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Fashionistas

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“Hey, Hutch, get a load of this!”

“What’s that? You reading Ahoy! magazine again, Starsk, checking out the hot sailor bods?”

“I wish. No, it’s the latest JC Penney men’s fashion catalog. Came in today’s mail.”

Hutch saunters over and joins Starsky on the sofa, laying his hand casually on Starsky’s thigh. “What the heck is that guy wearing?”

“Don’t know. But whatever it’s supposed to be, it’s fugly as hell.”

“Well, keep going. The clothes can’t all be that bad.”

“Apparently, you’re wrong. These are worse.” Starsky bends over to read the tiny ad copy at the bottom of the page. ‘Our swinging bells have an ultra-slim fit, low-rise, and come in a ring-a-ding assortment of colors and fabrics.’

“’Ring-a-ding?’ Is that what that godawful pattern is called? Starsk, I know how much you like wearing low-rise pants, but if you ever show up wearing those, so help me…”

Starsky turns to the next page, which features three men on the left, modeling colorless, vaguely prison-inspired underwear and a would-be ladykiller on the right, dressed to the nines in a tight, flashy white jumpsuit and sunglasses, accompanied by a sleazy burst of too-thick facial hair and an over-confident smirk.

“Hey,” Starsky asks, “of those four guys, who do you think would have the most luck scorin’ with a girl?”

“Hopefully none, for the girl’s sake. That one looks like the perp we busted last month for flashing.”

“Who, you mean Watkins?”

“Yeah, that’s the guy.”

“Oh come on, he doesn’t look at all like him!”

“Sure he does. And his mom probably buys his underwear for him.”

“The problem with Watkins was he wasn’t wearin’ any underwear. That’s why we busted him.”

“You’ve got a point.”

Starsky turns the page. “Anyway, there’s gotta be some decent-lookin’ clothes in here.”

“Are you looking for nice clothes or hot bodies?”

“I’m already lookin’ at a hot body sittin’ next to me. Besides, there isn’t a single man in this entire catalog that can compare to you, hot shot.” Starsky gives Hutch a kiss.

“Thank you for saying so. You’re not bad yourself.” Hutch kisses him back, squeezes Starsky’s thigh, and then turns the page. “Ha! Would you look at that? Is he auditioning for the Sound of Music with that getup? What’s with the matching knit hat and vest? All he’s missing is a herd of goats.”

“The things that pass for fashion these days.” Starsky shakes his head in disbelief and turns the page.

“Oh, no, no, no…that’s just wrong. Men in nightshirts? What’s with the red-and-white striped one that guy is wearing? It looks like your tomato. But is he going to bed or getting ready for a tennis match? How can anyone relax in something so loud?”

“Ya gotta admit, those guys aren’t bad lookin’ though. Although they’d look a lot better if they took off those awful pajamas.” Starsky slowly looks Hutch up and down. “You, though, you look good either way.” He slips a hand under Hutch’s shirt and turns the page while absently rubbing Hutch’s back.

“Oh dear God, a nylon giraffe onesie? That’s it, I’ve seen enough, Starsk! Where do you keep the brain bleach? You better put that down before it totally kills my mood.”

“Hey, I’ve got an idea!”

“Yeah, what’s that?”

“Why don’t we do our own underwear modelin’?”

“You mean, for a magazine?”

“No, no, dummy! I mean right now.” He nuzzles his face against Hutch’s neck and whispers into his ear. “How about we take this into the next room?” Standing up, and leaving the neglected magazine on the sofa, Starsky takes Hutch’s hand and leads him into the bedroom.

“Turn around, Blondie, strip down to your underwear, and close your eyes until I say you can open ‘em.”

As Hutch proceeds to do as he’s told, Starsky removes his clothes, pulls out his recent purchase from his top dresser drawer, and begins to put it on.

“What are you doin’ over there?”

“Just gimme a few seconds. Okay, you can open your eyes now.”

Hutch turns around and stares, wide-eyed, at the skin-hugging red long johns that stretch seductively over his partner’s lean, muscled body.

“Whaddya think? I bought them for when we go fishin’ next weekend at Dobey’s cabin.”

“Wow,” Hutch says, genuinely appreciative. “They look two sizes too small, but they really show off your…um…assets. But I’m not sure I’d recommend going fishing in them.”

“I wasn’t plannin’ on wearin’ ‘em while fishing.” Starsky saunters up to Hutch and pulls him close as they press their bulging groins together. “In fact, I wasn’t plannin’ on wearin’ ‘em for very long at all, if you get my drift.” He leans in for a kiss. “Now, let’s see how fast you can get these long johns off of me, huh?”