My Hair Like Jesus Wore It Part Five
Was he a good lover? Hutch wondered sometimes. But most of the time he figured he didn’t have to be. Starsky did all the work.
These days, Starsky was a live wire: cheerful, animated, energetic, glad to be alive. He was also as horny as a three-balled tomcat. When Hutch opened the door after work, he did so cautiously, never knowing what he’d find. Starsky might meet him with slippers and a martini, candles and chocolate sauce or handcuffs and a smirk. Once he’d wrapped himself in Saran Wrap, an idea he’d gotten from Total Woman, a book Minnie and the girls had been guffawing over at work.
As a lover, Starsky was inventive, curious, uninhibited, intense. He was bossy, mercurial, both tender and rough. He might leave a trail of rose petals and chocolate and want to make love all night, or he might push Hutch against a wall for a couple of quick hand jobs. He liked control-tackling Hutch to the bed, startling him in the shower, pressing him to his knees in the kitchen-and had a genius for turning everyday objects-wooden spoons and oven mitts, fern fronds and watering cans, toothbrushes and dental floss-into sex toys. He also had a smirking fondness for public risk, happily groping Hutch in the back of crowded elevators, under the table in restaurants and bars, fondling him to erection in a packed movie house. At work Hutch was often self-conscious; he could smell Starsky all over himself, on the collar of his shirt, in the lining of his jacket, and in the locker room he had to be careful to cover the evidence of their love-making, marks on his neck and nipples, razor burn on his face and thighs, rug burn on his knees, shoulder blades and ass. At home, their sex could get so vigorous and noisy the neighbors had once pounded on the wall, mortifying Hutch. Sometimes Hutch wanted to say, What are we, rabbits? Maybe we should do something else tonight, but he never got further than Jesus Starsk and ah God do that again.
As much as Starsky liked control he had a way of giving it up that simply turned Hutch inside out. He could let Hutch turn him this way and that, stand him on his head, swing him from the chandeliers, or work him over until he was an incoherent mess and never worry he was giving away more than he should. Hutch had never experienced such openness, such ready, willing and able-ness with any other lover. His women had all been exciting but each one had brought her own set of complications. Nancy had been young and skittish, too inexperienced for anything more than the basics; Vanessa had been a ball of fire but manipulative, withholding and, honestly, a bit evil. Jeannie had been sweet and china doll pretty but so listless and anemic, Hutch had felt like a nuisance when he wanted sex. And poor doe-eyed Gillian had been so wistful and eager to please that Hutch’s need to protect her had always surpassed his desire for her. Even beautiful, loving Abby, by far the healthiest of his women, had had her tricky moments. A few times, Hutch had misjudged her readiness, her interest, a few times he’d touched her in places he clearly should have known were off bounds. A few times he’d missed important cues and found himself apologizing for the rest of the weekend. And once he’d walked in on her laughing with a girlfriend about faked orgasms. As wilting as that was, the confrontation was even worse. Abby’s reassurances-not with you Hutch, never with you, you’re so good in bed-made him feel like an ass, a peacock who needed to be reassured his strutting was magnificent, and her insistence that it was no big deal made him wonder what the hell was a big deal if lying during love wasn’t. In the end, with all his women, Hutch had learned to keep an eye on himself when he made love, and to keep his expectations reasonable.
But with Starsky, things were different. For one thing, Starsk couldn’t fake an orgasm if he tried. For another, with Starsk, Hutch was simply unable to keep an eye on himself. He found himself meeting Starsky’s openness with a lack of self-consciousness he’d never known before. For the first time in his adult life, he stopped hovering above himself in bed, analyzing, second-guessing, examining his performance. He stopped wondering if he was good enough, sensitive enough, responsive enough, if he was misreading a yes or a no or a glance or a silence. He just made love. It was kinda magical, really: his zipper went down, his cock uncurled and his brain tumbled out of his skull, floated up and out of the way. Starsky opened his arms, said, “You can have whatever you want, Hutch,” and Hutch took it all.
Even so, they hadn’t leapt straight into bed after that first kiss on the beach. They’d both known there was talking to be done first. So they’d talked, parked in Hutch’s latest decrepit LTD at a look-out point in the hills, at Starsky’s kitchen table, playing hands of gin rummy and drinking a little wine. They’d talked in Hutch’s greenhouse while Hutch watered and Starsky limbered up on the large exercise mat Hutch had bought him for the bodyweight calisthenics he’d worked into his recovery therapy. They’d talked in the park, at the grocery store, in the bathroom, over the laundry, cooking and cleaning. They’d chatted on the phone for hours after Hutch had packed his plants and his guitar and moved back into Venice Place to give the new thing they were making between them room to grow.
They’d talked about a lot of things, like why Hutch had been so pissy in the months before the shooting, what had really happened with Kira and whether Starsky would have eventually married Terry. They’d talked about their women, their first loves, true loves, puppy loves, ships in the night, missed opportunities and really bad ideas They’d discussed growing up, becoming men, being cops, growing older and measuring up to fathers, grandfathers, uncles and mentors like Dobey, Iron Mike, John Blaine and Luke Huntley. They’d talked about mothers and siblings and whether, when and how Nick was going to screw up again. They’d discussed Starsky’s conscription to Vietnam, his twelve month in-country tour and Hutch’s decision to drop out of med school and turn his back on a comfortable life in the Hutchinson family practice. They’d discussed football, baseball, basketball, boxing, wrestling, running, gymnastics and tennis, driving cabs and playing guitar, painting, toy trains and model ships, chewing gum and cigarettes, and how Hutch, a long time social and stress smoker, hadn’t lit up since Starsky took two bullets in his right lung. They’d talked and laughed until their sides hurt. They’d wept a little too, or rather Hutch had while Starsky who was not a crier-they’d talked about that too-hadn’t.
They’d talked for nearly two months and while they were talking, Starsky was growing steadily better, stronger and more independent. He’d begun taking classes at the Center for Yoga on Larchmont, calling it the High Temple of Whole-Grain Hooey even while his balance, flexibility and strength improved dramatically. He’d started driving himself places in a ’69 Palmetto Green Bonneville his Uncle Al had provided. While Starsky was never going to love the Bonneville like he’d loved the Torino, he was happy enough to drive it to yoga, to PT, to the hospital for check-ups, to the Dobey’s for weekly dinners, to the Alpha Beta and the Rainbow, to the thrift store where he was keeping an eye out for a new bomber jacket since his old one had been cut to pieces in the ER.
Hutch, meanwhile, had returned to Metro after six months compassionate leave and joined the team created to unravel the many threads of the Gunther case. For the first time in his police career, he found himself clocking out at 5:30 every afternoon just like a regular Joe, eager to get home to dinner and spouse.
They still weren’t having sex but Hutch certainly would have said they were making love. They spent hours on the padded mat in the greenhouse, Hutch’s big plants bending over them. Hutch had never felt more in his element, under his heavy rubber trees, his airy ferns, with the humid smell of dirt, the sky through the windows and Starsky above him, beneath him or beside him, eyes dark, body pressed to his. They kissed for hours, undressing slowly, lying skin to skin. They held each other, breathed together, passing one breath back and forth until they were dizzy. They caressed each other, petting and teasing, they slept and woke, tangled and nude. They spooned or lay face to face, wrapping arms and legs around each other, faces in each other’s necks. They slid against each other, letting sweat and friction do their work, bringing each other, time and time again, within a hairsbreadth of orgasm before backing down, beginning again. The decision to delay penetrative sex, ejaculation, wasn’t something they discussed. Rather, Hutch thought they were acting instinctually, taking everything they knew about love and sex back down to the bone, undoing it and rebuilding it, honing and refining until it was something entirely new, a thing only the two of them could have made together.
Then sometime in November, the third or the fourth, though Hutch refused to remember the exact date-even utterly in love he resisted the sentimental circling of dates-Starsky asked him if he’d mind losing the moustache.
Hutch’s eyebrows went up in surprise. “Really?” he asked, touching it. “You don’t like it?
“I like it fine,” said Starsky, stripping off his shirt, lobbing it into the laundry basket. “I just wanna know what it’s like to kiss you without it.” He tucked his chin, grinning both shyly and slyly. “I’ve heard good things about your upper lip.”
“My upper lip.” Hutch frowned. He followed Starsky into the bathroom. “From whom?”
“Judith.”
Hutch peeled off his own shirt, dropped it to the floor. He watched Starsky move about the sink, opening the hot tap, collecting his shaving supplies. He dropped his eyes to Starsky’s back, to the smooth bare skin on his shoulders and below, the weals, welts and train tracks. “Who?” he finally said. “Judith? Your mother?” He wasn’t trying to be coy, he truly didn’t remember.
“No, other Judith.” Starsky lathered his face. “Dr. Judith.”
“Oh.”
In front of Starsk, the mirror steamed. He shaved himself with quick efficient strokes, twisting his wrist this way and that. He tapped his razor on the sink; blue-black whiskers and suds filled the bowl. His face, when he rinsed it, looked brand-new, pale and raw.
Hutch moved in behind Starsky, wiped the steam from the mirror. He put his hands on Starsky’s hips, caught Starsky’s eyes in the mirror. “Do me now,” he said, nuzzling Starsky’s neck.
In the cloudy mirror, Starsky’s eyes were amused, aroused. “You mean shave you?” he asked.
They ended up on the floor, arranging and rearranging themselves until they found the best position-Starsky with his back against the tub and Hutch lying in his lap, his head resting on Starsky’s hip. Starsky took Hutch’s chin in his right hand and with tiny scissors in his left clipped Hutch’s moustache down to stubble. He wiped Hutch’s face with a hot towel, draping it for a moment over Hutch’s jaw. “Hot towel’s ‘sposed to soften the beard,” he said. “But your hair is so fine, it might just melt in the heat.”
“Zatso?” murmured Hutch, perfectly happy to melt in the heat. He closed his eyes, willing to lie forever in Starsky’s lap, Starsky’s belly under his cheek, Starsky’s thighs at his back.
After a while, though, Starsky moved. He hung the towel over the rim of the tub, lifted his arm to the sink, found his shaving brush. Hutch kept his eyes shut, felt Starsky raise his chin, lather his face with tickly circular motions. He smelled the soapy mint of shaving cream, Starsky’s warm skin.
Starsky lifted his arm, dropped the brush in the sink, found the razor. “Ready?” he asked, touching the razor to Hutch’s cheek. Then he laughed. “My first time doing this to another guy.”
Hutch felt his lips tilt up in a smile. “Mine too.” His skin felt clean and cold after the razor, jazzed and jumping with blood. “Is it weird,” he asked, “if I get turned on?”
“Not if I do too,” said Starsky. He wiped Hutch’s face with the warm towel, tipped him gently back to lie on the tile floor and climbed on top of him.
When they kissed, it was the barest kiss Hutch had ever had. His shaved lip felt naked and raw, almost too tender for touch. Starsky’s breath was warm and damp, his kisses soft, flicking to the sides of Hutch’s mouth, to the top lip, the bottom. Hutch turned his head, following Starsky’s mouth, trying to catch the quick kisses.
Starsky dodged Hutch’s mouth. He laughed, licking, nipping, running his tongue over Hutch’s sensitive skin. Hutch felt a growl rise in his throat. He slung an arm around Starsky’s neck, pulling him down and closer, forcing him into a deeper kiss. Starsky opened his mouth wide, taking Hutch in. For a moment they grappled, arms pulling at each other, hips grinding, then Hutch surged up, seized Starsky and flipped him to his back. He hung over him, hands planted on either side of Starsky’s shoulders, looking deeply into his eyes. “So, partner,” he said, breathing hard. “Wanna dance?”
“Yeah,” said Starsk, his voice hoarse. His eyes, hot, fixed on Hutch’s.
Hutch yanked the snap on Starsky’s jeans, suddenly in a hurry after months of waiting. “Where’s the…” he asked, looking around.
“Under the sink,” said Starsky, popping the button on Hutch’s cords.
Hutch lunged for the sink cupboard, knocked aside shampoo, Comet and tile cleaner. He found a bottle of Johnson’s Baby Oil and held it up.
“Yeah,” said Starsky. He wiggled his tight jeans down his hips, kicked his legs free. “C’mon, c’mon,” he said, sounding a little desperate.
Hutch’s hands were shaking. He pushed Starsky back down on the tiles, spilled a puddle of oil out onto his belly. He slid his hand through the oil, coating his palm, his trembling fingers.
“Hutch,” Starsky gasped. He sat half-way up, grabbing Hutch’s shoulders. “C’mon.”
Hutch rubbed the oil into Starsky’s belly. Starsky’s hips lifted, his cock, hard, leaking and florid, tried to find Hutch’s hand
“Easy, lover.” Hutch pushed Starsky down again, skimmed his oily fingers over Starsky’s hip. “We’re gonna do it. Just tell me how you want it done.” He caught Starsky’s cock in a loose fist. “You want top or bottom?”
Starsky hissed, rocked up into Hutch’s fist. “Top, bottom, middle,” he said. “All of it.”
***
In February Starsky passed his boards and returned to work.
As soon as they hit the streets together, they realized they had to get off.
***
Hutch quietly sold a chunk of land his grandfather had left him in Minnesota. When the rather handsome check arrived, he stepped outside to watch Starsky in the drive washing the Bonneville with a bucket and a garden hose.
“Hey Starsk,” he called. “Get yourself a passport. I’m taking you to Italy.”
“Italy?” Starsky glanced back over his shoulder. His hair was shaggy, the ends wet and hanging in tendrils. His jean shorts were so cut high, the back pockets were exposed. “Why Italy?”
“Because I like Italy,” said Hutch. He loped down the stairs while Starsky leaned over the Bonneville’s big hood. “It’s the best place for Renaissance art. You like Italian food and God knows you could use the culture, pal.”
I got culture,” said Starsky. He slopped a soapy sponge over the hood, leaving white curls of soap on the green paint. “I got a library card and a Huichol Indian yarn painting so authentic it smells like peyote. That’s culture, baby.”
“Okay, okay, you’re Mr. Culture,” said Hutch. He sat on the grass a respectful distance away from Starsky and his wet sponge. The sun struck his crown, heating his scalp. He brushed his fingers through his feathery, fly-away hair, which he’d recently cut short to match his clean-shaven upper lip. Hutch missed his old don’t-fuck-with-me look but Starsk said he looked ten years younger. “Let me take you to Italy anyway, babe,” he said. “I’ll buy you an espresso.”
Starsky rolled his eyes. He scrubbed the Bonneville, his arm jerking, his ass wiggling. “We’re going all the way to Italy just for an espresso?”
“Sure, why not?” said Hutch. “The shit we drink at Metro, you think that’s coffee? Time you knew what real coffee tastes like.”
“I know what real coffee tastes like,” said Starsky. “My grandma used to make Turkish coffee-”
“I know, I know,” said Hutch lightly. He leaned back on his elbows, his eyes shifting between Starsky’s ass and the soap sliding in foamy lumps over the Bonneville’s grill. “Your Yiddish grandma made Turkish coffee above an Italian restaurant in a Polish neighborhood.”
“That’s right,” said Starsky. He tossed the sponge in the bucket. “So?”
“So?” Hutch leapt to his feet, strode toward Starsky. “So Rome, Venice and Milan, Starsk! Florence, the Tuscan hills, the Italian Riviera! Dontcha wanna see the world, Starsk? See the great cathedrals, Saint Peter’s Basilica, Santa Maria del Fiore? Dontcha wanna see Brunelleschi’s bronze dome, the Palazzo Medici and the Pitti Palace?”
Starsky laughed, picked up the garden hose, adjusted the nozzle. “You’re cute, Blondie, but I don’t know what the hell you’re talkin’ about.” He flicked a handful of soapy water at Hutch.
“Philistine.” Hutch turned away. Suddenly he whirled back. “Say, you know what, Starsk?” he said excitedly. “There’s a city in Italy called Torino!”
“No way!” Starsky’s eyes opened comically wide. “Really? For real?”
“Sure as shittin’, Starsk. Wanna go?”
Starsky’s mouth opened and closed. He stared past the Bonneville which gleamed like a beached sea creature in the sun, all metallic ocean green and white wet foam. Finally he turned back to Hutch. “What's it like, Hutch?” he asked. “You know, Torino?”
Hutch grinned, spread his arms wide. “With a name like Torino? Gotta be great!”
Starsky nodded, adjusted the nozzle again. “Sure,” he said. “Gotta be.” The hose coughed and jerked, let go a thick stream of water. “Hey Hutch?” Starsky called over the water.
“Yeah Starsk?”
“If we go to Italy, can we go to Germany too and drive two hundred miles an hour on that Autoban?”
Hutch felt his face light up. “Only if you get a passport.”
***
In May of 1980, when they handed their two week notice to Dobey, they stood out of respect.
Dobey stayed seated, staring at his blotter, a half-eaten ham sandwich in wax paper. “You’re sure?” he asked.
Starsky nodded. “Everything’s changed,” he said. “The whole shootin’ match.”
Hutch winced at the word choice. He tried to explain. “We’ve changed,” he said. “Out on the street, our priorities have changed. We can’t quite give the job our all anymore, Cap’n. But we don’t know how to do it halfway. That make sense?”
Dobey grunted, shrugged. “Your call,” he said.
“We think we better get out while we’re still ahead.”
Dobey frowned, tapped his blotter with his Cross pen. “Lieutenant’s exam?” he asked.
“We don’t think so, Cap,” said Starsky. “We’re just going to take some time off. Explore our options.”
“But thank you all the same,” added Hutch.
Dobey clicked his pen, looked from Hutch to Starsky, then out the window. “Damn,” he said, softly.
Hutch stood with his hands locked behind him, parade rest. Beside him, Starsky shifted, bounced lightly on his toes, his restless energy back in full.
“All right,” said Dobey. “So be it.” He tossed his pen down, pushed out of his chair and rounded his desk, coming to stand in front of them. Much to Hutch’s surprise he opened his big arms, gathered them both into an embrace..
Hutch stumbled, catching himself on Starsky’s shoulder. They stood in a triangle, chests brushing, arms around each other’s shoulders. Dobey was talking low and fast under his breath.
“Amen,” said Dobey. He let go, stepped back.
“Amen,” echoed Starsky, realizing they’d received a blessing.
“Amen,” Hutch started to say. He got as far as “Ah” before his throat closed up. “Ah,” he tried again. “Ah, ah.” His voice cracked, his eyes filled with tears. “Ah shit.”
Starsky patted him on the back, whisked a napkin from Dobey’s desk. “Sorry, Cap,” he said, smirking and passing the napkin to Hutch. “Can’t take him anywhere.”
Hutch shrugged helplessly, blew his nose into the napkin.
The next two weeks were filled with parties and Hutch found himself struggling into work hung-over most days. There was a precinct barbecue in the park, a final softball game against West Valley, a shindig down at the bowling alley and the blow-out to end all blow-outs at the Pits. Hutch got so loaded at the Pits, he woke up on Huggy’s pool table, his feet stacked one on top of the other and propped on a ladder-back chair. The queasy smell of frying meat filled his nose and he could hear Starsky singing like Ethel Merman in the kitchen.
When Kathy Marshall got wind of their departure, she threw them a private party at Starsky’s. She brought over dinner, way too much champagne and bid them an energetic, affectionate good-bye. Hutch doubted that any two people had ever been said goodbye to so many times in one night, and in so many different positions. Starsky’s mattress looked absolutely violated in the morning, stripped of its blue sheets, toppled to the floor and splotched with oil and bodily fluids. The bathroom floor was covered with sopping towels and in the front room his papa-san chair was in splinters, wrecked beyond redemption.
They were invited to Maggie Blaine’s for dinner, to Mitzi and Lisa Graham’s, to the Ramos’s, the Walters’s and Minnie’s. They took Sweet Alice to a fancy restaurant, dropped in at the children’s center where Terry once worked and caught a special performance by Sugar at the Blue Parrot. They got shit-faced with Merle the Earl who hung fuzzy dice around Hutch’s neck and customized his denim vest with strips of shag carpet. They had notes or calls from Mickey, Joey, Chris Phelps, and Luke Huntley. Ray offered them half-price tattoos and Chickey dropped by to give Hutch a big sloppy smooch, something he claimed he’d been dreaming of for years. On the day before they left town, they got a call out of the blue from Joe Collandra who usually went out of his way to avoid them.
And now they were back at the beach, ready to throw their badges into the ocean again. They were leaving Bay City. They didn’t know exactly where they were going, only that they were going.
They sat, perched on the hood on Hutch’s LTD, watching the sun sink and the surf go in and out. Starsky shifted about on the hood, foot tapping, one knee jouncing while Hutch watched the surf go in and out until it went out finally with the chunk of his brain that did his worrying for him, leaving behind the white noise of water on sand. He let his shoulders down then, and let his mind float, feeling it-wide open possibility-hovering just behind him.
They had a car. They’d drive and follow the road just to see where it would take them. They had time and enough money to afford months of diner food and king size Travelodge beds. They’d drive and drive and eventually they’d drive to an airport, leave the LTD and fly over the ocean to Italy where there would be other cars to drive, pasta and sauces to eat, culture to absorb, wine and dark rich cups of coffee to drink. And then there was Torino, where Starsky claimed they’d discover the true meaning of life and Hutch had no reason to doubt him. After Torino, they’d drive to Germany, to the mythic highway running in infinite loops through the country. They’d blow down the road, two hundred miles an hour, spinning through the loops, laying the accelerator flat, opening up the engine and letting the wind scream through the windows. Somewhere on the Autobahn, they’d find it, Hutch thought, their moment of wide-open possibility. They’d drive fast enough, hard enough to blow it all away, Bay City, the rough streets, the guns and badges, the ghosts of souls damaged and lives lost on their watch. They’d leave behind the reports and the courts, the judges and lawyers, the fathers, mothers, preachers and teachers, everything they’d learned and needed to forget. They’d burn every bridge behind them and not even care because out of their own ashes they’d pull something new, something all theirs and only theirs, something that didn’t exist yet and wouldn’t until he and Starsky made it.
The water hissed on the sand and on the hood of the LTD Starsky shifted and squirmed like a kid who had to go to the bathroom. Hutch rubbed his upper lip, missing his moustache. He thought about the early days when he’d pick through all the names and labels in the world, looking for one pliable enough to stretch over his relationship with Starsky. He’d been an idiot, he supposed.
“Hey, Starsk?” Hutch put his hand over Starsky’s where it lay next to his thigh. “What’s another word for love?”
Starsky didn’t look at him but his lips curved up in a smile. “Don’t need no other word, Blintz.”
“Guess not, said Hutch. He squeezed Starsky’s hand. Without speaking, they slid from the hood, Starsky going left and Hutch going right. Hutch tossed the car keys over the LTD’s hood and Starsky caught them, sliding into the driver’s seat. Hutch slammed the passenger side door. They pulled into traffic, slow at first but gaining speed, gaining speed. Hutch watched the rear view, the side mirror as the beach, then the city fell away. They were on their way for sure.
Author’s notes: I had never heard of Rumkies until I picked up a Young Adult book called Yellow Star by Jennifer Roy. Yellow Star is the story of Roy’s aunt who survived interment in the Lodz Ghetto in occupied Poland. I also took the family name Perlmutter and the first names Sura, Haskel, Edit, Schmuel and Malka from Roy’s book.
Hutch quotes John Keats’s “A Thing of Beauty is a Joy Forever” and Pink Floyd song “Breathe.”
The title,” My Hair Like Jesus Wore It,” comes from the song Hair from the Musical “Hair,” lyrics by James Rado and Gerome Ragni.