Confession time.

Back in mid-September, I was watching one of Tim's starts against the Brewers. He was pitching okay, gave up two runs on a bloop single, it was the fifth inning and the Giants were down 2-0. Tim was getting ready to hit when the Giants' manager, Bruce Bochy, decided to pull him from the game in favor of a pinch hitter (because Tim is a terrible hitter and the idea was that anyone else would be better in a situation where the Giants needed to score runs, which they hadn't been doing consistently, Tim's contributions notwithstanding).

So Tim was pulled, and he was furious. I had never seen him so angry. I mean, I had never really seen him even borderline angry in general, so I was kind of uncomfortable and simultaneously fascinated by Tim fuming on the bench in the dugout.

Then Bochy game over to where he was sitting, grabbed Tim's knees and pushed them apart, and slid his body in between his legs and talked to him and I did not know what to do. First my existing discomfort ratcheted up exponentially. Then I recoiled at the reality of what I was seeing.

And then, I kind of liked it.

Bochy eventually wandered off to continue managing the game, and Tim sat in the dugout like so:


It was explained afterwards that Bochy was "calming Tim down." Mainly all it did was plant a seed of an idea that has been intermittently nurtured over the ensuing months.

So, confession time. Basically, I kind of have a thing now for Tim and older men.

I probably shouldn't. I alarm even myself with it sometimes. And yet I keep collecting photos here and there, pretending it's all innocent, and now I'm going to share them with you.

( Sorry. )

Well, that was cathartic. And embarrassing. But if I can't be honest with my flist, who can I tell such things to?