The first thing Starsky said as the door closed behind them was, “So... you really wanna do this?” His tone was miles away from confident.

Hutch could hardly breathe. “Yeah.”

“Right now?”

Then again, thought Hutch, breathing was highly overrated these days. Catching Starsky’s face between his palms, Hutch kissed him. It was the clearest way he could think of to say ‘yes, I really love you’ and ‘yes, I really want to fuck you’ and everything else he’d tried – and mostly failed – to explain in the car.

Starsky’s mouth opened eagerly, responsively. This, their second kiss ever, was even more awkward than the first. Their teeth scraped together. Their noses bumped. Hutch tasted beer and burrito and the tang of desire, and then he felt a pinch as Starsky lightly bit his bottom lip. That small sensation seemed to reverberate all the way down to his groin, and he groaned as Starsky pulled back.

“We’re doing this, we’re really doing this,” said Starsky, his eyes wide and dark.

I can handle this, Hutch told himself. Making love was not all that different from making music. Start slow, build the melody, and find the rhythm. Male, female, what difference could it possibly make? Hutch felt his arousal increase as he envisioned Starsky helpless in the throes of desire, his body like an instrument with sex the tune they played... He threaded his fingers into Starsky’s hair and tried to kiss him again, only to have his hands abruptly seized and pushed up over his head.

Hutch blinked, startled. The tempo was strange. The strength in the body pressing up against his was unexpected. He could feel his knuckles scraping against the paint.

But now Starsky was pressing his lips against Hutch’s and any minor discomfort vanished beneath the urgent swell of desire. He arched forward and felt Starsky grind up against him, pushing back. Starsky’s mouth left his, moving to the side of his neck, licking and nipping.

Okay, so it was a whole new composition, thought Hutch, feeling his knees go weak. Not a love ballad, but something more crashing and grandiose, maybe by Sousa. The kind of music that swept you up and carried you away, that...

Starsky suddenly stiffened, and his hands tightened convulsively. A moment later his forehead hit Hutch’s shoulder. “Oops,” said a muffled voice.

Hutch freed his hands and took Starsky by the shoulders, pushing him back to peer at his face. Starsky ducked his head, avoiding his eyes. “What’s wrong?”

“I swear,” said Starsky, sounding mortified, “I didn’t know that was going to happen.”

Hutch glanced down. The damp patch spreading across the crotch of Starsky’s jeans gave away the whole story.

“Already?”

“Well, geez! It’s not like I did it on purpose!” A small embarrassed snicker escaped Starsky and the corner of his mouth twitched.

Hutch’s frustration, not to mention the way his erection was crushed against his zipper, made it hard for him to see the humor in the situation. Weeks of agony, of wondering if he was misreading Starsky’s signals, wondering if he was losing his mind... and now he’d been left high and dry. “Sex is supposed to be tender and loving, it’s not supposed to be like getting hit by a bus!”

Starsky’s expression changed, becoming speculative. “So, who says we’re done?”

It was the intense look in Starsky’s eyes, that half-grin and the way he licked his bottom lip... Hutch let Starsky take his hand and raise it to his mouth. When the tip of Starsky’s tongue traced a cool line up the center of his palm, he shivered.

Hutch wasn’t accustomed to being seduced, but he thought he could learn to like it.

“Don’t be a chump,” said Starsky, tugging him toward the bedroom. “This is our first time. I’m going to make it unforgettable.”

Yes, Hutch decided, he could definitely get used to this. He considered the things he’d like to do to Starsky, all those bedtime stories he had told himself with one hand down his pants. He knew exactly where he wanted to start.

“You think too much,” said Starsky, pushing him onto the bed.

Hutch sat down with a thump, slightly annoyed that it wasn’t Starsky on the bed beneath him. “You don’t think enough.”

“If I thought as much as you do, we’d never have gotten this far. We’d still be thinking.” Starsky placed his hand on Hutch’s chest and pushed him flat.

“Um,” said Hutch, intelligently. He craned his head to see Starsky kneeling between his legs. When Starsky reached for his zipper, his hips bucked involuntarily.

Starsky pinned his thighs down with his elbows. “Hold still!”

“What-” Hutch’s voice cracked. “What are you doing?” His brain had jumped immediately to the obvious, but that couldn’t possibly be what Starsky had in mind. Not yet, anyway.

“I’m getting these jeans off you, of course!” As Starsky worked the zipper down, he continued, “Trust me, sex is lots better when everyone’s naked.”

Hutch imagined he could feel the physical force of Starsky’s will, pushing at him, demanding that he lie back, relax and surrender. There was something undeniably erotic about the idea, but it was also terrifying. He was used to being in control. He liked being in control. Besides, he had plans.

Hutch sat up and began undoing the buttons on Starsky’s shirt. “Everyone includes you, too.” He let his fingers play in the hair on Starsky’s chest, teasing a nipple as he peeled the shirt back. It was all so new, so strange, and yet so familiar.

Starsky squirmed, impatiently. Then he took hold of the bottom of his shirt and pulled it quickly off over his head. “Okay, your turn!” Bare-chested, he began working Hutch’s pants down over his hips. “C’mon, lift your ass.”

That grin was mesmerizing, unsettling. As Hutch hiked up his hips, it occurred to him that it was very unlikely that Starsky’s dates ever had the willpower to say no. Certainly his cock didn’t seem to mind that Starsky was being pushy. It was standing to eager attention, apparently ignorant of the fact that Hutch should be the one directing things.

“God, you’re hot,” said Starsky. He stood up and pulled Hutch’s t-shirt off over his head. “I’m never gonna be able to take a shower in the gym with you again. I’ll get arrested for lewd and lascivious behavior.”

Hutch reached up and touched Starsky’s cheek, warmed to his core by the rough sentimentality behind the words. “You’re--”

Starsky’s mouth collided with his, cutting him off, mashing his lips against his teeth and knocking him back onto the bed again. Hutch opened his eyes to find Starsky braced above him. Just a moment to gasp for air and then Starsky’s body was pressed against his, and he was drowning again, wave after wave of desire threatening to sweep him away.

This wasn’t music. It was a cacophony. Hutch grabbed Starsky’s face between his palms.

Starsky made a frustrated noise and pulled away. “Hutch, what are you doing?”

“What am I doing?” He wasn’t doing anything, except trying to make love to Starsky. And not getting very far, evidently.

“Look, sex is like dancing, right? And when you dance, you can’t have both partners trying to lead.”

Oh, thought Hutch. “Or both of us trying to play entirely different songs, at the same time.”

Starsky brushed across his lips with his thumb. “Let me lead for a little while. I promise I won’t step on your toes.”

Hutch hesitated.

“Trust me.”

“I do,” said Hutch, automatically.

Starsky chuckled, and Hutch realized what he’d just said.

“Save it for the wedding, buddy.” Starsky lowered his head and nipped gently at Hutch’s collarbone.

Hutch tried. He really tried to just lie back and let Starsky do his thing. But his nerves were on fire, his groin was throbbing, and his fingers itched to hold and massage and direct.

Finally, he couldn’t keep quiet any longer. “Here, why don’t you let me try a few things? We even might be able to get you up again, you never know.”

Hutch heard a sigh from somewhere in the general vicinity of his belly button, and then Starsky’s face appeared in front of his. “I didn’t know you were such a control freak.”

“I’m not a... what?”

Starsky ignored him. “No, I take that that back. I always knew you were a control freak, I just didn’t know you were a control freak in bed.”

“I’m not-.” Hutch gasped. Starsky had just reached down and wrapped his hand around his cock. “Oh, god,” said Hutch, pushing up into that firm grip.

“You’re not what?” asked Starsky, staring into Hutch’s eyes, his hand working. Up and down, squeezing and pumping.

Hutch capitulated. “Okay, I’m a control freak.” But you’re a bigger one, he thought. And then he gave up thinking altogether for a while as physical bliss drowned out everything else.

Nothing else existed in the world but Starsky, and Starsky's hands, and Starsky's mouth. Hutch gasped and arched up off the sheets, wanting to hold onto the sensation, even as he struggled for more. He could feel himself approaching the end of the overture, drums and trumpets and the cannons primed to fire, fully aware that just a few more strokes would bring everything to a glorious finale, when suddenly Starsky said, “Ow!”

“What?”

“Hand cramp. Hand cramp!” Starsky abruptly let go and pushed himself away, rolling onto his back and shaking his fingers.

“What!” exclaimed Hutch, again.

“Sorry,” gasped Starsky. “I’m not used to that angle.”

“Oh, for crying out loud!” This was insane. Hutch reached down, determined to finish himself off.

“Hey, hey, stop that!”

“My balls are turning blue. I’ve got to do something!”

“Are they really?” Starsky sat up, and pulled Hutch’s hand away, peering at his groin with intent curiosity. “Liar!”

“Let go!”

“No wait, I want to try something else.”

Hutch almost refused, and but something about Starsky’s expression sparked his curiosity. “Like what?”

“Well... I once had a girl who let me in her back door.”

The look on Starsky’s face was very strange. Hutch stared at him for a moment, trying to decipher the mixture of embarrassment, determination and titillation. Then the meaning of Starsky’s words hit him and he nearly came right on the spot.

“Oh, God.”

Starsky flushed. “Well, I figure I’m at least as tough as she was, right?”

“D-don’t you, uh, I’m... I mean, yeah, of-of course you are,” Hutch stammered. He’d imagined starting with handjobs, gradually progressing to blowjobs, and eventually ending with the ‘back door,’ as Starsky put it. In his wildest fantasies he’d never imagined jumping right to this the very first time they ended up in bed together.

Starsky rubbed his hands together. “We need lube. Lots of it. What do you got that’s slippery?”

“Nightstand,” said Hutch, covering his face with both hands. His midnight imaginings had gone something along the lines of letting Starsky do him first, to show him that it was really all right. But in all of those half-composed dreams, Starsky had been shy and tentative, looking to him to provide direction and reassurance.

Hutch thought he might be the one needing reassurance instead.

“Which drawer?”

“Top,” said Hutch. Peeking between his fingers he saw Starsky smiling at him as he reached into the nightstand and scooped something onto his fingers. “I can’t believe you’re doing this.”

“Believe it, buddy,” said Starsky, reaching down between his legs to apply the lube to himself.

Hutch rolled up onto his elbow. “You’re beautiful.”

Starsky looked pleased. He reached into the drawer for more, and suddenly his demeanor changed.

“What’s wrong?” asked Hutch.

“I don’t know,” said Starsky, slowly. He looked down at himself with a puzzled expression. “Something feels weird.”

Hutch had a sudden sinking feeling. “Starsk, you used the Vaseline, right?”

“Ow! It’s burning!” Starsky abruptly scrambled off the bed and bolted toward the bathroom.

Hutch rolled over and looked into the top drawer. There was the tub of Vaseline, familiar blue lid firmly in place. And right next to it was a slightly smaller, open jar...

“Oh Christ, Starsk! You used the Tiger Balm!”

*

It was a very subdued Starsky who finally emerged from the bathroom, wrapped in Hutch’s bathrobe. Hutch handed him a beer as he gingerly eased himself down on the couch.

“How do you feel?”

“Like I’ve been reamed out with a blowtorch,” said Starsky, sadly.

Hutch patted his knee comfortingly.

Starsky picked at the label on his bottle. “I wanted our first time to be perfect.”

“Well,” said Hutch. “There were good parts.”

“I came too soon, and you didn’t get to come at all.”

“Yeah, I lost it pretty fast when you had your... accident.” Seeing depression settle like a cloud around Starsky, Hutch said cheerfully, “But look at it this way. We’re only going to get better, right?”

Starsky looked at him sideways, clearly unconvinced.

“When you’re starting from rock bottom,” said Hutch, “there’s just one way to go. By the time we’re eighty, we’ll be fantastic.”

That got an honest grin from Starsky, and the tension went out of his shoulders. “I was afraid I’d driven you back to girls.”

“Never going to happen,” said Hutch, slinging an arm over the back of the couch. Starsky was looking at him now with unguarded trust in his eyes, and he felt a contented kind of warmth growing inside. It was really okay, he told himself. Tonight had sounded bad, but it was nothing more than the orchestra warming up. “Tomorrow night, it’s my turn to conduct.”

“You mean lead the dance.”

“Same thing,” said Hutch, with certainty. “Either way, with enough practice, we’ll make beautiful music together.”

Starsky’s answering smile hit all the right notes.


~end~