June 10th- Riding the Express by Duluth

You ever go on one of those carnival rides where you stumble off with a big smile on your face even though you feel like you’re about to throw up? As you walk away, you look at how the world’s spinning and wonder if maybe you’re actually on some really wild acid trip?

Well, you oughta try climbing aboard the Hutchinson Express. And I am not just talking to you Hutch girls, either. Last night, that dude had me going loopty-loop and upside down. I’d had a few beers, okay, but nothing I couldn’t handle. I guess it wasn’t his fault he was wearing his I-need-my-partner eyes and those jeans that make his legs look longer than a stretch limousine. How was he supposed to know that I’d take notice? How was I?

I mean, I’ve seen Hutch dressed in everything from a penguin suit to his birthday suit. Never pictured him wearing me before. I don’t know how it happened, but when it did…man, there ain’t no going back after you’ve put your mouth in certain places, you know?

Anyway, he was still asleep when I left this morning.

What? You wanna know why I split? How about if Hutch wakes up with me slobbering all over his pillow, he’s liable to derail? He’d had his share of alcohol, too, last night. If I’m not there when he comes to, he might not remember shoving me up against the wall, licking my tonsils, pinning me to the mattress, or wrapping my legs round his waist. Maybe he’ll forget when I covered his mouth with my hand because he’s so loud. Yeah…so loud.

Oh, that’s terrific. Now my lower-half is missing my better-half.

Thank God it’s early, and the car’s still cool. I’m practically combustible. I’m parked in front of Venice Place, rubbing a sore neck, watching the freaks who get up early on a Saturday morning to grab a coffee, go for a run, or walk their furry little friends. That one down the block looks more like an Ewok than a dog…so does its owner, come to think of it.

You know who doesn’t look like an Ewok? Hutch. When he’s soaring. I gotta tell you, it’s really something when he decides to cut loose. Like the freefall before your chute opens. I guess maybe because I never expected to see him in that condition, just letting go, stripped of everything, wholeheartedly giving himself over to me. Honestly, I’ve seen him during bad times when he might have been all of those things and more, but this was Hutch flagrantly owning his vulnerabilities, and pounding them into his partner. I love the guy so much I almost want to race up those steps and let him have it again, just so he knows for certain I’m game with that thing he did to me last night, and what he allowed himself to be, right in front of me.

Hey, psst, you think that lady over there is checking me out? Or possibly she’s eyeing me because she thinks I’m casing the joint. Definitely the second one. Even though I smiled and nodded, she crossed the street to avoid my car. I must look like some sick stalker weirdo sitting here staring at Hutch’s window. But I’m waiting to see if he comes slamming through the front door to stop me from leaving. Waiting to find out if he needs me again so badly that as soon as we get outta sight, he’ll molest me in the stairwell. Hopefully.

Remember that carnival ride I was talking about? Well, let’s just say he’s the kind you’re so delightfully terrified of that you wanna ride it over and over. The kind where you really dig hanging on at the curves. The kind that makes you squeal.

Yeah, he’s that kind, and I just realized my keys ain’t in my pocket.

Hmm. Hutch is one of the freaks up early on a Saturday morning for a run. Maybe I can sneak in and look for my keys while he’s gone. On the other hand, he’ll probably have a hangover, won’t feel much like running, and he’ll take a shower instead. I could make my break then, stealthy like a cat, get in, get out, and be on my merry way. But what if Hutch gets done before I find my keys? What if he walks outta the bathroom wet and naked with his hair all curly and he’s pink? I’d like to know what the hell you expect me to do then?

This isn’t fair. Yesterday, Hutch was my partner. Big, blond, mouthy partner. Now he’s a wet French kiss. A slow, deep lovin’. He’s what makes my heart beat.

Okay, here’s how it’s gonna go down. I’ll knock on the door, pretend I’m there to pick him up for the breakfast he’s forgotten about, and while I’m waiting impatiently for him to dress, I’ll look for my keys. This is, of course, if he doesn’t remember last night’s rock and roll. If he does, I’ll laugh at him and tell him to keep his kinky dreams to himself. He’ll get bashful, thinking he’s just made the biggest creep outta himself, and I’ll get both a free breakfast and the company of my sweet Hutch out of the deal.

So, I adjust myself, which I know you ladies don’t understand, but it’s necessary, and exit the car. Shit. The light in his window just flicked on. You know, when he first wakes up after a rough night, his eyes get this silky, glassy look. I always kinda liked it, thought it reflected his innocence. But I think I might mess myself if I get a good look at his eyes right now. I got it bad, I tell you. This is not the way I saw the weekend going when we knocked off work yesterday.

I run up the stairs in exactly the same manner I would on any other normal Saturday morning when I’m actually awake before the sun is shining brightly, which is usually only if Hutch and me have plans. I practice my “horror-struck” expression in prep for Hutch spouting off about last night. Remember, it was a D-R-E-A-M, and I promise you if you let on that I told you about him being loud, you’re gonna have to find a whole other fandom to read in.

When I get to the door, he opens it before I even knock. Who’d have thought a pair of white boxers could make that old green t-shirt of his so uncontrollably seductive?

“Mornin’,” I say, totally into character as the guiltless buddy. I try not to notice his bare legs.

He holds up my keys. And he ain’t smiling.

Alright, on to plan B. Except you forgot to remind me to formulate a plan B, so I’m finito. Thanks a lot.

“Looking for these?” Hutch says.

I laugh because, uh, I don’t know what else to do. If I’d bolted on some chick, she might slap me around, or spit in my eye, but then it’d be over. With Hutch, I gotta pray he ain’t gonna pull that giant gun on me. A Hutch scorned…

To my surprise, though, he turns around with my keys still in hand, and goes to the stove to make coffee.

“Want some?” he asks. I hear the other side of drunk in his voice. Better that than pissed, I guess.

“Only if you got some.” I wish that hadn’t sounded like a slick come-on.

I try to take my keys from him, but he pulls his hand away.

“I’d like to know how in the hell your keys ended up in the fern hanging from the ceiling all the hell the way over in the corner behind my piano,” he says.

“I’d like to know what you were doing to find them there,” I counter.

“I was watering. Your turn.”

“Um…”

“And just how in God’s name did that get on my wall?”

He points to a long smudge, colored suspiciously the same as my brown leather jacket, at about my level on the painted surface and only four inches below the fern. No wonder I got that crook in my neck.

I think on my feet, trying to find a logical explanation for such incriminating evidence. “Would you believe you threw your shoe at the wall?”

Hutch’s powers of deduction beat out my lightning fast wit. “You’re wearing the same clothes as yesterday.”

So I was. Minus one red sock, which I’d also need to track down along with my keys. Fortunately for me, Hutch hadn’t seemed to notice it draped over his spice rack.

“Yeah, well, you know, laundry day,” I say. “Hey, let’s go get a donut.”

“I don’t want a donut.”

“You donut?” I thought it was funny, but he didn’t.

He glared at me with those silky, glassy, and somehow arousingly bloodshot eyes. “Why are you walking like that?”

“Like what?” Like I’d been bumped around on a carnival ride?

Then, Hutch came over and put his hands on each side of my waist. If I would have had any underwear on, which reminds me, I need to check behind his stereo, I’d probably be singing a few octaves higher right now. He just let them rest there, not unlike how he would in the squad room, so nothing overtly suggestive, but torture all the same.

“Your shirt’s dirty there, buddy,” he says, rubbing his thumbs over my belly and to either side of the crusty white leftovers I hadn’t noticed until I looked down.

I really and truly didn’t mean to thrust my crotch up against him, but with his big hands all over me, what else could I do? “So dirty,” I whispered in return. I can’t help it!

“I need some scrambled eggs,” he announces apathetically, and lets me go. Hutch likes salt and pepper on his eggs. Both of which live on the spice rack. With my sock. And Hutch is gonna kill me. Think it’s too late for my dream idea?

I hold my breath while he gets out the skillet, the eggs, and ultimately reaches for the salt. I step lightly towards the door to make my escape. I start to turn the knob but halt when I see him silently flip my sock over his shoulder, where it remains. He starts to whistle.

“You like yours over-easy, right, Starsk?”

Oh, that filthy bastard.

Could it be that Hutch put my sock on his shoulder because that’s where he wants my feet? “You remembered?”

“Mmm.”

While his back is turned, I take a brief glance behind his stereo.

“They’re not there,” he says.

I’m beginning to hate him. “What aren’t?”

“Well, I don’t think it was the tooth fairy who left your lousy shorts under my pillow. Get out the boysenberry jam, huh?”

“We’re having toast?”

“No, I just figured you’d want some with your coffee. Of course we’re having toast, dummy.”

“Oh.” At this point, I’m not even sure what the fuck is going on. Hutch is mean like usual, not bashful at all.

I go to the fridge and get out the jam, put it on the table. “Now what?”

“Now you can come over here and kiss me while I finish the eggs.”

Suddenly, and blissfully, I’m the kid who cuts in line to buy the first ticket for the throw-up ride. I can already feel my stomach drop, but thankfully, it’s empty. I’m ready to fly, man. I knew Hutch couldn’t resist me.

To think, here you were trying to convince me that Hutch wouldn’t remember last night. Did you actually believe he could forget what it was like to twist me, climb me, make it to the top and scream on the way down? Delinquents, every one of you…always causing trouble.

Anyway, listen, this ride ain’t for wimps. Things could get hot, things could get dangerous. Be prepared. Me and Hutch might get to where we need that high we reach with each other. Heck, I’ve already decided I don’t want to go on any other ride ever again. I can’t even see any others because now they all sit in Hutch’s towering shadow.

I walk slowly up to the Express. I kiss his neck because that’s where I like to start. He shivers a little and tilts his head back.

He reaches for my hair, and makes that deep noise when I lick him. I suck hard on his sensitive damn skin and he arches away while simultaneously backing his butt into me. I just ignore the smell of burnt eggs.

I turn off the stove and then turn him around. I cover his mouth with mine before he gets loud all over again.

This is the part I know you lovely ladies like to read about, but Hutch is a traditional. No kiss and tell. He wants me to get rid of you and be old-fashioned like him.

But lucky for you, I’m not. You should see Hutch’s mouth right now. He’s panting and licking my face. Last night he was a coaster off its tracks. Today, he needs me to take hold of his lever and steer this wild ride, which I do by throwing his ass onto the bed.

I strip his t-shirt and boxers off while he’s squirming. You might think Hutch is the epitome of calm and collected, but all I gotta do is grab him in my hand and he jerks around like a Mexican jumping bean. Sometimes, when nothing else makes sense in this world, I catch him looking at me like all he needs is the warmth of my palm to bring him to life.

He takes my head and pulls me in for a kiss. A fiery, begging, stick-your-tongue-down-my-throat-and-eradicate-me kiss. One thing about Hutch, he’s strong, and he’s got his arms around me so tight I can’t breathe, let alone get away from his hip bones grinding against mine. Not that I’d I want to get away, since I’m doing half the grinding…

He lets go long enough to try to remove my jacket. “Jesus, Starsk,” he whispers, struggling now. “Stupid thing.”

When I glance down to see what’s taking so long, I choke on how freakin’ hot it is to see Hutch’s entire naked body surrounded by my fully clothed body, less one sock, a pair of shorts, and that little bit of brown leather I left on the wall four inches below his fern. In the heat, he can’t manipulate the zipper on my coat, but he does just fine on my jeans. I gotta hand it to him, even in his dizzy state, he still has heart enough to be careful unzipping me when he knows darn well I’m commando. Thank heavens. See why I trust him with my life?

Ah, Hutch. So reliable, so attentive, so blond. I just want to hump him into tomorrow.

I’ve already got his legs smooshed under mine, so I catch both wrists and pin ’em over his head. He’s closing his eyes because he doesn’t want me to know that he’s always wanted me to do that.

“Arms and legs are to remain in place for the remainder of this ride,” I say.

“Just take me, already,” he replies. Hutch really isn’t into the whole carnival theme of things. We just gotta bear with him.

I roll to one side, slide my belt off my waist, and use the tip to tease. First I let it brush between his legs.

“Oh, God damn it,” he mumbles. He’s shakin’. He’s clearly a man of conviction.

I continue upwards, dragging it across his belly while he hyperventilates. Then that dastardly belt tip nicks his nipple, and he jolts like a condemned man in the electric chair. I think I’m going to like being lovers with Detective Sergeant Hutchinson.

Over his neck and jaw it wanders, tickles his lips, strokes through that beautiful hair and up to his arms, looping around his wrists and brass headboard.

“Seatbelts must remain fastened at all times,” I say, because I am into the whole theme of things.

“Christ, Starsky, will you please shut up and –?”

“No hands.” And down I swoop to take him in my mouth.

I know what you must be thinking – that I’m cramming Hutch’s dick down my throat. But see, it’s so much more than that. I’ve taken away almost all his control. I want him to understand in no uncertain terms that he might have started this thing between us, but I’m gonna finish it. Gonna finish him. Tasting this part of Hutch easily overpowers that subtle bitter flavoring of fear that sits at the back of my tongue. I don’t know what I’m afraid of, because loving Hutch is like packing a full round of ammunition into my gun before busting down a door. I know it’s probably gonna save my life. I need him for security every bit as much as my weapon.

The need for security, however, runs both ways. Him pumping deep into my mouth isn’t just desperation to get off, it’s him trying his best to make me love him. He can’t see that I already do. He’s thrusting home the fact that he hates when I’m cornered, when the bad guys have the upper hand and could take me down. He’s crying out for the reason that he can’t seem to find any other way to reach that piece of me that he wants to hang on to forever. Tugging at his restraints, Hutch knows damn well he can’t protect me from everything, and that makes him angry. So he fucks me harder because that’s how much he needs me.

I swallow him whole because I’ve been feeding off him since day one. He’s always inside me, one way or the other. For me to lay him down and completely consume him is the only way I feel full anymore. I eat until I’m stuffed.

I don’t suppose you would like one more juicy detail, would you? Like how just making Hutch come was enough to make me? All over myself and his bed. Yeah, I didn’t think you’d want to hear about that.

But guess what? The ride’s not over yet. Hutch is still bound to the bed; he’s still panting. He’s not loud any longer; he’s too busy listening to me promise him all the things he can believe in. That I won’t let him go until he understands this is not about sex. I’ll keep nailing him, for sure, and keep letting him hammer me in return, but it’s only us ducking for cover, loading our guns, and firing because it’s necessary. We’re just trying to survive. We’re each other’s backup, and firmly proving our mutual trust at the end of every day. I take him by the hair and swear that he’s gonna be okay. That I won’t leave again and am staying put. I make him memorize the feel of my hand on his chest, my lips on his throat, my knee sliding between his thighs. He’s still naked and I’m still dressed and he knows he better pay attention.

He’s so delightfully terrified.

THE END