Starsky opened the icebox door and unabashedly flapped his shirt, allowing the self-made cool breeze to drop the temperature on his bare chest by a few degrees.
“Man, what a day. You want a beer, Hutch?” He poked around the shelves. “Aw shit, I’m all out.”
“When did that happen? You seeing someone behind my back, Starsk?”
“Yeah, that redhead in Booking. What’s his name again?”
“Alright, point taken. I’m just tired. Too tired to go out for beer, that’s for sure. What else do you have in there?”
Starsky removed a large pitcher of lemon drink, turned to face his partner and rubbed his face, chest, belly and then back up again, with the ice cold container.
He took three large gulps, allowing the overflow to run from the corner of his mouth, dripping down his chest.
“Ah… what is that?”
“It’s my Aunt Zelda’s lemon squash. She makes it herself.”
“Um, no, thank you. What’s in it?”
Starsky took a lemon from the fruit bowl, and cut it precisely in halves. “Well, there are lemons, of course.” He took another swig from the pitcher, this time the spillage traveling as far as his belly.
“And sugar.” Starsky dipped his finger into his own belly button, coated it, and raunchily sucked it clean of the sugary substance.
“That explains a lot.”
“Do you want a glass of water?”
Starsky filled the glass, and handed it to Hutch. He picked up half of the lemon, toying with it. “I hear,” he said intensely, “that if you suck on a lemon right after giving head, it tastes like a tequila shot, only without the tequila.”
“Give me that thing,” Hutch said, as he grabbed the lemon, pushed Starsky against the counter and unzipped his jeans.