Another wave of her alcohol-rich breath drifted over him. Hutch looked toward the ceiling as he thrust frantically from beneath her, trying to keep his partial erection within her body. His own breath was full of booze, and he knew that was the root of the problem he was having...never mind that he was shying away from wondering what he was doing here in the first place.

Starsky seemed to be having no such qualms. His partner was humping intently, eyes closed as he sought some pleasure within, his weight driving both himself and the girl into Hutch. It's not that Starsky was directly on top of them both, he was thrusting into her behind from a sideways angle, but the force of his movement drove her at that same angle onto Hutch.

There had been too much booze, and as he stole a look at her- -Tammy, he remembered her name was Tammy-- Hutch realized that she was passed out, though she emitted an occasional groan from Starsky's attentions. Her lack of participation made the experience for Hutch totally pointless -- both physically and emotionally -- but the feel of his partner's thick organ driving on the other side of the thin membrane of tissue within her body was enough friction for Hutch to stay somewhat erect.

Starsky's hips were bucking harshly now, and he gripped her arms harder and rested his cheek against her back. His eyes, when they opened part way, faced some far-away wall, and seemed to distinctly avoid the two other occupants in the bed.

Hutch closed his eyes as the thick flesh within her anal channel moved back and forth more powerfully. And then Starsky emitted a deep-throated growl, and then all was still, save his gasping for breath...at first harshly, and then more airy. And then he went slack all over and planted a gentle kiss on her shoulder, snuggling his cheek against her back.

"She's passed out," Hutch told him.

Starsky jolted upright, a guilty look on his face as he stared at Hutch with an open mouth.

That look, in turn, made Hutch feel guilty, because this whole fiasco was because of him.

Abruptly, Starsky was off the bed, holding a towel against his groin as he trotted off to the bathroom.

The smell remaining in the air made it obvious that anal intercourse had taken place. Hutch's own organ had slipped out, now that it didn't have the action of Starsky' s to keep it stimulated. Hutch gently maneuvered himself from beneath Tammy, then spent some time getting her beneath the covers. He patted her hair when she groaned softly.

He straightened, his legs aching from the gymnastics, and looked over at Cynthia. She was naked and passed out on the other bed, which was why a giggling Tammy had invited both detectives to enjoy her own pleasures at the same time. Only slightly less drunk than the girls-- and only because they had more body weight to absorb the alcohol-- both men had indulged without thought or discussion.

Hutch placed a cover over Cynthia, who was sound asleep. Then he pulled a pillowcase from a pillow and wrapped it snuggly around his slick groin, wiping away the moisture. His balls ached with the lack of release; but it was, at the very least, what he deserved.

He found his briefs amongst all the scattered clothing and pulled them on. As he continued to dress, he was aware of a deep sadness that could no longer be held at bay. He had let this happen because the divorce was made final today. He had let Starsky "cheer him up", mainly because he'd felt bad for his partner having put up with his marital problems for so many months. He'd thought enjoying the delights of a stranger would help him get back at Van. But she was not here to observe, and would have probably only laughed at his having had to turn to strangers to pleasure himself.

Dressed, save for his shoes, Hutch plopped down heavily in an easy chair. He couldn't deny the hole inside him. It was a vacuum of deep loneliness. He'd escaped the Hutchinson household­ and all the expectations that he was to be something he was not--by marrying someone who was perfect and beautiful and smart and vivacious, and who loved him. Except... not really. As it turned out, Vanessa had had her own agenda for him, and that was something he could not own up to, either.

Hutch rubbed at his face, trying to summon the energy to put on his shoes. He heard the water go off in the bathroom, and realized his partner had been showering.

His partner. Starsky. A person who was everything that Hutch was not, and who did not pretend otherwise. And who did not ask Hutch to pretend, either.

Hutch sighed heavily and bent to put on his left shoe. Starsky was now the most important person in his life, like it or not.

For God's sake, Hutchinson, he scolded himself as he struggled with the right shoe, don't mess it up with him. You have his respect. If you lose that, you lose him. And then you won't have anybody.

You'll be twenty-seven years old and someone nobody gives a damn about. Then what will you do for the next fifty years?

He swallowed as he tied the shoelace, feeling a headache coming on. He was painfully aware of how much older he was than his years. Most men his age were still enjoying some of the pleasures of adolescence... the illusion that they were going to live forever and always be free of any genuine responsibility.

The bathroom door opened and a weary-looking Starsky emerged with a towel around his waist. Jaw grim, the darker man started gathering up his clothes from the floor. Then he stopped and looked up at his partner.

The guilt Hutch saw there was as stark as his own.