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Paybacks And Nicknames
By Akablonded
I've always known that paybacks are a bitch. One of those 'written in stone somewhere' things. And there seems to be no statutes of limitations on good paybacks.
I have a theory about them. (If you stick around Blair Sandburg long enough, you'll find out I have a theory about pretty much everything.) Paybacks become more sophisticated and precision-targeted the longer and better the 'paybacker' knows the 'paybackee.'
It was true during Jim Ellison's and my first few years together, when the Major Crimes Detective was 'just' the subject of my anthropological thesis, and I was his unofficial police observer. It's certainly true now that we've become officially partnered by the Cascade PD.
Oh, yes, and since my Blessed Protector and I have been scorching the same set of sheets as lovers, well, paybacks have been elevated to an artform.
Maybe it's because our deepest connection, the overriding one that has us hard-wired into another, makes everything so much 'more.' See, we're Sentinel and Guide. Not familiar with the terminology? OK, even though I don't teach for a living anymore, here goes. A Sentinel, someone like my Jim, possesses five heightened senses developed far beyond what we like to think of as 'normal.' A Sentinel is genetically pre-disposed and driven to serve and protect the village, whether it's a small, native enclave hidden in the jungles of Peru (that's where Captain James Ellison, U.S. Army Ranger, first became aware of his extraordinary gifts), or a mid-sized, 'in-plain-sight' city like Cascade, Washington, where we met and now live.
Jim Ellison. What a piece of work. One of God's best human templates. All 6', 200 lb., losing his hair, body to-die-for, heart and soul to-live-for James Joseph Ellison. The Watchman of his village and tribe. And me, his Guide.
I'm the other half of the equation.
The Guide is the quintessential back-up. He or she's the one who helps a Sentinel control those senses, and pretty much keeps it all together. That's my ... job isn't the word. Oh, what the hell. It's what I was born to 'be.' And I 'do' it for one special Sentinel. Jim.
A Sentinel needs a Guide. It's like words and music. Spaghetti and marinara sauce. Leather and ... leather. Seriously, all of it would be too hard to live with, too difficult to deal with, day in and day out, alone.
Together, we're ... transcendent. And that was even before sex and horizontal mamboing upped the ante.
When Jim and I started out, it was as friends. Never casual acquaintances. From day one, page one, we were a team. A mighty confused, argumentative, uncertain, pain in my ass/his ass team, but a team, nonetheless.
The team got stronger as we began to trust each other more and more.
I knew we'd arrived at a special plateau, when Jim exchanged "Why should I do that, Sandburg?" for "How can I do that, chief?" That was around the time of Blair Sandburg's Very Excellent Borneo Adventure, and our Captain, Simon Banks, being lost and presumed dead in South America, along with his son, Darryl.
Fighting most of the way, Jim and I eventually found and saved them.
As importantly, we also rediscovered and saved our friendship. I traded Borneo for the brass ring. I just didn't know it at the time.
Sorry, if I'm rambling, but I was just 'Ellisoned.' Translation: I was loved, fucked, eaten, worshipped, mauled, and balled. All before 7:00 AM. God help us when we retire, in like 30 years, and have spare time on our hands. Hey, I'll be a puddle of goo by then. They'll have to beat the erection off Jim (figuratively speaking) when he's 100. I've never met anyone so sensual and sexual, and so totally at ease with it. I guess it's just the nature of the beast. It's got to be his genes. Or maybe it's his jeans. They're too tight, too form-fitting, too "Here, Sandburg. Come, Sandburg. This is all for you, Sandburg."
I'm 10 years younger, and I don't know where I'm going to find the strength to keep up -- and keep 'it' up.
Listen, there are worse ways to hit the Pearly Gates than to be runover and overrun by a strapping, lusty Sentinel.
***
Where was I? Oh, yeah. Paybacks.
And nicknames.
He said he came up with my nickname when I was jiggling and bouncing (his words) around in the cab of the Ford, during an excruciatingly boring stakeout. In that people-friendly way he has, Jim ripped me a new one. 'Jesus H. Christ, Sandburg. Sit still. You couldn't be dancing around any more if you were on fire!"
To which I replied, patting the magnificent, angular cheek of his nearest me: "But you love me anyway."
He snorted. "Well, I guess I'd piss on you to put out the fire."
"You say 'potato,' I say 'potahto.' It's still love. Right, 'Lick'?"
That got him. He spit taste-challenged coffee out over those perfect white teeth of his.
"Sandburg! Stop it! Right now! We're working!"
'Lick' is the nickname I coined for my S.O. (Sentinel Other?) Actually, it's not so much a nickname as a way of life. I say it. He does it. Lick. Lick. Lick. Lick. Lick. Lick this. Lick that. Here a lick. There a lick. Everywhere, a ... well, you get the idea.
It's so Pavlovian, it borders on the scary. But scary has to stand 300 paces behind body-pounding, mind-blowing, and soul-satisfying.
When Jim's operating on pure Sentinel instinct -- like when I duck under his radar with the word and he becomes focused on me, and me alone -- there's nothing more intense. Or formidable.
On the other side of the ledger sheet, when I'm operating in full Guide mode, I expand my control to fit the situation. There's nothing more natural for me. Or more challenging. Or down-right wicked.
OK. I admit it. I have an 'unorthodox' sense of humor. If I didn't, would I be trying to incorporate Jim's trigger word -- 'lick' -- into every tenth sentence I toss out at Major Crimes? Or during the seventh inning stretch at a ballgame? Or at the Mayor's Dinner for Literacy last week? I really hated seeing Cop of the Year Jim Ellison dribble creme brulee down his chin that way. But what did Val Kilmer's character say in that nerds-in-science movie? "It's a moral imperative." So who would have thought that a conversation thread beginning with "We need a plan to 'lick' the problem, your honor, and have it stay 'licked'" could cause the hapless Ellison to lose it, big-time, in front of Hizzoner and Missus Mayor. (I'm glad the dessert incident didn't ruin my partner's mood or that fantastic tuxedo he was wearing. If you haven't seen Jim dressed to the nines, you don't know what handsome is. Let's just say he cleans up real well.)
Later that night, I was 'punished' for taking advantage. Man, it hurt SO good, I'd need a dozen pens and at least six weeks to tell you why. And 'how.' Let's just say that 'Pantherman' turned me every which way but loose.
And none too quietly. The neighbors must be delighted. We rut pretty regularly during the week. The weekends are a fuckfest. The walls aren't all that thick. Neither are the floors. And we usually keep the windows open. So you can imagine that we're pretty much the topic of idle conversation among the other apartment dwellers. The looks I get in the hallway at 852 Prospect are an amalgam of admiration, envy, and sympathy. One or two brave souls have asked solicitously if I'm on a special kind of diet. (What? Oysters and Viagra?)
Anyway, 'Lick' is Jim's defacto nickname. Personally, I think it's a hoot. It kind of evolved during those first erotic steps we took toward where we ended up. In love, in lust, in Jim's bed, with him on the bottom, and me riding him good and proper.
See, I have a unique position where Jim Ellison is concerned. No one's ever been 'top gun' for him before. And no one ever will again. Ever. There will only be me in his life. Since I help handle and guide his extraordinary senses every day, I get the unparalleled pleasure of handling and guiding his fit body, gentle soul, and rather impressive dick every night.
It's just another facet of our bond, one which happens to come with depth, commitment, its own handcuffs, and industrial size tube of K-Y Jelly. (I'm kidding. KY doesn't make one big enough for me and my main man. Unless they've just started producing a six-pack "for when the gang gets together.")
Get the picture, the lay of the land, as it were, here in West Ellison, WA?
Listen, I don't mean to sound flippant about what Jim and I have. If I let my feelings start to pour out, I'd never be able to stop. I'm so fucking blessed, I can't even put it into words.
So, you're wondering about my nickname. Any guesses?
I hear someone shouting 'Topper.' Very funny. And accurate. No.
'Slick?' Too much Jack Prendergast in that one. No.
'Squirt?' That's actually terrific, because I do when I ... but, no.
I'll give you a hint. Think Disney. Think little. Think energetic. Think furry. Think a fluffy, in-charge, enthusiastic kind of guy.
Before I tell you, let me set the scene on how I was introduced to the moniker. I had Jim on all fours, naked, head and arms down, ass up, sweat streaming off his body, filled to the hilt with my cock, begging me to finish him off. There I was, banging away so hard it felt as though I was going to drive him right through the wall and into a major concussion. The sound of my balls rhythmically slapping against my lover's buttocks would have made a movie sound man cringe. Finally, I heard it. I believe his exact phrase was, "More! Deeper! Drill me! Give it to me ..."
And then he said it. "Fuck me blind, Thumper!"
Thumper? As in Thumper Rabbit? Bambi's Thumper?
Do you know how hard it is to 'do' your lover's ass when you're laughing your own off?
***
I have a better desk in the Metro bullpen these days, now that I'm Jim Ellison's 'real' partner. I even got a nameplate -- Det. B. Sandburg -- as part of the deal. But what stopped me cold this morning was what was sitting next to it. The big guy was nowhere to be found. But I'm sure he was lurking somewhere nearby, listening with Sentinel ears, to my reaction.
I'm hysterical.
It's our first 'Christmas as a Couple' tree ornament. It's Thumper Rabbit.
And Mr. Disney must be spinning in his grave. Some sick son-of-a-bitch has glued a tiny little whip to his right paw, and even smaller pair of handcuffs in the other. "'Lick,' you're twisted, you're mental. I like that in someone I love." I whisper. "And you'll pay for it. Mark my words."
Hey, Walt, get over it. 'Thumper' has spoken.
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