Watching Sandburg stretch is an almost religious experience. At least as religious a one as I'm likely to ever have, being as I am Christian enough to know major holidays but not much more.

When he goes for the big one, the 'bone-cracker', a lot of things happen at once. The kid somehow expands to a whopping 5'9" or 5'10" -- there's almost three inches more of him than usual. So fluid you'd swear everything rigid inside has dissolved. If Blair's wearing a particularly ratty outfit, which is pretty much a given, you get a flash of skin from mid-navel to right under the ribcage. And, finally, you're treated to an undeniably clean outline of that damned fine package Sandburg sports up front.

It's a real attention getter. Over the last three years it's certainly gotten mine.

That's how he trapped me. The damned stretching -- and the way he's always looking out for me, like nobody else ever has. With us, it's never been the juggling act he does for everybody else. Blair puts me first, the top man on the totem pole. It's Sandburg being who and what he "is:" a shaman and Guide looking out for his Sentinel. And as his Sentinel I've tried to return the favor by always having all five senses on high alert where my partner's concerned.

Since we're in each another's face and space -- living together, working together, and playing together like we do -- watching each other's backs is just something that's become second nature to the both of us. I've just carried it a step further by watching his eminently watchable front like a Kennedy assassination freak viewing the damned Zebruder film.

But my feelings are pretty much one sided. Sandburg and I are together, but not "together" if you catch my drift. So, looking's as far as I would have ever taken it. No way would I have loused up the special bond we have just for plain old lust. It took yet another in the series of "Who the fuck would believe it?" events that seem to happen only to the Ellison-Sandburg team to accomplish that.

In spades.

It all started out like so many of our other near catastrophes, innocently enough, with a regulation kind of lunch date for Sandburg and me. Oh, yeah, and a stretch I caught him doing outside of Hargrove Hall when I picked him up around noon. Jesus, I lost track of everything around us. It wasn't a zone-out, exactly. Let's call it being really, REALLY attentive to his half-hard dick which was making itself known through the soft denim jeans. Christ, what a picture.

When Blair saw me, he smiled like Alice's Cheshire Cat. "Hey, Jim! You're on time." There was wonder in his voice. There shouldn't have been. I'm always on time. Maybe Sandburg's just amazed that anybody could be.

"No shit, Sherlock."

"Uh, hang on, hang on." Blair furrowed his eyebrows as though in deep thought, then snapped his fingers. "With a witty comeback like that, I almost mistook you for my Cop-of-the-Year partner."

"Your hungry Cop-of-the-Year partner who doesn't give a crap?" I cracked as wise as I could.

"Yeah, 'that' partner." He was now practically beaming at me. Humor makes Sandburg fucking incandescent. And irresistible. It's even worse than the stretching thing.

"So, where to, Margaret Meade?" I gruffly asked and gave him a pro forma tap on the back of his head. A full-fledged noogie would have been the wrong thing to do in front of some of his students who were milling around.

"Nowhere with meat, grease, or donuts, which pretty much rules out every place you'd like. How about Addis & Okra?"

My best friend opted for the new Ethiopian-Cajun Deli - you heard me. Sandburg's its steadiest, and sometimes only customer. That's how we found ourselves heading off campus to the restaurant on Fifth, when I picked up a call on the truck's police radio. It seems that several residents in the less than elegant Huntsford neighborhood -- a four-minute drive from Rainier University - were complaining of weird smells permeating a two-square block area.

Normally I wouldn't have bothered, but that neighborhood had mostly elderly people and young stay-at-home moms with children during the day.

So, we detoured up Mitchell, and as the Ford turned onto Barone I was hit with the unmistakable odor of gas. The fumes were so nauseating and overwhelming made me grip the steering wheel so hard I practically drove my fingernails through the palms of both hands.

"Jim, what's wrong?" I heard the alarm turn to panic in Sandburg's voice as he saw my reactions and figured I was frantically trying to turn down my dials the way he'd taught me.

"Gas! It's coming from that house at the end of the block!" I called the dispatcher as we pulled in front of the old, apparently abandoned split level. I recognized Mike Aron's voice on the other end and gave him the skinny of the situation. "Mike, get any available squad cars over here fast! Start clearing people out!"

I jumped out of the truck and headed toward the house to the right of the empty one. A strong heartbeat was coming from the first floor. Somebody was home. And in danger.

It was pointless to tell Sandburg to stay put. He'd never listened before, so why should he start now?

"Jim, is there -- "

"Yeah, Chief. In the front room of 714 ..." Then, like someone walking over my grade I knew we were in trouble. Big trouble. It's the Sentinel thing. I could "feel" we were two seconds away from all hell breaking loose.

"Sandburg, get back! It's going to blow!" I grabbed my partner roughly by one of his lapels and dragged him away as fast as I could move.

"Jim, turn your hearing down! Now"! Sandburg's screamed order was obliterated by the deafening blast that ripped through the early afternoon quiet.

The force of the house exploding slammed Blair's smaller body into mine and knocked us ass over head down onto the broken sidewalk, like rag dolls thrown away by a thoughtless child.

I don't know how long we lay there. Almost in slow motion, sounds of yelling voices, police sirens, and fire engines, drifted into my consciousness, as I started to turn my senses back up.

"Sandburg?" I whispered hoarsely. When I got no answer, I damn near panicked. "Sandburg! Blair! Answer me!" I was just about to shake the dead weight off my back, prepared to find the worse, when the blessed voice drifted down to my ears.

"Stop yelling, Jim. I hear you, I hear you. Jesus, my head hurts."

"Roll off me, Chief." His body slid onto a sparse patch of brown grass next to where we'd been tossed by the force of the blast. He looked dazed, dirty as hell, but otherwise, miraculously unscathed. The only casualty was Sandburg's glasses which had flown off his face and shattered into a million pieces on the uneven concrete. Me, I scraped my cheek and chin pretty good. Luckily, the jacket I was wearing saved the skin on both my forearms from being lacerated as we skidded across the pavement.

The two of us looked over at the burning rubble that minutes before had been 716 Barone Street. If we'd zigged instead of zagged, the kid and I would have winded up toast.

Ex-Sentinel. Ex-Guide.

As cops, firefighters, and paramedics danced around us asking if we were okay and if we could get the hell out of the way, it hit me between the eyes: this one had been close. Too close.

Sandburg realized the same thing. Leaning forward so that his head could rest on my shoulder, he started to shake. I could smell the fear rolling off his body in waves. And something else. It was as unmistakable as the fear. It was arousal. In my Army days I'd seen it happen to a lot of men when they'd been in life and death situations. When the fight was over they got wood. I guess it's nature's way of telling a guy he's still alive.

And Sandburg was sporting enough to build an A-frame.

"Chief? Are you okay?"

His voice was husky. " Yeah. I'm alive. You're alive." Even with smoke swirling around us Sandburg's eyes were unbelievably bright and shiny, swimming in unshed tears. "I'm - 'we're' okay."

"You sure about that?"

As he shook his head to answer, one of those tears flew in my direction and hit my lip. I tasted Blair Sandburg. And in that instant I knew I wanted -- no, I needed -- to taste more. To taste all of him.

I brushed the wetness from his cheek with my thumb. My roommate turned away shyly, embarrassed by his own crying and my clumsy attempt at ... I don't know what.

"I'm so sorry, Jim."

"Why, Sandburg? For being human? For being grateful and relieved that we're in one piece?"

He spoke so softly that only ears as sensitive as mine could pick it up. "No. Sorry that you're going to hear this on a dirt patch in front of a pile of debris."

"Hear what, Chief?"

The breath my partner expelled warmed my neck like a gust of wind in August. The scent of the peppermint and chamomile tea he'd had for breakfast swirled around me as he said, almost matter-of-factly, "I love you, Jim."

"Sandburg, you're delirious."

"No, Jim. I'm in my right mind, and I'm telling you I love you."

"The EMTs better have a look at you."

"I've loved you, like, forever."

"Stop saying that, Sandburg."

"I do. And I won't. We've wasted too much time. After what just happened, I couldn't 'not' tell you."

The look on Blair's face was one I'll never forget. Not if I live to be a hundred. It was so unguarded and genuine, and full of hope and emotions I'd pretty much given up on, that I knew he was telling the truth. He loved me.

And as I patted Sandburg's cheek fondly, the way I'd done a thousand times before, I realized I loved him back. It didn't matter that men weren't my usual cup of tea.

This one was. I've always been a sucker for peppermint and chamomile.

***

So, that's how Blair Sandburg and I got here. We'd pretty much decided that it was going to be a forever kind of arrangement, as in just him and me loving one another and doing the horizontal mambo until we were carted away to the Home for Old Sentinels and Their Guides.

But life for the two of us was pretty hectic this past week, what with the explosion, its aftermath, and hunting down the absentee landlord of the building, not to mention Cascade safety inspectors who were supposed to have checked the place after previous complaints. Although nobody was hurt, including 75-year old Martha Dembroski, whose heartbeat I'd picked up on. She'd been one ticked off little old lady when the subsequent power outage caused her to miss "Wheel of Fortune." There were going to be tits caught in the ringer over this one.

As "it" got closer, I was feeling a lot antsier. Not the love part. That's a given. But the, you know, physical thing. The sex, alright? Blair's the one with the know how where the fundamentals of this same team thing are concerned, right up to and including "batting" order. Sandburg always knows a lot about a lot. It's his gift and my curse. You want to know about Fifteenth century politics, ask Sandburg. What a fear of geese is called? Sandburg's your man. Nothing surprises me where this guy is concerned.

I take that back. One thing did surprise the hell out of me. Not that I wasn't nuts about him. I was. Not that I wanted him more than I've ever wanted anyone in my entire life. Guilty as charged. Not that he seemed to think I belong to him. I did. What surprised me was his impression that I belonged ... well ... under him. That I'm ... you know ... a bottom. Can you beat that?

I wasn't jumping with joy with the prospect. Even if it were true. Which it isn't.

A guy would know that about himself. Well, wouldn't he?

Sandburg and I had gotten to first base at least a dozen times, with one unexpected side trip to second that I hope wasn't recorded on the police department parking lot security cameras. As for third base, I knew I wanted it, and how I wanted it. I think. Hell, I want to steal home as often as I can, anywhere I can. By the same token, Sandburg, the snotty little S.O.B., was the picture of confidence about how it was going to play out between us. The two versions were light years apart.

We approached the weekend as a time to continue the "piece" talks between Ellisonland and the Republic of Sandburg. But by Friday, formal negotiations had hit a stalemate. Every time we talked, we took two steps forward and a giant step back. Saturday was a blur of wrangling and fumbling with one another. Before we knew it, we found ourselves on another, rainy Sunday in Cascade.

Then, he started. I should have known. Compared to this, taking over a third world country is easy.

"Jim." Sandburg started off innocently enough, as he was putting away the lunch dishes. "I have to ask you something serious."

I waited for the proverbial other shoe to drop.

"You think that if you let me do this" Blair paused dramatically, "you'll be my bitch?"

"For fuck's sake! What the hell kind of question is that?" I practically roared back at him with disgust in my voice as I fell onto the sofa.

"Too bad. You'd look so yummy in high heels and pearls."

I guess the clearly horrified look on my face was the perfect counterpoint to the wry, highly amused one flashing on Blair's. He wiped his hands, then draped the dishcloth on the rack before heading into the living room to join me. Sandburg settled himself into the big chair which was catty-corner to where I was sitting. Dangling one leg over its arm, he jiggled his foot back and forth in a weird figure eight pattern.

"So, Jimbo. What do you say? One good turn deserves another? Bottoms up? Your place or mine?" He was on a roll now.

"Enough!"

But enough is never enough for Blair Sandburg. He was clearly enjoying my predicament. He segued over to a surprisingly good Russian accent, as he twirled an imaginary mustache. Sandburg grew up on Rocky & Bullwinkle reruns. "If I told you you had a beautiful ass, would you hold it against me?"

"Cut it out, 'Boris.' Go chase moose and squirrel."

"It's 'Chekov,' Philistine." Sandburg disagreed cheerfully, as he scanned my body language, which to say the very least was tense. Even to an untrained eye, rigor would have had more "give" in it.

"You know, Jim, no matter how you're feeling right now, I'm not an insensitive prick."

"Sandburg, if you don't give it a rest, I'm going to use my piece on you, I swear to God."

"Your piece, huh?" The master of the double entendre wiggled his eyebrows at me.

"That's it. Where the hell are my bullets?"

"Jim, it's a joke!" My partner swung his leg back to the floor, then leaned forward and patted my knee. I could tell he was changing strategy again in the plan to woo and win me over to the 'dark side'. Christ, Rommel didn't have a plan this involved to invade Northern Africa. "Look, you have to know how much I love you. You do know that, don't you, Jim? C'mon, buddy. Don't be a shit."

I started to thaw. Just a little. "Stop with the sweet talk, Sandburg, or you'll turn my head."

There was a fraction of a second of non-talk, just enough for damned Sandburg to hypothesize, "It's about control isn't it?"

" ..."

"Should I take that as something in the 'well, duh' category?"

" ..."

"So, it 'is' about control, right?"

"Look, Sandburg ..."

"You'd still have it, you know. You know that, right?"

"Easy for you to say, Chief. You're not the one ... who ... who ..." I couldn't even say it.

"Gets the dick shoved up his ass?" Blair filled in the blank helpfully. The 'your place or mine' thing was becoming a major stumbling block to our becoming an "us." He knew it. I knew it. "OK. No, problem, Jim. We'll do it your way. After all, I'm ..."

" ... a bottom?" The word sputtered from my lips, doomed to a crash and burn millisecond of existence at 307 Prospect Avenue.

"I was going to say flexible. I've never had the patience for sexual labels like top or bottom, even the tamer ones, like bisexual. And news flash, buddy. If I'm anything, it's 'try-sexual.' I'll try anything once." Blair again wiggled those eyebrows of his suggestively. "Try-sexual? Get it? Get it?" He nudged my ribs like we were watching a Monty Python rerun. "Nudge, nudge. Wink, wink. Try-sexual. Get it?"

"I got it, Sandburg. I got it. You couldn't be any clearer if you were strapped to Simon Banks wearing a Kevlar tutu and one of those fertility masks on the wall." I tried sounding as casual as I could, but it was tough with my butt cheeks clenched together so tight I'd probably have squeaked if I were walking. "You're such a horn dog."

"Horndog? Yeah, well ... that was then. This is now." Blair's voice suddenly turned seductive, almost dangerous. "I'll pass on humping the table leg and concentrate on you. You know, Jim," he preambled, word choice is a bit awkward here speaking quietly, as he stood up and started to take off the oversized flannel shirt, the first of many. It's the one he wears from mid-October to right around Easter. "Maybe you're just over-thinking this." It the shirt dropped to the floor. Sandburg began peeling off the second, smaller garment.

I held my breath, and just kept watching. This nothing kind of a gray Sunday was taking a really strange turn.

Next, the Henley was up and over Blair's head, exposing a golden-skinned torso, auburn chest hair, and the gleaming silver nipple ring piercing the left dusky rosy nub. I've brushed up against it often enough to know it by touch, but a visual confirmation was nice, too.

Then, things got really interesting.

Sandburg slowly unzipped his trousers and started to push them down his slim hips. Since he had gone commando, it was a simple thing to do.

"Are you paying attention, Jim?" Blair asked unnecessarily. Spit was running down from the corner of my mouth. Yes, I was all eyes, unconsciously grabbing my own hardening dick through tight jeans that seemed to trap my lower body and squeeze the Ellison family jewels mercilessly.

"So, Jim, do you know what I look like ... in the flesh?" Even though my higher brain functions had been put on hold I could still respond to simple stimuli, so I nodded in the negative. No matter what you might think, I hadn't spent the last few weeks since the explosion trying to check out Sandburg's solid, little body. I've only had fleeting glimpses of my roommate close to naked: hospital visits, A.M. passes in our hallway, and once or twice when if I didn't piss in the bathroom while he showered I'd have had to take a leak in the kitchen sink.

On some level I thought this little performance was way over the top, even for someone as theatrical and inventive as my younger lover-to-be. Of course, my lower regions were sitting up, taking notice of the impromptu strip show. Parts of me were even applauding.

"Did you think I was big?" The pants slid down a second inch. "Did you think I dressed to the left?" He wriggled them even lower. "Or maybe to the right?" Blair was breathing slowly, deliberately -- that yoga breathing he's always ragging on me to learn. "Did you ever think you'd being seeing 'it' up close and personal?" The threadbare pants fell to Blair's ankles. He stepped out of them, kicking the clothing casually to the side. "So, what do you think?"

There, in the diffused light stood Naomi Sandburg's only son, as naked as the day he was brought into the world, smiling that mega-watt smile I'd seen a thousand times before. But now, on the brink of this life together as lovers, it promised a whole new world of sexual pleasures and an unexpected pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. It all had the same name: Blair.

"You're--"

"What?" Sandburg gyrated his hips, making the delicious morsel popping out of his pubic thatch bounce wildly. "Jewish?"

"That, too. Jesus, Chief, you're so fucking ... I can't believe it."

Spit was starting to flow freely again. I had enough of it to lube Sandburg's Volvo.

"What am I?"

"You're... beautiful ..."

"Beautiful?" Sandburg went Casablanca on me. "Of all the words in all the dictionaries in all the world, 'beautiful' is the one he chooses for me."

"Alright, Bogey, not beautiful ..."

"I'm not?"

"No. Yes. No. Handsome. You're ... handsome."

"Why, Detective Ellison, you smooth talking devil. I didn't know you noticed. Come on, big guy." My partner grabbed me by my elbows, dragged me to my feet, then spun me around like that damned kid's dreidel he keeps on his shelf next to the Niagra Falls snow globe.

"We're gonna go lie down."

"We are?"

"We are. Together."

"Where together?"

"There together, in my room. It'll be easy. Tallest one on the bed first. We'll, you know, 'stack' better that way."

Before I could even argue with the half-assed logic my Guide pushed me from behind into his bedroom under the stairs.

"We'll do it in here, Jim. That way, it won't be 'official,' if you don't want it to be."

"What? Your room is the fucking DMZ?"

"The Demilitarized Zone? Nah. More like, the 'Doing My Man Zone." Practically ripping my comfortable, old, black tee-shirt apart getting it over my head Blair chuckled at the turn of events as he rubbed his moist forehead into the space between my now naked shoulder blades. Sentinel-soft, I heard him whisper, "I love you" over and over. I was sure that nothing in the world could feel as good as my partner's mouth talking into my back. Until I took the one short, mental step of imagining that perfect cocksucker of a mouth of his gently humming around my dick.

Yessir, that would be a real crowd pleaser of an upgrade.

Sandburg didn't give me time to think. He reached around with his hands, and undid my jeans, then sidled them down my long legs.

"Move your left foot, Jim." Blair watched for a moment. "No, your other left foot." He added, with the patient tone you use on a backward toddler. I lifted my other left foot and did as I was told. Then the jeans were history, sucked in the black vortex of Sandburg's tiny, chaotic room.

"Chief, the bed ..." The futon was layered with several strata of books on anthropology, criminology, psychology -- abnormal and whatever the hell its opposite was. Oh, yeah, and Jokes for the John, Volume 5, just to improve his mind, I guess. With a flip of the wrist that would have made Harry Houdini proud, Blair Sandburg magically levitated every book from the coverlet for a split second, then sent them raining down to the already cluttered floor. I sort of took it all in the gestalt of it, as my smart friend would probably observe if I gave him half a chance as I somehow found myself face down, resting on a special handmade quilt Naomi had sent her son for a Hannukah and Solstice present. (Blair dubbed the strange combination holiday "Sannukah.")

I breathed in, shallowly at first, then more deeply. In this unfamiliar position, in Sandburg's bed, under Sandburg's body, I smelled Blair all around me: in the bed linens, on the books, in the air, and now, behind me, like my second skin. He was kissing his way down my spine, stopping for a minute at the point geometrically equidistant from both of my hip bones and the crack of my butt. He nibbled and sucked and bit and blew on the reddened spot. I felt the infinitesimal bumps on my lover's tongue trace the impression those small, even teeth of his had left. If I've ever wanted anyone in my life as much as I wanted Blair at that moment, I don't remember when.

"Jim, you with me here, big guy?"

"Uh ... uh ..." was about all I could reply, because "Little Jim" was so hard he was attempting one-armed push-ups taking most of the blood flow from my brain to do it.

And then I felt something unfamiliar. Not unwelcome, exactly, but wouldn't be one of the top 10ten things I'd have picked as a surprise. A slippery finger wiggled insistently up between my tightly clenched butt cheeks. As it brushed over me, any of the free-floating "go with it" pleasure that I'd been enjoying dissolved. Nobody I've ever known intimately has gotten this close to doing that. The doctor's digit during my annual physical doesn't count. Him, I don't see over a glass of O.J. in the morning or a cup of tea at night.

I'm no saint or virgin where other men are concerned. On the few, rare occasions when I've been part of action like this, I've always pitched, if you get my drift. For Christ's sake, look at me: 6'1", 180 lbs. at my lightest, buzz-cut hair that would scream G.I. Jim if Sandburg hadn't talked me into getting a "styling" done by someone wielding scissors instead of hedge clippers. I mean, you wouldn't look at me and say "Now there's a guy who takes it up the ass and likes it."

"Jim, stop grinding your teeth. You don't need to put any more of Dr. Levin's kids through college."

Then, the conversation portion of the evening's entertainment seemed to be over.

On to the main event. I was now being ... opened up, as they say in bad bodice-rippers, Blair spread me like butter on hot toast, blew on my hole, and then stuck his tongue experimentally inside.

I think I yelled something loud and filthy as my eyes popped out of my head like a demented cartoon character.

The pushy little bastard didn't let up. Just as I caught my breath, thinking it couldn't get any stranger -- or better -- Sandburg grabbed my hips, and flipped me over, like a pancake on a griddle. I was on my back, struggling to get propped up on my elbows, just to see what my buddy was going to do next, when, without any fanfare, Blair swallowed me whole. From crown to root. I would have shared how much I appreciated all his good work, but two of his busy fingers found their way into me up to the knuckles. Between the earnest sucking and the wiggling, it took only a few seconds for me to give Blair a mouthful of liquid Jim Ellison.

A little while later, when all the yelling and carrying on - mine - was over, I tried to figure out how to retrieve the top of my skull. Somewhere down the pike, it could probably double as a nifty candy dish.

Refocusing my eyes, I came face to face with Blair Jacob Sandburg. His gleaming lips brushed against mine. I tasted ... me, and him, and the two flavors mixed together. I thrust my head up, covered Blair's beautiful, mobile mouth, and stuck my tongue as far down his throat as it would go. Sandburg latched on, chewed and sucked until we were literally in one another's faces. He clung onto my shoulders while I crushed him against my chest.

I was never letting him go again. Never.

"...im ... im ..." Struggling helplessly to get my attention, Sandburg was talking against my hungry maw, then my chin. I guess I didn't realize just how tight I was holding him. Christ, tomorrow he'll be bruised like all get-out.

"Sorry ..." I groaned, releasing the smaller, muscular body and rolling my head back into the pillows behind me.

"I'm not." I didn't even have to open my eyes. I could "see" that shit-eating grin on Sandburg's face because I heard it in his voice. "So, was it ... everything you expected it to be?"

"It wasn't as bad as being shot."

"Very flattering. Thanks a whole hell of a lot. The next time I'll use a Berretta to do the honors." The words were tough, but Sandburg still had a smile on that beautiful mug of his. "But, all in all, no dashes it was okay?" okay

"Yeah." I was ready to sleep for days.

"Just okay?" okay

"It was better than okay, alright?" okay I could feel myself nodding off.

"On a scale of one to 10, Jim, was it ..."

"Jesus Christ, Sandburg, the friggin' earth moved. Now, can I get some sleep?"

"For a bottom, you're sure pushy."

***

It's the day after. Actually, the early afternoon of the Monday after. I have two days off because I'd worked a few double shifts and the PD Accounting Department was up in arms about that much overtime.

Blair did "it" to me again at around 7:00 AM; this time it was the whole enchilada. I don't hurt, exactly, and I think my body seems to have gone along with the program pretty damned easily, considering. It took Sandburg less than a quarter of an hour to get me right where he wanted me. Hell, I've argued about what kind of season the Jags will have or if we should have the Fruit Loops or the Cap'n Crunch longer than that.

I can't tell you how I feel about. Not that it wasn't good. It was. But, I've never 'not' been in control, particularly with a 5'7" brunette sporting five o'clock shadow. What I couldn't get past at first was the feeling of being helpless -- of having this thing done "to" me.

Still, as Sandburg kissed me and licked the back of my neck, bit and gnawed on my shoulder as though it was his intention to eat me alive, and whispered hot, loving words all around me, I felt more alive that I ever have.

It was as though I'd been getting ready for this moment in time for my whole damned life. Only here and now, not being able to figure out where I ended and my lover started. There was no yesterday, no tomorrow. Only Blair. Blair everywhere. Around me. Behind me. On me. And in me. The first orgasm I'd ever had in this position was so overwhelming, so strong, I thought I was dying. My hand to God. When I shot my wad, spunk flew everywhere -- on my sweaty belly and chest, on Blair's equally sweaty neck and face, on the damned expensive bedding, on the end table and my copy of Kerouac's On the Road, and even on the far wall.

And the sounds I made were like any other mating animal. I think I screamed myself hoarse, the roar of this phenomenal rut ripped from my throat. Sandburg, surprisingly, was quiet. The only thing I heard was a groaned admission of love. For me. Then he collapsed. One hundred sixty pounds of spent Guide draped over your tired, sore-as-hell, thoroughly screwed body feels a damned sight heavier. But I didn't do anything about it. Glued together that way was just too good.

There was something else that happened. I couldn't identify it at first. It was like a third person in the bed with us. Seductive. Elusive. Just a suggestion. But getting stronger. So strong. Pouring over me. Drowning me, yet somehow saving me. I "saw" Blair on top and me on the bottom. And I knew that's how it should be.

Christ, I hate it when Sandburg is right.

***

Now it's a few hours later. We're still in bed. Sandburg's ordered lunch - pizza from Bella's - and it's in the oven waiting for us.

Suddenly, I'm feeling like crap. I am so fucked.

"Earth to Jim."

"What?"

"I've only been talking for, like, the last 10 minutes. Something wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong." I'm lying through my teeth.

"No. I think there's plenty wrong." The little bastard sees right through me. He can be so God-damned annoying you'd like to pound him into the ground just to see the look on his face after you do it. My lover gets out of bed and wipes himself off with a washcloth, then balls it up and tosses it into the corner of the room. House rule #102's just been shot in the ass. Like me.

Like me.

"So, Jimmy," he begins, using that Brooklyn accent from the 30s gangster movies he loves so much, "ya wanna take turns being the goil?"

"That isn't funny, Sandburg!" Our neighbors could weigh in with a vote on the subject, since I'm pretty sure I said it loud enough for everybody in the building to hear.

"No, but this is." With his right hand, "Topper" pushes the tip of his nose up as he pulls the skin under his eyes down with his left, and finishes up by sticking a remarkably long tongue out, doing what he calls "The Worst Impression of a Lizard Ever." I know it sounds stupid. It "is" stupid. But for some unknown reason, it cracks me up every time he does it.

The first time was early on -- right after the Larry fiasco. I'd barely mentioned that Sandburg's making breakfast wasn't going to undo the mess the Barbary ape had made of my apartment before his "Great Escape," and what a colossal mistake it had been to invite the two of them to bunk here. Almost meekly, Blair asked if there was anything he or Larry could do to change my mind. When I didn't answer because I had a mouthful of food, Sandburg launched into this damned reptile thing to see if it would do the trick. It did. I just about choked on the "courtship ritual" scrambled eggs and toast he'd whipped up.

I'm a sucker for it. Every time. Now he only uses it as a last resort. I'm trying not to react and give the little son-of-a-bitch the satisfaction of his winning all the marbles.

"Come on, Jim, it 'is' funny." He flops down next to me on the ripe-smelling bed and nudges my shoulder with his. "Let's go downstairs and eat the pizza while it's still hot. Then we'll talk about what's going on with you."

Jesus, if I have to do this "sharing our feelings" one more time, I'm going see if my partner's any better at doing bird impressions, because I'm going to pitch him off the roof.

As we head on downstairs and I see that Sandburg's pulled out dishes and opened up the double doors to the balcony to bring in a little fresh air, I know I want "something" and it isn't the Neapolitan with whatever the hell topping he chose.

I want the last word.

"No."

"No?"

"No."

"No to ... pizza?"

"No."

"Ah. No to ... talking about it?"

"Yes, Sandburg. I don't want to talk about it."

"But, Jim ..."

"Sandburg, let's just try to eat in peace."

"But, Jim ..."

"God damn it! Anchovies. I hate them."

"They're only on my half. Yours has the extra mozzarella and sun-dried tomatoes. The way you like it."

"But they're touching my half."

"Jim," Sandburg is calm and soothing, as though he's talking a jumper off a bridge, "they're dead. They can't get to your half. You know?" he explains simply.

"They're still ... polluting it."

"OK. OK. Let me just scrape them off. Then your half will be safe." Now he's just being plain insulting, using a voice you'd reserve for a stubborn two-year old.

I can't tell you how much that voice pisses me off. I guess Sandburg pretty much figures it out when I pick up the entire pie, throw it over the balcony railing and out toward the bay.

For a moment there's silence. But if you'd think he would leave well enough alone, you don't know Blair Sandburg. He walks over to the open double doors, looks out toward the horizon and says loftily, "I hope they make it to the sea and regain their freedom."

I can't help it. My face cracks a smile. I start to laugh. The next thing I know, I've grabbed Sandburg, and jerked him into my arms. There we stand, naked, lunch-less, and together. The reason that I haven't killed Blair Sandburg over the past three years - and I've certainly had plenty of provocation, believe me - is that I really do love him. And I'm in love with him. So, what the hell, I'll be the girl for a while.

Sandburg's always been a pain in the ass.

It's just now we have to use lube.

***

It's Tuesday. We're sitting on the floor across from one another, firelight making a disheveled, thoroughly debauched Blair

Sandburg look good enough to eat.

Again. But we have to finish dinner first. So, we eat Chinese from Hunan Garden until we can't eat another bite. Blair has polished off everything in sight, up to and including the extra packets of duck sauce.

"Keep chowing down like that, Chief, and you're going to have to hit the gym with me every day from now on."

"God, an exercise Nazi. I knew it."

"Exercise Nazi, huh? Just for that, Sandburg, get down and give me 10 of your best."

Blair's got a decidedly wicked look dancing across that marvelous face of his. "How 'bout I bend you over the kitchen table and give you six of seven of those babies instead?"

Jesus. I don't think I'm going to make it to "Sannukah."

But, what a hell of a way to go.

[[[[[[[[[[add:nekkidjim.jpg]]]]]]]]]]

The end.

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Acknowledgments: Thanks to the usual suspects: To Lisa and her uber hubby, to PattRose1 and Corinne who've again done the voodoo that they do so well. And a big thank you to everybody on MME because this place is like family. Or, as I like to observe, we certainly know how to put the "fun" into dysfunction.