Day 8: I Look in the Mirror and I See Scars by Kath Moonshine

Monday, October 31, 1977

For two weeks I’d been expecting it. Was surprised it took so long.

It started as a sniffle. Starsk took a sharp right and fishtailed into a closed self-serve carwash, pulling into the dark bay so that no one would see him lose his shit over a man he loved like a father. A gay man so deep in the closet Starsky never knew it until it was too late to ask questions. To understand.

The storm hits. Starsky clutches me tight. Tears soak my collar as he gasps John’s name. After what feels like forever, a hiccup signals the end is near, and I shift enough to snag a stack of napkins from the glove box, leftover from our lunch at Red’s Hot Dogs. He dries his face, blows his nose, wads up the napkins, and throws them out the window.

“You ever been with a man, Hutch?” Starsky asks, his voice husky with tears.

It didn’t even occur to me to lie.

“Yeah.”

After a minute, he asks, “Was it Jack Mitchell?”

“Yes,” I answer. “We—we were working as lifeguards at a fancy resort the summer after we graduated from high school. We shared a cabin. Things just seemed… to happen….”

He nods, but I can see Starsky go away inside himself, even as he puts the Torino in gear and backs out of the carwash.

For a moment, I’m afraid I’ve repulsed Starsky with my confession. But his hand comes to rest on my thigh, his fingers tracing my zipper.

I don’t know why we go to my place. Unspoken, we just do. It’s late when Starsk puts the Torino in park, long past the time trick-or-treaters went to bed. Without a word, we get out, climb the stairs to my door. Starsk fishes the key off the lintel and lets us both in.

The door is barely shut before he starts to undress. I watch as he toes off his shoes, shrugs out of his jacket and sheds his shoulder rig, pulls his tee-shirt over his head, and pushes down his jeans and socks in one smooth move. He leaves on his bikini briefs. That right there tells me Starsky isn’t nearly as ready to get it on as he might think.

Okay, I think. I’ve always told myself if Starsky ever gave me an opening, I would take it slow.

I gesture to the bedroom, indicating by signs alone he should get comfortable. Starsk nods and carefully climbs into my bed, as if he’s afraid to disturb the covers. He lies back on the pillows. His right-hand sinks into his curls. His left rests on his chest. Like he’s been running sprints, his breathing is fast and light.

Cautiously, I circle to the foot of the bed, still wearing my baseball jacket and gun. Unbutton my shirt but leave it open. Unbutton my jeans and slowly lower the zipper. All the while, my partner watches me intently, as if I were performing a magic trick with something prized that he’s sure I’ll spirit away. I push down my jeans and my boxers, just enough to free my cock. At first, it lies curled quietly, but I can feel Starsky’s eyes on me. I look up and catch his gaze, and I’m scorched. A fiery flush spreads from my cheeks, down my neck, to my torso. My heartbeat is so loud, I’m surprised the neighbors can’t hear it, like some Edgar Allen Poe tale come to life.

With my right hand, I cup my quiescent cock. With my left I push open my shirt and jacket, begin to pinch and roll my nipples. Starsky drops his eyes too quickly for me to see the emotion there. Fear? Disgust? Even laughter at the crimson stain covering half my body? But a closer look shows he’s staring at me, at my cock, through the curtain of his dense lashes.

By now my rod is stiffening up nicely, enjoying the weight of Starsky’s gaze. It’s like those jeweled eyes are caressing my cock. Even though it’s just my own hand, the pull and drag of my thumb and fingers, it’s nothing my dick hasn’t felt a thousand times before. How often, when I’ve jerked off, have my actions been accompanied by thoughts of my partner?

Watching me.

Touching me.

Kissing me.

At the thought of kissing Starsk, I close my eyes. A small moan escapes my lips; I suck in the bottom one and bite down, just hard enough, just painful enough, to remind me to keep quiet. I don’t want to break the spell of silence that Starsky—the most talkative man I’ve ever known—has cast on this moment.

I continue to work my nipples, imagining it’s Starsky’s lips and teeth that tug and twist the little nubs. My other hand is stroking steadily, stretching the moment out, passing from root to head, then giving that little twist at the end that always turns me on.

It’s my turn to peek through my lashes, to see what my partner is doing. Right away I see that he’s hard, his underwear barely containing his erection. The tip of his cock is leaking, staining his blue briefs. I want. Want so much. But must be content with this silent, shared voyeurism that feels more intimate than any sex act I’ve done before. Why? Because it’s Starsky. So close. So unattainable. Until today, when he finally broke down and bawled about John Blaine.

I tighten my grip, tug with harsh strength on my cock, banishing everything except those eyes watching me stroke myself. I’m close. But I want to make sure Starsky is getting what he needs. I needn’t have worried. He’s fingering himself through the fabric of his shorts. The wet spot has spread, his face is tight, and I can see he’s as close to coming as I am. I give a final hard tug, and jizz is splattering my navel, spilling hot over my hand. I lean forward, wishing I had a footboard at the end of the bed to hang on to, but having to settle for the mattress to steady me. It’s that or fall.

Mustering some strength, I look up just in time to see Starsky come. The expression that contorts his manly features is equal parts pain and joy.

After a while, after we both can breathe again, after I tuck my dick away, I head to the bathroom for some clean washcloths. I hand one to Starsk and use one on myself. Then I root around in my gym-clothes drawer and pull out a pair of sweatpants for Starsky and a pair of shorts for me. I take off my jacket, gun, and clothes as Starsk wriggles out of his underwear and into the sweats I’ve provided. I dress myself, then I try to pull the covers down, but it’s awkward with Starsk sitting on them. Eventually, he scoots up to the headboard, and I can finally yank the bedspread out from under him.

I climb into the bed, cover us both, lie on my side with my back to Starsk, then turn out the light.

It’s a few minutes later that a tentative hand creeps around my waist, gently urging me to roll over, to face my partner, which I do. I’ve never been more thankful for darkness than I was in that moment. I don’t think I could have handled Starsky looking at me with regret on his face. Instead, I feel lips tentatively touch my own. I return the fragile kiss with equal gentleness. Fingers card through my hair, and—for just a moment—the kiss deepens, enough for me to taste the mustard and onions from his hotdogs hours ago. And it’s perfect. Just perfect. This is my partner and I love him. And everything is going to be all right. It’s just going to take time. Time for this fragile new thing between us to take root and grow.

As if he’s read my mind, Starsky breaks the kiss and whispers, “I need time, Hutch. We gotta take this easy, okay? I really dig you, but I’m not ready for anything too heavy. Not yet. You get me?”

His hand is still in my hair. I nod. Now I’m the silent one.

After a while, I roll over, onto my other side again, my back to Starsk. He moves close behind me, the big spoon to my little. Starsky’s breathing evens, and I can feel the moment of utter relaxation that signals sleep.

I listen as a big storm moves in, a real boomer that sets my skylights afire with chain lightning, followed by heavy rain. I can’t help but think the Renaissance writers got it all wrong—water from Heaven doesn’t wash away sins or sadness. Nature’s baptism doesn’t foretell a happy ending for the hero. It’s just rain. Gushing over a grimy city, pushing trash and other detritus towards storm drains, little boats for the sewers rats to ride before the whole filthy mess is vomited by Volkswagen-sized pipes into the sea.

I lie there in the dark, listening to the thunder, wishing Starsky hadn’t broken the silence, wishing I could have kept my fantasy that everything is going to be all right for just a little longer. Instead, I remain awake, counting his breaths, counting the lightning flashes, beginning the countdown to the end.

Author’s Note: This is the beginning of a new S/H novel, which will debut at SHareCon 2025. Email Kath at kathorphlint@gmail.com with questions or comments