peg22 | Ken Hutchinson - The Original Emo Boy

Okay, so because behind all the love and respect and desire, these boys are COMPETITIVE!

Hutch's answer to Starsky's Rant . . .
Which can't really be called Hutch's Rant because he doesn't really rant - he ruminates.

I miss Starsky. I know I’ve just been gone five days, and between my mother’s need to feed me every two hours and my father’s need to saturate my brain with actuaries and mutual funds, I’m surprised I even remember him. But I do. Every minute. I don’t dare tell him, though. He doesn’t like soapy scenes. Of course I know he really does - the soapier the better.

I miss his voice. Always going on and on and on about the weather and the workload and the way the Torino sounds going up a hill. All I hear is a ridiculous roar, but he insists the hunk of junk actually purrs. I just know the car owner purrs – well, growls really. Like when he’s got some hype up against a wall and he talks soft and slow and if I were that perp . . . and sometime I am – pressed up against a wall, his hips grinding into mine, his hot breath rasping in my ear . . . Or when he’s driving and he laughs at something I’ve said and the sound fills the car and I just want to drive forever.

And I miss his hands. Always tapping on the steering wheel, or beating out some nameless song with his pencil when he’s ready to go home but I still have five reports to type up – including two I found stuffed in his desk drawer that he “forgot” to do. Or when he stops me from doing something stupid. Like popping Simonetti, or trying to drive after Margarita Mondays at Huggy’s. Or when he rests his hand on my leg right before we have to go do something unpleasant.

Seems like all we’ve done lately is unpleasant. Not that I don’t like him touching me. Some days it’s the only thing that gets me through. My mom asked me how my career was going and I almost laughed. My career? Can somebody really make a career out of bullets and bullshit wrapped around procedure tied up with red tape that allows the guilty to walk and leaves the innocent to pick up the tab?

I even miss his nagging at me to lighten up. Which I should. It’s just that ever since last year, when he almost died and I had that . . . problem . . . well, it’s just all too short and if things are too good, I know that’s the signal it’s all going to go to shit and I don’t think I can survive another minute contemplating a life without him. And every day I slip that badge into my pocket is another day closer to that fear becoming reality. And he just waves it off and spouts platitudes and distracts me with that thing he does with his tongue . . . which usually works except when he tries to incorporate props . . .

Damn, I just miss him. And I hope he’s had a nap before he picks me up at the airport.
He’s going to need his energy.