Jorge/Andy Porn, R
The catcher hits for .318 and catches every day / The pitcher puts religion first and rests on holidays -- Belle and Sebastian
When he is home in Puerto Rico, Jorge answers the phone with hola even when the call comes at two in the morning, on his cell phone, and he knows it’s Andy calling from Texas.
See, Jorge can count on certain things like clockwork.
+
Andy Pettitte is religious, happily married, and not gay. But Jorge gives him head any way.
Late at night, when they take the bus from New York to Massachusetts, or maybe Maryland and Jorge always sits in the back. He likes to stretch out over the three seats there and read or talk to his wife and son. The Yankees have one of those snazzy luxury buses that Jorge would have been in awe over back as a kid in Puerto Rico. He is pretty damn used to it now, but the food in the little kitchenette keeps getting better.
It takes about two hours of travel before Clemens talks himself to sleep, and then with nothing else to do, Andy comes slinking to the back of bus. Jorge, God help him, is never ready. He’s used to the bus, but he will never be used to Andy.
It took them a while to even figure how to do this. The bus is large, but it is not private. Everyone once heard Derek talking to dirty to some girl, and Mussina brings a portable DVD player that they all can see no matter where he puts it. Aaron, their newest member, talks in his sleep. He says the strangest things and everybody can hear him, even Joe T, because Torre is the type of guy who doesn’t say much, but meddles like somebody’s grandmother.
“He’s talking about his brother,” Joe T. informed Bernie one night. Bernie just happened to be sitting near him. “You know, Bret. He’s an asshole. Plays for the Mariners.”
“Oh.” Bernie had shrugged noncommittally.
Jorge didn’t want to at first, but the only way it would work with them at least semi-hidden would be if he got on his knees. So he decided to squat down instead. His knees hit the seat uncomfortably, but at least he feels more at home.
“It’s like being on the field, you know?” Andy said once and Jorge just looked at him.
Andy leans back hard against the corner where the seat hits the window and luckily the windows are tinted. He usually throws a leg up across the seat and Jorge puts a hand on the inside of that thigh to brace himself.
Pitchers aren’t forgetful people, but Andy can never remember where to put his hands. He wants to put them behind his head, maybe. Or he wants to put them on Jorge’s shoulders, or the back of his neck. Every time they do this, Jorge has to look up and remind Andy that it’s okay to grasp his head.
“But my fingers… I’ll hurt you,” Andy says.
“I’m not exactly a baseball,” Jorge says reproachfully. He slides his tongue over his lips to rewet them. “Just don’t put your hands on your knees.”
“I’m sorry,” Andy says, but he doesn’t mention stopping.
Jorge thinks that on some level Andy likes this. Jorge is pretty fucking sure he needs a reason to feel guilty when the guilt doesn’t exactly come readily anymore.
“It’s not too difficult,” Jorge says. He bends his head back down into Andy’s lap to take the head of his cock between his lips, and run the tip of his tongue along ridge just where the head meets the shaft.
Andy gasps, and Jorge looks up at him. His eyes say don’t. Andy sticks his not-so-precious right fist into his mouth and tries not to grasp Jorge’s head too hard with his left.
Every single person in the seats ahead of them can see Jorge crouched low on his hunches-almost in catcher’s stance-but they’re pretty used to that.
+
Jorge has these huge hands, monstrous hands. He has long fingers, but they are thick, and his hands are obviously strong. When he holds his son, he can cup his tiny boy’s entire head within his palms.
Once Jorge was in Garden State Plaza, a mall in New Jersey, and he was buying socks in Neiman Marcus. There was a young man there, about his height, but Jorge remembers shaking hands with that young man, and knowing that he could break those slim fingers in his hand.
During the off-season, Jorge always loses his cell phone, but he never actually does. He crushes cell phone after cell phone. A cleansing process, he tells himself, a cleansing process. Each phone call from Andy means one cell phone gone.
+
Andy is religious, happily married, and not gay. But he calls Jorge during the off-season anyway and late at night, holed up in the master bathroom like a guilty teenager, Jorge talks him.
“78 days until Florida,” Andy says and Jorge knows. He really does know.
TBC?
I swear I will write an actual not sucky story at some point. No really. Check out Therapy for the Yankees and laugh.
When he is home in Puerto Rico, Jorge answers the phone with hola even when the call comes at two in the morning, on his cell phone, and he knows it’s Andy calling from Texas.
See, Jorge can count on certain things like clockwork.
+
Andy Pettitte is religious, happily married, and not gay. But Jorge gives him head any way.
Late at night, when they take the bus from New York to Massachusetts, or maybe Maryland and Jorge always sits in the back. He likes to stretch out over the three seats there and read or talk to his wife and son. The Yankees have one of those snazzy luxury buses that Jorge would have been in awe over back as a kid in Puerto Rico. He is pretty damn used to it now, but the food in the little kitchenette keeps getting better.
It takes about two hours of travel before Clemens talks himself to sleep, and then with nothing else to do, Andy comes slinking to the back of bus. Jorge, God help him, is never ready. He’s used to the bus, but he will never be used to Andy.
It took them a while to even figure how to do this. The bus is large, but it is not private. Everyone once heard Derek talking to dirty to some girl, and Mussina brings a portable DVD player that they all can see no matter where he puts it. Aaron, their newest member, talks in his sleep. He says the strangest things and everybody can hear him, even Joe T, because Torre is the type of guy who doesn’t say much, but meddles like somebody’s grandmother.
“He’s talking about his brother,” Joe T. informed Bernie one night. Bernie just happened to be sitting near him. “You know, Bret. He’s an asshole. Plays for the Mariners.”
“Oh.” Bernie had shrugged noncommittally.
Jorge didn’t want to at first, but the only way it would work with them at least semi-hidden would be if he got on his knees. So he decided to squat down instead. His knees hit the seat uncomfortably, but at least he feels more at home.
“It’s like being on the field, you know?” Andy said once and Jorge just looked at him.
Andy leans back hard against the corner where the seat hits the window and luckily the windows are tinted. He usually throws a leg up across the seat and Jorge puts a hand on the inside of that thigh to brace himself.
Pitchers aren’t forgetful people, but Andy can never remember where to put his hands. He wants to put them behind his head, maybe. Or he wants to put them on Jorge’s shoulders, or the back of his neck. Every time they do this, Jorge has to look up and remind Andy that it’s okay to grasp his head.
“But my fingers… I’ll hurt you,” Andy says.
“I’m not exactly a baseball,” Jorge says reproachfully. He slides his tongue over his lips to rewet them. “Just don’t put your hands on your knees.”
“I’m sorry,” Andy says, but he doesn’t mention stopping.
Jorge thinks that on some level Andy likes this. Jorge is pretty fucking sure he needs a reason to feel guilty when the guilt doesn’t exactly come readily anymore.
“It’s not too difficult,” Jorge says. He bends his head back down into Andy’s lap to take the head of his cock between his lips, and run the tip of his tongue along ridge just where the head meets the shaft.
Andy gasps, and Jorge looks up at him. His eyes say don’t. Andy sticks his not-so-precious right fist into his mouth and tries not to grasp Jorge’s head too hard with his left.
Every single person in the seats ahead of them can see Jorge crouched low on his hunches-almost in catcher’s stance-but they’re pretty used to that.
+
Jorge has these huge hands, monstrous hands. He has long fingers, but they are thick, and his hands are obviously strong. When he holds his son, he can cup his tiny boy’s entire head within his palms.
Once Jorge was in Garden State Plaza, a mall in New Jersey, and he was buying socks in Neiman Marcus. There was a young man there, about his height, but Jorge remembers shaking hands with that young man, and knowing that he could break those slim fingers in his hand.
During the off-season, Jorge always loses his cell phone, but he never actually does. He crushes cell phone after cell phone. A cleansing process, he tells himself, a cleansing process. Each phone call from Andy means one cell phone gone.
+
Andy is religious, happily married, and not gay. But he calls Jorge during the off-season anyway and late at night, holed up in the master bathroom like a guilty teenager, Jorge talks him.
“78 days until Florida,” Andy says and Jorge knows. He really does know.
TBC?
I swear I will write an actual not sucky story at some point. No really. Check out Therapy for the Yankees and laugh.