Big Mac has the Blues (Ed)

Big Mac has the Blues

    Big Macintosh opened the door to the bar.  He was blasted with warm air as it rushed out into the bitterly cold winter night.  He shut the door quickly before anybody could complain.  He looked around the bar.  It was occupied by a medium sized crowd.  It would get busier later.  He sidled over to the bar and ordered a beer.  The bartender knew him, as Big Macintosh was a regular.  He didn’t come every night, but maybe a couple of times a month, after all the chores were done.
    Another customer sat up to the bar next to him.  He ordered the same label beer that Big Macintosh had.  That got his attention.  Most ponies around here didn't have good taste in beer.  He glanced over and noticed the stallion had a blue coat, and a darker blue mane.  He was handsome, for a fella.  Big Macintosh didn’t recognize him.
    “How you doin’, stranger?” he asked.
    “I’m surviving,” he said.  “Same shit, different day.”
    “I hear that,” Big Macintosh said.  “You new in town?”
    “That’s right.  I’m a traveling musician.  I’m opening for the house band tonight.”
    “No kidding?  What kind of music do you play?”
    “Blues,” he said.  “That’s why they call me Blues.  I play guitar, harmonica, vocals.  How about yourself?”
    “I run a farm.  Well, I don’t know if I should say I run it.  Sister does the paperwork.  I do all the heavy lifting.”
    “I can see why,” Blues said.  “Looks like they feed you alright.”
    “Eyup.  All the apples I can eat.”
    “Is that a good job?  Farming?  Sometimes I’m out on the road for a stretch I wish I was a farmer.  Sounds idyllic.”
    “Oh, it is. It’s heaven.  Best job there is.  I wouldn’t give it up for the world.  It’s hard work though.  Hard work.  Get up, maybe four in the morning.  Five in the morning at the latest.  You work all day.  Maybe stop for a quick lunch.  Work your tail off until the sun goes down.  You never get rich.  But you get to eat the stuff your own hooves produce.  It’s rewarding.”
    “Wow, it really sounds like it is.  I’m jealous.  What kind of farm do you have?”
    “Apple orchards.  Apple orchards, mostly.  We’ve got some hogs.  A few head of dairy cattle.  But it’s mostly apples.”
    “Huh.  Aren’t apples more of a seasonal kind of thing?”
    “Ah, there’s always work to be done.  But yeah, come harvesting season we have to take on a lot of hired help.  They come and go, but there’s always work for the farmer himself.”
    “I didn’t get your name, by the way.”
    “Macintosh.  They call be Big Macintosh.”  They shook hooves.
    “Big Macintosh, huh?  They ever call you Big Mac?”
    “No, actually.  Not my family anyway.  They never call me that.  Say, what’s it like being a blues musician?  Probably a lot different from being a farmer.  You get to see a lot of the world, right?  Some times I think about leaving the farm.  I think I’d like to get out there and see what other places are like.”
    “Wellll... yeah.  Being on tour is a lot different than being a farmer.  For starters, you only might work a few hours on Friday and Saturday nights.  More if you’re lucky.  But you only get paid for that work.  That pay has to last you to the next gig.  Sometimes you go hungry.  Most weeks you go hungry.  There’s no getting rich in this business either.  Some ponies might land a record contract if they’re real lucky.  That’s got nothing to do with talent.  You can’t do it if you don’t got talent, but if you’re not buddy-buddy with some talent agent, it will never happen.  The best blues musicians that have ever been, nobody has ever heard of.  They’re kind of like legends.  You hear about them from older musicians when you shoot the shit.
    “Besides, I don’t do it for the money anyways.  It’s just about the music.  I’ve been playing guitar since I was a foal.  It’s in my blood.  If I had to hike through the bowels of hell itself I’d still do it.  I guess it’s because it’s an art form.  You ever know any artists, Big Mac?”  Big Mac shook his head.  “I once knew a painter.  He did those abstract paintings.  Some of them are in museums.  He was really intense about it.  Like the paint didn’t matter to anybody else but him, so he cared about it extra hard.  It meant everything to him.  And I suppose I’m kinda like that.  It’s sort of a neurosis, I guess, you know?  I suffer for my music, but at the same time, I guess that makes my music better.  It is the blues, after all.”
    They finished their beers, and ordered more.
    “As for travel.  It ain’t what it’s cracked up to be.  One place looks just like the other.  It’s not like being a tourist.  It’s just another run down bar in some other zip code.  Another lonely street.  Another seedy motel.  It all blurs together.”
    “It sounds pretty lonely,” Big Mac said.
    “That it is, Big Mac, that it is.  Maybe that’s why I think about settling down some place.”
    They finished their beers, and ordered more.
    “Motels... how does that work anyway.  Does the bar with the gig put you up in a motel room?”
    “Nah, man.  They don’t do any shit like that.  I’ve got to pay for it myself.  Sometimes if the gig pays more than I expect, I’ll put myself up in a motel for a night.  Maybe one weekend out of three.  Have a nice warm shower and sleep in a real bed.  Usually I just sleep out in my wagon.”
    “You’re kidding.  Even in the winter?” Big Mac asked.
    “That’s right.  Sometimes other things work out.  Sometimes there are parties after the bar closes, and they let me crash on the couch.  Sometimes I’ll meet some filly to shack up with for the night.  You never know what’s going to happen.  This place, for instance.  They’ve got a spare room in the back.  It’s sort of like a big broom closet.  They’re letting me use it as a changing room.  The manager is cool with me laying down a mattress there for the night.  He’ll come by in the morning and unlock the door to let me back out.  Beats freezing on a night like this.”
    They finished their beers, and ordered more.
    There was long pause in the conversation.  It wasn’t an awkward pause.  It was calculated.  Comfortable.  Patient.
    “Would you like to see it?” Blues asked.
    “Pardon?” Big Mac hadn’t actually heard.  The juke box had blared at just the wrong time.
    Blues took a long swing of beer, steeled himself, and asked again.  “The room in back.  Would you like to see it?”
    Big Mac set down his half finished beer.  “I thought you’d never ask,” he said.
    Both slid off their bar stools at the same time.  Both casually began walking towards the back hallway.  Both nodded at acquaintances they happened to run into.  If anybody was taking notice, it would look like they were both going back to use the restroom.  Or maybe go out the back door and have a smoke where the employees hang out while on break.  Nobody paid any attention.
    They both turned the corner to Blues’ ersatz dressing room.  Blues double checked to make sure nobody was watching and they rushed into the room.  Blues shut the door behind him, and quickly got on his hind legs to fasten the hook and eye latch that served as a lock.  He turned around.
    Big Mac kissed him hard, pinning him up against the door.  Blues kissed back, equally hard.  He wrapped his front legs around Big Mac’s strong shoulders, pulling him tight.  He ran his hooves through Big Mac’s long mane.  Big Mac’s hooves ran up and down Blues’ hips, sliding over the mark on his flank.  Their tongues fought, neither willing to give ground, both wanting total control.  The kiss was passionate and deep.  It was a kissing that had been waiting long weeks on the road with nobody to talk to.  It was a kissing that had been waiting long months on a farm, with nobody to truly love.  The kiss only broke when Big Mac began kissing Blues’ neck.  He nibbled at it, biting a little harder as Blues responded.  Blues wasn’t exactly moaning, but he was breathing heavily.
    Big Mac started to slide down onto his knees.  Blues put his hooves on Big Mac’s shoulder’s for support.  He was still propped up against the door on his hind legs.  Big Mac kissed his chest, belly, bit a little at his tiny nipples.  Blues was already semi-erect.  His pink shaft was just starting to slip out of its sheath.  Big Mac took it into his mouth.  He started to suck, moving it in and out very slowly.  Blues grew long and stiff inside of Big Mac’s mouth.  Blues felt the pressure inside just growing and growing.  Big Mac reached up with his hoof and began to fondle Blues’ balls.  His sack was soft and smooth, his nuts large and hefty.  Big Mac wanted them in his mouth.  He let go of the cock with his mouth and slid underneath it.  He took one ball into his mouth.  Then the other.  Then both at the same time, sucking on them while licking them.  Blues had to look down.  His erection was sliding across the cheek of Big Mac’s handsome face.  He smiled as Big Mac took his dick back in, working it faster.  Big Mac took a deep breath, then forced it in, deep throating it all the way.  Blues felt a surge of ecstasy.  He almost came right there in Big Mac’s mouth.  But he fought it back.  There was work to be done.
    Blues pulled Big Mac off of him.  He had him lay down on the little roll-out mattress he had already laid out on the floor. Big Mac laid down on his back.  He was already fully erect, his penis was sticking straight up in the air.  Blues was impressed.  His lover lived up to his name.  He started fondling it, stroking his hooves up and down the shaft.  He took the head into his mouth, licking it, sucking on it.  He slowly started working his way down the shaft.  Big Mac’s eyes rolled into the back of his head.  He had never known a filly who could give head like this.  One of his legs started kicking involuntarily.  Blues couldn’t take the whole thing.  He worked down as far as he could, and then worked his way up.  He took the dick out of his mouth, and started licking the sides of it, all the way to the base.  He jerked it off between one hoof and his check.  He reached down and started licking Big Mac’s balls.  They were utterly massive.  He could only take one into his mouth at a time.  Big Mac’s cock was wet by now.  They were almost ready.
    Blues got up on his knees.  He was almost in the missionary position in front of Big Mac.  He took his own dick, and started rubbing it up to Big Mac’s dick.  They were both pointing up towards the ceiling, one big, the other enormous.  There was enough of a difference between the two that Blues had to stroke up and down to reach the ends of it.  Their two pairs of balls rubbed together, dancing with each other.  Pre-ejaculate was oozing from both their heads, covering both their cocks, making them both slippery as they frotted.  They looked into each other's eyes and both knew they were ready.
    Blues got up off of Big Mac, and then got down on all fours.  He turned around.  He lifted his tail high into the air, presenting himself to Big Mac.  Big Mac mounted him.  Blues was no masochist.  He preferred pleasure over pain.  Although he was willing to put up with the latter to get to the former.  Big Mac eased the head in slowly.  He was no stranger to anal sex and he knew how to do it right.  He slid the head in.  The hard part was over, but there was more work to be done.  Big Mac started pumping slowly, in and out.  He took it an inch at a time.  It took a while before he got the whole thing in, but once he did the pain dissolved away.  Only pleasure was left.  Big Mac started thrusting.  He started building up more and more speed.  Both wanted to moan in ecstasy, but they tried to stay quiet.  They could hear the bar noise through the thin walls.  Big Mac was pounding away now.  Two pairs of balls were slapping together.  Big Mac felt as if he was getting close.
    Big Mac reached down Blues’ flank with his hoof.  He felt for Blues’ cock.  It had gone flaccid, retreating back into his sheath.  Big Mac slowed down his thrusting, and fondled Blues.  His head slowly peaked out.  Big Mac rubbed it.  It grew, descending towards the floor.  He started jerking off Blues from behind.  His rod grew rock hard between his two hooves.  Big Mac found a rhythm that Blues clearly enjoyed, then he matched that rhythm with his hips.
    They were both close now; they both knew it.  They became animalistic.  Blues reached his head back at a hard angle and tried to bite at Big Mac’s face.  Big Mac bit at Blues’ neck, just a bit too hard.  He latched onto his mane and pulled.  Both grunted.  They came, simultaneously.  Big Mac filled Blues with his warm seed; Blues spilled his own on the concrete floor.  They both had to stifle back screams.  Big Mac pulled his dick out of Blues, spilling semen as he did so.  He dismounted.
    They both fell onto the small mattress, exhausted.  Their hearts were racing.  They couldn’t catch their breaths.  They both had so much to think about, but neither could concentrate.  Big Mac put a leg around Blues, and pulled him close.  Spooning him.  This was heaven; this was idyllic.  He could lie here a thousand years, enjoying the afterglow.  His eye lids were growing heavy.  He actually started to drift off.
    “Get up,” Blues commanded.
    “What?” Big Mac opened his eyes, confused.  Blues had already gotten up, and was picking up the room.
    “Get up.  You have to leave right now,” Blues said.  There was another hour before the show.  Big Mac got up. “If the manager catches you in here, he’s going to kick us both out.  I’ll lose tonight’s gig.  And tomorrow night’s as well.  I can’t afford that.  You’ve got to go.”
    “Sure,” said Big Mac.  “That’s fine.  I’m late for dinner at home anyway.”
    Blues opened the door, peaked his head out, and looked both ways.  He waved Big Mac through hurriedly.
    “See ya,” Big Mac said.
    “Yeah, bye,” said Blues, as he quickly shut the door behind him.
    Big Mac walked back out into the bar.  Nobody was looking at him.  He was in the clear.  He thought about getting back home.  He wasn’t just late for dinner.  Dinner was two hours ago.  His family was going to be pissed.  They were going to yell at him.  They were going to chew his ear off for thinking about himself instead of quality time with the family.  Big Mac got to the front door of the bar and stopped in his tracks.
    Screw it, he thought to himself, I don’t give a damn what they have to say to me right now.  He turned around and went back to the bar.  He ordered another beer then found a table in a dark corner of the room where he thought Blues wouldn’t see him.  There he waited.  Finally Blues came out and took the stage.  He took several minutes setting up, tuning his guitar, doing sound checks.  Then he started to play.
    Big Mac had never been a big fan of the blues or any other big city music.  He liked guitars if they were acoustic.  And banjos.  Fiddles.  But when Blues started to play, suddenly he got it.  The music was filled with pain.  It spoke of thousands of lonely nights, of poverty, and of broken hearts.  It spoke of a million beautiful sad things.  Big Mac’s heart broke.  And that was just because of the guitar chords.  When Blues’ gravelly voice actually started to sing, several minutes into the song, the pieces of his heart shattered into dust and blew away.
    Big Mac stayed for the entire set.  Blues got up and left the stage, going back to his dressing room.  The next band got on.  They were loud and boisterous and not very good.  Big Mac got up and left.  He opened the door and the winter night air punched him in the face.  He had forgotten how bitter it was, and it had only grown colder in the time he had been in the bar.
    He started hurrying home.  He started to feel a little ashamed of himself.  His family would be past being angry.  Now they would just be worried, especially his little sister.
    “Hey, Mac!” a voice came calling after him.
    It was Blues.  He was wearing a heavy horse blanket and smoking a cigarette.  He was coming out from behind the bar.  Big Mac trotted back to him.
    “Hey,” said Blues, “thanks for hanging around and listening to my set.  Did you like my music?”
    “Eyup,” said Big Mac, “I sure did.  If you ever get that record contract, well then I’ll buy one of your albums.”
    Blues grinned.  “That just might be the simplest, nicest compliment anybody’s ever paid me.  Listen, I don’t want to keep you from your family.  But if you want to come to tomorrow night’s gig, I’m going to rearrange my set.  There’s some songs I’ve got that I’d like you to listen to.  If you’re interested.”
    Big Mac smiled.  “Sure.  I’ll be there.  But I’ve got to go now.  Later.  See ya.”
    “Bye,” Blues said.
    Big Mac got a few paces down the road, stopped and turned around.  “Hey, Blues.”
    “Yeah?”
    “We’ve got Winter Wrap-up coming soon.”
    “Winter what?”
    “Winter Wrap-up.  It’s this thing we have in Ponyville.  There’s always lots of work to do, and we have to take on farm hands.  I... I could hire you.  If you want it.  We’ve got shacks for the farm hands.  They’re not much.  But they’ve got a roof over your head.  A real bed.  A wood stove so you never get cold.  And all the food you can eat.”
    “That sounds like heaven,” Blues said.  “Why don’t you tell me all about it tomorrow night?”
    “Alright,” Big Mac smiled.  “See ya.”
    “Bye.”