Dave Starsky is drunk.
So, as far as he can tell, is his partner Ken Hutchinson. The number of empty beer bottles on the table suggest that a lot of beer has been drunk, anyway, and he's fairly sure he hasn't had all of it.
They've reached that quiet point in the evening. Hutch's attention is absorbed trying to peel the label off one of the beer bottles in one piece, and Starsky watches Hutch's eyes gazing intently at the bottle, Hutch's lips pressed together in concentration, and Hutch's hands gently peeling the label off.
Am I, he thinks, a bit, sort of, well, you know, bent?
Naaah, he responds to himself. He's always liked girls. Maybe not had as many of them as he'd have wished, but when he's had the chance, all the...equipment's....worked fine. And when he's jing off (he mentally uses the asterisks), it's breasts & (he steels himself) pussy that occupy his mind, not wang. Dong, wang, he thinks. Why do the words for men's genitals sound so stupid?
So, he challenges back, if he's playing for the main team, why does his heart lift each morning when Hutch gets in the car and turns and grins at him? Why is it that, when he's lying on the ground, feeling like half the bones in his body are broken, he just has to hear Hutch's voice and he knows that things will be okay? Why does he feel like if anything ever happened to Hutch, it'd be as if his heart had been ripped out?
He takes another swig of beer.
It's only Hutch that's ever made him feel this way. His other partners...they were good guys, sure, but they weren't Hutch.
Hutch, he thinks, bounding with energy and goodwill like a great lolloping Golden Labrador. But sleeker. Maybe more of an Afghan. Yeah, Hutch the Afghan, and him the....maybe a Pitbull or....what's that loyal sort of dog?
"What's that sort of dog that'll always stick by you?" he asks Hutch. "You know, that'd never leave your side, and would die to save you?"
Hutch glances up from the beer bottle. "What?" he says "No idea. You thinking of getting a dog?"
Starsky shakes his head, and, drunkenly, finds his answer. A dog loves you but it doesn't want to hump you. Well, actually, he admits, dogs quite often do want to hump you, because they're horny as hell, but it doesn't matter because that's not the point. He knows what he means. He loves Hutch, more than he's ever loved anyone, but that's not the same as wanting to have sex with him. It's not that hard to understand - there are plenty of women he's not loved, but has wanted to have sex with. What he feels for Hutch is like the opposite of that. Like, anti-lust, or something. Yeah.
"I love you, man," he says suddenly. Hutch nods, and Starsky knows he thinks it's just the beer talking.
"No," he insists, putting his hand onto Hutch's, "I really do. I love you." He knows, even as he says it, that he won't be believed. Part of him is even slightly relieved that this is the case.
The rest of him, the better part of him, hopes that one day he'll have the guts to say it sober.
So, as far as he can tell, is his partner Ken Hutchinson. The number of empty beer bottles on the table suggest that a lot of beer has been drunk, anyway, and he's fairly sure he hasn't had all of it.
They've reached that quiet point in the evening. Hutch's attention is absorbed trying to peel the label off one of the beer bottles in one piece, and Starsky watches Hutch's eyes gazing intently at the bottle, Hutch's lips pressed together in concentration, and Hutch's hands gently peeling the label off.
Am I, he thinks, a bit, sort of, well, you know, bent?
Naaah, he responds to himself. He's always liked girls. Maybe not had as many of them as he'd have wished, but when he's had the chance, all the...equipment's....worked fine. And when he's jing off (he mentally uses the asterisks), it's breasts & (he steels himself) pussy that occupy his mind, not wang. Dong, wang, he thinks. Why do the words for men's genitals sound so stupid?
So, he challenges back, if he's playing for the main team, why does his heart lift each morning when Hutch gets in the car and turns and grins at him? Why is it that, when he's lying on the ground, feeling like half the bones in his body are broken, he just has to hear Hutch's voice and he knows that things will be okay? Why does he feel like if anything ever happened to Hutch, it'd be as if his heart had been ripped out?
He takes another swig of beer.
It's only Hutch that's ever made him feel this way. His other partners...they were good guys, sure, but they weren't Hutch.
Hutch, he thinks, bounding with energy and goodwill like a great lolloping Golden Labrador. But sleeker. Maybe more of an Afghan. Yeah, Hutch the Afghan, and him the....maybe a Pitbull or....what's that loyal sort of dog?
"What's that sort of dog that'll always stick by you?" he asks Hutch. "You know, that'd never leave your side, and would die to save you?"
Hutch glances up from the beer bottle. "What?" he says "No idea. You thinking of getting a dog?"
Starsky shakes his head, and, drunkenly, finds his answer. A dog loves you but it doesn't want to hump you. Well, actually, he admits, dogs quite often do want to hump you, because they're horny as hell, but it doesn't matter because that's not the point. He knows what he means. He loves Hutch, more than he's ever loved anyone, but that's not the same as wanting to have sex with him. It's not that hard to understand - there are plenty of women he's not loved, but has wanted to have sex with. What he feels for Hutch is like the opposite of that. Like, anti-lust, or something. Yeah.
"I love you, man," he says suddenly. Hutch nods, and Starsky knows he thinks it's just the beer talking.
"No," he insists, putting his hand onto Hutch's, "I really do. I love you." He knows, even as he says it, that he won't be believed. Part of him is even slightly relieved that this is the case.
The rest of him, the better part of him, hopes that one day he'll have the guts to say it sober.
