Draw the Line

Kassidy

-Summer 1963-

“Drink up.” Jack handed the glass to Hutch. Hutch took a deep breath and gulped down the bourbon. He coughed, skin flushing pink. Starsky slapped his back, grinning, and that made him cough harder.

A wavy lock of hair fell over Jack’s forehead as he laughed. Hutch glared at him and Jack held out a hand in protest, still snickering, fending him off.

“Who wanted to play this game anyway?” Hutch had trouble enunciating.

“It’s fun,” Starsky protested.

“Jack’s turn. Truth, drink or dare?” Hutch asked, his color finally fading back. His eyes fixed on Jack, a pale sea blue that contrasted with his tan and sun-bleached, near white hair.

“Drink, drink till I drop,” Jack chanted and took the glass Hutch poured for him. “Observe the master.” He tilted his head back and drained it, then looked at the others, eyes gleaming. “None of that cough, choke, gag shit, like you pussies. Drink ’er down and next player up. Easy. What’s your poison, Starsky?”

“Truth.”

Jack raised a brow. “Yeah? You sure?”

“What’s the big deal?” Starsky slurred. He listed to one side.

“Nothing, nothing. Lemme think, here . . . hm. Aha. Got it. When’s the last time you whacked off and who were you thinking about?”

“Shit,” Starsky said. He grinned, teeth white against his sun-darkened skin.

Hutch laughed. “C’mon, Starsk.”

“Can he ask two-part questions like that?”

“You chicken or what?” Hutch watched him, fascinated. Starsky was the Leaning Tower of Pisa.

“Hell no. I, uh . . . a couple of hours ago.” Starsky braced on one hand on the floor as he started to tip and stared down at the other curled in his lap.

“A couple of hours ago?” Hutch asked, disbelieving. “Where was I?”

“Holding my dick,” Starsky said, and grinned a lopsided grin as Hutch flushed again. Jack laughed.

“How do I know where you were, dummy?” Starsky hiccuped.

“Where’d you do it?” asked Jack.

“I was in the bathroom. Where else would I be, up on the roof of the house?”

“Smartass. And you were thinking of . . . ” Jack prompted.

“Your mother,” Starsky said, his eyes round, his face innocent. Jack threw a pillow at him, and Starsky ducked. “You know that swimsuit she wore yesterday?” Jack threw himself at Starsky and Starsky rolled on the carpet, trying to get away. “Hot. She’s hot hot hot! ” he said, yelling the last word as Jack pinned him to the carpet and sat on him. “Umph. Ow ow, get off me,” Starsky said, then giggled as Hutch, not quite trusting his legs to walk, crawled over and tickled his sides. “No fair, Blondie. I haven’t even told you about my bathroom time over your mom,” then laughed helplessly as Hutch, his face grim, grabbed a foot and tickled more.

Jack looked at Hutch. “God, you’re right. He is a pervert.”

“The proud, the pickled, the perverted.” Hutch ran his fingers over the soles of Starsky’s feet. Starsky kicked and wiggled, laughing. His face turned a deep red. Hutch lost hold of him and fell, his nose grinding into the carpet. He stayed there for a minute before getting up and grabbing one of the wildly waving feet again.

“When’d you say your mom’s coming home? I miss her,” Starsky gasped.

“Well perv, Mom’ll be home—with Dad—when their dinnuh pawty’s over. It’ll be a while, they’ll be getting pickled same as us,” Jack answered.

“Threesome then.”

Hutch made an ick face. “Ugh, with his dad too? His mom’s cute. Not his dad.”

Lemme go,” Starsky pleaded, still wiggling.

“You promise to shut up about my mother?” Jack asked.

“Yeah, yeah. Of course.”

“He’s lying,” Hutch warned as Jack got up.

“Hutch’s turn,” said Starsky and sat up, breathing a little heavily. He smiled at Jack. Jack frowned. Starsky turned to Hutch. “Truth, drink or dare, pal?”

“Huh.” Hutch rubbed his chin, thinking. “No way I’m drinking.”

Jack shook his head, looking superior. “Can’t handle your booze.”

“How ’bout truth, Hutch?” Starsky asked. “When’s the last time you holed up in the bathroom over Jack’s mom?”

“She just ain’t that hot, Pervis,” Jack said, trying to sound easy but not quite succeeding. He looked a little pissed.

Hutch laughed. “Pervis. I like it. And Jack? Sorry, buddy, but she’s hot. All the guys think so.”

Jack winced. “I don’t wanna hear about this. She’s my mom, she can’t be hot. You’re fucking with my head.”

“Better than fucking your—”

“Shut up, Starsky!” said Jack, though Hutch had already pressed Starsky’s arm in warning. He let go when he saw it flicker over Starsky’s lean face: too far.

Hutch watched the two in silence before he spoke. “Dare. I pick a dare.”

Jack looked at Starsky, saying nothing. Then he looked at Hutch. “Couldn’t you have picked up a more deserving stray in Bay City than him?” Jack cocked a thumb. Starsky’s shoulders stiffened but he didn’t rise to the bait.

“Shut up.” Hutch’s voice was cold.

Starsky’s hand moved to Hutch’s shoulder and squeezed. “Hey. It’s okay.”

Hutch took a long breath and blew it out. “You guys got a dare for me or are we done?”

“Yeah, I got a dare for you, Hutch,” Jack said. He smiled but his eyes didn’t.

Hutch smiled back, just as humorless. “Fire away.”

“Jerk off.”

Hutch blinked. “Wh-what?”

Jack smiled some more, teeth showing white. This time it reached his eyes, though that didn’t make it any nicer.

“Jack off, Hutch. Yank your wank, milk the monster. Here. Now.”

Hutch looked at Jack for a long time. He didn’t blink, though his head swayed on his neck.

Stoned out of his gourd, Starsky thought. “What kinda dare is that?” he asked, tone belligerent, but then Hutch shrugged.

“Sure.”

“Shit,” said Starsky again.

Hutch’s hand hovered at his zipper before unzipping his pants, the sound loud in the sudden quiet. His fingers shook.

Starsky poured a drink. “You don’t have to do it. It’s just a fucking game.”

“What’s the matter, you worried about your boyfriend?” Jack asked.

“What does that mean?” Starsky glared at Jack, then turned to Hutch. “What’re you doing this for?” Starsky leaned to hand Hutch the drink. He downed it and squeezed his eyes shut.

“May I remind you you could have taken a drink and skipped the dare?” Jack asked.

“You may,” Hutch said, mocking. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Who gives a shit about a stupid game?” Starsky pressed.

“He gives a shit,” Hutch said, looking at Jack. “He wants to think I do, but I don’t. Never did.” Starsky’s eyes widened, but Hutch cut him off. “Just whatever, Starsk.”

“I thought city boys did all kinds of wild shit. Ever been in a circle jerk, Starsky?” Jack rattled the ice in his glass and sucked down the dregs of the whisky.

“Right, rube. Real wild. Can’t do it on your own, you need help?” Starsky sneered, angry beyond reason, ready to take him on. Jack scowled but didn’t move. Starsky looked at Hutch, but he was looking down and all Starsky saw was a tousled blond mop of hair. Hutch’s long brown fingers touched the button at the top of his pants, pushed it free. He stood, swaying, a silhouette with hair limned white by the overhead light. He pulled off his shoes, pulled his pants down over his ass, followed by his briefs, managing not to fall doing it, then sat on the arm of the couch and pulled them off his feet. He slid down the front of the couch arm, leaning against it, and took another deep breath. He pulled one of his knees up, perching an arm over it. With the other hand he reached, fingers wrapping over himself, twisting gently over his cock, ruffling his dark blond pubic hair.

Starsky didn’t look away. Couldn’t.