Golden Boy - akablonded
~~~~~
*Shayna Maidel -- Yiddish phrase meaning pretty girl.
**Yenta - Yiddish word meaning matchmaker.
***
The first time it happened, I actually bit the bullet and sat through the Godfather movies at the Rialto, including the one without Robert Duval. I even paid for it myself. (I was offered a buck to make myself scarce, but how far does one go these days? Maybe I should ask Dennis Miller or any of those other phone guys. Nah, Miller would hand me my head and flip me off.)
This time, I banished myself to the STAR TREK marathon, but drew the line at "STAR TREK V: The Search For The 21ST Century Franchise." Not even to advance my partner and best friend's love life would I subject myself to warp drive, phasers on stun, and William Shatner's really bad hair/rug day. I know, I know. Who'd have thought that Blair Jacob Sandburg -- someone you'd tag as a sensible kind of guy -- would be pimping a social engagement between two of his favorite people? That's a kind of a harsh word to use, but I'm still kind of pissed at having been kicked out of my nice warm domicile to further the cause of true love.
And it's technically incorrect. Matchmaking's closer to the truth. Actually, considering my anthropological and academic background, this could have been classified as a field observation of courtship and mating rituals in a modern urban setting. Plus which, if money had ever exchanged hands anywhere around me, I've never seen it. That's why grunge and cheap chic are my world.
Back to my story. Margaret Mary Naughton, a real shayna maidel* and sweetheart to boot, is a graduate student in biology at Rainier where we're both teaching assistants. We've been friends ever since I landed in college, a 16-year-old, runty, over-achieving science nerd. If Jim were here, he'd say, "So, other than the age thing, what's any different?" Mocking me is a moral imperative for him. It also gives him something productive to do after Jags season. That's how this whole thing got started. Margaret's a huge basketball fan. Talk about being a true Renaissance woman. Anyway, over the last few months, every time she'd call, she'd shoot the breeze, and sort of struck up a phone relationship with the most important person in my life. That would be the "Jim" I mentioned before -- James Joseph Ellison, Cascade Cop of the Year twice now, my partner, my roommate, and my best friend. He's also my Holy Grail. Jim's a mature, fully functioning Sentinel. Mature being the operative word, and, hey, everything's relative. A crash course for the uninitiated among you: A sentinel is someone born with the genetic advantage of five heightened senses. I'm not kidding. It's wild, man, when you stop to think about it. Can you imagine being able to see a perp snatch an old lady's purse three blocks away, or smelling fresh blood from a tiny nick on my finger when I got a little too enthusiastic slicing breakfast bagels?
So, to make a long story even longer (something that's like mother's milk to an anthropologist like me), part and parcel of the drill is that Jim's got a protective streak about a mile and a half wide. It extends to everybody he considers an Ellison "tribe member:" friends, family, the gold shield detectives he works with, not to mention the other tenants of the apartment building where we live. Add to that list pretty much the entire city of Cascade. Oh, yeah, and me.
Besides everything else we are to one another, I'm also Jim's 'guide.' A while back, a charming sociopath named Lee Brackett saddled me with the moniker. Even considering the source, I can't help but like the title, because 'guide' is what I try to do for the big guy, to keep him away from anything and everything that could make his senses go haywire, and put him in real danger from something I've coined a "zone out." That's when he concentrates too hard or too long on one thing, using one or more of his senses, and goes off into a world of his own. I also try to give him different ways to control this humongous bear of a gift, which can be a thousand times tougher than year-old rye bread, believe me. In return, the big man makes sure I stay in one piece, more or less.
What else do I get out of the arrangement? I mean, besides a rent-free place to live and a constant supply of food that hasn't hit its expiration date? That's easy. I get Jim. It's great, you know, having someone in your corner ... that you're not alone ... and ... someone who ... uh .. shit, do I have to spell it out? I feel a closeness to this man like nothing I've never experienced before. But, as swell as it is now, I want it to be so, so much more. There's been a strange bond between us, almost since the day he showed up at Hargrove Hall. I'll never forget it. After a lame attempt to make contact with him at Cascade General, this walking contradiction stalked into my broom closet of an office and ended up manhandling me like nobody's business. He didn't want to hear anything about Richard Burton (the explorer, not the actor), he didn't want to hear about his coming 'back on line,' he didn't want to hear anything about anything, except how to get rid of what was happening to all five of his haywire senses. I can recall everything about that day, with the kind of crystal clarity reserved for seminal moments in your life. Or sentinel moments. Whichever. That beautiful spring afternoon, I could just about keep my hands off him. Plain old lust was making me think with the wrong head. But who could blame me? Jim Ellison's not someone you'd miss in a crowd. Or soon forget. Or kick out of bed on a cold winter's night. He's 6'1," 200 lb., unbelievably good-looking, surprisingly self-effacing, and hair-challenged. (OK, slightly thin at the top, but, hell, who's perfect?)
He's also my ideal of what a real man should be. On any given day, Jim can be unflinchingly loyal, highly principled, honest to a fault, and compassionate enough for the late Mother Theresa to give him thumbs-up, if the saintly woman did such things. On the other hand, giving the devil his due, Jim can also be unforgiving, unbending, unyielding, uncompromising, and about a dozen other "uns" I could name.
But, mostly it's the former. Jim Ellison is a friggin' prince among men. Want a little illustration? When my warehouse digs took their leave of Cascade via an unfortunate explosion, and I could pretty much put all my earthly possessions into a shoebox, this tough-as-nails, ex-Army Ranger offered me room and board, succor and solace, for a week. Can you imagine? An almost perfect stranger who, up to that point, had only been the unwilling subject of my doctoral thesis, turns around and gives me a place to lay down my weary head. Not only me, but Larry, the Barbary Ape (don't ask) who also got a bunk from the big man, along with freshly-made popcorn to calm the poor shaken primate's nerves, not to mention access to TV and the VCR so he could get his monkey fix of Hollywood violence. Just like that.
With an Ellison proviso or two, of course. Like "You or the gorilla act up, and you're out!" Or the bathroom caveat. "Use the spray!" Oh, yeah, and let's not forget the Great Color-Coded Tupperware Wars. (Who the hell knew you couldn't scrub the taste and smell of algae out of plastic?) But with it all, Jim's little random act of kindness became an invitation to share more than his small, spare room in the loft. I'm not quite sure when it happened, but somehow, I sort of inveigled my way into his life.
That was about a zillion weeks ago. Since then, we've done a pretty amazing merging act, each of us bringing something different to the mix. I get to play cops and robbers while observing my living, breathing area of expertise, up close and personal. He gets to tolerate me doing it. We've grown close. Surprisingly close, given how dissimilar our backgrounds are. I'd like to take it a lot closer, if you get my drift. But, Jim's straight - he was even married once, although it didn't 'take.' And me. I'm such a coward, I haven't been able to work up the courage to tell him I walk both sides of the street. Suppose he went ballistic about sharing his personal space with a switch hitter? In two seconds flat, I'd be out that ticket to a Ph.D. after my name. Not to mention the most permanent address I've ever had.
And, the absolute worst thing is that I'd be out "Jim." Jesus, I couldn't stand it. Nothing's as important as keeping whatever the hell it is we have going. So, I try to keep a low-profile, and protect my tenuous place in Jim's "Dirty Harry" cop world.
But it's getting harder and harder. Like me, when I think about my roommate.
***
Being Jim Ellison's shadow has its definite drawbacks. That's how I was exposed to "Golden," the designer street drug that temporarily blinded Jim. So much sturm und drang. I'd actually watched my partner's back when he went to meet with the dealers - with a little help from a walkie-talkie set-up and my new laser pointer.
In the middle of all the insanity swirling around us, Margaret decided it was time to put a face with a voice, and paid an unexpected visit to the PD squad bullpen. There, she met Jim Ellison, but didn't even notice he was as blind as a bat. (I told you he was good-looking.) They even had a date, for God's sake, which my partner got through without actually knowing what Mags looked like.
That was the first time Jim booted me out - albeit nicely - convincing me that if he was going to be blind permanently, he might as well start getting used to it by spending time with Margaret. What the fuck do you say to a surprisingly touching speech like that? So, I let myself be bribed and shoved out the front door. The whole thing made me feel kind of sad, like the pesky kid brother you can't wait to get rid of. Maybe that's how Jim sees me.
Jesus, what a depressing thought.
***
It's been a couple of weeks, and we're both over the worst of the Golden episode. The only residual effect to both our vision is a pleasant golden haze the doctors say will eventually fade.
Not like my feelings for Jim. But I was starting to get careless about letting them show. I'd been so scared he'd be blind for life. And who knows what might have happened -- given Jim's unique system -- if he'd been exposed to any more of the drug? I know it could have killed him.
And he'd been equally scared about me. Hell, Captain Banks told me Jim hadn't left the chair next to my hospital bed when a Golden-laced piece of pizza put me into a coma. That is, except for an hour or so when Jim - with Simon's help -- caught the bastards who'd been selling the damned drug to half the kids in the city.
I know Jim has feelings that run deep. I'd hoped that he'd be so relieved we were both still alive that he'd break down and confess his love for me.
But it's been a couple of weeks now. The danger's over for the time being. And Jim hasn't said a word. So, because I didn't know what else to do, I decided to stop keeping my two best friends apart. I invited Margaret over to pick up where they left off. I figured if Jim was going to hook up with somebody, it might as well be somebody who has an abiding tolerance for me, and won't mind my being around now and then. That way, even if I got my heart gets broken, at least I wouldn't lose my place as Jim's friend.
Funny, though. I couldn't tell if it was my imagination - or just wishful thinking - but my partner seemed a little hesitant meeting up with Margaret again. He hemmed and hawed about whether or not she was unattractive and his deceiving her about being blind. It made me feel kind of hopeful. This is, until I saw the look on Jim's face when I finally opened the front door to let Mags in.
I'm such an idiot. Jim was surprised and relieved and as happy as any red-blooded American male should be when a pretty, smart, and interested young woman comes to your place for an evening of fun and games.
The de facto Yenta** of Prospect Avenue had done his job. I was superfluous. So that's how I ended up in "Space ... endless space," in a theater on a Saturday night, along with a dozen or so other sad sacks and handful of homegrown Klingons thrown in for good measure.
***
Well, Mickey Mouse's hands are both over his left shoulder, which tells me it's late. Maybe too late. Whatever happened between Jim and Margaret should have already ... happened. I can't sit out here in my car forever. I can try sneaking in quietly. Which, I suppose, is pretty much an impossibility, considering my roomie is a Sentinel, whose ears can hear you changing your mind. But, at least the "company" won't pick up my skulking around on little wolf feet.
As I opening the door slowly, I realize that there's a small light on in the kitchen. It's casting a soft, muted halo around everything in the apartment - including Jim's Ellison's magnificent, sculpted body. As if he's carved in marble, there stands my big friend, next to the fridge, beer in hand, wearing only PD sweatpants and a sexy-as-hell smile.
Totally relaxed, one hip pressed lazily against the room stanchion, Jim Ellison is the poster boy for wet dreams.
"Hiya, chief." I swear his voice is a purr. Christ, I need to get out more.
"Uh, hi, man." I scope out the living room, and almost unwillingly, lift my eyes to the loft, to see ... no one. Margaret seems to be MIA.
As Jim sips slowly from his beer, I can see droplets of condensation running down the bottle's long neck toward that sensuous, provocative mouth.
"Are you alone?" I take my coat off and throw it on the back of the dining room chair.
"Uh-huh. Chief, hang that up. Why do you think I..."
"...put hooks up on the wall? Gee, I don't know why, Jim." Sarcasm isn't my strong suit but in a pinch, it'll do. I redirect my bargain-basement outerwear to the piece of metal shouting my name. (He shoots! He scores!) We can't break House Rule No. 143 without a damned good reason, can we?
Swinging back to face the object of my unacknowledged affection - and considerable desire -- I catch "The Smile. A James J. Ellison Special. It's the melt-polar-ice-caps, curl-your-10-toes, leave-you-dry-mouthed and stiffen-your-interested-dick variety. The one that I wish said, "Fuck me, Chief." Better yet, "Fuck me, Blair." I'd even settle for, "Fuck me, Sandburg." I'm not all that particular.
Back to action central. Nonchalantly, Jim's rubbing long fingertips across his bare, rock-hard, six-pack of abs. The "Coors of Steel" I like to call them.
Then, the same hand slowly starts snapping the loose waistband of his pants. Over and over. Not hard enough to break the little string. Just hard enough to focus my attention with laser-point accuracy. The air is charged. So am I. I'm starting to feel like a porterhouse steak at the House of Carnivores. It's frightening - and exciting. The chances of my making it out of this alive - make that in one piece - are dropping like Pets.com stock.
Jim's eyes are big and remarkably bright. "Sandburg ..." Now, he's positively growling. My hand to God. The rough edge to his voice is electrifying. "Sa-aa-aa-nd-burg ..." We're definitely in Twilight Zone territory here. "Blair?" Those lethal baby blues close up into a squint. "Blair!" My name sounds louder and harsher now, as the Army officer in him barks, "Get your bucket butt over here." As an afterthought, he softens the order with an almost wistful "Please?"
Well, sure. All he had to do was ask nicely. I walk stiffly over to Jim (am I one witty s.o.b. or what?). Even before I've gotten within arm's length of my tall destiny, he closes the distance and pulls me toward him.
"Come here, 'Golden Boy.'"
"What did you just call me?"
"You heard." Jim's running his large hands up and down my arms. Shivering all over from the strange, new sensation, I still feel myself melting into his embrace.
"Jim, what the hell's wrong with you?" I'm trying to stay calm, while talking into a wall of immovable, honey-colored flesh. "What happened here tonight? Is it something with your senses?"
"Yeah ... yeah. I guess you could say that. As in 'coming to them.'"
"You're starting to scare me here, man."
"Wrong verb. That's not what I want to do to you, chief. Believe me. I have better stuff in mind."
"Jim, you're not yourself." I start swatting his hands away left and right.
"Come on, Sandburg. Play nice."
"Are you fucking crazy? I think I'd better call you an ambulance."
"Nah ... call me 'Jim'. Or 'stud.' Or better yet, 'lover.' I like that."
And there we are. I'm pretty much crushed against that granite chest - just like I've dreamt a hundred times before -- literally a tongue tip away. Jim's cupping my ass like he's just discovered I had one. The big guy seems to like it a lot, as though it's his own personal cache of Wacky Dough.
Finally, I can't stand the frustration of being so close, yet so far from what I desperately long for.
"What are you trying to say to me here, Jim?" I practically yell, figuring this may be the last, sensible thing I'll say in the foreseeable future.
My largely naked partner is now snuffling at my ear, licking around its perimeter. Over and over, he whispers erotic words all around m, but I can't seem to fully grasp what they are. Maybe the fact that Jim's half-moaning them could factor into it. They dance helter-skelter around us, making me feel light-headed - and sporting enough wood to build a decent A-frame. I'm telling you now, if Jim touches anything below my waist, it'll be all over but the crying. Literally.
"My little 'Golden Boy' ..." he enunciates with a certain amusement in his voice, then coos it into my ear a second time. "My little 'Golden Boy' ..."
Fuck.
"'Golden' skin ..." he starts kissing down along my stubbly jaw line. " 'Golden' mouth ..." Jim milks my bottom lip hungrily. A faraway ripping sound is coming from my old flannel shirt. It didn't stand a ghost of a chance against a stimulated Sentinel. Jim's a man on a mission. Moving southward, he murmurs "'Golden' hair ..." while chewing strands of my sweat-soaked chest thatch.
"'Golden' tits ..." My best friend gnaws at my left nipple so hard I see my mop-topped, techno-geek, vertically lacking, and largely bisexual, mostly-lonely life flash in front of my eyes. As Jim moves over and grabs the right one, practically inhaling it into his incredibly warm, needy mouth, I start to see *his* upper-crust, country-club, marry-well, unquestionably-straight, and mostly-lonely life flash in front of my eyes.
"'Golden' ..." Jesus H. Christ. Pants. History. Boxers, ditto. Before I can ask my one little question, "Uh, Jim, what are you going to do next?" James Joseph Ellison, my personal action figure, goes down on his knees in front of me, nuzzles my dick, licking it like a Guide-flavored Dove Bar. Reflecting only a brief moment, he maneuvers me into the correct position - naked and upright - before swallowing Mr. Happy whole. Just like that. It's so completely down his throat, my wiry pubic hairs are flossing Jim's back teeth as an unexpected bonus.
"Jim ... Jim ... for God's sake, Jim ... STOP!" Who the fuck yelled that? Oh, me. I guess I did. I hang onto his shoulders and squeeze them tightly, so tightly there'll probably be bruises left there tomorrow. This just isn't right. It's got to be the liquor combined with traces of Golden still in his body that's made Jim more uninhibited than I've ever seen him and, well, a handful and a half. Looking down, I repeat my partner's name several times to get his attention. I end up resorting to a none-too-gentle slap on the side of his head.
"Jim. Focus. Just how much did you drink? Answer me?"
The man giving me the best blowjob in the history of fellatio doesn't miss a beat. Being preoccupied with eating his surprised roommate alive, Jim's really enjoying the intimate congress of my genitals, licking me for all he's worth. Like the big jungle cat I've always suspected he is. This is probably the closest a Jewish/pagan wild child is ever going to get to heaven on earth. That voracious, willing maw could be the death of me - and I'd die a happy camper. But what if Jim wakes up tomorrow, confused, hung-over, and with the unmistakable taste of me on his lips and tongue and freaks out? Thirty seconds after that, I'll be on Prospect Avenue, with everything I own along side me. That's if he lets me walk out, and doesn't throw me off the balcony.
No matter how much I want and love Jim Ellison, I have to put a stop to this. So, I practically drag him back to his feet and shake him like a set of maracas until those icy, blue eyes of his that are burning white hot begin to refocus. He looks dangerous and as beautiful as I've ever seen another human being look.
"What is it, Sandburg? I'm busy here."
"I asked you how much you and Margaret had to drink."
"A little."
"A little 'what,' Jim? A little glass?" I spy the dead soldier sitting beside the two empty glasses on the coffee table. "A little bottle? Come on, tell me."
"Why? What's the problem, chief?"
"The problem?" I think my voice may be to the left of strident. Dogs on the street in front of the apartment are running for their lives. "The problem is that this --" now I'm gesturing rapidly at the infinitesimally small space between our two hot, steamy bodies, "-- isn't right. It isn't you. It's the Golden and the alcohol and Maggie and your adrenalin and who the fuck knows what else. You're just having some kind of over-the-top reaction to ...to ..."
"To 'you,' you moron." Jim plants a kiss on the tip of my nose. "I'm having a reaction to 'you,' Chief." Jim's voice is low, measured, and almost hypnotic. "Don't you think it's about time?" Hell, I'd buy a used car from this guy any day, or a set of Ginsu knives, or even beachfront property in Arizona, if he asked. "Come on, Sandburg ... Blair ... "He kisses me on one cheek, then the other. " I've ...'smelled' the interest for a long time now."
He's right. I must have been leaking pheromones by the bucket for months.
"I've seen you watching me, studying me, 'wanting' me, when you thought I wasn't looking."
Right again.
"Don't deny it."
Wouldn't think of it.
"And I've felt it -- on some level or another -- every day we've been together. I was just too stupid to admit it." He's stroking my inner thigh lovingly. This isn't good.
It's great.
"Come on, Blair. Don't look so surprised." Jim's hand left hand is rotating my balls with assuredness, while his right hand is running up and down my spine. My face must be an open book turned to the climax of the story. "Like that, do you?"
"Uh ... uh ..."
"Should I keep it up?" Almost clinically, he looks down, eyeing my erection that's threatening to explode and take the third floor with it. He can help but laugh. "No, wait. You're doing that." Very funny. I'm living with Henny Ellison. "So, should I, Sandburg?"
"Uh ... oh ... oh ... don't ... stop ..."
"Oh, yeah, he likes it. Golden Boy likes it." Suddenly, Jim drops back down into the kneeling position. "And what about this?" Jim's talented tongue wickedly pokes into the little slit at the tip of my cock which is now oozing a good portion of my bodily fluids out of it, along with the bulk of my IQ points. Then he decides to go hunting for treasure using a slick finger up my ass.
That does it. "Jesus! Jim ... I'm ..." The incredible orgasm catches me by surprise, as if a thing like that can actually ever be a surprise. My dick is shooting off into a thousand different directions, yet somehow misses Jim Ellison's face. Must be that Army Ranger training of his. You know, duck and cover when there's incoming. Even if it's "friendly" fire.
Gasping and twitching in spasms, I sink to the floor, and find myself sheltered in the calm and rightness of my lover's strong arms. "Easy, easy now." He soothes.
I could stay like this, with Jim, for the rest of my life. He's stroking my hair, tucking several of the more unruly curls behind my ear. I can feel the pads of his fingertips caressing my scalp, the side of my face, and cheekbone. Who'd have believed such a big man could be so damned tender?
"You're thinking again, Sandburg. That's dangerous. You're wondering what the hell happened tonight. Right?" I nod sleepily. I could catch a few winks, if only I weren't afraid this is a dream, and I'm going to wake up at any moment. Asleep in a movie theater. Alone. With the person I love, loving someone else. "I had quite an epiphany as I was sitting over there with Margaret." Chin nestled comfortably on my rat's nest hair, I feel his head nod toward the couch.
Trying to uncross my watering eyes, I joke weakly. "Is that what you kids call it these days?"
Jim's answer is an immediate light smack to the back of my head. Same old, same old. "Anyway, there I was. Beautiful night. Promising date. Excellent conversation. Good wine. No roommate underfoot."
"And this is supposed to reassure me how, exactly?"
"Quiet, brat." Jim's skillful fingers "beep" my butt, roadrunner style. "And it's 'meep,' by the way."
"Jesus Christ. We're finishing one another's --"
"Thoughts?" Ellison adds helpfully.
"Uh-huh. Just like a -"
"-- old married couple? I guess we are."
Yeah, except the towels are 'his' and 'his.' Then, I begin to feel anxious. "Was it the same with - "
"Carolyn? No." Sadness laces the staccato reply, as he remembers his short, marital history. I guess some regrets always stick with you. His voice brings me back to the reality of the loft - and the hard kitchen floor. "So, there I was, in what should have been the 'perfect' setting. But ..."
"But, what?"
"But, one thing was missing." Jim leans forward, and swathes my earlobe with his tongue, and toys with it the way anyone would a piece of flesh candy. What's more, in his capable hand, my dick's getting hard again so fast, I swear it's going to give him a rug burn. Maybe I'll have to share the little known secret that my -
"-- earlobe's your second most erogenous zone?"
This is getting fucking ridiculous. "You're scaring me here, Jim." Then, my scientist's curiosity gets the better of me. "And the first would be what, Mr. Know-it-all?"
"All that gray stuff rattling around in here." Jim kisses the space right above my sideburn. "You're amazing, you know that, Blair?"
"Yeah?" Throw flattery at me, and my skirts end up over my head, farmer's daughter style. (Old joke.)
"Yeah, Blair." Blair. He called me "Blair." Again. And I'm not shot, drugged, or broken in any number of unpleasant ways. This has to be serious. Or love.
"I've seen how things you're studying make you come alive. Or how blue sky over a trout stream brings 'you' online. Or how a certain piece of music can touch you. Or even how getting a call from Naomi," he steps carefully around the landmines where my mom is concerned, "can make you even goofier than you usually are."
"Hey, watch it, Ellison. If you ever want to get lucky with me." Jim squeezes my cock. It immediately sits up and begs to play again, slut that it is. "OK. Luckier."
Jim's face is one part gorgeous and one part, I don't know what. "You fucking amaze me. You're open to damn near everything. To people and places and experiences. A'life' junkie, that's what you are, Chief."
Jesus. That was just about the nicest thing anybody ever said to me.
"And I love you more than I can tell you. I'll need years to do it right."
Correction. *That * was the nicest thing anybody ever said to me. "Really?"
"Yeah, 'really.' So, you have anything you want to share with me, Sandburg?"
"Star Trek 5 sucks?"
"That's a given. Anything else?"
"I'm getting splinters in my ass?"
"Wuss."
"And I ... I ... Jesus, this is tough, Jim ..."
"Tough because ..." Even though I'm not the Sentinel, I can hear him swallow, can hear his heart beating wildly, as he's struck with the awful possibility, "it's not that way for you?"
"No. You don't understand." I'm sorry I haven't said it better. And faster. "Tough, because I've held it in for so long, the words won't come out."
"You're not B.S.ing me, are you, chief?"
I look up and see Jim Ellison's soul, unmasked -- his face so open, so hopeful, so fucking full of love, I'll never forget it as long as I live.
"Oh, no, Ellison. I may jerk your chain about a lot of things, but not this."
We kiss like tomorrow is a word not in our vocabulary. Even with all the scientific mumbo-jumbo, there's no way I'm going to be able to describe in my thesis the feel of Jim Ellison's passionate lips on mine, his demanding tongue drilling past my teeth and toward my tonsils, the chiseled body insinuating itself on my smaller, less overt one. Besides which, what the hell could I call the chapter? What about "Autonomic Physiological and Emotional Responses to Multiple Kinesthetic Actions and Reactions Between The Archetypal Warrior and Select Tribal Counselors." Sans thesis-speak, it would be a little shorter, and more to the point. "A Sentinel Gets Lots of Nookie From His Guide."
A real page-turner, folks.
The end.
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Author's Acknowledgements: Thanks to Patt for the art