You've Got Male by Akablonded

You've Got Male - Akablonded


Note: This story was recycled from the SENSES OF HUMOR Zine published many, MANY years ago. It resulted from the umpteenth "Forwarded" message I got from a friend who had way too much time on her hands. It got me to wondering, "What if ..." The Yiddish terms used are spelled phonetically.

Maven -- expert.

Moil -- the person who cuts the foreskin from the male's penis during the Jewish religious ceremony of circumcision.

Nosh -- a little something to eat.

Tuckus -- rump, rearend.


"Sandburg, are you ever 'in'? And why don't you have your cell phone turned 'on'?" The exasperated voicemail could only belong to one person: Major Crimes Detective James Joseph Ellison, my partner, my roommate, and my Sentinel. He's also one other thing: the unrequited love of my semi-unorthodox life.

"I'll make it quick. Read the e-mail I sent you when you get back home this afternoon. Try to follow the instructions. And, Chief, if you manage to pull it off, I'll be damned impressed. See you at 6."

When did that happen, I wonder tangentially. When did 852 Prospect Avenue, Apartment 307, go from ‘the loft’ to home? I guess when Jim knew my impromptu one-week stay was over, sometime around our second year together, and he hung the French doors to my small, first-floor bedroom so I'd have privacy.

Or maybe I just started noticing it when I realized how out of my mind in love with him I was.

That was right around the time I started sizing up -- and envying -- every woman the big guy was dating. But no matter how involved or stimulated my roommate got with them, at the end of the day (or night), he was back with me. No, not in my arms, or in my bed, and certainly not up my ass, but with me just the same. "A Sentinel will always be a Sentinel." Incacha, the Chopec Shaman and Jim's mentor, had said so before he died. The coda to that: a Sentinel will always be with his Guide. (Page one, paragraph one of the Guide's handbook.)

Now I'm intrigued. What's so important that Jim couldn't just leave a message? And why read it there, not here in my Rainier office? I should listen to him. (I should also be taller, richer, drive a better car, and live someplace warm year-round. We can't always get what we want, now can we?)

Let's fire up the old laptop and see what this is all about.

Jesus, 318 e-mails. (I have to unsub from some of these damned lists.)

OK. Six (that's Henry Brown, one of the other detectives Jim works with. Wonder what he's sending me?). No subject. Figures.

Hang on. Here's a It reads: Fwd: How To ...

Poor Ellison. He may be one of the 10 smartest and best-looking men to come down the Sandburg Pike, not to mention one of the truest friends a guy could ever have, but a computer maven he ain't. Bill Gates isn't losing any sleep over Jim Ellison's command of the PC. And as for the Internet, well, let's just say that fear-based reactions rise to the forefront, as Jim systematically is denied access to, commits fatal errors with, or bounces himself out of every website, chat room, and search engine he tackles, on a sadly consistent basis.

That's when the Watchman of Cascade and the Blessed Protector of poor graduate anthropology students everywhere roars in disgust for his personal keyboard virtuoso and 'Net savant. That's me, folks. And that's also why I became the de facto, if unofficial, paperwork and research mule of this police team.

So what's this puppy got in it?


What the hell?

Compliment her, respect her, honor her, cuddle her, kiss her, caress her, love her, stroke her, tease her, comfort her, protect her, hug her, hold her, spend money on her, wine and dine her, buy things for her, listen to her, care for her, stand by her, support her, hold her, go to the ends of the Earth for her.

OK. I don't get it. Wait. There's more.


Show up naked. Bring food.

Excuse me?

SHOW up naked. Bring food.

Can't be.

Show UP naked. Bring food.

Maybe he's kidding.

Show up NAKED. Bring food.

No. And he wouldn't be this cruel.

Show up naked. BRING food.

Or this callous.

Show up naked. Bring FOOD.

Would he?


Any way I say it, it's impossible.

Isn't it?

Maybe Jim's just fooling around.

Nix that. Jim doesn't fool around. At least, not about stuff like this.

So, suppose he's serious. I bet on some subliminal level, his five heightened Sentinel senses must have picked up on how I feel about him and I react to him every time he's nearby. So, what do you think? Is he, like, making an honest-to-God pass at me? Jim? JIM? Mr. Straighter-than-straight? Can it be that Mr. Covert Ops 'I can kill you with a burrito and a beer bottle cap and not leave a flesh-colored puddle" is offering to do the nasty with yours truly?

What did the message say? Let me listen to it again.

"Try to follow the instructions. And, Chief, if you manage to pull it off, I'll be damned impressed. See you at 6."

What's his voice like? Shit. Doesn't sound any different than usual. Pure Ellison. Like velvet torqued by irritation. Still music to these ears.

I need to talk to my roommate, to get the real skinny on this. Wait a minute. Damn it. Jim's in court all day testifying at the Gordon smuggling trial.

Shit. Shitshitshitshitshit. I guess I can't call and ask if he wants to do the wild thing with me, FINALLY, praise whichever gods are listening.

So, how am I supposed to do this, if I decide to do it? Strip down, strut my stuff and have snacks ready?

I'm really beginning to freak here.

I mean, I'm decent-enough looking, and my body's in better shape now that it's ever been, thanks to being dragged over rooftops, sprinting down dark alleys, and swinging onto catwalks following my policeman partner. And this is while I'm only an observer, mind you. Women who've seen me up close and personal seem to like my furry chest, my nipple ring, and the fairly well-defined set of upper body muscles and abs. The ladies also give thumbs up to my being cut. (Thank you, Moil Hershkowitz, for the swell job you did.)

The regular Janes I've dated also seem to be fascinated with my hair and eyes.

Ditto the regular Joes. There haven't been all that many men, and none while I've been living with Jim. What, do I look as though my mom, Naomi, raised a fool? She did not. I could just imagine the conversation between me and the big guy on that particular subject.

But wait a minute, that's when I thought Jim was 100% heterosexual. Maybe he's bisexual, like me. (A friend of mine used to define bisexual as being 100% heterosexual and 100% homosexual. It gave you twice as many dating opportunities.)

Or maybe Jim's just come to the conclusion that I fall someplace into a unique category. Parve. (Neither fish nor fowl.) He might conceivably be Blairsexual. I could live with that.

You know what else? I gotta tell you, I'm almost bat-shit berserk with the possibility of James Joseph Ellison navigating through puberty, adulthood, the Army, the Police Academy, vice, and now Major Crimes without ever having once touched another guy's dick. It makes me wild beyond all rationality.

Six-foot, 200 lb., 40-something Jim Ellison cherry. And all mine.

God, I could use the boner I'm sporting to tell time. Hey, kids, what time is it? It's time for my Sentinel to claim his Guide as his own, and for me to return the favor. Nobody else, ever again for either of us. Hmm.

When I look at his odd request in that light, I could start undressing right now. Of course, the people in cars on either side of the Volvo would be getting an eyeful.

Let me try to calm down here. I still have a half-hour drive home. And I've got to pick up some supplies before I hit the front door.

Food, lube.

Condoms, lube.

Lube, lube. (Hey, it's been a LONG time, and I am so not into pain. And I don't know what Jim is into.)

Don't think of Jim. Don't think of that body a Greek god would covet.

Don't think of those muscles rippling under remarkably hairless skin that probably tastes like wild honey when you suck on it.

And for the love of all that's good and holy, don't get near those rosy nipples and how they'd fit perfectly between your lips.

And then there are the goodies I shouldn't think about. I bet dollars to donuts Jim's cock is like everything else about him -- absolutely perfect. Plum-tipped, nestled on a sac that's a real mouthful.

And as much hell as it is not taking the Cook's tour of my Sentinel's lower regions, I can't even think about those eyes.

Lures to ensnare my weakening resolve.

Traps to capture my willing body.

I have to pull myself together. If I crash the car, I can't very well let the EMT’s report show the biggest injury to the person of one Blair Jacob Sandburg was getting his uncontrollable dick caught in the steering wheel.

My insurance rates are high enough without being reclassified to perv status.


Well, here I am, freshly laundered and shampooed, in Jim's oversized robe, which is the driest thing I could find in the bathroom. We have to fix the shower drain soon. It backs up all the time.

Jim says that since it's my hair clogging it, I should do the honors.

I say we should invite Bob Villa over and have him snake the damned thing.

Jim says I really am an asshole and a slob.

I say he should get his anal-retentive self seriously bent.

The witty repartee never ends.

The navy blue robe smells like Jim, and makes me feel a little lightheaded. Standing -- no, swimming – in it, I feel like the biggest smacked ass in the Western hemisphere.

5:46 pm.

Fourteen minutes and counting. The food's hot. So am I.

How should I do this? Lying on the couch, one leg draped over the arm? With my luck, I'd probably get a cramp somewhere important and be leaping around like a lunatic rubbing things better left unrubbed when Jim walks in.

How about sitting at the dining room table? No. The rick-rack chair pattern on my ass would even make me laugh.

Oh, how about on the table?

Yeah, sure. I can see it now. As I try to be sexy, and slide off the edge, layers of skin from the backs of my thighs would be ripped off in large quantities.

Stretched in front of the fireplace?

Right. One cinder flies out, hits anything important, and it's three hours in Cascade General's Emergency Room. Double that to think of a plausible explanation of how my thatch went up in flames.

Well, I'd better do something quick. At the moment, I look like a pathetic Little Leaguer wearing his older brother's gear -- two images I so do not want to go near during this seduction scenario.

5:52 pm.

Eight minutes. Maybe I should just sit in my bedroom in the buff. Then, when I hear Jim coming in I can ... what? Slink out? Dance out? Bounce out? Oh, Christ, get a grip, Sandburg.

5:58 pm.

OK, where the hell is he? Jim's never just on time. He always comes early.

Strike that.

6:00 pm.



I hear the elevator. Shit. Here goes. God, it's me, Blair. Long time, no see. But, Lord, if you're listening, I'll make this quick. Please let me say the right thing, and do the right thing, to bring Jim and me to love tonight. And, Lord, if you could stop me from doing anything stupid, or that ends up on America's Funniest Home Videos," I'd really appreciate it. Amen.

There's his key in the lock. Oh, Jesus. Let me take this thing off.

Here goes. I pick up the nosh my partner requested, and stand ready.

"Hey, Sandburg, I'm -- " Jim stops in mid-sentence. He looks flummoxed, those baby blues widening to almost comic proportions.

Not exactly hot and bothered.

"Hi, Jim."

"Uh ... uh ... hi, Blair." Jim can barely say my name. Barely. What a droll bastard I can be when I'm going down for the third time. (Going down? It's official. I'm hysterical. And not in a good way.)

Maybe he's just embarrassed.

I know I am. I feel like a schmuck, in the middle of the living room, flapping in the breeze.

Homo erectus. (Guilty on both counts.)

But Jim called me ‘Blair,’ and I haven't been stabbed, shot, or drugged. That's got to mean something. Maybe he's just shy.

Shy? Cross that out. We are talking about one of the most unselfconscious men in the Western hemisphere. Of course, he's also one of the most repressed sons-of-a-bitch this side of Peru. Maybe that's it.

Uh-huh. Like something happened in his childhood. A bad grade in algebra or a klutzy partner in the Fourth of July three-legged race made him want to do me on this crisp April evening.

Talk about grabbing at straws.

"So, Jim ..."

Not taking his eyes off me, Ellison the Stunned tries to hang up his top coat and misses the wall hook by a mile. As it hits the floor, I hear that tone that all police officers use when they're talking a jumper off the roof of a building. "Uh ... are you ... alright, Chief?"

"Well, I'm better than OK, actually. I'm fanfuckingtastic. Now that I know."


"Sure. Your e-mail. I read it."


"Thanks for being so brave."

The pit of my stomach tells me this is the beginning of every nightmare I've ever had, including the one where I'm dating Nancy Reagan. What the hell. I might as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb.

"I would never have made the first move. But I guess you figured out how I felt about you. I like your style, man. Direct, and to the point."

"And you ... and that --" my friend gestures to my lack of and points to a Wonderburger and fries perched temptingly on Carolyn Plummer's (Jim's ex) engraved, silver serving tray in my left hand.

"I followed the instructions." Let's get this show on the road. "Well? Are you?"

"Am I what?"


My Sentinel pours over every inch of my body, the ultimate biological scanner. (Like my own NASA Rover, looking for signs of life, maybe?) As the laser sweep stops right below my waist, I start to feel really, REALLY naked. It's not easy standing in front of someone, knowing you're radiating heat, hormones, and smells of arousal, when the other person is wearing Armani, and a not altogether, unfamiliar look.

I've seen jungle cats with that same feral look -- just before they pounce on their prey.

Then I zero in on his pupils. Now, pay attention, class. Questions will be asked. Physiology 101 tells us that when the human animal is presented with something he (or she) finds desirable, his (or her) pupils will dilate to take in the view, so to speak.

Jim's are the size of hubcaps. In plain language, he likes what he sees. A lot. Ellison wants. His skin is flushing a burnished gold color, from the top of that wonderfully hair-challenged head down the corded neck to the small "v" of flesh at the opening of the white-on-white shirt collar. Did I mention that my partner cleans up nicely, particularly wearing the expensive, designer suit his dad, William, and brother, Steven, gave him for Christmas?

Edible. That's all I can say. Blair Sandburg's version of the ultimate Happy Meal.

"Impressed? Yeah. That probably would be a good word for it."

"So, Detective Ellison, what's your pleasure? This?" I waft the food under his sensitive nose. "Or this?" I take my right hand and, with as much grace as I can muster, let it sweep down my body from shoulder level to my knees. "Jim? Jim?"

Oh, Jesus H. Christ on a cross. Not now. He can't hear me. Jim's taken a bypass into the gray world of a Sentinel's zoneout. I quickly throw the platter on the kitchen counter, then grab both his hands in mine. Gently, I massage them as I use my ‘Guide’ voice to summon him.

"Come back, lover. Follow my voice. Come back now." I take his right hand and place it over my heart. It's beating so wildly, I can almost see the damned thing through my chest wall. (The Guide's heartbeat is a beacon to a Sentinel -- the ultimate homing device.)

That does the trick.

Jim blinks several times, slowly starts to refocus before finding his voice and whispering the $64,000 question: "Lover? Did you say lover, Sandburg? You're not screwing around with me, are you?" His voice is gravelly, hesitant, with what sounds like an overlay of passion to me.

"Not yet. But the night's young."

Now it's my turn to blush furiously. I can even feel my tuckus taking on a decidedly pinkish hue. I'd say more, but the next thing I know, Jim's hands are wedged under my armpits, and he lifts me effortlessly off the ground. (How strong is this guy, anyway?)

Instinctively, for safety’s sake as much as for ardor’s, I wrap my legs around his surprisingly small waist. Shit, I hope I don't shoot my wad on the single-breasted suit jacket. The cleaning bill will be a bitch. (And knowing Jim better than anybody else in the whole wide world, he'll make me pay for it.)

I wind my arms tightly around his neck as Jim claws my back and starts sniffing me. Honest to God. Like a carnivore in close proximity to dinner. ("Eat me! Eat me!" I try to encourage him psychically.) This has got to be another Sentinel thing. (Courtship rituals, maybe?)

"Blair, Blair, Blair ..." Jim begins to chant my name like a newly-discovered mantra, mumbling it in my slightly-damp hair. "You really want me, baby?"

Baby. Fuck. A million bucks after taxes couldn't sound any better than that one word on Jim Ellison's lips. Lips that are now sucking on my earlobe and the side of my neck.

Biting. Ouchouchouchouch. He's biting me. Hard. It hurts. No, wait, it doesn't. It does, but, it's starting to feel good. Too good. Who would have guessed my shoulder was attached to my cock?

"Jim! Stop! Please! I'm going to come if you don't!" Oblivious to the pleading, my partner's pressing me so tightly against his torso, I know I'm going to have button-shaped bruises on my poor, trapped tool tomorrow. If I survive until then.

And now we're moving upstairs to his big bed. Action Central. How'd that happen?

Right about now, I'm starting to shake with anticipation, lust, and some good, old-fashioned fear. Well, maybe apprehension's a better word.

Nah. Fear nails it.

I'm afraid this is the biggest mistake of my life. That I'm going to ruin the best relationship I've ever had. Worse, suppose Jim thinks it first, never wants me again -- even if it was his idea -- and won't be able to live with what we've done. I'll lose everything -- friend, lover, home -- all in one fell swoop.

I'm terrified of the ‘morning after.’ Hell, I'm freaking out over the next 20 minutes.

Apparently, my mind is the only ‘girly man’ in the vicinity. My groin, my ass, and my dick -- most especially my dick -- are all fearless. Their rally cry seems to be, "Do it! Do it now!"

Suddenly, I'm on my back, surrounded by an ocean of comforter, one hairy leg somehow half-slung over my partner's still-clothed shoulders, splayed wide open and ready.

What comes next are gel-covered fingers wiggling furiously where the sun doesn't shine. (Jim must have found the new tube of lube on the nightstand next to the condoms.)

And either he's a natural at this, or he's done it before. My Sentinel's opening me up like a big, shiny, for-his-eyes-only Christmas present.

"Tell me, baby."

I'm past caring about tomorrow. I have to, no, I need to say it out loud. "I lo-lo-lo-" but I can't finish the word. I can't think. I can only feel, as my nails dig savagely into the soft material beneath me and my higher mental functions morph into brain goo. Somehow, I gurgle a facsimile of his name.

"Jim ... oh, Jim ..."

I can't believe what happens next. My right leg's brought down and held in place next to the left one, as my Sentinel's supersensitive lips purse around the head of my cock. The tip of his tongue pokes playfully into the Little Professor's slit before I thrust as hard as I can and slalom down Jim's throat. I'm being swallowed to the hilt. (This is SO good, I'd need three weeks and a dozen pens to explain why.) I'm still among the living until I hit the back of his throat. The old epiglottal massage. And then, one long, careful finger scrapes over something buried deep within me, something I'd almost forgotten I'd had. Again, and again, and again.

That does it. I shoot off like the proverbial Roman candle. More like the 25-inch Millennium shell. The only thing missing is a throng of people oohing and aahing at the display. And cheering wildly. I would, but I can't seem to do anything except make little panting, whimpering noises.

When my eyes finally uncross, and I stop spurting and shaking, I realize that large hands are running up and down my trunk and thighs, reassuringly. Finally, I slip from my wonderful new berth. I want to cry from the loss, but Jim stops me with a face-sucking, mind-robbing, soul-shattering, Blair-flavored kiss. (I never actually knew my spunk had a slightly piquant taste until now.)

Blairspunk. Recycled Blair Sandburg. Funny one.

Then, I remember something even funnier. I start to lose it, even as I'm leaning into Jim's welcoming mouth. He stops, tilts his head to one side. So Ellison-ish.

"Glad my technique amuses you, Sandburg." The outrageously handsome face of my new/forever lover growls.

"Nah, man. I was just remembering an ad I saw on a bus once."

"An ad? You're thinking about advertising now? You're weird. You know that, don't you?"

"What's your point?" We're bantering. I'm naked. He isn't. Things must be OK between us. Jim sighs, somewhere between tolerance and resignation. "So what did the damned thing say?"

"Protein -- at a price that's still easy to swallow."

A tiny chuckle escapes from behind those dazzling pearly whites of his. It not so much grows as evolves into a gut-busting roar. Ellison's still laughing, as he gets off the bed and begins to slowly -- and I'm talking s-l-o-w-l-y -- peel off the jacket and shirt, flinging them onto the chair in the far corner of the bedroom.

If I didn't know it was love before, I do now. This is the man who'd slap Martha Stewart for not being neat enough. It's a declaration of love 100 feet high. (Well, maybe only 6,' but that's good enough for me.)

Toeing his shoes off, throwing his pants, boxers and socks onto the floor, I get to see Jim Ellison as the Supreme Being intended me to. I'm struck with the certainty that only a higher power could have created anything so wonderful, and housed an equally magnificent, if somewhat wounded, soul in its confines.

Throwing me “The Smile” -- the one that could melt polar icecaps -- Jim slides effortlessly into my waiting arms, as though it's the most natural place in the world for him to be. I guess it is. As he fondles my nipple, lazily circling the ring that pierces it, he decides to make small talk. Can you believe it? My body’s begging to play 'Hide the Salami,' and he wants to chat.

"So, let me get this straight, Sandburg. The e-mail I sent you brought this on?"

"Well, sure. Why wouldn't it have?"

"An e-mail about plumbing made you want to shock the shit out of me?"


"Yeah. H.'s uncle is a master plumber, and he gave me a sure-fire way to unplug any pipe backed up with this." He gives my curls a playful tug.

"Unclogging the shower?" Oops. Fucking oops.

"And you didn't ..." I shut my mouth. I am NOT going there. I read the wrong e-mail, got naked and had sex with my very male partner, instead of cleaning out a drain.

Oh, well. So we blew out a different set of pipes.

"Yeah. Pay attention. Isn't that what we're talking about? Does sex always affect you this way?"

"No, but losing enough body fluids to build a better anthropologist does." His laughter tells me Jim's happy. He's so frigging beautiful when he's like this, I can't put it into words.

Back to small talk. "So, Ellison, tell me. If I'd done that, would you have been impressed?"

"Impressed? I would have been fucking astounded."

"Well, sorry to disappoint you, man, but I didn't get around to it."

"After what just happened, Sandburg, I think I can let you slide for a day or two. Now, why don't you give me a big, wet, sloppy kiss, and drag that little bucket butt of yours onto my lap, and we'll just see what pops up."

My face is treated to another round of intense milking by my single-minded, totally-focused Sentinel lover, as I think random thoughts about universal joints, ballcocks, and what a good flushing can do for a person now and then. Latching onto Jim Ellison's waiting lips and finally sliding down onto his very evident manhood, I sigh, amazed at how this snafu ended -- and how the cosmos does have a wacky sense of humor.

So, other than being split in two, I'm just terrific. So's Jim, as he continues to rock me back and forth with such lusty abandon, I'll be lucky if I can walk, much less sit down, in the next few days. Thanks for asking.

Oh, and as for the drain, I'll tell you if I end up taking care of it. Much, much later.

Better yet, I'll send you an e-mail.

The end

Back to the Slashdex

Acknowledgements: Thanks to fellow Mongoosians (editors, writers, betas, artists, et al) who encourage me -- and one another-- to keep cranking these puppies out. We all hope you appreciate the effort.