Author's disclaimer: Disclaimer: 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 his sister, BooBoo Bear, the big old donkey girl.

I was 15 years old when I felt a girl's breast for the first time. Sort of. OK. Katie Mahoney walloped the hell out of me, but I definitely grazed it, under her shocking pink tube top, in the semi-darkness of her folks' basement. Some family-values sitcom was playing in the background as I made my stealthy, fumbling foray into the mysteries of men and women. And Life with a capital "L."

Ah, 1984. A great summer. A great year. I won an NSF grant (that's National Science Foundation) to study environmental changes and how they impacted Acadia National Park. I grew an inch. (Much needed, let me tell you.) And I got some. I had tit.

Lots of stuff has happened since then. I'm not in Maine anymore. (Big surprise there, Toto.) I survived my teen years, went on to claim respectable geekhood, thank you very much, in anthropology no less, and struck research gold here in Cascade, Washington. Everything that matters to me these days centers on someone I met by accident four years ago. Actually, it was more like a serendipitous interface, with an overlay of testosterone. I tell you, the thrill of finding the "Holy Grail" -- the living embodiment of my field of study -- was the adult equivalent of groping that sweet, sexy, stacked New England girl not so many years ago. It's about the only thing that could rival my personal, teenage Breast Patrol as a seminal experience in the life of Blair Jacob Sandburg.

Seminal? Did I say 'seminal'? Or 'Sentinel'? I have to be careful what I say out loud. And where I say it.

Not only was Detective James Joseph Ellison the answer to my search for a thesis subject, but he also filled the bill for just about everything else I'd been looking for: friend, confidante, partner, companion. Oh, yeah, and the undisputed, if unrequited, love of my life. Honest to God. Who knew that I could have feelings like this for anybody, let alone a guy that makes most other males look and feel like girly men? With his sleek, strong, well-built, well-disciplined body, a mind to match, and a heart and soul that could make a poet like Keats sit up and take notice, Jim Ellison is anybody's dream come true. Mostly, though, his social interaction's been pretty much confined to the fairer sex.

Who am I kidding? There's nothing fair about it. For as long as I've known Jim, it's been women. Nothing but women. Never the right women, mind you. Always the wrong type. (So wrong, in fact, it would take a dozen pens and at least three days to explain why.) Armchair, amateur psychologist that I am, I'm positive it stems from a father who despised his elder son's special sensory gifts. In self-defense, my partner erected walls within walls to deflect the pain that that particular brand of rejection caused. It made him try to find acceptance and caring wherever it was offered -- and by whomever was doing the offering. Any port in the storm, as the old chestnut goes. Luckily, the experience didn't turn him into -- what's the line from Shakespeare's Hamlet? "' like the painting of a sorrow, a face without a heart."

Heart, Jim's got. And I want it all. All because of the end of a conversation I overheard between Jim and my Mom, Naomi. He didn't know I was standing right behind him. (Where the hell was that Sentinel hearing of his?) When my roommate realized I was within earshot, he looked flustered as he handed off the cell phone to me.

What a hell of a difference a few words make. I thought I heard, "I'll make sure he takes care of himself, Naomi. I worry about him as much as you do." But what he actually said was, "I'll make sure he takes care of himself, Naomi. I love him as much as you do."

I didn't realize it until I replayed the scene in my head about an hour later. That's when my gut -- not to mention other parts of my anatomy -- came to a stunning conclusion. Jim Ellison had Major League feelings for me. Like mine for him.

Of course, he'd never say anything about them. The big lug. So, I guessed the ball would have to be in the Guide's court. That's me, in case you need a playbill to follow the action. I'd have to be the one to get my silent, stoic Sentinel off dead center, if we were going to move this relationship along. Correction, if we were going to ever have a relationship. I decided to screw up my courage, and tell him. Point blank. Straight out. (Well, maybe straight isn't the best choice of words.) Jim Ellison needed to know how it's been for me for a long while now, how my feelings have been growing, day by day, getting stronger and more urgent. But the time never seemed right.

Then, sporting a deliciously warped sense of humor, the fates stepped in and presented me with an opportunity to make the "Big Confession." It was oh, so, romantic. Several of us from Major Crimes were chasing West Coast Mafioso wannabe Pat "Patsy" D'Ambrosio and his merry band of thugs through Cascade's Little Italy section. One of his made men decided how delightful it would be to separate me from my head, figuring a couple hundred rounds from an AK-47 (the weapon of choice for your typical mobster these days) would do the trick very nicely.

Luckily, at the last minute, Jim heard the trigger being squeezed, threw me unceremoniously to the ground, fell on top of me in his most protective mode, and rolled the two of us behind a restaurant dumpster ripening in the alleyway under the summer sun.

The torpedo was just about to speed off in a high-priced SUV with blackened windows (who says crime doesn't pay?), when I heard several wailing sirens, which meant additional backup units had arrived on the scene and were probably surrounding the vehicle. Another bad guy off the streets of Cascade, WA.

Back at Alberti's (a fine dining experience if you're ever in the area), the smell of rotting vegetation and meat detritus was almost worse than dying on that fine Tuesday morning. And if the aroma of garbage alfresco was bad for me with my normal equipment, I could only imagine what was happening to Jim with his super-heightened senses.

I knew it would be almost impossible for him to dial down the stench the way I'd taught him. So, in a flash of brilliance borne of desperation, I decided to substitute one somatic stimulus with another. I saw Jim's lips just a "lick" away from my own. Figuring what the hell, I reached up, bit the bottom one, and drew my best buddy's damned handsome face down closer to me, until we were literally a kiss away. And then I whispered "Iluvoubgy." (Translation: "I love you, big guy." Trust me. It sounded a hell of a lot sexier at that moment. You had to be there.)

So throwing caution to the wind -- and dreams of a comfortable, ripe old age with it -- I sucked face with Jim Ellison, suddenly and fiercely, and stayed that way for quite a while. After an astoundingly sensual and soulful response from my friend that registered at least a 9.7 on the Richter Scale -- and rivaled any that I'd ever been privy to -- three things happened: 1) Jim didn't go ballistic; 2) I was almost crushed by 200 lbs. of eager, wriggling detective; and 3) We both sported enough wood to build an A-frame, log cabin on the outskirts of town. My erection won on artistic interpretation. Jim's scored on sheer size and overall proportion. I could still feel it digging into my thigh the following day.

But that's all that happened on Wednesday and over the next few weeks, except for "easy" stuff. You know, nothing too heavy or serious -- just necking, groping, talking trash to one another. Getting hot being in the same space and not taking advantage of it. Nowhere near getting it.

Jim wanted me to be sure. He needed both of us to be sure.

During the time I like to think of as a really short, intense engagement, we really began listening to one another. Finally. My Sentinel found out his Guide truly loved him. More than that, I was "in love" with him. I wanted to be part of his life. Forever. No more humping table legs for Naomi Sandburg's baby boy, no more meaningless sexual episodes.

No more being on the outside looking in.

Yeah. I went on and on (probably ad nauseum for Jim), that I'd craved the feel of him, the taste of him, the touch of him, until I didn't have one more word or another ounce of spit left on the subject. As I stopped and took a well-deserved breath, I experienced an epiphany of sorts. I realized the big man felt the same way, because he didn't interrupt me, argue with me, toy with me, disappoint me, or let me down easy. It must have been hard.

He certainly was.

Ditto yours truly.

Then the clouds lifted, and the blazing sun appeared when Jim gave me The Smile. He delivered his declaration of love, "OK, chief. You've worn me down. From now on, it's just you and me. But no more fucking around with anybody else. No more flavors of the month. Got a problem with that?" the way he says most things -- somewhat stiffly. (Am I one witty son-of-a-bitch, or what?)

I still needed more. As much as I could get. So I grabbed the object of my growing desire up close and personal, which made his eyes bug out like a cartoon character, and demanded that he backup his words with action. A lot of it. For emphasis, I beeped Jim's goodies a second time, like a demented Road Runner.

"When, tough guy? When are we going to do it?"

"This weekend, Sandburg. I promise. Now, please let go of my dick. I think the little Sentinel is going to have to rest up for you. He and I aren't as young as we used to be."

Now that I've made known my mostly honorable intentions to the man I love, I guess I'm going to have to put out. Jim's going to want more than kissing and cuddling. Well, duh, you're saying to yourself. This guy's a real brain trust.

So do I. I swear to God. I just don't have any pitching technique, if you get my drift. And as for catching, well ' shit, I am in keep kimchee here. See I've never ... it's not that I ... but my experience with other men ... Oh, fuck. What I'm trying to say is that I've never gotten it from another guy. Never. No circle jerks. No head. No nothing. I've never so much as touched another guy's dick. Never. As in Neverneverland had more Peters than I've had.

I know I'm at a real disadvantage -- I bet Jim's seen it all, done it all. At least twice. The guy who's laid lip locks on me with alarming, albeit enthusiastic regularity since we came to our understanding has been around the block in a neighborhood I've never visited. And I know he'll be some kind of lover. He doesn't just talk a good game. He goes out and scores one for the Gipper. (Gupper?)

But being on the same team as your soon-to-be-lover makes you wonder if your equipment is first-rate, or the stuff you pick up at a two-for-one garage sale.

It's not that I haven't looked at other guys. I have. Everybody does during all those jr. high and high school gym classes. Sizing one another up, seeing where you fit in the bell curve. (In case you're interested, I'm better endowed than some, woefully overshadowed by others.)

And I certainly know my way around my own paraphernalia. Like a friggin' virtuoso. But will Jim Ellison like my style? Will he go for those long, cosseting strokes and the pump I've perfected, followed by a rousing flourish, right before the screaming dismount at the end? (A move the tough German judges would probably get off on.) Or will he look at me patiently, somewhat amused, and say, "Sandburg, try not to pull it off. I'll probably need it again before the year's out."

And when Jim ... returns the favor, will I be able to relax enough that I don't break out and shriek like a banshee?

The thing is, if my Sentinel weren't so physically daunting, I might not be this nervous. But, he's fucking gorgeous, in case you haven't been hit by the clue bus. Everything about him -- from those wide, granite-like shoulders, the washboard abs, to hips and legs sculpted by nature and years of training, well, let's just say a less confident person would be running the other way.

Shit. I'm getting anxious as hell.

I know, I know. Looks shouldn't be all that important. But, dammit, you know there's a big physical component to attraction between people. Listen to me. I shoveled the same line of pony patties at Jim when I was trying to discourage him from going out with my friend, Margaret.

But it's true, I guess. I'm like everybody else. I want to be loved for my inner beauty, but don't know if it's going to be enough.

After all, look at me -- 160 lbs., soaking wet. Curly hair that explodes off my head in damp weather, which is a given here in sunny, downtown Cascade. And, except for a five o'clock shadow that starts roughly around 11 AM, I barely look legal. (Barely -- another knee-slapper.)

Christ, it just occurred to me: I'm damned Margaret. Man, karmic paybacks are a bitch.

It's Friday night. Jim and I are in the truck, driving home in the rain after the longest, most nerve-wracking week of my life.

Everything's different tonight. We're a fucking couple. But which is the operative word? Couple? Fucking? Or both?

"Take those off!" Jim orders, as soon as the door to the loft swings shut, and I hear the safety latch turned. His voice startles me into clutching at my shirt and pants. Like a scared kid. "What?" I sputter, my heart racing. Secretariat, on his best day, should have had such a ticker.

I see Jim pointing to my soaking shoes and socks.

"Oh, uh ... yeah ... uh ... OK."

He looks at me intently, hearing sounds I'll never hear, seeing things I'll never see.

"What did you think I meant, chief?" my partner questions, in a deceptively low-key way.

"Nothing, man. Doc Martin's, argyles, that's all."

But I've bollixed up the moment. Monumentally.

"Sure, if you say so." My friend turns that broad back of his toward me, then says, much too quietly, "Want some tea? I'll make that twig stuff you like while you're taking a shower."

"Uh ... Jim ... I ..."

"Go ahead, Sandburg. I'm not going anywhere."

"OK, I'll be out in a bit. OK?"

Silence.

"OK?"

Well, am I not a fucking chicken delight? Not to mention whatever they're calling cockteasers these days? Look at me. I'm shaking. What can I do next to screw up even more royally? I'm going to have to apologize for being a mega-asshole when I work up the nerve to face him. But first, a shower. Yeah, that's the ticket. A nice, relaxing shower to take the edge off, to help me pull myself together. As I start to wash, soaping up under my arms and over my chest, I linger for a moment on my nipples. What will it be like, I wonder, to have Jim's fingers doing this, pinching them, rolling them around? Rubbing them with his face? Sucking on them? I've had women do it, and I gotta tell you, it beats the hell out of sliced bread. But their hands were soft and supple. Jim's hands will be tough and calloused. Hands that have seen combat, shot guns, even arrows during his time in Peru. Christ, not to put too fine a point on it, hands that have dispatched people with "extreme prejudice."

But, they're also hands that have patted the heads of dogs and little kids, picked up tongue sandwiches from Greenblatt's Deli because they're my hands-down favorite food, fixed the Volvo when everybody else gave it up for dead, and crafted a real oak bookcase that fits neatly between the desk and futon in my small, hopelessly cluttered bedroom.

Hands that have tapped the back of my head in annoyance, and jerked me behind his tough body when things turned dangerous. Hands that wiped tears away from my face when psycho David Lash tried to kill me and when the designer drug Golden nearly succeeded.

Hands that came after me and brought me back to life - literally -- when female Sentinel Alex Barnes sent this Guide's soul to limbo.

Jim hands.

Now I'm lathering my rapidly-expanding cock, trying to imagine the unadulterated pleasure it will be to have somebody I love spanking the Little Professor while I lie back and enjoy the ride. Then I think about a strong finger leaving the pack and making its way up the quick flesh from just behind my balls -- which would be drawn up so tight it would take a dozen Quantum physicists working night and day to figure out a way to get something between them and my body -- to my most virginal orifice, as they say in those old bodice-ripper books.

How would he do it, I wonder? Would he just plunge in to see my reaction?

No, Jim would never hurt me. Maybe he'd have me suck on his index finger, slowly, thoroughly, to get it good and wet first. Wow. How hot is that? Hot, but not the best type of lube to use. Saliva -- even if it's by the bucket -- dries too damned fast. (Hey, don't look at me like that. I read stuff on the Internet.)

My Sentinel knows better. Actually, I'm hoping he knows best. (Captain James Ellison, survivor of the Astroglide Wars, reporting for duty, Sir.)

And where am I, amid all this flurry of first-time activity? Guess I'm lying there, ass in the air, inviting company to come on in.

Jesus. Isn't that an attractive mind picture? Me, spread wider than Smucker's Strawberry Preserves on toast, waiting to take it like a man from my unquestionably male lover? God, being on the bottom might not be a picnic, and that's where I'd be, right? Right?

Hang on a minute. You know, I've never actually thought about the specifics, much less asked. Well, you could see how it might not crop up into our day-to-day conversation. "Pass the muffins, big guy. Oh, by the way, Jim, I've just discovered I'm bi, and if you and I decide to do the nasty, how'd you like to be my butt-boy?" Yeah, that'd be good for a few yucks. Unless he said, "Thought you'd never ask, Sandburg." Then I'd be the one with all that power in my hands, stroking inches and inches of Sentinel, making them slippery, hard-as-diamonds, and ready. Ready for whatever I want.

And it'd be me running my fingers over that massive chest and those rosy nipples. Not to mention down the crack of that fine ass.

No, better yet, maybe I'd be slaloming my tongue south transforming Jim into speechless, senseless, hero goo. I'd turn him every way but loose. I'd dive-bomb into his navel, as I massaged those massive thighs with my hands, gliding down them, petting them, urging the well-toned, muscular legs up, over my shoulders so I'd have an uninterrupted view of what has to be Dream Dick and the intrepid twins, Ball Boys.

Could I do it? Could I deep-throat Major Crime Detective Jim Ellison? I'm playing it out in my head, and the answer is: yes. In a cold, New York minute.

I think.

Man, I'm sweating bullets. And I'm in the shower.

But what about the rest? When it's my turn, could I let the Sentinel of the Great City take me? Like a side of beef? Could I have Jim stand behind me, cover me with that rock-solid body, shadow my arms with his, and let him do me? Could I get through being, shit, the only word I can think of is impaled on an impossibly firm hard piece of flesh that isn't my own?

What happens if ... if I can't stand it? If I hate it?

Jeez. I am in serious trouble here. Not that Jim would ever force me to do anything. Of that, I'm absolutely positive.

I'm sure that he wouldn't make me.

Nah, he'd never ...

So much for certainty.

And you know, the worst part of being nailed from the rear, I wouldn't be able to see how my lover looked while he was fucking me. But, the other way, as missionary as it can get between two guys, contorted into the face-to-face position ... Christ, the physiology of that just doesn't seem workable. All I can think of is "Ouch." It has to hurt like bloody hell. Particularly the first time. And that's what I'd be. A first-timer.

Hang on. Back to my taking the initiative, as in being in the driver's seat. (Yeah, sure, it could happen. Former Army Ranger Jim Ellison with head pressing down on his steely forearms and that fabulous butt facing me, waiting for his favorite anthropologist-turned-cop to play hide the nightstick.)

On the plus side of the equation, I'm not totally spastic. As a matter of fact, I've been known to display some pretty dazzling technique. At least, nobody's ever laughed or -- worse -- said, "Don't worry, baby, I'm sure you'll do better next time." If called into action, I bet I could ...

Shit. I've been in the shower so long, I look like a two-legged shar-pei. "Mr. Happy" is into minus territory. And Jim's probably outside the door, trying to figure out what the hell's wrong with me this time.

One more thing's out there: my future -- and any real hope I have for happiness and a sense of belonging.

Oh, for Christ's sake, this is Jim we're talking about. Blessed Protector to his hapless partner and Guide. He loves my ass, and will treat it like gold. So, what am I ...

"All right, Sandburg. Enough! Come on out before you shrink and your skin falls off. You're clean enough to eat!"

Those large hands pull aside the now-cold shower curtain, turn the water off, wrap me in an incredibly soft bath sheet of his. Then, Jim literally sweeps me off my feet, picks me up out of the shower, plants me on the floor, briskly rubs my shoulders and butt as he steers me into my room where a set of well-worn sweats is waiting.

"Dress, chief. Dinner's ready. Like me." My soon-to-be lover pats my hindquarter fondly, the way he usually pats my face, with playfulness and not a small degree of ... ownership, I guess. Then, chuckling softly, Jim leaves me standing there, looking confused and yet kind of ... sparkling ... in his remarkable wake.

Ownership. It fits. Because, truth is, he does. Always has. Jim Ellison owns every inch of me -- from my auburn mop-top, down to the stubby toes I inherited from the non-Sandburg branch of the family tree.

Then, I realize, this is what it's really all about. And I smile. (I must look like the village idiot.)

I'm finally getting it. He's the one. The one human being who'll cheer when I ace life, and catch me when I stumble, again and again. The one who'll make me whole, who'll always be there.

Jim.

Do you realize how ... monumental this is? No one's ever had power like that over me. I'd never permit it. I always ran the other way, to what I thought was freedom. Fuck. Was I wrong. Now, I want it. I want someone who'll talk with me, and fight with me, and laugh with me, and keep my counsel, and most of all, love me, until we're both sitting on the porch of the Old Sentinel and Old Guide Home. I want Jim. What the hell. How could it not be great?

So, here goes. Ready or not, hour one, day one of the Ellison-Sandburg Saga begins. No, scratch that. The Sandburg-Ellison Saga. I like the sound of that better. Much better.

It's good to be the Guide.

Please send comments to: akablonded@aol.com