The Time Zito Gave Mulder A Handjob, And Other Tales From The World Of Baseball Slash FictionS

Some lucky folks have especially vivid imaginations. But the rest of us need the internet to find Jaret Wright tenderly licking Melky Cabrera, or Kyle Farnsworth and Vance Wilson in bed together with knives.

Emma Span at Baseball Prospectus, going where Nate Silver never dared to tread, has filed a dispatch from the world of baseball slash fiction, where she found a thriving community of amateur authors and hornball Doug Mirabelli enthusiasts.

At the Baseball Fanfiction Archive, for instance, you can find 17 Red Sox stories and 17 Yankees stories. This is Penthouse Forum, as edited by Jayson Stark.

One team haunts the dreams of this site's contributors above any other—the Oakland A's.

Candle Beck offers a story of a 1997 tryst between an insecure Mark Mulder and a slick Barry Zito:

You think that telling someone what your name is, in a situation like this, is actually a pretty good thing to lie about, but you don't tell him that. You shrug. You just got a handjob from a boy named Barry. Crazy world.

"I just never met anybody named that before."

He nods, and shifts a little bit so that his outstretched leg nudges against your knee. "And you're Mark."

He knew your name the whole time. You almost smile, but bite it back at the last second. He knows your name, big fucking deal, quit acting like a fourteen year old girl. But you're blushing with pleasure, you can feel the burn in your ears, washing down your neck.

But baseball slash fiction does not always follow such a stilted, literary style. Millennials need to get off too!

Span writes about a 12-part LiveJournal cybersex epic between Jarrod Saltalamacchia and Ian Kinsler:

Me[Saltalamacchia]:but ian
you love baseball that much and work so hard at it
and even if we dont count the baseball
how much you love it and how hard you work at it is still you
and if it wasnt baseball itd be something else
thats what you are

ikan3030:thats why i need you salty
because when you love me its like i exist and even if i broke down and couldnt play anymore thered still be something in me that mattered to someone

The love between Cole Hamels and Evan Longoria knows no such tenderness. The two must have connected during the 2008 World Series—because, according to a short story called "Bastard", the pair are in a committed relationship only occasionally sparked by Cole's domineering nature:

When Cole comes, it nearly blinds him, white spots burning into his vision as his nails dig deep into Evan's neck, growling obscenities as the third baseman hisses in a mix of pleasure and pain. It hits him like a freight train and ends almost as quickly as it began. The pitcher takes a moment to collect himself, breathing heavily until the tremors subside. Then he shoves Evan off of him.

"Get dressed and get the fuck outta my sight." More venom, and this time, Evan can feel it sting. The pitcher tucks himself back into his jeans and pushes off of the couch, downing the last of his beer before he disappears into the kitchen.

By the time Evan's dressed, Cole's back with a fresh beer in his hand, cold eyes watching the third baseman stagger to his feet. He knows he's far too drunk to even think about driving. Evan blinks glossy blue eyes, long black lashes dusting over his cheekbones as he prays for a crack in the pitcher's icy composure. "Take me home?" His voice is quiet. Small. Pathetic. "Please."

But Cole doesn't even flinch. "I already called you a cab."

Damn, Cole Hamels, you cold! You know a World Series MVP award is not an actual MVP award, right? Pat Borders has one, as does Scott Brosius. And fictionally gay Scott Brosius would totally call his fictional male paramours a cab.

And, finally, here is "Pop Rocks and Coke," a 14,000-word LiveJournal entry about the forbidden love between Phil Coke and Ryan Perry, both middle relievers of a very different kind.

Coke wants to think of something witty, wants to join in, wants to move away for a better viewing angle, wants to say something like Ryan fucking Perry, you are beautiful and I want every day to be like this, but instead he just stares, dumbstruck, at the way Perry is slowly losing control and beginning to fuck his own fist more and more fervently. When he finally gets it in himself to move, he wraps his own hand around Perry, and Perry's hips jerk arrhythmically and his face is all squinched up and Coke should be helping, but he is too awestruck to do anything more than rest on his knees and hands and let Perry fuck himself hard against his hand.

Perry comes with a strangled gasp, and Coke notices how the vein in his neck stands out.

"That looked good," says Coke weakly, because he's so hard he might pass out.

"It was," replies Perry in a lazy aftersex voice, and he reaches with both hands to show Coke just how good it was.

(It was very, very good.)

Yes. Yes, that was. Now, asks Jose Valverde, who needs a fireballin' leather daddy?

Span and Sain and Pray for Rain [Baseball Prospectus]