7. CORIOLANUS

CORIOLANUS

The Present

A FTER his performance, Corey quickly showered backstage and changed into his street clothes.

The god put back on his combat boots from earlier, pairing them with skin-tight black Todd Snyder jeans, opting to skip any underwear. A black Under Armour t-shirt accentuated his broad chest, while a military nylon belt with a silver metal skull buckle added to his butch look. He sported a pair of buttery leather motorcycle half-finger gloves and a classic Schott NYC black leather jacket that fit him snugly and emphasized his muscular arms.

The biker jacket was a vintage piece from the late 1950s, saved from decades ago when he had taken it off some nameless prey; it was his favourite garment currently this side of the globe, from an extensive wardrobe housed in countless closets over five continents and fifteen countries.

Corey restyled his hair using a sculpting pomade, ensuring the top remained wavy and perfectly shaped. Then, to moisten his lips, he used an expensive designer lip balm, which he borrowed , along with the pomade, from Tony—or rather, stole, as gods always took what they wanted. And Corey kept the lip balm, placing it in his pants pocket. The hair product remained on the dressing table.

Looking into a mirror framed with multiple lights, the god smiled at how fucking hot he looked.

Silently slipping out of the backstage area through a discreet service door, Corey deftly maneuvered around the dimly lit club, weaving through the shadows with the ease of a seasoned predator.

Using his godly speed and ability to manipulate darkness, he remained invisible to the human eye. The god watched the gyrating dancers and the buzzing crowd with rapt fascination. Occasionally, he used his telepathy to peer into their minds, to see through their eyes and experience their human sensations.

Spying upon the menagerie of men, Corey was drunk on masculine energy and the smell of blood as it pumped throughout their bodies, especially to their most intimate, delectable parts. Some dudes were cool as cucumbers, while others were hot and bothered. The god took great pleasure in witnessing all the salacious behaviour before him, customers and performers alike, especially in the backroom, where they did the private shows.

There were several questionably hygienic booths, hardly spacious, where one customer at a time, or a couple, could sit and enjoy an intimate performance from a dancer. Or two.

Corey caught one white-haired gentleman paying for a set of blonde, curly-haired, blue-eyed real-life brothers with Québécois accents to entertain him. One brother, the ripped, accommodating one, was gay, while the other, less-fit, younger-looking one with the unappealing underwear, was distinctly not queer .

The paying patron did not seem to care, but the younger performer’s uncomfortableness was off-putting to the god, offensive to his acute senses. Corey could smell the young, inexperienced stripper’s disinterest in men emanating off him like B.O.!

Corey wondered why the fuck the straight one even bothered with this profession if it was so problematic for him. Both brothers had huge, uncut dicks, sure, but the gay one was hotter, had a sweeter ass, and was exceptionally nimble, evident from his earlier on-stage antics. He was really into this scene and, from the look of him, needed no assistance making money.

As he was about to probe each brother’s mind for answers, Corey recalled Tony’s earlier words from one of his many unsolicited tutorials: Most guys have regular jobs, see, but we do what we gotta do to pay the rent and make some extra cash. And if you’re hot, why not? It’s better than drug dealin’, and gay dudes tip better than chicks. A good imagination, moderate actin’ skills, and Viagra are a must, or you’ll make shit tips. And some dudes like the idea of—what’s that word? Oh ya, taboo shit. That helps us straight guys not to have to do too much. Nothing too touchy-feeling, ya know? Some bumpin’ and grindin’, and okay, maybe get your dick sucked, but not too gay. No kissin’. It’s menal, shit, so we can get by bein’ a little lazy.

Corey knew Tony had meant mental but never corrected him. And though cerebral would have been more apropos, educating an endearing simpleton like Tony held little interest for the god.

It was all interesting information, but Corey still felt it would have been easier for the straight brother to stay home and do cam-work. Jerking off on the Internet was also easier money than drug dealing. Even a two-thousand-year-old immortal knew that—at least one who kept up with the times.

Each dancer had fixed personal guidelines for what they would and would not do during a private performance. Management preset the cost per song and customer, but the rule was at most two clients at a time. The dancer split that money with the club. The total fee to work at the club included the private booth rental, which was paid by the entertainer at the end of each shift, regardless of use. That was non-negotiable.

And if you did not have a credit card to put on file, you paid cash upfront.

As for tipping, that was the customer’s prerogative, but the more they tipped, the further the dancer would go, pushing the limit of their comfort level. And some guys would go pretty far, as tips were theirs to keep .

At the beginning of the night, Big G told Corey he only had to do private shows if he felt comfortable, knowing first-time dancers often got anxious. The sweaty man had also reminded him that he was ultimately responsible for how much money he made through tips, whether from the stage, the floor, or the back room.

Again, for Corey, this exploration of self-expression was about something other than money.

Several dancers had gossiped to Corey about Tony behind his back, saying he would do anything for a buck. Interestingly, earlier, before he went on stage, Tony informed Corey that nothing went up his ass except a tongue. He was cool with a finger rubbing his hole—but no penetration. Again, nothing too gay .

At the time, Corey had grinned and kept mum, having already peeked into Tony’s head and seeing that he tricked on the side, letting guys fuck him with and without condoms. But the god did not judge or mock the mortal’s straight male fragility. Well, not-so-straight, as it were. As with the brothers’ motivation for engaging in this profession, Corey did not care that much to think about it further.

The number of cameras all over the bar fascinated the god. Security watched everything. It was a nice bonus of their job but a necessary endeavour as they needed to react quickly to a dancer’s distress if a patron overstepped. And they were always watching, on the ready. Corey was impressed. It was a well-oiled machine, like the ancient Roman military he once led, albeit on a much smaller scale .

Corey briefly considered doing a private show for his prey before the club closed as a forerunner to future pleasures but ultimately decided against it. He came here to dance and engage in the art of stripping—not to simulate fucking in a cramped stall to repetitive EDM as some mortal sweated through their clothes all over him, hyperventilating from overexcitement. Though he acknowledged many dancers would find that image and scenario hot, Corey was indifferent.

When closing time arrived, the god located his prey, whose whereabouts he had kept track of all night with his mind’s eye. He knew the succulent morsel was waiting around for him, hoping he would eventually reemerge for a second performance. Corey knew they had all desired that, and this was not godly hubris; he knew he was that good.

But he never reappeared on stage or moved about the floor, at least visibly, and no club employee knew his whereabouts. Or, for that matter, who the dancer that had everyone talking was, not to any significant degree. Beguiling management to provide him access to their performance space even though it was not Amateur Night had been easy. He did not even possess an Adult Entertainer Licence.

Being a god came with many advantages.

Corey could have picked a different time and date to perform; his schedule was extremely flexible. But the goddess Fortuna had come to him in a vision, showing him that tonight would be serendipitous. He learned long ago not to question the goddess’ power. She sometimes visited him in waking dreams, proffering wisdom and guidance, having done so for countless centuries. This latest appearance was a pleasant reminder she still watched over him, though she never appeared to him in the flesh.

Corey knew why he warranted such favour from the goddess of fortune: it had to do with Olympius.

Fortuna believed he and his Maker were special, that their souls were connected. Their love, though complicated, was meant to be— Fated , with a capital “F.” Though the goddess never pushed, never manipulated. In Corey’s view, that behaviour was Olympius’ calling card, which made things too messy for them to be together, even if all that metaphysical stuff was true. He knew mortals in this era would say they had issues .

As the second performance for each dancer this night was their “sperm attack,” a masturbatory act ending in a delectable cumshot, Corey had needed to abstain. Incapable of producing semen, his performance would have finished without a bang, so to speak, and he never did anything half-assed.

Psychically enthralling dozens of emotionally charged men into thinking he had cum did cross his mind. Though not an impossible feat, it would have been taxing, so Corey inevitably decided not to attempt something potentially draining. In his need to replenish energy, he did not want to risk being overwhelmed by hunger when feeding later on the prey. Something not so easily held in check was a ravenous god!

Corey’s intent was not to kill tonight.