3. CORIOLANUS

CORIOLANUS

The Present

A lthough the main performance space was awash in light, most of the gay strip club was dim, creating an intimate setting. Those seated closest to the stage, the prime real estate for patrons , shared in the luminescence provided to the performers. The rest of the eager audience were in shadow.

Corey, as the god was calling himself in this era, gathered that the intent was for the throng of male spectators to look mysterious to the dancer until they came forward into the radiant setting to offer monetary tribute and have a quick feel. The effect was wasted on him, as they all stood out like dozens of lit candles in the dark to his enhanced sight. No—more like campfires.

He was shirtless, wearing only combat boots and skin-tight black PVC tearaway pants over a G-string. Earlier, management informed Corey that it was customary for their dancers to come out on stage in just a pair of shorts and a G-string as men were not all that interested in the showmanship of stripping—that long, drawn-out tease.

Corey also heard from several dancers that the audience wanted quick visual access to the goods and, later, private access if they had the money and desired to spend it. As Tony, one of the club’s regular strippers, said so eloquently to him an hour earlier: This ain’t no Vegas burlesque show, bruh—it’s downtown Toronto and tonight’s Sperm Assault Wednesday.

He still went with the pants. He wanted to put on a show everyone would remember.

Corey was not nervous; he was a god, after all, and feared nothing. He was excited to begin, wanting to get everything he could from this venture and feel something new. But more than just prancing around a stage in a lycra thong and teabagging some dude’s face for a twenty.

Sure, that had its base appeal—it just was not enough. With this performance, Corey wanted to do something closer to the bastard child of Magic Mike and Showgirls : visually stimulating and bodily provocative, with just a little sexual campiness .

No matter what he wore, it would be a new experience, for this was physical, raw, and deliciously mortal. In over two thousand years, Corey had, strangely enough, never done anything like this.

He had manscaped in preparation for the night’s performance, but not too severely, trimming his body hair just close enough to the skin so his defined musculature could stand out. Corey’s naturally black hair was cropped short to the sides and back with enough remaining atop to produce a charming wave-like effect, causing the god to appear younger than his human-looking mid-thirties. It was an intentional choice. It would all grow back by dusk the next day to how it looked at the time of his Becoming; it always did.

Corey had trimmed his beard as well, close to the skin, which he never liked, but numerous dancers, especially “gay-for-pay” Tony, had strongly recommended it. The guys with facial hair were a hit with the daddy lovers and the bears but garnered less attention from the heavy-wallet-carrying older customers. These men would drop hundred dollar bills down on youthful-looking guys, twinks especially, without a second thought.

Even without his usual thick facial hair, Corey could hardly pass for a twink. Though his objective was to fit in, to discover what it meant to experience this alongside the mortals who did it professionally, his look was secondary to his ample sexual charisma.

Corey understood the older men’s desire to be near what mortal aging had robbed them of. And at any price. Still, he would never trade a grown-ass man’s masculine power and sensuality for the innocence and rosy blossom of boyish youth. Give him hair, brawny musculature, and a fat ass any day. He loved cocks, of course, especially girthy ones with foreskin, but he was an ass-man first.

The only exception to this hirsute preference was his Maker, who looked eternally eighteen—the age at which he had been made a god. Smooth, more beautiful, and more desirable than any god or mortal Corey had ever seen. However, that deep connection on a physical, emotional, and spiritual level, one never experienced with another, had caused him too much pain over the centuries. And so, he kept his distance.

Corey had sampled many mortal men, an internationally diverse banquet. He loved exploring their bodies, relishing the vast differences in their maleness while draining each one’s essence, the necessary feeding to sustain his godhood.

This brand of intimacy was generally consensual and mutually desired but sometimes less so when his targets were of dubious character or sought to do him harm. Thankfully, wisdom and the self-control that comes with time had largely quelled his more animalistic urges and lack of discerning appetites.

Though sometimes, the vile and the villainous were more fun to play cat and mouse with.

Corey caught his cue from the announcer in the DJ booth that he was about to be called up to perform. Everyone at the club called the guy “Big G,” a nickname that Corey hoped they would never describe to anyone again the vulgar reason behind it. If only he had been spared the pleasure .

“Gentlemen, please welcome our next dancer to the main stage. It’s his first time, boys, so be gentle. Or not. I’m sure he won’t mind. Here’s Corey!”

The god noted how Big G emphasized his name’s o and e sounds, giving it a sleazy connotation.

Corey walked onto the stage slowly, predatorily, to meet his eager audience, gazing out into the dimmed room like a hunter. Easily penetrating the darkness with his augmented vision, he stared into the faces of those who would soon desire him unequivocally, both the licentious and the carnally inexperienced.

Running his hands down his torso teasingly, Corey continued his sexually predacious movement toward the centre of the stage. He smiled devilishly, occasionally winking, a flirt to make certain ones feel more special than others. A manipulative move he completely understood would elicit feelings of unbridled jealousy in those not picked. Corey was confident it would make them want him more and try harder to get his attention.

The god bathed in the audience’s delight; their eyes, wide as saucers, poured over his flesh, enraptured by his physique—what he had allowed them to see thus far. Years of intense training in the ancient Roman military had given him his impressive form, forever set, frozen in time by his Becoming.

Thinking about controlling these men, directing their emotions caused blood to rush to his cock. The sudden, prodigious rigidity showed through the tight PVC material of Corey’s pants quite noticeably, sending the audience into a hushed frenzy; there were no tacky hollers or degrading cat-calls. Instead, the men projected their desire outward like a wave of energy, a tsunami of lust that hit the god hard.

As their passion increased exponentially, Corey’s preternatural senses went into overdrive, allowing him to experience the sensation of orgasm without needing physical contact. It was delicious, a subtle magic a mortal could never tap into, never experience.

As numerous eyes raked over his body, the god sensed every man in the bar whimpering for some release from the sexual torment he so easily aroused in them. They wanted him, his touch to liberate them, but the sensations were too much, too soon. So, like a master to a disobedient sub, Corey refused. Their deserved punishment would endure; there was always pleasure in pain.

And it was much too early in his performance; there would be no premature—release.

Corey’s strong, manly hands slowly traced down his stomach, each movement a symphony on his washboard abs. The room had fallen into a hushed reverence, all eyes drawn to the magnetic figure on the stage. The audience’s anticipation was almost tangible, their excitement building with each second. Corey’s power, like a force of nature, washed over the crowd, leaving them utterly mesmerized.

That he could dance his ass off did not hurt his efforts to stimulate his audience either. Corey moved with the grace of a panther and the ferocity to match. He gyrated and thrust to the loud techno music, touching himself, caressing lasciviously .

Advancing further toward the edge of the stage, he reached for each man and then pulled away. Licking his lips, he hungrily searched the crowd for the one who most desperately wanted to put himself inside him—the one who would do anything for his attention, approval, and body.

Moving his eyes over the room, Corey hunted.

Finally, their eyes met; he had found the prey.

Corey felt an inexplicable connection with him that went beyond mere chance. The young man’s striking, coal-black eyes penetrated the god’s very being as if beckoning him with a magnetic force, calling to him like a lost lover.

The sable blackness of the youth’s hair was intense, with short wisps falling around his head in various places. It was a subtle thing, but Corey noticed his skin caught the light oddly, making its subtle pink occasionally appear almost alabaster. His initial thought that the guy needed more time in the sun made him instantly smirk; he got the absurdity of a god of darkness promoting the sun’s touch.

Corey eagerly wanted the young man’s innocence in his mouth, pouring over his tongue, the sweet taste of mortal blood invigorating his ageless flesh.

The prey was seated with a group of yuccies, a term Corey recently learned meant “young urban creatives.” Apparently, the hipster fad was dead, and he had failed to notice their demise entirely.

None of the men looked particularly older than nineteen, perhaps twenty, which was old enough. But what were human years to an immortal? Age had not meant anything to Corey in millennia, though sex and feeding were too entwined for him ever to consider hunting the young. He had a code of ethics, a personal morality. He was a god, an inheritor of Titan blood through his Maker, not the offspring of Echidna, a depraved monster.

Looking deep into the mortal’s face, Corey suddenly felt overwhelmingly flushed and oddly uncomfortable by their magnetic connection. When he realized why, it was like Jove’s lightning had struck him. This obvious thing had been staring him in the face since first setting eyes on the young man, and he completely missed it. Corey wanted to slap himself for his willful blindness.

As Corey gazed upon the mortal, he could not help but feel a twinge of pain in his heart. The resemblance between this man and his Maker was uncanny. It brought back a flood of memories—memories of their complicated relationship and the centuries of heartache. However, these issues would not affect his feeding tonight; this mortal was not Olympius.

Refocusing his attention away from disagreeable thoughts, Corey returned to his gyrations, pinching his erect nipples and loudly moaning while rubbing his package, a considerable bulge barely contained by the tied drawstrings of the PVC pants. Corey could tell his prey—who looked so much like Olympius—wanted to put his hand there.

That could not be allowed. At least, not before moving in nice and close .

Corey strutted to the edge of the stage, down left, close to where the young man sat and jumped onto the secured stripper pole. The pulsating music increased the god’s dancing frenzy as he straddled the metal object and simulated fucking it, moving his head back and forth in an orgasmic rhythm.

Gripping the metal pole tightly, the veins in his muscled arms bulging, Corey moved into some sensual, off-the-ground spinning, performing moves like a Cirque du Soleil acrobat. His thickly thighed legs with tight calf muscles extended when appropriate and bent when desirable, and never once did he show any signs of exertion or tiredness. His godlike endurance and virility were excellently masking, if not justifying, his complete lack of perspiration; godhood rendered most bodily secretions inactive.

Corey knew none of the other dancers at the club could hope to outperform him or look as good as him while doing the many things he could do.

When it was time to refocus on his prey, the god leapt off the pole with intention, landing directly in front of his target, practically on top of his table. He positioned his body so it would loom over the mortal, the intensity of his presence enticing yet intimidating.

Lifting his right leg, Corey stretched his limb out, placing his foot on the shoulder of a middle-aged gentleman sitting at the table directly behind the group, and winked at him. Then he turned his full attention to his prey and grabbed his hand. He carefully controlled the level of godly strength used; he did not want to crush any soft, fragile appendages .

The young man was startled by Corey’s aggressive behaviour and unsure how to respond to the hot dancer’s sudden interest and attention. He appeared flattered but flustered, too.

Corey wondered if the guy supposed that other men around the stage, especially those in thousand-dollar business suits, would make better targets for cash tips.

But this was about something other than money for the god.

Reading the mortal’s surface thoughts, as most gods possessed telepathy, what he used to call mind-walking , Corey learned that during the performance so far, not for a second had the young man believed any dancer would notice him, an awkward university kid in jeans—even if they were designer ones.

The god made sure not to probe deeply, as he did not wish to know too much about the prey, including his name. The mystery was what made the hunt even hotter.

Behind the flustered young man, the older guy used as furniture was crowing with glee, yee-hawing as sweat dripped down his ruddy face. He adjusted himself quite noticeably, having become painfully erect in his leather pants, aroused by the bold, some might consider demeaning, act. But Corey had read the minds of several individuals during his pole dancing and discovered this particular man’s penchant for consensual erotic humiliation. So it was all good.

The fucker was so hot and bothered he started licking Corey’s boot.

Though a stripper he might be portraying, Corey was a god and had no intention of allowing this mob of prurient mortal men to gain the upper hand. Despite what most of the gathering thought, he was not the meat here, the product. He would treat them all in whatever manner he so chose—and they would like it; a cursory telepathic scan of the room had determined no prudes were in residence tonight.