Ever consider injecting some romance into our relationship?” To Hutch’s immense relief, Starsky
rolled onto his back and folded his hands behind his head. “Sure tough guys like us don’t need the mushy
stuff, but don’t you sometimes miss it? F’rinstance, I could tell you your eyes are like sparkling sapphire stars
in an azure sky.”
“For God’s sake, Starsky!” Hutch was beginning to reconsider the wisdom of making out under the
stars. He’d never have suggested it if he’d known Starsky would start talking like a romance novel heroine.
“Gimme a sec... Your hair... would be... uh, like a long-haired fuzzy blond seat cover.” Starsky nodded,
emphatically. “I came up with that one myself. Pretty good, huh?”
Hutch scowled suspiciously at him. “You’re saying my hair makes you think of the interior of one of Merle’s
“I’m trying to be romantic!”
“Just stop! Starsk, you said it yourself. We don’t need all that mushy stuff. You already know--.”
Hutch stopped abruptly. He pushed himself up and looked intently at Starsky. “Is that what this is about? You want
to hear me say it? Okay. You’re a moron. But you’re also drop dead gorgeous, from your insanely curly hair
– I mean the stuff on your head, dirtball! To your eyes which, by the way, are as blue as bluebirds or bluebells or
blue jeans or whatever the hell else you want to hear.”
“Kiss me, you fool.”
Licking his lips, Hutch happily complied. Starsky tilted his head back to meet him, his mouth opening slightly. He
tasted like coffee and chocolate. Hutch was just throwing one leg over Starsky’s hip, when Starsky suddenly planted
a hand in his chest and shoved him back.
“Moron?” asked Starsky, his eyes narrowing. “You think I’m a moron?”
“No!” protested Hutch.
“Oh, sure. Then how come there’s always a but? You’re a moron, but I love you. I
love you, but you drive me crazy.” As he mimicked Hutch, Starsky undid the buttons on Hutch’s shirt.
He stuck his forefinger into his mouth and drew a damp circle around Hutch’s left nipple, followed by a line down to
“Please...” Hutch’s cords were becoming painfully confining.
“Quiet, you!” Starsky placed both hands on Hutch’s shoulders. Hutch gasped as Starsky’s rear
settled on his groin, the tantalizing pressure almost too much to bear. “It’s about respect,” said Starsky.
“Respect?” Hutch’s voice cracked halfway through the word, but he didn’t care. He drew his
knees up, dug his heels into the ground, and tried to dry hump Starsky.
Starsky slid forward, cruelly depriving Hutch. “Yeah, respect. You’re saying I’m a moron because
I want us to try being nice to each other. Not all the time, but maybe every now and then, like when we’re making out.”
The angle was all wrong. Hutch couldn’t get any relief. When he tried to move Starsky back down, Starsky grabbed
his wrists and pushed them above his head. “I’m not done talking yet!”
“Uh... about what?” Starsky’s expression was thunderous, so Hutch quickly amended that to, “Of
course, I respect you!” Respect, fear... close enough.
“Very good.” Starsky released his hands. “Now I want to hear you say it. No ‘buts’.
No sarcasm. Just say it like you mean it.”
“What?” asked Hutch, unable to resist the temptation. But before Starsky could explode, he said, “I
love you. Not only do I love you, but I’m sorry I never said it properly before.” Hutch laid his palms on Starsky’s
stomach, pushing his shirt up. “I love you.” He popped the button on Starsky’s jeans. “I love you
for your mind.” He worked Starsky’s zipper down. “And hot damn, but I love you for your body.”
X marks the spot, Hutch thought happily, as he reached for the band of Starsky’s underpants. “Wait!”
yelped Starsky. He started to roll off Hutch.
“Yeah, what do you want now?” Hutch couldn’t cope with any more conversation. If Starsky
put him off any longer he was going to explode...
“Zipper! Not mine, your zipper! I want it down, and I want your pants off. Now!”
And Hutch thought he’d never heard anything more fucking romantic in his whole life.