They’d been fuck buddies for days. For days and days. For daze and daze.

And to be honest. Really honest. Even Jim would have to admit it’d been weeks, several weeks. Four, in fact. If Jim had counted.

Which he didn’t. Didn’t want to. ’Cause if he had. If he’d counted them up: one-two-three-four. The four weeks he’d known Blair. The four weeks they’d been fuck buddies, equaled a month, an entire month, and a very full one, indeed.

And that was the danger. Fuck buddies counted in hours, days, perhaps even weeks—but not in months. Never in months. Once it was months, scary, fearsome months, you couldn’t very well be fuck buddies any more. You were well and truly in enemy territory, crossed the line, the thin blue line, the jagged line, the “lovers” line.

Danger! Danger! Danger, Jim Ellison!

And that was the problem, then. Jim Ellison wasn’t doing that again. He’d had lovers and commitments and even, for a brief time—a brief and crazy time—a wife. And those times, those BS times, the times Before Sandburg, had sometimes stretched into months. The Carolyn Crazy Time had filled many, many months. Filled to bursting. Filled with thirsting. Then filled with hurting. Eighteen of them to be exact

Eighteen months. An infant’s age—something so brand and spanking and new as not to have accumulated years yet. And new was so scary, unique, untried and untrue.

But it was also untrue, about babies and months—there was something else that was counted in months, that made the words, the exact phrase, echo familiarly in his mind like a gavel slamming down on a high oaken desk. Prison terms. Sentences. Doin‘ hard time. No life sentence for this love bandit.

“Partners.” That was okay. Already taken. He called Sandburg “partner”, but in the partner sense of the word—the cop kind of partner. The guy who held your life in his hands, watched your back, risked his life. Now there was commitment. Something he could get behind. And had: football team, Army Rangers, Cascade PD. Except now, he worked alone, always alone, lone ranger, lone wolf, lonesome.

So “partner”, okay, “Blair” so not. Always “Sandburg”. Never “Blair”. Even in his mind. ’Cause there was a slippery slope, the good ol‘ road to hell, handbasket optional. No first names, no thirst names, no worst names. And no pet name reserved specially for them. Reserved. Reservations. And, boy, did he have reservations! Right, Chief?

Reservations about the whole thing. The Sandburg thing. The Sentinel thing. The buddy fuck thing. “Don’t shit where you eat.” A simple rule. A wise rule. A golden rule. But a breakable rule.

Because despite best intentions, wisdom, and a whole shitload of resolve, he’d done that twice already, twice before—Jack and Carolyn. Carolyn and Jack. If at first you don’t succeed… Three time loser. Third time lucky. Third time’s a charm.

And today would be a lay-day—which was good. He had a date—not a date!—with Sandburg. At Sandburg’s loft. Hadn’t been there before, always his place, his territory, his loft. A lofty idea. Floating aloft. Didn’t anyone live in apartments anymore? Or homes? Loft, sweet loft. Loft is where the heart is. There’s no place like… loft. No place like loft. No place like… I don’t think we’re in Cascade anymore, Toto.

So over to Sandburg’s, he dressed up nice: blue T, dress slacks. Real cas‘—though he’d changed three times. Though he didn’t really care. Not at all. Not a bit nor a whit. He dressed for comfort, not for need. He sucked in his gut, the pants way too tight.

So Sandburg’s, a movie, a beer—a guy thing. A buddy thing. A fuck buddy thing. And he’d made a plan, a strategy, a strategic plan, no less. To keep Sandburg from getting ideas. They were cool just as they were, Jim’d say. No commitment. No relationship. No ties. Should he have worn one? Would Blair let him tie him up with one?

They could go with other men. Or women. Either. Both. Whatever. Whenever. Go any time. Any time at all. Whenever he felt like it. Just hadn’t felt like it, lately. Since Sandburg. But he could. If he wanted.

And he knew what that was—just shiny new toy syndrome. Shiny new boy toy. Shiny new toy boy. The novelty’d wear off, the shine rub away, the polish be less spit.

And soon as that happened, that very day or the next, he’d go to the gym, find that guy, take up that offer, made in the shower, to wash his back, and his front. He just hadn’t felt like it. Hadn’t felt for the guy—who cared for well built, well hung, well done?

So Sandburg made popcorn and played badly at machismo when Jim asked for a beer. “Help yourself”, Blair’d said. Get it for me, Jim’d wanted. And who would have made the trip and got the beer, and lost that particular battle in their power struggle? They’d not know now, they’d never know, because the beer, the fridge and a whole whack of other nameless things that had been Sandburg’s, were pretty much not things anymore.

Explosion, commotion—blown beyond recognition. Simon and Joel not asking, not telling, the why’s of Jim’s on-the-spot presence at the scene. Why at Sandburg’s at night.

Now homeless, Sandburg, temptation with curls. Nowhere to go, no one I know, moving too slow.

Jim squirmed. Tried to run. Tried to hide. Turn away from temptation, from sin and from penance. Tired, dirty, protesting vainly—a friend, a hotel, a shelter. There’s a guy in Chicago, lives in his office. Grasping at straws, gasping at cause. Anywhere. Nowhere. Not here. Not now. Not him.

And yet, in the end, all struggles in vain.

One week, my ass.