Pledge Week

Pledge Week - akablonded

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Warning: None, unless you can’t tolerate PBS, song lyrics, crash commercialism, love and lust between a consenting Sentinel and his semi-clueless Gupcake, and a story with no plot to speak of.

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Damn the Gap. Damn Gapkids, BabyGaps, Gap Stores. Damn Gap jeans that never fit quite right, Gap printed circulars that fall out of every newspaper and magazine you buy, and damn the Gap’s 20-something TV commercials. Country Western, swing, rap, jazz, and, worst of all, rhythm and blues. My partner’s been singing the r & b Bill Withers’ Khakis one for the last 10 years. (Well, at least that’s what it feels like.) Blair Sandburg seems to have adopted the infectious, repetitive tune as his personal anthem even though 20’s pretty much a memory to him. The kid breaks into song practically every time he hears it.

And what’s worse, I can’t get the friggin’ thing out of my head. “Lovely day, lovely day, lovely day, lovely day …” Every time I surf around the channels – from bass fishing in Coeur d’Alene to volleyball in Petaluma – it’s there. “Lovely day, lovely day, lovely day, lovely day …” Like an old aunt’s mustache. Nothing you can do about it.

The only place I haven’t heard it is on K-CAS, our local PBS affiliate. That’s right. Jim Ellison watches public television. When you’ve stopped laughing, I’ll tell you how I became a slave to Charley Rose and his cohorts in culture.

That’s an easy one: Sandburg. Like everything else. (I’m never to blame for any of the crap that swirls around me.) Christ, it’s hard enough keeping life and limb together while trying to handle these heightened senses of mine. In all fairness, I do give my partner some of the credit for that. OK. Make that most of the credit. In our first few years together, when he was an anthropologist and an “unofficial” police observer, the squirt did double duty as best friend to this hard-headed, hard-assed cop and guide to my erratic Sentinel abilities. His life’s work was to make sure I was “100 percent.” Simon Banks, captain at Major Crimes, probably lights candles every night because if it.

This past year, our relationship became permanent. Sandburg’s now a rookie cop and junior grade detective and my official partner. Like before, we work together, play together, and live together (old habits die hard). We’re never far away from each other. That’s a bitch of a situation to find myself in, because it seems I’ve got a major jones for Blair.

Back to Sandburg, the eternal teacher. He’s always on some improvement kick or other. Nine times out of 10, I get dragged into it with those awful words, “It’s for your own good, Jim.” Yeah. Like my life wouldn’t be complete without algae shakes, no-fat yogurt, decaf coffee, or vegetarian “not dogs” (don’t even ask).

And then there are the museums, and the concerts, and the books, and the lectures. Books and lectures, for God’s sake. As though police work doesn’t have enough paperwork and yakking to last a lifetime.

I’m not ignorant, or unread, or a Philistine, like some people stereotype most cops. But c’mon. Downtime should be downtime, right? You know, junk food and watching the tube: shoot ‘em ups, sports, and the Three Stooges, anytime, anywhere.

But no. Not with Mr. “Let’s watch something educational” sitting next to me. Don’t get me wrong. Blair will still kill for a good basketball game or football like the rest of us. He does draw a line in the sand, however, at golf, monster trucks, and the second day of NASCAR racing.

So that’s how I initially got suckered into discovering the joys of Jim Lehr, Bill Moyer, and the gang at Sesame Street. All for my own good.

This is where it gets hairy. Now it’s Pledge Week, which means I get to watch all of the above, plus wading through guilt-ridden pleas for money every 30 minutes or so. Right in the middle of David fucking Copperfield. PBS actually wants me to cough up cash for the privilege of getting a dead butt on our sofa. In a nutshell, it’s Big Bird with a tin cup in his hand, er, wing. (Gimme, gimme, gimme, or we “off” Elmo.)

It also means I’m stuck in the nightmare of The Traveling Antiques Road Show marathon. Hands-down, it’s my roommate’s favorite. No matter when it’s on, he can’t get enough of the hordes of perpetually hopeful people trying to score big with crap they’ve bought at every yard sale held since the dawn of time.

Why do I put up with all this? Well, I could give you a line of bullshit that even Sandburg would appreciate. But, somewhere along the line, I seem to have lost my balls, not to mention other parts of me, to him. I didn’t lose them, exactly. I just loaned them to the 160 lb. couch-warmer plunked down next to me. Now, besides his being the Shaman to the Great City of Cascade, he’s also the keeper of his Sentinel’s ‘nads, which he owns lock, stock, and nut sac. He just doesn’t know it.

Back to The Road Show. We’ve gotten into the habit not only of watching it every week, but arguing about it, no less.

“Jim, you won’t believe what Bad Toupee Guy found in a San Diego bar 20 years ago. I bet it’s worth a fortune.”

“Grow up, Sandburg. It’s trash. And he needs to hang around better bars -- or a better class of people.”

It’s like being high-class junkies. Just that we need a fix of Chippendale this and Wedgwood that to make life hunky-dory. Must be a bonding thing. Or, as Sandburg once quipped, “a mating ritual.” (You know, feathering the nest with Queen Ann chairs.)

OK. Next question: why are two presumably healthy, functioning adult male animals not out trying to find a little suitable female companionship? Well, for me, I’ve had time on my hands since my affair with Jennifer Delvecchio ground to a halt. Actually, affair’s too strong a word. What the lady and I did for a few months was meet once or twice a week, bump up against one another to mutual satisfaction, then go to our respective corners.

The sex was good. Hell, even if it were bad, it would have been good. But we had surprisingly little in common, given that Jen was a private body guard, and I’m a cop. Blair and I had met her during the Uddell kidnapping case. Funny, even though my roommate would normally hump a table leg, he stayed clear of her. Which I guess was just as well, because Ms. Delvecchio didn’t give him the time of day. My antennae should have popped up then and there. See, Sandburg’s like a Snickers. Everybody likes him.

Funny, though. Most of the women in my life haven’t. I’ve sort of figured out that it’s a psychological thing about what – and who – is really important in my life. I guess “who” is pretty obvious to everybody. Except to me. And Blair.

Back to the formidable Jennifer D’. Every time Jen and I bedded each another, I kept having the nagging sensation that something wasn’t quite right between me and the nearly six-foot-tall, stop-you-cold beautiful redhead. It seems I just couldn’t let myself go with her. Even though it’d been a pretty long, dry spell, if you catch my drift. But who knows what would happen if I did? You can only do that with someone you trust. Someone you love.

Jennifer just didn’t fill the bill. I finally nailed the problem as I was sinking into her three Thursdays ago. I kept wondering what it would be like if she actually cared for me. And wanted only the best for me. And were, say 5’8.” And brunette. With a 5 o’clock shadow. And a dick. In Jennifer Delvecchio’s luxury, high-rise digs, rolling around on her Donna Karan sheets and Ralph Lauren comforter, I realized that I was in love with my partner.

I’m not a bad guy (even though I sound like it sometimes). So, I felt more than a little relieved when I told her we were on hold – permanently – because there was someone else, and she didn’t even blink a cat-green eye. Escorting me out of her expensive, Northside apartment and slamming the large bronze doors on my ass, she muttered somewhat philosophically, “Ex-Ranger pussy. Doesn’t know you should never shit where you eat.”

I needed to be where I belonged. I needed to be back home. I hightailed it to the Prospect Avenue loft I share with Blair, and haven’t looked back since.

And our timing was right – for a change. Sandburg had tanked on a restart with Sam from the Forensics department. Just as well. Jennifer might have had a license to kill, but Samantha has an ongoing learner’s permit to hurt a lot. And my friend has been on the receiving end of her wrath once too often.

So, It’s like it was in the beginning. Here we are, stuck without dates on a Wednesday night. Regulation downtime with Sandburg -- something to eat, a few brews, a little TV -- is pretty damn appealing. Of course, I was thinking more along the lines of watching something that involved big men in uniforms maiming one another. As usual, he had other ideas. I won the coin toss but Blair yelled, “No way, man! You’re using your senses again. I cook – I choose! Discussion closed!” Pushy little bastard. I guess it’s one of the reasons I really do love him.

It’s 8 o’clock. Waiting for the food to be ready, we’re comfortably planted in front of the Sony, watching hundreds of people staggering with everything from grandfather clocks and blunderbusses, to wind-up toys and, Jesus, is that a collection of false teeth?

“So, Jim, what do you think? C’mon. Tell me.” Sandburg seems to think that, as a Sentinel, I should be able to figure out which things on the show are real and which are fake. As though the real stuff glows in the dark. Well, actually, it does. Antique pieces have sort of an aura around them. It’s hard to explain, but I can tell what’s what. Of course, I can’t tell Sandburg any of this. I can only imagine what type of tests he’d be devising to monitor yet another untapped aspect of my senses. Instead, I do what I usually do when my partner’s being overly zealous. I lie to him, but just enough to keep it interesting. He fairly glows in the dark when he gets a head of steam up. I swear to God, it’s better than a Mr. Tube Steak with the works.

He looks at me like I have two heads and am losing my mind – not to mention my hair.

“C’mon, Chief. It wouldn’t be … right.” That’s it. Appeal to his moral sense.

“Well, Jim,” Sandburg reasons with me in that modulated voice he uses when speaking to slow college freshmen or nervous jumpers on ledges, “I think you being able to get us a good end table for under five bucks won’t bring the Sentinel/Guild continuum crashing to a halt.”

“You don’t know the half of it, big man. Anyway, wanna beer?” He shrugs his shoulders, shaking off the notion that I’m keeping hidden gold from him.

“I think I heard a rumor to that effect. What do you want: Molson’s, Coors, Guinness, Corona, Heineken or Bud?”

I see the look of the peacemaker, new age medicine man, hostage negotiator and full-fledged wheeler and dealer that he is, flash across that undeniably handsome face of his.

“Sandburg, while Dr. Who’s trying to separate us from our wallets, what’s happening on the food front? I’m hungry here.”

“Jeez. Hold your horses. It’s almost ready.” Blair climbs over me, swinging his tight, ripe butt past my face. For two cents, I’d bite that little piece of geography. Yeah, I’d like to sink every one of my cavity-free teeth into that particular piece of real estate and never let go. His ass would be the most convenient place to plant an Ellison flag. If we were in a parallel universe – where Blair Jacob Sandburg played on both teams like me – I’d have been all over him, like white on rice, a couple of years ago. Made of meal of him. Because I needed to.

Still do. Blair’s this …safe place for me. Sandburg makes me believe in possibilities I thought were pretty much lost on a forty-something, balding cop. Someone once called it the ‘tyranny of Hope.’ One of those Bronte girls, I think. Or maybe Bob Hope. Who the hell knows? Anyway, he’d have been invited to share that largely-underused bed upstairs, along with anything else he’d have cared to acquire. Definitely, my dick, which has had more than a passing interest in Sandburg, almost from day one. And my … shit, this is going to sound so girly … my heart. Thank God Carolyn, the ex-Mrs. Ellison, isn’t around to hear that little bit of insight. I don’t know which would be worse, her “What have you done with the Jim Ellison I was married to?” look, or the fact that she’d know in a heartbeat that it was never that way between us.

I don’t know if Sandburg’s told you this, but talking is hard for me. In my book, “Let’s share” is confined to popcorn at the movies or nachos on the couch. Like tonight. Look at him over there. In his oldest, most thread-bare sweats, and flannel shirt that’s so thin I can see his nipples rubbing against the fabric.

And I’ve just caught the smell of him. The aloe shampoo, the peppermint breath from mid-afternoon tea, and the scent that’s the sweetness and subtleness of my friend. Man, oh, man, I could just breathe him in forever …

Scratch what I said. Sandburg may be my own personal little slice of heaven, but he’s definitely off-limits. So, we’ll just go on, going on. Status quo, until we can’t do it anymore.

It’s 7:51 PM. Nine minutes until the greed begins on this special night. We’re now in the middle of someone from one of the British comedies standing there, hat in hand, begging for pocket change. Meanwhile, Sandburg’s kicking into overdrive, pulling together toasted nachos, melted Colby (no nuked Velveeta for us), fresh-chopped vegetables, and homemade killer salsa with cilantro. Oh, yeah, and these little hot bean cakes. They’re crunchy, lime-flavored, and absolutely delicious. He only makes them for me.

And for some reason, Sandburg’s letting me off my leash tonight, because I hear ‘thwacks’ of sour cream hitting our plates. And the floor show is something else. Blair rhythmically opens and closes the doors to the toaster oven, the fridge, and the cupboard, as he sings in that damned mellow baritone of his. “When the day that lies ahead of me, seems impossible to face,” he’s dancing around as seductively as anyone can in a kitchen area, “when someone else instead of me, always seems to know the way …” Sandburg grabs for plates, beers, a fistful of environmentally-friendly, unbleached napkins, then swings around to look pointedly at me, “…then I look at you, and the world’s alright with me. Just one look at you, and I know it’s gonna be a –“

All of a sudden, I hear myself bugling back like some bull elk in heat: “-- lovely day, lovely day, lovely day, lovely, lovely day …” Fuck. I look up and he’s flashing that megawatt, all-knowing smile of his in my direction. I’m not shitting you here. It could melt the cheese on the nachos.

“Christ, Chief, are we ever going to eat, or are you saving the food for a special occasion?” I growl, half-heartedly, turning my eyes back to the TV screen. Possibly having been found out by Sandburg is God-damned unnerving.

“Well, excuse the hell out of me, Detective Ellison, but Martha Stewart was hit by the catering truck on her way over here. So you’ll just have to be patient.”

“Hey, big guy, want some of this?” Blair’s suddenly behind me, reaching around my left shoulder and pushing a salsa-laden chip toward my mouth. “Here you go. Suck this up.” No, Guppy, what I want to do is suck up your personal enchilada, and play hide the burrito until we both can’t see (or walk) straight. I find myself eating out of my Guide’s hand. So what else is new?

Sandburg swings one leg, then the other over the back of the couch and slides down beside me. Close. Real close. Close enough to make me start unconsciously sniffing him. There’s that spicy, homey scent and earthy undertone, all stirred together with a lightning bolt. God, he smells incredible.

Blair’s ignoring my performance, instead, gesturing wildly at the screen. “Jim, check out this geek with the lamp! What do ya’ think? Huh? Huh?”

As he talks incessantly, food falls out of his mouth and onto those old PD sweats of his. You know, I’ve just noticed how big they are on him. Christ. They’re mine.

“Porceone, mio amigo,” he translates in the language of the meal because that’s what he does.

Grabbing for the warming beer bottle in his other hand, I threaten, “Listen ‘porcellito,’ (if he’s Piglet, what does that make me?), you get this damned new sofa dirty and your cojones will be hanging on my belt.” My Guide laughs whole-heartily, thinking about his family jewels being worn as a Sentinel fashion statement.

“Slob.” I sit my Bud down, along with the hot food on the Bert and Ernie plates left over from our next-door neighbor’s birthday party (a precocious, five-year-old female who has succumbed earlier than most to the Sandburg charm). As I brush off the layers of lettuce, shredded cheese, tomatoes, Restaurant-style double-baked corn chip bits from his lap, I realize that Sandburg’s as hard as diamonds – or the three-week old shards of snacks you step on in the middle of the night. Harder than sitting through another PBS airing of the Three Tenors. I casually try to remove my hand. No blood, no foul. With deliberation, Blair grabs it and holds on for dear life, while turning those lethal baby blues of his toward me. They laser the sensible part of my brain away.

His eyes are blazing like the lamp the Peewee Herman look-alike has just thumped down on the counter. The geek on channel 13 should be careful. It’s a real Tiffany, worth …

“-- in today’s market, about $65,000, I should think,” the clipped British accent agrees with me.

Pseudo-Peewee almost keels over. But, he’s got nothing on me. Sixty-five large is a drop in the bucket compared with what Blair Sandburg’s worth to his Sentinel.

Hang on. Things are getting interesting. I now have a lapful of partner. Somehow, Blair’s wrapped his legs around me like a contortionist scratching his own ass. He’s grinning from ear to ear, encouraging me to be less of repressed, anal-retentive S.O.B.

He doesn’t. He’s rubbing up against my thigh, hard enough to start a fire, and get a merit badge for it in the bargain. He stops for a minute – literally. (I can time him in my head.)

“Sandburg --" now I’m yelling “-- will you please calm the fuck down?” Jesus, am I crazy – or just in love with this hairy ball of energy? “Why now?”

“Because,” he explains in a raspy voice, “I ran into Jennifer a few days ago at O’Neill’s.” It’s a nice little restaurant around the corner from the station.

“Yes. I hate to break it to you, buddy, but that’s one bitch and a half.” Now he’s sticking his hand down my pants.

“What is it about all you Greek god types? You all have attitude about those of us who are vertically challenged.”

“Who says you’re just another pretty face?” It’s hard to follow the conversation because my partner is tonguing my ear – and now stroking my dick through the navy blue boxers. “Anyway, I say hello, and she says, ‘As I live and breathe, if it isn’t Jimmy Ellison’s … little diversion.’”

“And I say to your former squeeze, ‘You mean ‘partner,’ don’t, Jennifer? And Medusa hisses at me – which is natural, since she’s mean as a snake – ‘I hope the two of you will be very happy together.’ And then, it all became clear to me. I finally understood.”

“What? What do you understand?” I mumble into his neck. He’s practically bouncing on my thighs now as I undo the string on his sweats and free the most beautiful cock I think I’ve ever seen. It’s big, glossy, plum-tipped – and mine.

“You love … oh, Jim, shit, Jim … I love… don’t … stop … oh, fuck …”

I wrap my fingers around his weeping dick, and start stroking it for all I’m worth. I lean forward and kiss him so hard that I can feel the layers of skin separating from that full bottom lip. I’ve tangled my fingers in his hair, using the shorter hanks of it to draw his face closer to mine. My tongue is going to take no prisoners, once it’s done mapping every inch of his mouth.

We don’t stop for any of the niceties this first time around. Grunting and biting and loving each other stupid, we crash into an orgasm that surprises the hell out of the both of us. I’ve pretty much shot my wad in my pants, and what isn’t wet with my own spunk has my partner’s all over it. For a long time, we don’t say anything. Then, finally, Sandburg starts talking.

“Sandburg,” I start as honestly as I’m ever going to be with another human being, “of all the words I could use to describe what you are … diversion isn’t even near the top of the list.” I start pulling on his nipple ring with my come-slick fingers. He makes little whimpering, sucking puppy noises. I wonder what’s going to happen when I use my teeth to play with it?

Almost imperceptibly, he inhales, as though trying to steal the words from my mouth.

Christ, a quiz. Who knew questions would be asked after our first Sentinel/Guide boff?

“Well, smart, loyal, funny, strong, fair, good-looking, pain-in-the-ass, Jewish and, up to a little while ago, straight.”

He laughs – the only God-damned word that hits me between the eyes is ‘deliciously.’ It’s a playful side of Sandburg I guess only a lover would get to see. Jesus, that would be yours truly. From now on.

I stare at him as though he was the last Porterhouse in the free world, and I had steak sauce instead of blood running through my veins. The smell of musk and sweat and come and want pours off Blair as he starts to rub up against me. He’s primed again. It’s only been a few minutes. I’ll be dead within the year.

“So, how did you do it to her, Jim?” he shoves his firm organ against my hand, almost singeing it in the process, “All nice and easy and gentlemanly?” He begins to maul my collarbone, “Or did you do her hard and fast?”

Hot? Fuck. Compared to what I feel for you, little man, she was the diversion. They all were just diversions.

“No, not her, you …” You, Blair Sandburg, are the main event. The reason that war is fought, that peace is reached, and that I’ll actually eat tofurkey.

“Ellison, keep hanging your mouth open like that, and your Guide’s gonna have to stick something in it …”

“Hang on, Blair, let me.” The kid’s got a good concept going here. Poor aim, is all. A little bit of balancing, a little moving this way and that. I’ve just found out what I pretty much suspected: Sandburg’s a mouthful, as well as a handful. Christ, I’ll never be able to get enough of the taste of him.

“Love you, you big jerk. Always have … and your mouth … shit …” Then he doesn’t speak any more, until, in a faraway voice, the words are ripped from him, “…coming …fuck … oh … Jim …”

On the TV, I hear people being astounded at their good fortune. They’ve discovered treasure in their backyards. They’ve got nothing on me. I’ve found the ‘real deal’ lying here in my arms and in my heart – and he’s sated, spunk-covered, and happy as all get-out. Hell, Bill Withers and the Gap have been right all along. If I’m with Sandburg, it can’t be anything but a lovely day. And I’m sending PBS a check. It’s the least I can do.

Acknowledgements: Thanks to the usual Mongoose subjects. (You know who you are, you saucy minxes.)

LOVELY DAY Recorded by Bill Withers on “BILL WITHERS GREATEST HITS”
Written by B. Withers and S. Scarborough

When I wake up in the morning, love,
And the sunlight hurts me eyes,
And something without warning, love,
Bears heavy on my mind.

Then I look at you
And the world’s alright with me.
Just one look at you,
And I know it’s gonna be …
A lovely day, lovely day, lovely day, lovely day, lovely day, lovely day, lovely day, lovely day, lovely day, lovely day, lovely day, lovely day, lovely day, lovely day, lovely day, lovely day!

When the day that lies ahead of me,
Seems impossible to face.
When someone else instead of me,
Always seems to know the way.

Then I look at you
And the world’s alright with me.
Ah, just one look at you,
And I know it’s gonna be …
A lovely day, lovely day, lovely day, lovely day, lovely day, lovely day, lovely day, lovely day, lovely day, lovely day, lovely day, lovely day, lovely day, lovely day, lovely day, lovely day!