lyricwheel fic 2!
What in the hell, man, this was supposed to be short.
Torii Hunter/Johan Santana, Torii Hunter/Mark Teixeira
rated R
3,953 words
for the 'First times' challenge over at the sslyricwheel. Lyrics were Paper Planes by MIA, sent by solookup.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. It is in no way a reflection on the actual life, behavior, or character of any of the people featured, and there are no connections or affiliations between this fictional story and the people or organizations it mentions. It was not written with any intent to slander or defame any of the people featured. No profit has been or ever will be made as a result of this story: it is solely for entertainment. And again, it is entirely fictional, i.e. not true.
learn it well
A sport like this, nobody's gay. Nobody's that thing, nobody's that kind of guy. Learn that early, or get the hell out. Torii, he had that choice, way back, and it wasn't hardly even a choice. Had his whole damn life to get the hell out, didn't he, but baseball? That wasn't something that was waiting around for him. Baseball didn't wait for anybody. So he learned early, he sucked it up and stuck it out and never looked back, never regretted, not for a second. Baseball was the right thing, sometimes the Right Thing, the only and most right thing in his entire life.
Still, a guy wants to get laid, right? And it wasn't easy, he wouldn't ever try and claim it as an easy thing, not with his teammates going out and getting laid every night of the week and triple the fucking on weekends, if they wanted, and him jacking off to internet porn with more pixels than naked skin.
Whatever, he maintained for a few years, 'tho looking back he's got no idea how. Keeping his nuts happy with his right hand and a few paranoid offseason hookups every winter wasn't any kind of sex life, but he was just a skinny little kid with less power than a triple-A battery. He was, shit, he was lucky they kept running his weak ass out there at all, he wasn't about to go tempting fate or front offices by letting his dick lead him 'round by the nose.
Few years in-- his third full year in the bigs-- he started getting good. He tweaked his swing, got himself a new stance, and suddenly it didn't matter one bit that his ass was still skinny, 'cause power was all in bat speed, and you didn't have to be no kind of steroid pusher to have a fast bat. He started to hit, that year, and going good at the plate gave him that extra little lift in his cleats in the field. Started calling him Spiderman, they did, people on the TV and in the papers. 'Cause the outfield wall in the Metrodome, it's soft, see? like a kinda plastic bag stretched taut, so he didn't hardly have to cut his speed coming at it and sometimes he could kinda run up it, 'cause his spikes would dig in.
So he made some nice catches and he hit home runs in the double digits for the first time and his name was going around the MVP talks some, 'tho not ever real serious. Got a Gold Glove that year too; his first, but no way his last.
And he figured, ain't nobody kicking him out now just on a rumor. Minnesota, they were starting to call him Their Guy. Franchise. Rookie, backup, those were guys getting kicked on say-so and nobody to come calling asking why they were gone. Kick a franchise guy, though, and there'd be accounting for it, you bet your ass. Nobody kicked a franchise guy without damn good reason: the papers noticed, the fans noticed, questions got asked. And he was bringing in money anyhow, a little bit. It didn't take long for his jersey to be the one selling best, and that was about as good as it got so far as job security went in this city.
He'd made the choice: out and proud, or baseball. And he wasn't going against that, he'd still choose baseball today and damn the blue balls, but if he could play and get some play without worrying about finding his ass out on the street, well. Hafta be some kinda fool to not look into that.
----
Looking, he'd been doing that for years. There was plenty to look at if you happened to be a gay guy with access to big league locker rooms and goddamn, if he wasn't getting laid, the least he could do was let his eyes have some fun. Jacque Jones, now there was a good looking man, head to toe, nothing Torii was gonna get tired of looking at no time soon. Doug Mientkiewicz had a damn fine ass for a white guy, and dude was flexible. Brad Radke was A-OK if you wanted to think 'bout holding down the prototype good American boy and fucking him silly, making him lose that famous control. And they had this new pitcher, Johan Santana, prettiest damn mouth in the state, just about.
Guys up here, though, they had everything working against them. They got years of learning, Little League on up-- high school, college, minors-- every level telling them how to be a man, and being a man, that didn't include gay. Not for these guys, these pros. And there were years back there, years and years and decades, history of baseball and shit, and all those years chock full up with guys who Played the Game Right and who were Real Ballplayers, not a one of 'em gay.
Didn't mean there was no way to find someone to fuck you up the ass; didn't even mean nobody'd let you fuck them up the ass. Didn't mean no handjobs, no blowjobs, no sex on the job. Those things, sure, weren't too easy to come by, but for a guy with the confidence that his team needed him more'n he needed them, yeah, it was a possible thing.
All it meant was that he ended up being everyone's first time.
His first-- no way his first with guys, but his first ballplayer-- was that very same Santana, unreal pretty mouth and all. Kid was all of 22, all big dark eyes and lips so soft they may's well been straight off a chick. Torii'd approached him real careful, like he'd ease up to a skittish horse if he was the kinda dude who went around and, whatever you did with horses, rode 'em and raced 'em or pranced 'em around or whatever.
He knew the kid didn't have any kind of experience with it. Not that anybody'd told him, but you didn't have to be a shrink to see that Santana looked at dick like some kinda goddamn forbidden fruit, the kind of look you go 'round giving only if you never touched something but wanted to real bad. To see that all you needed was OK eyesight and a healthy dose of gay, and Torii, he had plenty of both.
It'd only taken a couple weeks to get Santana to ask. Guerilla tactics: walking around the clubhouse after games in a towel for longer'n usual, leaning on the wall next to Santana's locker with his hips canted out for balance, scratching low on his stomach all casual-like. Like he didn't notice how Santana started flushing and crashing through the language barrier even crazier'n normal when he did it.
When Santana finally asked, it was damn near excruciating-- all hesitant and nervous and lookin' over his shoulder every few words he managed, like he was scared Torii was gonna go run to Kelly and tell him the new kid was into dick or sin or whatever. Torii had been 'bout as patient as he could be, 'cause he had an idea how it could tear into a person, being raised up thinking this was about as wrong as it gets, knowing baseball wouldn't have none of it, and wanting it just the same. And, hell, Santana was hot, with that compact body carved out that way only baseball could make it, and Torii, he was willing to wait long as it took to get a piece of that.
Get it he did-- after calming Santana down long enough to make him realize wasn't nobody gonna punch him in the face, after coaxing him into Torii's apartment and out of his pants, after Torii finally said fuck it and grabbed Santana's hands and pressed them up against his stomach himself (because there didn't seem to be a way to make the kid realize he was allowed to touch, now). It was real slow and real sweet, lots of is this OK? and can I...? and oh... oh, madre de dios, yes.
Next day, Santana was walking around with a dumb smile half a mile wide on his face, and Torii couldn't hide the little spring in his step either. It went on another couple months, long enough for him to teach Santana the basics: the kid on his knees, hands braced on Torii's thighs, putting that mouth to the purpose it'd so clearly been made for; the kid on his back, tidy pitcher's fingernails dragging down the backs of Torii's shoulderblades as he snapped their hips together and showed the kid how much fun a little friction could be; the kid on all fours, braced against Torii's thrusts and groaning like he'd gone and forgot how to form words.
Good couple of months, sure thing... but that was all it was, a couple of months. 'Cause it wasn't like Santana was head-over-heels in love with Torii or anything, he was just a confused kid and Torii was 'bout as safe an option as there was. Once Santana'd figured out who he was, what he wanted, well, he'd realized there was a whole world out there, full up with men, and at least some of 'em were gay. It wasn't as safe as fucking another ballplayer-- two ballplayers together, you knew neither one of 'em was gonna out the other, 'cause that'd be just as good as outing his own self-- but it wasn't like the kid was gonna spend the whole rest of his life holding Torii's hand.
A few weeks after that, they were playing in Detroit and Matt Anderson, the Tigers closer, came over to the visitor's clubhouse after the game. Torii went out in the hallway, wondering why in the hell this guy wanted to talk to him, some Twin he hadn't never talked to before.
Anderson was twisting his hands around and around, real nervous, and right away Torii knew. He just knew it, somehow.
"OK, first off?" he said. "You gotta not be so obvious. Like, walkin' over to the other clubhouse and askin' me to come out and talk to you? That's obvious, man."
The look on Anderson's face had been worth it.
----
Thing is, baseball's like a big family. Everyone's all up in everyone else's business for at least seven months outta the year, and you can be as discreet as anything and it'll still be hard to keep a secret. Torii wouldn't say that Santana went 'round spreading rumors or nothing, 'cause he knows that's not how it happened, but one nervous, curious guy says something to the kid, the kid mentions Torii, not even meaning anything by it... the curious guy says something to the next guy he sucks off on a road trip... the next guy slips it into a conversation with a teammate...
Shit gets around, is the point. And the thing is, everyone knows it's supposed to be a secret, so it's not like anyone's shouting it from dugout rooftops, and the only people who know are the guys who kinda have the same secret anyhow.
Seven years ago, Torii would've freaked, sure 'nough. People fucking knew! That he was gay! He was, like, the go-to gay guy. 'Cause after Santana, after Anderson, after Beltran, after Broussard and Blake (the same night, in '03, and that was one for the memory banks), after a whole bunch of guys, Torii realized that when a ballplayer started, whatever, questioning his stance on dick or whatever it was they did, some kind-hearted soul on their team would point them towards Torii.
He was good at it. Calming guys down. Showing them a good time-- showing them how to have a good time. Teaching, yeah, and maybe in another life if he hadn't chosen baseball he could've had himself a little classroom somewhere. Kids bringing him apples and shit.
Apparently he was good-looking enough that all these guys didn't mind coming to him for their first time with a dude. Hard to get upset about that.
Seven years ago, he wouldn't have been no kind of OK with this. But he had those seven years to get his skinny ass used to it, and he wasn't a quarter so scared about getting kicked off the team as he used to be. So he was the gay sex guru or what-the-fuck-ever: meant he got laid every now and then, no denying that was an improvement. Still, it wasn't like he was a hundred percent happy about the whole situation, and it wasn't like he didn't worry at all, especially when he, oh god, left Minnesota and the Twins and the Dome and everything safe he'd known for the past eleven years.
It didn't turn out so different, though. Not that he'd say it wasn't different-- the city, the kinds of fans, the weather, the way the team was run, the driving, the nightlife, playing outside every day at home-- but he wasn't treated any different, and if people knew, well, they just kept it to their own selves, which was fine with him, you bet.
Didn't nobody come up and ask for nothing from him, aside from baseball, and he had plenty of that to give, ready and willing. Hitting and fielding and smiling for the fans, that's what they wanted from him here in Anaheim. Torii went and bought himself a pair of big fucking sunglasses and smiled every bit as much as the front office wanted. It was kinda weird, playing the wind all the time now, instead of just on trips, but the way the real honest-to-god grass in the outfield was kind to his knees more than made up for it.
Making friends, it turned out, wasn't too hard either. Minnesota was one of those places known for friendly locals, and fuck knows SoCal wasn't, but baseball is baseball is baseball (except maybe someplace like New York, and Torii wasn't exactly racing to test that one out). There were some good guys on the pitching staff-- Frankie Rodriguez, who was tough shit but a big softy on the inside; Ervin Santana, El Meneo, who was a quiet guy but tough shit on the inside; Jon Garland who remembered the Central just like Torii did. Good guys covering the short turf-- Chone Figgins, who was always up for a night on the town; Robb Quinlan, who was not-so-secretly a Twins fan at heart and found all kinds of ways to embarrass Torii early on. Good guys sharing the outfield with him, too-- like he ever thought he'd get a chance to play right up alongside Vlad Guerrero.
And then there'd been Tex.
Mark Teixeira seemed so confused to find himself on the Angels halfway through the season that it wasn't hardly a thing Torii had to think about, inviting the guy out to show him around town, sitting with him in team meetings and on team plane trips. Truth was, Torii, he'd been a leader-- the leader-- for so long in Minnesota that it kinda came to him natural. He didn't set out to get friendly with Teixeira or nothing. It was all autopilot. Tex, he seemed to be so grateful to not be left all on his own, floundering in the California sun, that he'd latched right onto Torii 'bout as tight as a guy could in half a season.
It should've been annoying, but wasn't. Down at the center of all the bluster and brag and shit that made a pro ballplayer a pro ballplayer, Tex was just a good guy. He walked around like he didn't know which way was ass-up half the time, but he still played as hard as he could, every day (and watching Tex hit-- well, the man could play hard). He believed in God and Country and Baltimore Crabcakes. He was straight-up genuinely nice while he was hanging around Torii, and that wasn't anythhing that should've mattered. It was a little naive and a little eye-roll-inducing and Torii still found himself smiling like an idiot when Tex came back to the bar table with Torii's favorite beer after not even asking which he wanted. That kinda shit. It was dumb, but-- what the hell.
Torii'd had friends in baseball for worse reasons.
----
So he wasn't no way prepared, see, when Tex came up to him in the Minneapolis hotel bar and awkwardly asked if they could maybe go up to one of their rooms to talk. It tore at his heart in unexpected ways, being back in Minnesota in Angel red, so he was heading towards a mess anyhow, some kind of wistful, and he'd wanted steady, solid, friendly Tex, the guy he'd gone to protect and ended up liking, the guy he'd ended up liking almost in spite of himself.
He'd looked at Tex-- the way he wouldn't catch Torii's eye, the way he was perched real nervous on the edge of his stool, the way his shoulders were leaning in while his head was leaning out-- and at first he refused to believe it. No way. He wasn't seeing this shit. Except he was, and that was Tex right there in front of him, large as life and awkward as a newborn idiot, doing the silent oh god I think I might be having gay thoughts and I heard you're the guy to talk to about that dance just like he'd seen it a hundred times before.
They went up to Torii's room to talk. What was he supposed to do, tell the guy no and, fuck knows, traumatize him for life or something?
Tex opened his mouth, no doubt aiming to launch into some excruciating, stammering account of the state of his nuts, and Torii just couldn't do it. He just. He just couldn't do it anymore.
Thing was, he knew how the story went. Tex would say he'd heard from a friend of a friend of a friend of an acquaintance that Torii was-- and Torii wouldn't deny it none, because he couldn't stone cold lie to a friend like that. Tex would say that he'd been having these thoughts and these feelings for oh so long, and he didn't know what to do with none of 'em, and if Torii could help him figure it out-- and Torii would do it, because he couldn't stone cold turn down a friend like that, not on something meaning so much to him.
And when he'd tried it out, Tex would either realize it was something he had to try once and now it was out of his system, or else he'd go off and find some other guys to try it out with, see how deep that thing ran. Either way, the story ended with Torii back where he always was, always getting the first time and never getting the last.
He was sick of it. He was straight fucking sick of being everyone's first time.
"Here's what you're gonna do," he said, right over Tex's open mouth and all the words he didn't get out yet, all the shit Torii had no kind of interest in hearing. Tex's mouth stayed hanging open, his eyes widening in shock, and of course he hadn't ever heard Torii talk like this, harsh and strung tight, but there weren't many guys in Minnesota or out of it who'd seen Torii at his breaking point.
Knocked something sharply askew in Torii's chest, seeing that stunned look on Tex's face. Wasn't anything he was expecting, but it wasn't as big a surprise as it maybe should've been, and that. That should've told him something.
Deep breath.
"Here's what you're gonna do, OK. You want, I know you wanna do this thing, but I ain't gonna be your test pony."
"I, Torii, that's not--"
"I know that ain't how you mean it, but that's how it's gonna go, and I--" and just like that he knew how it had to go, if it was gonna go at all. Do this shit enough years, you earn a lightning-strike gun-shot-sound revelation every once in a fucking while.
He looked Tex right in the face, 'cause he hadn't ever looked away from anything and this would've been a shit time to start. "You wanna do this, you go out and try this shit somewhere else. You just. Just go and try whatever shit you wanna try, and if you still wanna try it with me after, then. We'll talk."
"But, I. I want you to be, I mean, for my first--"
"First don't matter." He said it maybe a little too urgent, a little bit too intense, but everyone had a breaking point, and he'd been skirting 'round the edges of his for almost eight years now. "First don't matter none. It's everything after that what matters."
No way the hardest thing he ever had to do, sending Tex out of that room unmoored and untouched. There was giving up sex for baseball, for one thing, and giving up college for the gamble of the pros, and any number of other hard-ass things he'd had to do, one time or another. This wasn't in no way the hardest, but that didn't make it one damn bit easier.
----
It was hard, having that postseason up in front of you all tantalizing and teasing, having that promise of October baseball stolen away while everyone was still reeling with some kinda jet lag, but hey, that's baseball. So he hadn't won it all yet. Torii'd been to the postseason before and he figured to be back again, and one of these years. One of these years.
Trying to find the sweet in all that bitter wasn't easy, but Torii wasn't ever the kinda guy to drown in bitter when there was something better around. He could enjoy some nicer weather back home without packing up his shit a third time and flying south for the winter, for one thing. He had a real nice SoCal house and a real nice SoCal car and a real nice SoCal flat-screen TV, and now he had all kinds of time to enjoy the three of 'em.
He wasn't expecting Tex to show up soon as they got home from Boston. Wasn't expecting the pale, drawn look on his face, like he'd been hearing that final walkoff call on replay in his head all day and night long. Wasn't expecting Tex to throw his arms around him as soon as he opened the door.
"No first times," Tex said, somewhere down in the vicinity of Torii's shoulder.
"Yeah?" Torii tugged him in and toed the door shut. Wasn't like his neighbors gave a shit anyhow-- SoCal, man-- but better safe'n sorry.
Tex nodded, the bridge of his nose rubbing across Torii's collarbone.
"And you still--" But that was a fucking stupid question, wasn't it, 'cause Tex was here, and he was hugging Torii way past the time he could've let go and claimed heterosexual passionate aggression.
Tex nodded again anyhow. He was big and warm and solid in Torii's arms, and fuck if he didn't enjoy the hell outta that enough to slide a hand down and squeeze a big guilty-pleasure handful of Tex's ass.
Tex gasped his name, Torii, sharp and choked on his lips, not a friend noise and not a nervous trembling kid noise. Something else. Sounded real good, if you asked Torii, and he didn't mind none hearing it for the first time, 'cause he knew, easy enough, wasn't no way the last.
Torii Hunter/Johan Santana, Torii Hunter/Mark Teixeira
rated R
3,953 words
for the 'First times' challenge over at the sslyricwheel. Lyrics were Paper Planes by MIA, sent by solookup.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. It is in no way a reflection on the actual life, behavior, or character of any of the people featured, and there are no connections or affiliations between this fictional story and the people or organizations it mentions. It was not written with any intent to slander or defame any of the people featured. No profit has been or ever will be made as a result of this story: it is solely for entertainment. And again, it is entirely fictional, i.e. not true.
learn it well
A sport like this, nobody's gay. Nobody's that thing, nobody's that kind of guy. Learn that early, or get the hell out. Torii, he had that choice, way back, and it wasn't hardly even a choice. Had his whole damn life to get the hell out, didn't he, but baseball? That wasn't something that was waiting around for him. Baseball didn't wait for anybody. So he learned early, he sucked it up and stuck it out and never looked back, never regretted, not for a second. Baseball was the right thing, sometimes the Right Thing, the only and most right thing in his entire life.
Still, a guy wants to get laid, right? And it wasn't easy, he wouldn't ever try and claim it as an easy thing, not with his teammates going out and getting laid every night of the week and triple the fucking on weekends, if they wanted, and him jacking off to internet porn with more pixels than naked skin.
Whatever, he maintained for a few years, 'tho looking back he's got no idea how. Keeping his nuts happy with his right hand and a few paranoid offseason hookups every winter wasn't any kind of sex life, but he was just a skinny little kid with less power than a triple-A battery. He was, shit, he was lucky they kept running his weak ass out there at all, he wasn't about to go tempting fate or front offices by letting his dick lead him 'round by the nose.
Few years in-- his third full year in the bigs-- he started getting good. He tweaked his swing, got himself a new stance, and suddenly it didn't matter one bit that his ass was still skinny, 'cause power was all in bat speed, and you didn't have to be no kind of steroid pusher to have a fast bat. He started to hit, that year, and going good at the plate gave him that extra little lift in his cleats in the field. Started calling him Spiderman, they did, people on the TV and in the papers. 'Cause the outfield wall in the Metrodome, it's soft, see? like a kinda plastic bag stretched taut, so he didn't hardly have to cut his speed coming at it and sometimes he could kinda run up it, 'cause his spikes would dig in.
So he made some nice catches and he hit home runs in the double digits for the first time and his name was going around the MVP talks some, 'tho not ever real serious. Got a Gold Glove that year too; his first, but no way his last.
And he figured, ain't nobody kicking him out now just on a rumor. Minnesota, they were starting to call him Their Guy. Franchise. Rookie, backup, those were guys getting kicked on say-so and nobody to come calling asking why they were gone. Kick a franchise guy, though, and there'd be accounting for it, you bet your ass. Nobody kicked a franchise guy without damn good reason: the papers noticed, the fans noticed, questions got asked. And he was bringing in money anyhow, a little bit. It didn't take long for his jersey to be the one selling best, and that was about as good as it got so far as job security went in this city.
He'd made the choice: out and proud, or baseball. And he wasn't going against that, he'd still choose baseball today and damn the blue balls, but if he could play and get some play without worrying about finding his ass out on the street, well. Hafta be some kinda fool to not look into that.
----
Looking, he'd been doing that for years. There was plenty to look at if you happened to be a gay guy with access to big league locker rooms and goddamn, if he wasn't getting laid, the least he could do was let his eyes have some fun. Jacque Jones, now there was a good looking man, head to toe, nothing Torii was gonna get tired of looking at no time soon. Doug Mientkiewicz had a damn fine ass for a white guy, and dude was flexible. Brad Radke was A-OK if you wanted to think 'bout holding down the prototype good American boy and fucking him silly, making him lose that famous control. And they had this new pitcher, Johan Santana, prettiest damn mouth in the state, just about.
Guys up here, though, they had everything working against them. They got years of learning, Little League on up-- high school, college, minors-- every level telling them how to be a man, and being a man, that didn't include gay. Not for these guys, these pros. And there were years back there, years and years and decades, history of baseball and shit, and all those years chock full up with guys who Played the Game Right and who were Real Ballplayers, not a one of 'em gay.
Didn't mean there was no way to find someone to fuck you up the ass; didn't even mean nobody'd let you fuck them up the ass. Didn't mean no handjobs, no blowjobs, no sex on the job. Those things, sure, weren't too easy to come by, but for a guy with the confidence that his team needed him more'n he needed them, yeah, it was a possible thing.
All it meant was that he ended up being everyone's first time.
His first-- no way his first with guys, but his first ballplayer-- was that very same Santana, unreal pretty mouth and all. Kid was all of 22, all big dark eyes and lips so soft they may's well been straight off a chick. Torii'd approached him real careful, like he'd ease up to a skittish horse if he was the kinda dude who went around and, whatever you did with horses, rode 'em and raced 'em or pranced 'em around or whatever.
He knew the kid didn't have any kind of experience with it. Not that anybody'd told him, but you didn't have to be a shrink to see that Santana looked at dick like some kinda goddamn forbidden fruit, the kind of look you go 'round giving only if you never touched something but wanted to real bad. To see that all you needed was OK eyesight and a healthy dose of gay, and Torii, he had plenty of both.
It'd only taken a couple weeks to get Santana to ask. Guerilla tactics: walking around the clubhouse after games in a towel for longer'n usual, leaning on the wall next to Santana's locker with his hips canted out for balance, scratching low on his stomach all casual-like. Like he didn't notice how Santana started flushing and crashing through the language barrier even crazier'n normal when he did it.
When Santana finally asked, it was damn near excruciating-- all hesitant and nervous and lookin' over his shoulder every few words he managed, like he was scared Torii was gonna go run to Kelly and tell him the new kid was into dick or sin or whatever. Torii had been 'bout as patient as he could be, 'cause he had an idea how it could tear into a person, being raised up thinking this was about as wrong as it gets, knowing baseball wouldn't have none of it, and wanting it just the same. And, hell, Santana was hot, with that compact body carved out that way only baseball could make it, and Torii, he was willing to wait long as it took to get a piece of that.
Get it he did-- after calming Santana down long enough to make him realize wasn't nobody gonna punch him in the face, after coaxing him into Torii's apartment and out of his pants, after Torii finally said fuck it and grabbed Santana's hands and pressed them up against his stomach himself (because there didn't seem to be a way to make the kid realize he was allowed to touch, now). It was real slow and real sweet, lots of is this OK? and can I...? and oh... oh, madre de dios, yes.
Next day, Santana was walking around with a dumb smile half a mile wide on his face, and Torii couldn't hide the little spring in his step either. It went on another couple months, long enough for him to teach Santana the basics: the kid on his knees, hands braced on Torii's thighs, putting that mouth to the purpose it'd so clearly been made for; the kid on his back, tidy pitcher's fingernails dragging down the backs of Torii's shoulderblades as he snapped their hips together and showed the kid how much fun a little friction could be; the kid on all fours, braced against Torii's thrusts and groaning like he'd gone and forgot how to form words.
Good couple of months, sure thing... but that was all it was, a couple of months. 'Cause it wasn't like Santana was head-over-heels in love with Torii or anything, he was just a confused kid and Torii was 'bout as safe an option as there was. Once Santana'd figured out who he was, what he wanted, well, he'd realized there was a whole world out there, full up with men, and at least some of 'em were gay. It wasn't as safe as fucking another ballplayer-- two ballplayers together, you knew neither one of 'em was gonna out the other, 'cause that'd be just as good as outing his own self-- but it wasn't like the kid was gonna spend the whole rest of his life holding Torii's hand.
A few weeks after that, they were playing in Detroit and Matt Anderson, the Tigers closer, came over to the visitor's clubhouse after the game. Torii went out in the hallway, wondering why in the hell this guy wanted to talk to him, some Twin he hadn't never talked to before.
Anderson was twisting his hands around and around, real nervous, and right away Torii knew. He just knew it, somehow.
"OK, first off?" he said. "You gotta not be so obvious. Like, walkin' over to the other clubhouse and askin' me to come out and talk to you? That's obvious, man."
The look on Anderson's face had been worth it.
----
Thing is, baseball's like a big family. Everyone's all up in everyone else's business for at least seven months outta the year, and you can be as discreet as anything and it'll still be hard to keep a secret. Torii wouldn't say that Santana went 'round spreading rumors or nothing, 'cause he knows that's not how it happened, but one nervous, curious guy says something to the kid, the kid mentions Torii, not even meaning anything by it... the curious guy says something to the next guy he sucks off on a road trip... the next guy slips it into a conversation with a teammate...
Shit gets around, is the point. And the thing is, everyone knows it's supposed to be a secret, so it's not like anyone's shouting it from dugout rooftops, and the only people who know are the guys who kinda have the same secret anyhow.
Seven years ago, Torii would've freaked, sure 'nough. People fucking knew! That he was gay! He was, like, the go-to gay guy. 'Cause after Santana, after Anderson, after Beltran, after Broussard and Blake (the same night, in '03, and that was one for the memory banks), after a whole bunch of guys, Torii realized that when a ballplayer started, whatever, questioning his stance on dick or whatever it was they did, some kind-hearted soul on their team would point them towards Torii.
He was good at it. Calming guys down. Showing them a good time-- showing them how to have a good time. Teaching, yeah, and maybe in another life if he hadn't chosen baseball he could've had himself a little classroom somewhere. Kids bringing him apples and shit.
Apparently he was good-looking enough that all these guys didn't mind coming to him for their first time with a dude. Hard to get upset about that.
Seven years ago, he wouldn't have been no kind of OK with this. But he had those seven years to get his skinny ass used to it, and he wasn't a quarter so scared about getting kicked off the team as he used to be. So he was the gay sex guru or what-the-fuck-ever: meant he got laid every now and then, no denying that was an improvement. Still, it wasn't like he was a hundred percent happy about the whole situation, and it wasn't like he didn't worry at all, especially when he, oh god, left Minnesota and the Twins and the Dome and everything safe he'd known for the past eleven years.
It didn't turn out so different, though. Not that he'd say it wasn't different-- the city, the kinds of fans, the weather, the way the team was run, the driving, the nightlife, playing outside every day at home-- but he wasn't treated any different, and if people knew, well, they just kept it to their own selves, which was fine with him, you bet.
Didn't nobody come up and ask for nothing from him, aside from baseball, and he had plenty of that to give, ready and willing. Hitting and fielding and smiling for the fans, that's what they wanted from him here in Anaheim. Torii went and bought himself a pair of big fucking sunglasses and smiled every bit as much as the front office wanted. It was kinda weird, playing the wind all the time now, instead of just on trips, but the way the real honest-to-god grass in the outfield was kind to his knees more than made up for it.
Making friends, it turned out, wasn't too hard either. Minnesota was one of those places known for friendly locals, and fuck knows SoCal wasn't, but baseball is baseball is baseball (except maybe someplace like New York, and Torii wasn't exactly racing to test that one out). There were some good guys on the pitching staff-- Frankie Rodriguez, who was tough shit but a big softy on the inside; Ervin Santana, El Meneo, who was a quiet guy but tough shit on the inside; Jon Garland who remembered the Central just like Torii did. Good guys covering the short turf-- Chone Figgins, who was always up for a night on the town; Robb Quinlan, who was not-so-secretly a Twins fan at heart and found all kinds of ways to embarrass Torii early on. Good guys sharing the outfield with him, too-- like he ever thought he'd get a chance to play right up alongside Vlad Guerrero.
And then there'd been Tex.
Mark Teixeira seemed so confused to find himself on the Angels halfway through the season that it wasn't hardly a thing Torii had to think about, inviting the guy out to show him around town, sitting with him in team meetings and on team plane trips. Truth was, Torii, he'd been a leader-- the leader-- for so long in Minnesota that it kinda came to him natural. He didn't set out to get friendly with Teixeira or nothing. It was all autopilot. Tex, he seemed to be so grateful to not be left all on his own, floundering in the California sun, that he'd latched right onto Torii 'bout as tight as a guy could in half a season.
It should've been annoying, but wasn't. Down at the center of all the bluster and brag and shit that made a pro ballplayer a pro ballplayer, Tex was just a good guy. He walked around like he didn't know which way was ass-up half the time, but he still played as hard as he could, every day (and watching Tex hit-- well, the man could play hard). He believed in God and Country and Baltimore Crabcakes. He was straight-up genuinely nice while he was hanging around Torii, and that wasn't anythhing that should've mattered. It was a little naive and a little eye-roll-inducing and Torii still found himself smiling like an idiot when Tex came back to the bar table with Torii's favorite beer after not even asking which he wanted. That kinda shit. It was dumb, but-- what the hell.
Torii'd had friends in baseball for worse reasons.
----
So he wasn't no way prepared, see, when Tex came up to him in the Minneapolis hotel bar and awkwardly asked if they could maybe go up to one of their rooms to talk. It tore at his heart in unexpected ways, being back in Minnesota in Angel red, so he was heading towards a mess anyhow, some kind of wistful, and he'd wanted steady, solid, friendly Tex, the guy he'd gone to protect and ended up liking, the guy he'd ended up liking almost in spite of himself.
He'd looked at Tex-- the way he wouldn't catch Torii's eye, the way he was perched real nervous on the edge of his stool, the way his shoulders were leaning in while his head was leaning out-- and at first he refused to believe it. No way. He wasn't seeing this shit. Except he was, and that was Tex right there in front of him, large as life and awkward as a newborn idiot, doing the silent oh god I think I might be having gay thoughts and I heard you're the guy to talk to about that dance just like he'd seen it a hundred times before.
They went up to Torii's room to talk. What was he supposed to do, tell the guy no and, fuck knows, traumatize him for life or something?
Tex opened his mouth, no doubt aiming to launch into some excruciating, stammering account of the state of his nuts, and Torii just couldn't do it. He just. He just couldn't do it anymore.
Thing was, he knew how the story went. Tex would say he'd heard from a friend of a friend of a friend of an acquaintance that Torii was-- and Torii wouldn't deny it none, because he couldn't stone cold lie to a friend like that. Tex would say that he'd been having these thoughts and these feelings for oh so long, and he didn't know what to do with none of 'em, and if Torii could help him figure it out-- and Torii would do it, because he couldn't stone cold turn down a friend like that, not on something meaning so much to him.
And when he'd tried it out, Tex would either realize it was something he had to try once and now it was out of his system, or else he'd go off and find some other guys to try it out with, see how deep that thing ran. Either way, the story ended with Torii back where he always was, always getting the first time and never getting the last.
He was sick of it. He was straight fucking sick of being everyone's first time.
"Here's what you're gonna do," he said, right over Tex's open mouth and all the words he didn't get out yet, all the shit Torii had no kind of interest in hearing. Tex's mouth stayed hanging open, his eyes widening in shock, and of course he hadn't ever heard Torii talk like this, harsh and strung tight, but there weren't many guys in Minnesota or out of it who'd seen Torii at his breaking point.
Knocked something sharply askew in Torii's chest, seeing that stunned look on Tex's face. Wasn't anything he was expecting, but it wasn't as big a surprise as it maybe should've been, and that. That should've told him something.
Deep breath.
"Here's what you're gonna do, OK. You want, I know you wanna do this thing, but I ain't gonna be your test pony."
"I, Torii, that's not--"
"I know that ain't how you mean it, but that's how it's gonna go, and I--" and just like that he knew how it had to go, if it was gonna go at all. Do this shit enough years, you earn a lightning-strike gun-shot-sound revelation every once in a fucking while.
He looked Tex right in the face, 'cause he hadn't ever looked away from anything and this would've been a shit time to start. "You wanna do this, you go out and try this shit somewhere else. You just. Just go and try whatever shit you wanna try, and if you still wanna try it with me after, then. We'll talk."
"But, I. I want you to be, I mean, for my first--"
"First don't matter." He said it maybe a little too urgent, a little bit too intense, but everyone had a breaking point, and he'd been skirting 'round the edges of his for almost eight years now. "First don't matter none. It's everything after that what matters."
No way the hardest thing he ever had to do, sending Tex out of that room unmoored and untouched. There was giving up sex for baseball, for one thing, and giving up college for the gamble of the pros, and any number of other hard-ass things he'd had to do, one time or another. This wasn't in no way the hardest, but that didn't make it one damn bit easier.
----
It was hard, having that postseason up in front of you all tantalizing and teasing, having that promise of October baseball stolen away while everyone was still reeling with some kinda jet lag, but hey, that's baseball. So he hadn't won it all yet. Torii'd been to the postseason before and he figured to be back again, and one of these years. One of these years.
Trying to find the sweet in all that bitter wasn't easy, but Torii wasn't ever the kinda guy to drown in bitter when there was something better around. He could enjoy some nicer weather back home without packing up his shit a third time and flying south for the winter, for one thing. He had a real nice SoCal house and a real nice SoCal car and a real nice SoCal flat-screen TV, and now he had all kinds of time to enjoy the three of 'em.
He wasn't expecting Tex to show up soon as they got home from Boston. Wasn't expecting the pale, drawn look on his face, like he'd been hearing that final walkoff call on replay in his head all day and night long. Wasn't expecting Tex to throw his arms around him as soon as he opened the door.
"No first times," Tex said, somewhere down in the vicinity of Torii's shoulder.
"Yeah?" Torii tugged him in and toed the door shut. Wasn't like his neighbors gave a shit anyhow-- SoCal, man-- but better safe'n sorry.
Tex nodded, the bridge of his nose rubbing across Torii's collarbone.
"And you still--" But that was a fucking stupid question, wasn't it, 'cause Tex was here, and he was hugging Torii way past the time he could've let go and claimed heterosexual passionate aggression.
Tex nodded again anyhow. He was big and warm and solid in Torii's arms, and fuck if he didn't enjoy the hell outta that enough to slide a hand down and squeeze a big guilty-pleasure handful of Tex's ass.
Tex gasped his name, Torii, sharp and choked on his lips, not a friend noise and not a nervous trembling kid noise. Something else. Sounded real good, if you asked Torii, and he didn't mind none hearing it for the first time, 'cause he knew, easy enough, wasn't no way the last.