THE SENTINEL and all related characters are the property of Paramount and Pet Fly Productions. No copyright infringement is intended. Please don't sue me. If you do, you'll get $12.00 in cash, my sympathies for your being so anal-retentive, and two dogs, Teddy Bear, the spawn of hell, and BooBoo Bear, his big old donkey girl sister. (Trust me, you don't want to go there.)

This story was previously published in COME TO YOUR SENSES 25.

In life and in love, there is only that moment, the now. The only reality we know is what we experience this very second. Reality is not what has passed or what has yet to come into being. Grabbing hold of this simple idea makes life magical because it brings love alive.

Leo Buscaglia, Handbook for the Heart

Flirt-ing -- v. To make playfully romantic or sexual overtures; to deal with triflingly or superficially; to move abruptly, jerkily or quickly; to dally with.

Merriam-Webster Dictionary

UPSCALE BAR, CASCADE, WASHINGTON
FRIDAY EVENING, 6:30 PM

I'd been looking at Margaret's face for the last hour or so. You know, she's quite a pretty woman. What was I thinking when I only saw her `inner beauty'? I should have taken the shot at her when I first hit Rainier. I could have. It would have been easy. Yeah, I was the horn dog Jim always accused me of being back then. But the timing just wasn't right.

Like the big guy and me.

Hang on. What was she skirting around?

"Irish whisky, Blair? That never was your poison when you were, you know, an ..."

"Anthropologist? Well, sherry just doesn't go with the image these days, you know?"

I must look vaguely amused to my old friend's merlot-softened eyes. It's the "affable cop" look I've schooled myself to wear. The one I show to everybody. To perps. To the other gold shields. To my boss, Captain Banks. And to Jim.

Most especially Jim.

Jim Ellison. My detective partner, my roommate, my former thesis subject in another lifetime, and my Sentinel in every lifetime. Even with those five heightened senses of his--one of the perks of being a Sentinel--Jim probably can't figure out the new Blair Sandburg "game face" either.

Jim should join the "What the hell is it with Sandburg?" club, along with half the population of Cascade. Truth is, I don't even know.

I haven't been able to get a handle on just who I've become, besides Bill Gannon to Jim's Joe Friday. Once, I thought about using a Dirty Harry allusion, until I remembered that most of his partners got smoked early on. Yeah. I still use words like illusion. Solipsism, even. But these days, it's only when I'm doing the New York Times crossword puzzle. Hard to work my 50-cent vocabulary in between cop-speak. Interesting theory, solipsism--that the self is the only reality, the only thing that can be known. But theories are damned unwieldy things. In the harsh, cold light of day, they can get pretty hoary. If I can't get a handle on my self, then what chance does anybody else have?

My S.O.P. these days is to be pretty much closemouthed and never say much of anything to anyone. Who would I tell? More importantly, who would listen? Not my mom, Naomi, who doesn't think being a cop is the worst choice I could have ever made, but it would do until another comes along. Not my former mentor, Eli Stoddard, who washed his professional hands of his protg when I "embarrassed" Rainier University with my dissertation fiasco and, apparently, anthropology on a global scale. Not my cousin, Robert the bookie, who went out the back door when `Detective B. Sandburg' walked in the front. Christ, I haven't seen him since I picked up my badge, and that was almost a year ago.

A year. Three hundred and sixty five days of getting used to making do with less ... "Sandburg here" ... "Right away, Captain" ... "Yes, Jim" ... " No, Jim" ... "Dial it down, Jim" ... "Wonderburger again, Jim?" ...

Jim, Jim, Jim. And we always come back to Jim. First, last and always. Jim. It's been one hell of a rollercoaster ride. In equal parts, I've admired him, respected him, tolerated him, despaired of him, loved him, and fucking hated him, and been in love with him. That was the easiest thing I've ever done. And the hardest.

See, in my 30-odd years, I've taken and given love pretty much wherever--women, men, a little of both. And, God, I can't begin to tell you how much I wanted him from that very first day when he threw me against the wall in my broom closet of an office. In short order, I ended up sporting enough wood to build an A-frame, and I knew I was a goner. After I moved into his apartment on Prospect Avenue, I thought it would just be a matter of time before I worked my way up from the little room under the stairs to the nirvana of the blue and yellow-covered bed in the loft above me. Man, how I flirted with the idea of taking a long drink from that tall glass of water, to bathe in the mysteries I saw teeming in those ice blue eyes, and be deluged by the power in that strong, unbelievably gorgeous body. But it didn't happen. I came to my senses. Sober, sane, sensible Professor Sandburg won over his rowdy, randy, raucous Johnson.

I opted not to `go native' with Jim Ellison, the research subject. It wouldn't have been scientifically ethical to bump nasties with the anthropological equivalent of my Holy Grail--a Sentinel possessing all five heightened senses.

So, I hung a "Do Not Touch" sign on Jim--at least for the duration of our project together, "this Sentinel thing," as the man himself called it.

More than that, do not pass Go. Do not collect Jim Ellison. Funny. The other night, I took the dissertation out, the one that got me my 15 minutes of infamy and dicked around royally, thanks to a publisher friend of my mother's. As I felt the cover, I remembered the precise moment when I knew I'd passed the point of no return. I couldn't bring myself to admit I'd deep-sixed my job, my career, my reputation, pretty much all the things piled together that made up that poor schmuck Blair Sandburg--for him. I was scared that when the fat lady eventually sang, I'd end up without Jim. No second chance. Finito. Adios. So, I took the only road that seemed open to me. I became a cop.

Now, I'm a short-hair wearing, Miranda-reading crime stopper. I carry a gun instead of bluebooks. I have attitude instead of opinions. Can you beat that? Talk about irony. Talk about stereotypes. And I'm being suffocated by them. It's worse than what happened to me in the fountain in front of Hargrove Hall. Except this is death by inches.

That's why I needed to get away from all of it. A reprieve, to read something other than a crime report, see something other than body parts in the trunk of a car, and think about something other than my off-limits roommate.

Yeah, that's still the tough one. But when you're drowning, how can you stay away from the only life-preserver around?

FRIDAY EVENING, 7:30 PM

Poor Margaret. I almost opened up to her during our second round of liquid truth. But she looked so sad, as though she knew instinctively that whatever I was going to lay on her wasn't going to be pleasant, that I quickly changed my mind. Bobbing and weaving all the time, that's me, folks. I learned from the master, my mom, the DaVinci of cut and run. She raised me to roll with the punches and keep my head above water, no matter what. Listen, if you'd been left with the same succession of distance relatives, familiar strangers and the odd Buddhist monk or two as I had over the years, you'd damn well better be able to take care of yourself. Like at the Academy. Don't get me wrong. Some of the cadets were decent enough. Others, well, let's just hope they outgrow their assholeness--or find some other line of work. Still, all things considered, Hell Semester was worth it. I now have Jim Ellison in my life "officially."

Nobody can separate us.

And nobody can put us together.

Jesus. Did that sound as pathetic as it felt? Maybe Irish shouldn't be my drink. It certainly seemed to be my `drunk.' And Margaret needed to be flagged. Her face was flushed, and she was a half a swallow away from starting to cry.

"Aw, don't, Mags. Margaret. C'mon. Let's have a toast, since we're already toasted."

She sniffed a few times, then smiled lopsidedly. "To what, Blair?"

How about to Jim Ellison and all that raw power idling just under his sleek to-die-for surface? Like the steel sheathed under velvet I'd imagined over and over? Would the old boy be a fiercely protective lover, soothing me with that rich voice of his, and gentling my fears away? Or would he turn me every way but loose as we rutted like animals, until there was nothing left but an empty box of Trojans, a used-up tube of lube and shit-eating grins on our faces?

"To dreams, and getting everything we want." In my overactive imagination, I always envisioned Jim's naked body being over me and under me, and most definitely in me. It would be a good thing. Correction. An excellent thing. A thing that dreams of a lifetime would be built on.

Or, in my case, a lifetime of dreams, with the operative word being "dreams."

I was so screwed.

The evening wore on, as they used to say in Victorian melodramas. I loved the smoky taste of the Irish on my tongue. It made me wonder what Jim tasted like. I stopped that train of thought before it could derail. And Margaret was downright beautiful. So, I figured, what the hell. I did what comes naturally to all Sandburgs. I flirted a little. Okay. A lot. I've always seen it as a harmless distraction. Most of the time, it worked. And it always boosted my ego, knowing that I could. I reached out and touched Margaret's turtleneck sweater, straightening her collar ever so slightly.

"Blair...."

"Wha-a-at?" I broke the word into two--make that, three--syllables. It's a little vocal trick that's always been a crowd-pleaser. (I remember the first time I used it on Jim. "Wha-a-at? `Fetish,' as in small, carved figure.")

Empowered by the wine she'd been drinking, Mary Margaret wouldn't rise to my considerable bait. "You know `wha-a-at,' Blair Sandburg. You're such a flirt. But then, you always were."

"What are you talking about?"

"It's the truth. I remember the first day I saw you doing it."

"Did I flirt with you the day we met?"

"Did I say that? I said the first day I `saw' you flirting...with some anthropology T.A. who had a massive crush on you...." Her voice softened in memory. "You were wearing a blue ribbon vest, your hair was down." Blushing furiously, she lowered her eyes and stared at a spot on the bar. "You were just about the best-looking thing I'd ever seen."

What do you say to something like that? I was saved from trying to figure out an answer, when Margaret switched conversations in midstream.

"So, Blair, how's Jim?"

Son of a bitch. That's what the out-of-the-blue call for drinks and dinner really was all about--Jim. I took a sip of whiskey. It burned like fire as it slid down my throat. I wanted to answer, "Don't know. Haven't had him on all fours yet, begging for it. But I'm trying." Instead, I mumbled over the rim of my glass, "Good. He's good."

"Is he seeing...anybody these days?"

Jim. Jim and Margaret. Margaret and Jim. Margaret and her hopes, now older, smaller and all but withered, that Jim would do a 180 from where they'd parted after the Golden incident. Maybe she still saw herself as his S.O. Significant Other. Sex Outlet. Whatever.

*Margaret Mary,
Ne'er contrary.
How would your garden grow?
With Jim in your life?
Him: husband;
You, wife.
And 10 little kids in a row?*

"On and off." A lie.

"So, then, you've got time on your... Because I was thinking.... How would you...? Jesus, this is tougher than I thought it would be." Margaret gulped her wine, all the while twirling her hair nervously around her left index finger. "I want to know if maybe you'd...like to start going out."

"Out where?" Did my I.Q. points just drop into single digits? Did I just say something that stupid?

"Out there." She points to either Morton, the street that ran in front of the bar, or to Alpha Centauri, I wasn't really sure which. "You know, the two of us."

"You mean as in out out? As in 'dating' out?" Hell, this was one scenario I hadn't even considered.

"Well, yes."

Jesus. I don't remember her ever thinking of me that way. Of course, Jim was always there, and he cast a long, buff shadow that I'd been standing in for the last four years.

"I'm...you know, like, so flattered. But why now?"

"Why not?"

"Well, it seems to me we decided that `friends' was the way to go. Or did I just imagine that?"

"No. But that was then. This is now. I'm not poor anymore. Neither are you. I have lots of friends, but I'd like a nice guy in my life."

"Well, if I stumble across one, he's all yours. Can you slide the peanuts over here?"

"You are a nice guy, Blair. One of the nicest, sweetest ones I've ever met. Before, we were in the same business, same circle of acquaintances...it was kind of incestuous, you know? But now that you're a cop, it's different. And it's...kind of exciting."

Hell. This is worse than if she'd still wanted to nail my partner. Margaret had turned warm and fuzzy toward me because I was like a junior version of her first choice. Can't have Cop of the Year? How about Rookie of the Month?

I leaned over and surprised my friend with a kiss of respectable proportions. Moist, determined, solidly-planted, with enough tongue to keep it interesting. People may have a few bones to pick with me, but kissing isn't one of them. I could teach damned seminars on technique.

I felt the slight tremor in Margaret's body, knowing that next, she'd sway forward on her bar stool, so that her breasts would be nearly touching the front of my shirt. The move had a kind of carnal English to it. If I were less of a gentleman, I could have bedded my friend that night with no problem.

Except for one. A big one who went by the name of Ellison.

I pulled back and looked into her large, hopeful brown eyes. "Thanks, Margaret. I'm flattered. Really."

"So?" My drinking companion sounded a little breathless from the kiss. I guess I hadn't lost my touch.

"But maybe that's not such a good idea."

She squared her shoulders, and tilted that determined chin of hers upward toward me. I'd almost say defiantly, if that weren't so antithetical to the person Margaret is. But something had just happened. Like Saul on the road to Tarsus, the scales fell from her eyes. "My God! You're in love with Jim, aren't you?"

A thousand pat responses and obfuscations caromed around my brain, hurling toward my mouth, but not fast enough.

"You are! I can't believe I missed that you like men! Am I that oblivious? Were you into guys at Rainier?"

I used the last of the Irish to clear my throat, then lowered my voice a notch, hoping somewhat futilely that she'd follow suit. The other bar patrons were getting enough of an earful as it was.

"Sporadically. And before you ask, no, not since I--"

"--fell in love with your partner?" Now she was trying to be helpful.

"--moved in with Jim." I finished connecting the dots for her, as I looked for my new best friend, Bob the bartender, to hit me with another Jameson's.

"When you get a chance?" I nodded in his direction. Bob, who'd been monitoring our situation for the past half-hour, acknowledged my need of rescuing. He poured a round for me--my third--and filled Margaret's merlot `balloon.' I glanced at my watch. We'd missed our dinner reservations, but it didn't much matter.

Nothing mattered. Suddenly, a floodgate of everything I'd been repressing, of all the feelings I had and couldn't share with another living soul, burst apart at the seams. We moved to a booth in the back where Margaret, my friend, consoled me. She told me it would all work out, and ordered us two more drinks. It didn't help, but like they say, it couldn't hurt.

SATURDAY MORNING, 1:05 AM

"They" lied through their teeth.

Later -- way later -- we got back to our respective homes due, in large part, to the efforts of a husky, honest cabbie who first dropped Margaret off at her condo, then headed down toward the bay area, and pulled in front of the loft sometime in the wee hours of the morning. We sat there a while, since I was having the devil of a time getting the money out of my wallet. I couldn't seem to find my jeans' pocket, which was strange because it had been attached to my pants when I left the bullpen.

As I groped myself -- and was having a pretty decent time in the process -- a shadow fell across my face. I heard that familiar voice, tinged with annoyance and maybe a little relief, saying to the driver, "Thanks for getting him home in one piece. Here you go, pal." I think I saw two $20 bills whiz past my nose toward Phil Rasmunsen. (Phil's hack license photo had been staring at me for the half-hour ride home.) "Keep the change. C'mon, Sandburg, let's get you upstairs."

The door was thrown open, and I started tumbling out like Weeble Sandburg. I felt those strong arms wrapped around me, like they'd done a million times before, navigating my totally drunk ass out of the cab and into the building.

"Hiya, Jimbo. Guess what?"

"What, buddy?"

"I had a few drinks tonight."

"Yeah. I sort of figured that out."

"And that's why they pay you the medium bucks."

"Very funny. C'mon, Sandburg. You're not looking too good."

That wasn't the half of it. One of my two heads was beginning to throb like a mother. It was out of sync with the other one and my roiling stomach. Uh-oh. This was going to get ugly real fast unless Jim moved his considerable carcass aside.

"Get out of my way, I'm going to be -- "

Thank God, there was a porcelain wishing well in the bathroom with my name on it.

Hell. I'd thrown my damned life away. Now it was my lunch and everything I'd eaten at the bar following suit.

I wish I hadn't met Margaret tonight.

I wish I hadn't had that fourth, or was it fifth, drink.

I wish I hadn't eaten barbeque chicken wings, egg rolls with dipping sauce, and more than a few pieces of sashimi.

I wish I could stop heaving.

I wish I were brave enough to leave.

I wish I could stand up straight enough--and long enough--to give it a try.

And more than anything else, I wish Jim loved me.

SATURDAY MORNING, 2:10 AM

Christ, how much can one guy throw up? "Chief, you okay in there?"

"Albeoutinnaminut ..."

"Take your time. I'll have some tea ready for you."

"Thagsmen."

"You're welcome, partner."

He still can't hold his liquor. Never could. When I first met Blair, he'd get a respectable buzz from one generic beer. As a student, Sandburg really couldn't afford anything better. Or maybe, it just didn't matter to him. He was always spouting that Star Trek claptrap about "A difference that makes no difference..." or some other damned thing I would have forgotten. Except I didn't, because Sandburg said it, even though technically Mr. Spock said it first.

God, he was a skinny, geeky kind of guy back then--Sandburg, not Spock. The science nerd whose lunch money you wanted to take, just on principle. No, that's not true. He was fucking beautiful, like a peach that had just reached its state of absolute perfection. Blair was in the summer of his life -- ripe for the tasting and the plucking. And over my lifetime, I've plucked quite a few, so, believe me, I know.

But Sandburg's been a hands-off proposition from the get-go. You never shit where you eat. And if you were in this weird relationship that we have -- Sentinel and Guide -- it was doubly true. Your Guide's your lifeline--the somebody who watched your back and helped you keep your damned senses in check. I think it must be the Golden Sentinel Rule: don't fuck with the Guide. Or maybe it's don't fuck the Guide. Ever. Ever. There were times when I ached for the love of him, for the need of him, until I thought I'd go crazy. But the hell of it was that I needed him for more than just that. Still do, but what's the point of beating a dead horse? In another time and place, we might have stood a chance. Blair's pretty open-minded about just about everything. Or was. But ever since he did the 180, leaving his books behind and picking up a badge so he could partner up with me, he'd changed.

You want to know the most awful part of it? When I looked at Blair, what I really saw was Detective B. Sandburg. And it was been scaring the hell out of me.

The bathroom door slowly opened, and I was spared more soul-searching when Blair staggered out in a pair of beat-up sweats and an undershirt he'd probably taken out of the laundry. I could smell toothpaste and mouthwash and sorrow.

"Christ, Chief, you look like shit." Sandburg was six shades of green. Or a whiter shade of pale.

"Thanks very much for your support, Jim."

"Speaking of which, park it before you kiss the floor and I have to hand you your teeth in a plastic bag." As he teetered on unsteady feet, I grabbed him by the shoulders and maneuvered him onto the couch.

"Oh, man, the room's sort of spinning. Make it stop."

"Then lay down, for God's sakes. I'll get you the peas for your head."

I opened the freezer and took out the bag of Bird's-Eye's finest that doubled as our ice pack. I almost tossed it at Sandburg before I realized that he was in no condition to field the pitch. Instead, I walked back to the couch and draped it as gently as I could over his head.

"Close your eyes. You need aspirin. And I think some OJ instead of tea."

I looked down at Blair's pinched features. I was stopped dead in my tracks by the tears that had started running down his face into the by-now full, five o'clock shadow.

"Sandburg, what's wrong? Talk to me."

Blair crossed his arm over his eyes. "I'm fucked."

"Anybody I know?"

"Not funny." The ugly stuff running from his nose was making his voice sound strange. "Can I have that aspirin now?"

"Sorry. Move the peas so you can sit up. Hang on a minute." From the kitchen, I retrieved a tumbler full of juice I'd been drinking and shook out two tablets from the aspirin bottle sitting on the countertop.

"Here you go." Sandburg had tossed the ice pack aside, so I put the meds in his left hand, the glass in the right. He swallowed them slowly, noisily, made a classic `yuck' face, then started what sounded like a death-couch confession.

"Margaret wants to go out with me."

"Out where?"

"I asked the same thing. Out out."

Hell. Margaret. A name from the past. One more wedge between us. "So? You gonna?"

"Gonna what?"

"Take her up on her offer?" I snatched the glass from his hand, angry at Margaret, angry at Sandburg, and mostly, angry at myself for never having gotten off the dime where he was concerned.

"No. Can't. Wouldn't work."

Replacing the bag on Sandburg's forehead, I tried for a casualness I sure as hell didn't feel. "No? Why not, Chief? Margaret's a really nice woman. `Course, she's not your usual type. She isn't psychotic or `connected.'"

Blair put his hand over mine and smiled for a minute, as if he'd forgotten that he was unhappy. Then he remembered and that gorgeous mug of his looked forlorn, like the pound puppy that doesn't go home with a new set of owners.

"You're right, like always. She's really not my type." He took a deep breath, and when he finally spoke, I swear his voice broke. "You are."

"I'm her type?"

"No. Mine. You're my type. Isn't that a bitch?"

SATURDAY MORNING, 2:40 AM

I don't remember how long we sat there looking at one another. My Sentinel eyes had no trouble seeing Blair's face, even though it was almost ghostlike in the light from the fireplace. He still had hold of my hand, but much tighter now, as if, if he let it go, I'd disappear. Or worse, run.

"Did you hear what I said, Jim?" Sandburg let my hand drop. It landed on his chest. I couldn't bring myself to move it. Through his tee-shirt, I could feel the soft, furry thatch, like some forbidden spider's web trying to snare me, daring me to try to escape. "What am I saying? Like the guy with the super hearing couldn't."

"I heard."

"And?"

I lifted my hand and grabbed his chin. Not hard, exactly, but I wanted to make sure that I had Blair's undivided attention. The half-thawed bag of vegetables slid off his forehead. "And...we need to talk first."

Even through the haze of his slowly fading, drunken stupor, Sandburg looked like he'd gotten hit with a stun gun. Jim Ellison wanted to talk. Definitely one of the signs of the Apocalypse.

"Uh...okay. So, talk."

I didn't want to steamroll him, but it seemed the only choice left. "First off, am I talking to Blair Sandburg, Naomi's kid? Short, funny, smart as hell? My best friend? Know him?"

"Please, Jim. My head's killing me. You're killing me here."

"So, answer me."

"I don't know what you mean...."

"Let him come back home. I miss him so damned much." My mouth was dry. "You've been acting so strange, so...different. I haven't known what to do, how to get a handle on it, how to fix it." And then, I got mad again. "Or is this one of those `hoop' deals, like before? You raise it, I jump through it, then everything's hunky dory?" It sounded tough. Hell, it sounded brutal, even to my ears. But it had to be. If I was cutting Sandburg loose -- or if he was going to do the same for me -- `tough' wouldn't describe it by half.

Blair bolted upright. "No! No! How can you even ask that, man?" I could tell by the wild-eyed fury staring at me that I was way off base. His body was screaming, You stupid schmuck! How wrong can you be?

"Okay. I believe you."

"I've loved you, like, forever, you prick --"

"I said, I believe you."

"Nobody could ever want you more, love you more than --"

"Jesus Christ, Sandburg. Don't make me have to beat the crap out of you to get you to pay attention. I love you back."

"Yeah?" Blair wiped his red nose with the back of his hand, then ran it across his pant leg. It had to be love because I still thought he looked good enough to eat.

"Yes, Sandburg."

"Are you sure you understand what I'm saying, Jim? Am I making myself clear?"

"As a bell, Chief."

"I want to be with you...you know...like a couple."

"Got it."

His eyes defocused, like a damn blue-eyed fawn's. I swear to God, I'd never seen anything so fucking sexy in my entire life. "And you're okay with this...with us that way?" Now, the kid looked perplexed. And hopeful. And, I think, pretty much *mine. * "Jim? Jim, please answer me, man."

Was I okay with it? Someone was about to hand me a first edition Jack Kerouac, a pass on wearing ties until the year 3000, and every damned thing I ever wanted but never got at Christmas when I was a kid, and that included a pinto pony.

"Yeah, Chief, I'm pretty much okay with this." I had to touch him then. I took one of the curls fighting its way back to being an untamable mane and wove it around my finger. I rubbed my thumb deliberately across the hair's glossy surface. Sandburg read me like the cheap Harlequin romance I was - at least, where he was concerned.

"You always liked my hair, didn't you?" His eyelids fluttered just a little, extending what seemed to me an open invitation.

Christ, those eyes.

And that face. All that fucking potential. Sandburg was flirting with me. Not the way a cock-teaser does. Blair's was like an art form. He could have written books about it. Everything was so tempting and just a little out of reach. Just a stroke of a fingertip away. Just a touch of a lip away. Just a slight attitude...readjustment away.

And for me, just three -- make that four -- little words away.

"I love you, Chief." I leaned forward and milked that ripe mouth of his for all it was worth. I ran my tongue over those perfect little white teeth, then jabbed savagely inward. Maybe if I worked this right, I could reach Sandburg's heart -- his dick, even -- through his throat.

I could smell it--Blair's want, Blair's lust. The stream of his pheromones was flooding all around me, making me dizzy and needy. And a little crazy. I zig-zagged my palm down the front of Sandburg's sweats, until I reached his cock. It was as hot as a roman candle and twice as dangerous, throbbing there in his pants, desperate to find the nearest exit, to get the hell out of Dodge and come to me.

*That's right, baby. Come to Jim. Come where you belong. Where you've always belonged. *

I couldn't wait another minute. Four fucking years was long enough. I thrust my hand ruthlessly inside Blair's pants, grabbed him and held on for dear life, like the possessive bastard I am. He was never getting away from me. He was back and he was staying. Sandburg's face flushed with a combination of embarrassment and astonishment, as he screamed, and came all over my hand.

"Oh, fuck, Jim," he mumbled shyly. "I'm sorry! I can't believe I just -- "

"Hey, my pleasure, buddy. Come again." I even had to laugh at my joke. My partner couldn't help but notice the large stain spreading across my own sweats. I'd exploded just like a horny teenager, with buckets of spunk all over the place.

"So, Jim, I guess you are okay with this." Sandburg tumbled slowly forward. His head ended up resting on my shoulder, and his calmed dick nestled comfortably in my slick palm. When I felt a small, affectionate kiss on the side of my neck, I was thunderstruck with how much I loved this little guy.

We were going to be okay. As Blair made weird, mewling sounds, I decided we should stay like this for a while, connected by spit and come and enough love to smooth over all the crap that had happened between us. Of course, we were both going to be stiff as hell by the time morning rolled around. As I leaned down to plant a few experimental kisses on Sandburg's eyes and ears and throat and Adam's apple that moved provocatively under my lips, I figured that I could live with `stiff.'

What I couldn't live without was Blair Sandburg.

End Flirting by akablonded: akablonded@aol.com
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