Mechanics of the Heart Ch. 01

"Ahh!" Danny yelled, feeling helpless. His lover sucked on his neck, while his big hands swooped down to his dick and began stroking it to the rhythm of his fucking.

"Take me, Berto...oh god take me!"

"You're making me so hot, Danny..." the mechanic moaned, lengthening his thrusts.

"Take my ass!" Danny wailed, pushing back hard against Roberto.

"Fuck yeah!" The mechanic grabbed Danny's hands and pinned them against the young man's hips. Then he pulled his cock out to the tip and began slam-fucking his young bottom.

Danny screamed in ecstasy, getting off on Roberto's massive, raiding cock, turned on from feeling his hands trapped beneath the mechanic's. Water rained down on his face; he closed his eyes and threw his head to the side as his body rocked up and down.

"Yeah, that's right, take my cock! Take it good!" the mechanic growled, giving Danny a ruthless pounding. He wouldn't last for very much longer, fucking his boyfriend's sweet hole this way, but he was enjoying the ride too much to stop.

"Berto! BERTO!!"

"You like that cock, huh?"

"Oh god yes fuck me with it! Oh god yes make me yours!"

"Aw yeah that's my ass!" He slapped Danny's bouncing cheeks. "My ass to fuck!"

They continued fucking vigourously, exchanging naughty, possessive exclamations, bodies slapping wetly.

After several minutes, Roberto's knees started to hurt from kneeling on the bathtub. He grabbed Danny and hoisted both of them down, to sit on the tub. Danny was now on top, sitting like a reverse cowboy.

"Fuck my cock, Danny. Show me how much you want that cum," the mechanic demanded, before smothering his lover with a kiss.

Danny whimpered and sat up. He pressed his hands on Roberto's meaty thighs, lifted his body up and away, then smacked his ass back down around the mechanic's prick. They both cried in pleasure.

The young bottom rode on the mechanic's big hard dick energetically. Roberto held onto Danny's waist and savoured his boyfriend's flexing hole as it sheathed up and down tirelessly around his thick shaft.

"Berto...oh Berto..." Danny felt pressure building around his prostate.

"You gonna cum? Yeah??"

"I'm getting close..." Roberto's hands scooted to Danny's dick and scrotum and began stroking furiously. "Oh Berto!"

"Cum for me, baby, cum!"

"OH!!" A creamy geyser flew from Danny's cock and splattered on the shower wall, followed by a second shot. The young man wailed uncontrollably, slowing down on his gyration as he continued ejaculating, but Roberto grabbed his waist and kept impaling him on his dick hard and fast.

Danny's voice broke into a squeak. "Berto...AAHH!!"

"Yeah, cum for me!" Roberto yelled, right at the edge of climax.

"Stop, Berto, stop!" Danny begged, pleasure turning into pain. The mechanic roared and stood up, still inside his lover, forcing Danny onto his feet, with his back bent over and his hands against the wall. Just as Roberto pulled out of Danny's ass, the first blast of cum erupted, firing long and far. It landed in a streak across his lover's heaving back, the globs scattering under the shower spray.

"Aw fuck!" The mechanic jerked himself off, thick ropes of jizz flying from his red, fat cockhead onto Danny's wet skin. Semen splashed and trickled down the young man's back and hips under the falling water.

Danny was still shaky from his anal orgasm, but he faintly felt hot sprinkles on his back. He definitely felt Roberto's half-hard penis as it smacked on his bum a few times, then re-penetrated his loosened sphincter. It made Danny sigh in numb agony.

His older lover slid himself right up to the hilt, the shaft slick with jizz and lube. "Aw Danny...aw fuck..." he moaned.

Deep, short thrusts, tingly from the afterglow--Roberto savoured his lover's ass again. He saw a glob of Danny's semen on the shower wall, slowly trickling down. With his hands pressed against the tiles, he leaned forward and licked up his lover's cum.

As Roberto tasted the jizz, Danny's clenching muscles milked the last dribbles of semen from his dick in spastic fits.

After a while Roberto asked, "Had enough of my cock?", as he tried to extract himself from Danny's vise-like anal grip.

"Had enough of my ass?" Danny retorted, rectally squeezing the exhausted dick. Roberto moaned.

"Your ass is just as nasty as your mouth," the mechanic muttered, bent over and wincing from the hypersensitivity.

"Let me clean your cock," Danny demanded, loosening his grip. The mechanic pulled himself out slowly, holding his breath.

"We're gonna be late..." he began, but to no avail. His lover turned around, got on his knees, and wrapped his sucking mouth around Roberto's spent dick in a split second.

"Aw fuck!" Roberto threw his head back.

-----

An hour later, after rushing through the cooking, the dressing, and the drive to the suburbs, they arrived at dinner. They were 30 minutes late.

Surprisingly, Ms. Yeung was all smiles and courtesy as she greeted and welcomed the pair at the door. As she stepped aside to let them in, Roberto looked back at Danny with a smug grin, convinced that his suave ways and homemade dish were working like a charm. Danny raised his eyebrows, not yet ready to let his guard down, and hugged his French dad, the calm, rational one of the family. They headed to the dining room, where three large plates of authentic Chinese cuisine, fresh from the kitchen, sat waiting to be devoured.

Danny's parents were impressed with Roberto's Bacalhau à Brás, finishing the dish. The mechanic and Ms. Yeung soon launched into an enthusiastic foodie talk, while Danny and his dad chuckled and ate quietly.

"Roberto, come, let me show you this recipe. Danny loves it," Ms. Yeung said, getting up. "Have you ever cooked with chives?" she asked, grabbing one of her recipe binders.

"Not yet, but I'll sure learn," Roberto answered, grinning at his boyfriend.

"It's scrambled egg with chives. It's somewhat similar to your dish...how do you say it again?" Danny's mom tried to follow Roberto's Portuguese pronunciation. "Yes, that. So, Danny likes a bit of meat, so I add some BBQ pork, just pieces..." The two of them side by side, a petite but commanding middle-aged lady and a towering, smiling mechanic, made an amusing composition to Danny's eyes.

"...that sounds delicious. And I know Danny likes meat, so..." Roberto turned around and smirked naughtily at his boy.

The rest of the dinner went by just as pleasantly. Danny's dad talked shop with Roberto, indirectly inquiring about the numbers at the garage, impressed at the growing business the mechanic and his partner Fred managed since opening the shop a year ago. Meanwhile, Ms. Yeung and Danny started clearing the table and washing the dishes.

Soon after, Roberto got ready to go back home. Of course he wanted Danny to come home with him, but Danny insisted he stay at his parents'. He didn't want to push their apparent good luck too far.

"I'm just going to walk him to the car," Danny said to his mom. He wanted a kiss goodnight, then immediately regretted his decision: his mom would probably be watching from a side window. He followed Roberto out the front door.

When they got to the mechanic's bright red, customized Mitsubishi Lancer, Roberto took Danny's hands and wrapped them around his waist.

"That went well."

"Yeah..." They kissed. "...I can't believe it."

"Told ya I'd handle it," Roberto bragged.

"Or maybe mom decided his son's happiness is more important and she had mercy on us." Danny hoped that was true.

"Hey, she liked my codfish. Your dad too." the mechanic jabbed.

"Yes they did, yes they did..." Danny conceded, kissing his boyfriend. "Your cooking skills save lives."

"Mock me some more and nobody's cooking you an egg omelette with chives..." Roberto threatened jokingly, opening the driver's door. "...and carrots and peas and barbecued pork."

Danny laughed and leaned into the open windowsill. "You're the best..." A quick peck on the mechanic's lips. "...and you know it."

"I do know it. You better too," Roberto quipped, starting the car. Danny rolled his eyes and slapped his boyfriend's furry, sinewy forearms.

"Call me when you get home."

"I'll call you when I'm in my jockstrap," the mechanic replied with a devilish glint in his eyes, shifting the Lancer into reverse. His young lover squealed and waved as Roberto backed out of the driveway and sped off.

When Danny stepped back into the house, his dad was watching the evening news in French. Walking to the kitchen, he saw his mom finishing up packing the men's lunches for the next day.

"Mom?" Danny asked, fidgeting with his keys in his pocket. "So...what do you think of him now?"

Ms. Yeung was quiet for a while, putting the tupperware lunches into the fridge. Closing the fridge door, she looked at Danny blankly and replied, "He's very charming."

"So you're okay with us dating then?" her son asked, holding his breath.

Danny's mom sighed. "We'll see, young man," she said, her reply ending on a higher tone, as if she was asking a question. She looked away for a second, her expression indecipherable, then walked past her son and headed upstairs. "Pierre, I'm going to bed. Goodnight, Danny."

His dad was watching him from the living room couch. He shot Danny a quick, reassuring wink as he replied, "Coming, Maggie."

-----

-----

Simon Harris wished he could go home.

Instead, he stayed staring at the setlist for the night, a wrinkled sheet of paper affixed to a clipboard, filled with strikethroughs and last-minute additions.

If he looked busy enough, maybe he could have just a moment of peace. Chaos surrounded him: anxious members of local bands coming into the hipster bar, some already getting drunk and rowdy, others crowding around Simon to ask questions that were already covered in the emails; the sound girl who just realized the venue's mics weren't working, and was a phone call away from completely losing it; the cute but dumb security guard who kept asking Simon who was allowed to go in the green room; and the bar owner silently surveying the thin crowd, arms crossed, not impressed.

"Where's Jesse?" someone asked for the hundredth time tonight.

"I don't know." Except, of course, Simon knew exactly where Jesse was.

"Are you next in charge?"

"Yes." The damned word, leading to yet another issue, yet another delay. It was at a moment like this when Simon wondered what he was doing with his life.

A decade ago, he'd been a hopeful, determined, proactive young guy. Right after high school, it was a no-brainer to skip university and spend all his time and money from Booster Juice and Foot Locker on recording song demos and fancy threads. Since he was a child he could sing, and his interest in songwriting was budding as he went through teenage angst coupled with coming out. He'd thought without a doubt that he was meant to be a singer when he grew up.

He kept his chin up through all the rejection that was to come: all the managers and agents who never returned his calls after sending them his latest demo, all the music contests he didn't get into, all the band auditions that went south as soon as people gave him the once-over.

"Hey guys...the Sugarcones, yeah? Hey, loved your song about the peppermint...so listen. The band who was supposed to go ahead of you can't make it; family issue with the guitarist. Can I ask a huge favour?"

Simon kept working on his craft, taking singing lessons when he could afford them, writing a few hundred songs over several years. He met and worked with other musicians, but it was hard finding someone who shared his creative vision, and over the years most of them threw in the towel and got a "real" job, while a handful found success and was never heard from again.

He paid rent by waiting tables, handing out flyers and samples on street corners, trapping himself in a call centre cubicle, working two to three jobs at any given time. When he got home, he wrote songs and did vocal training. Six hours of sleep a night was a blessing.

"Ladies, please! You're on next!! There's no alcohol in the green room...here, gimme that and go backstage. Yes, you're on next...now!"

By his mid-twenties, Simon's outlook began to dim. He realized the problem wasn't his musical skills or his work ethic. He began to understand what label executives meant when they told him he didn't have the "right look", the "stage presence", or the "whole package". They meant his skin tone (black), his height (five foot five), and his mannerisms. He would never forget, during one national singing competition, the flippant look on a female judge's face when she said that the way his fingers darted in the air as he pulled off a big high note was "too delicate". Many also told him to try doing rap or R&B, when his heart had been in rock and pop since day one.

Then, two years ago, he met Jesse. Simon got on the bill of a local music showcase that Jesse ran. As soon as the aspiring singer met the event host, he was spellbound. With his quick eyes, perfect dimples, swimmer's build, and silver tongue, Jesse captivated Simon. He made Simon feel understood and valued like no one had before.

They liked many of the same artists and songs, and had music debates that went on for hours. They began spending many nights in Jesse's car, parked at fast food parking lots, criticizing the unfair, slow-to-adapt music industry until the early morning. They vowed to take over the charts with their next song.

Simon felt like they'd known each other from before, and what was more, he felt like he belonged in Jesse's company. So when Jesse asked the singer if he was interested in helping out his music showcase series, Simon said yes without hesitation.

"Thanks Gaby for running out and getting the mics. You saved our lives again....no no, it's fine. The sound's...not perfect, but we're doing the best we can."

Since then, Simon's feelings for Jesse only grew--Jesse who was straight but well aware of the unspoken layer in their relationship. The suave host made so many promises, of setting up a record label and launching Simon as the flagship artist, of shooting a series of music videos that told a multi-part narrative, of dedicating an entire showcase night to Simon, his co-host. None of them came true, but there was always a new promise, a new venture that sounded original and exciting coming from Jesse's mouth.

In the meantime, what the singer got was more and more responsibilities, taking on paperwork, cold calls to venues and festival organizers, social media accounts, a blog, correspondence with bands past and present...basically everything but the finances and the sound tech. Between working for Jesse and juggling a side job or two to make ends meet, Simon barely had time to work on his own music.

Last month, Simon turned 31. His big crew of gay friends, most of whom he'd met through the myriad of jobs he'd had over the years, threw him a real bender of a party. The next morning, he felt two things. The first was that he was getting too old for benders. The second was the sneaking dread he'd harboured for months, now ringing loud and clear in his head: that he was stuck in a rut.

It was like there was no way out of this pitiful circus that his life had become. He'd lost track of his goal, bogged down in the means until they became the ends. Yes, he was around music; yes, he made lots of contacts and attended some industry conferences for free. But at the end of the day, where did all that get him? Five minutes under the spotlight, seven minutes top, singing songs that ten, twenty people heard once and never bothered to download afterwards from iTunes. He began to deeply regret not doing post-secondary education during his twenties. He began to have serious doubts.

"Please, everyone, can we get another round of applause for No More Rain?" A shrill feedback whistle pierced through the loudspeakers as Simon spoke through the mic. "...all right, so we're gonna take a little break right now, but coming up, we've got a lot more amazing talent, doing rock, heavy metal, rap, acoustic, and yours truly bringing you the best pop in the city; I promise you! Oh, it's gonna be a stellar night! Stick around and we'll see you in 15."

As quickly as he could, Simon slipped back to the makeshift office adjacent to the green room. He needed to talk to Jesse. But when he got there, all he saw was an empty room.

Stepping out of the office, a swarm of musicians began to gather around the co-host. Simon raised his arms.

"Guys, I'm really sorry, but I have to find Jesse first, and then I'll answer all your questions. Gimme five minutes."

The whining crowd droned on. Simon sped down the narrow hallway and pushed open the back door into the breezy summer night.

"Jesse?" he called, looking around the dirty alleyway. After a few seconds, he faintly heard chuckling.

"Jesse," Simon said, heading towards Jesse's voice around the corner. "How long are you gonna be? I need you back in there."

When he rounded the corner, he saw that the main host, dressed in his classic suit and tie, was on the phone, in front of a dumpster. He looked up at Simon and waved him off, making the co-host stop and take a deep breath.

"Is that Sasha?" Jesse ignored Simon's question, listening attentively to the conversation over the line. "Jesse, please, I need you in there, Gaby needs you in there. The owner's pissed..."

The host held up one finger and turned around. Simon felt himself teetering on the edge.

"Look, I don't care if it's fucking Taylor Swift on the line. You need to get in there, now!"

Turning around, Jesse's eyes were cold and still. "Oh, yes...yes, wow, that, honestly, wow, that sounds like an amazing lyric. I mean, it's like Adele mixed with Gaga. You got both sides there...and I really think you're onto something completely fresh and...yes, YES, exactly! Listen, I'm so sorry to do this, but I have to let you go. The crowd's really starting to build and you know how amateur bands are--clueless little kids. Oh man...yeah, so, I need to take care of some stuff and...please the people...YES, please the people! Make 'em sing!"

Simon stood rigidly, arms crossed.

The host purred his final goodbyes and tucked away his phone. Adjusting his suit, he refocused his icy glare to Simon.

"I was on the phone with Sasha and I was THIS CLOSE to scoring a showcase gig with her."

"That's great, but it's a zoo in there and everyone's fucking being impossible...c'mon, you know I can't handle every single thing in there."

"Simon, you're not listening to me. I almost got Sasha to my night." Simon swallowed hard. "Can you even...fathom how many people would come to a Sasha showcase? And I mean the people who count, the suits and the cool kids. "Do Me Nasty" debuted at number five this week. Can you even comprehend..." Jesse walked up to his co-host and looked at him like a little child. "...what a 30-minute set with her would do for me? The new clientele it'll bring? The cred it'll get me, finally, after years of this fucking bullshit?" His eyes opened wide. "And then you tell me to get off the phone to handle some shit that you can take care of yourself?"

Simon was astounded. He was sure boiling blood was about to spill from his eyes.

"You fucked her already, didn't you?"

Jesse's condescending expression dropped, to one of utter shock. Simon slapped his own forehead and groaned. "My God, I can't believe this!" He laughed coldly. "After all this time I still thought..."

"Simon, this is not about..."

"YES IT IS!" he shouted, letting his last reservation go. "Yes it is! This is about us. Oh yes sir, this is ALL about us!" He whipped his arms in the air and circled the messy alley, speaking loudly. "This is about every single little bullshit thing you said to me to keep me here, every single little thing I took on for you, hoping..."