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<span style="font-size: 18px">"His heart was black. Not from fire or decay, but because he chose to paint it that color, so that it may hide within the shadows and never be discovered." - A.J. Lawless</span></span></i><br/><br/><div style="text-align: center"><span style="font-size: 18px">=======================</span>​</div><span style="font-size: 18px"><br/>
One late night at the end of his sophomore year of college, Michael McFadden sat in his parked car to make a phone call that would forever change the course of his life. An attractive frat boy with baby blue eyes and a dimple in his cheek when he smiled, he was the product of a charmed Staten Island, New York, upbringing: a father who was a New York Fire Department chief, a mother that was a nurse midwife, and three siblings that were either attending college or in the process of applying to one. While not wealthy, Michael had a private school education, a pool in the backyard, all the advantages that an middle-class suburban childhood could provide, along with all the expectations associated with that privilege.<br/>
<br/>
There was a standard to meet, and Michael had to meet that standard his whole life. He was a straight-A student, the president of every club, involved in every sport. He could still remember his first day of college, his parents coming with him to register for classes, and sitting down with his adviser to ask, <i>"So, what's the best way to get Mikey into medical school?'"</i><br/>
<br/>
Michael just followed his parents' lead understanding implicitly that discipline and structure went hand in hand with his family's devout Catholic beliefs. He attended Mass three times a week, volunteered as an altar server at St. Peter's, and was the fourth generation of his family to attend Catholic school there. His grandfather had helped tile the sanctuary's altar. It was Michael's junior year of high school when his parents thought it was weird that he'd never had a girlfriend. He knew that he was supposed to get one, and so he did. It was all just a rational thought process, nothing emotionally involved. After graduating St. Peter's High School, Michael attended nearby CUNY Staten Island, where he rushed a fraternity at his parents' urging. He chose a triple major of which they approved.<br/>
<br/>
He could remember walking out of the frat house to go to Whole Foods or something, stopping at the door and thinking to himself, <i>'Should I tell someone I'm leaving?'</i>  It was the first time in his life where he could just go somewhere and be his own person. In fact, it took the freedom of college for Michael to even realize who his own person was. Growing up, he knew that he felt different, but because he grew up Catholic, he didn't really know that being gay was an option, because in his Irish-Catholic neighborhood they said <i>fag </i>a lot. His Dad and brothers called people fags, or say that things were gay. His only sex-ed class was taught by a priest, and all he remembered him saying was, <i>don't masturbate and don't be gay</i>.<br/>
<br/>
It echoed the same message that he was hearing at home, but his mother added, <i>"Keep your dick in your pants, don't you dare knock a girl up."</i><br/>
<br/>
When Michael got to college, the typical gay fraternity encounters he found himself having didn't seem to qualify as anything more than youthful exploration. He thought all guys drunkenly made out with their best friends. By his sophomore year, he was dating a guy from another fraternity but was also increasingly turned on by an older friend he worked with at the campus student center. Michael was just playing it off as a <i>maybe I'm just gay for you or I don't have to tell my girlfriend</i> kind of thing. Michael knew what he wanted, but it was never something he ever envisioned that he could have on a public level. And yet, as his friendship with this man turned physical and their relationship grew more serious, Michael saw his future shrinking before him: a heterosexual marriage, children, church and the knowledge that all of it was based on a lie. For months, Michael honestly thought he was just going to be an undercover gay for the rest of his life.<br/>
<br/>
For better or worse, that plan was never to be. Toward the end of his sophomore year, Michael got a text message from one of his fraternity brothers who said he'd been seen kissing another guy, after which certain brothers started making it clear that they were not comfortable around Michael. Of course because they were close-minded people, being gay meant Michael was automatically interested in all 80 of them. Eventually, he went before his chapter's executive board and became the first male at his college fraternity to ever come out. It was at that point he realized that if he didn't tell his parents, someone else would blast it on Facebook. So while Michael hoped for the best, he knew the call he was making had the potential to not end well.</span><br/><br/><span style="font-size: 18px"><b>"You can't hate me after I say this," </b>he pleaded when his mother was alarmed to be receiving a call in the middle of the night. Elaine McFadden picked up the phone.<br/>
<br/>
<i>"Oh, my God Mikey, you got a girl pregnant!?"</i> was his mom's first response, before running through a litany of parental fears. <i>"Are you in jail? Did you get expelled? Are you in trouble? What happened? What did you do?" </i>Suddenly his mom's silence matched Michael's own. <i>"Jesus, Mary and Joseph,"</i> she murmured in disbelief.<i> "Are you gay?" </i><br/>
<br/>
<b>"Yeah, Mom." </b> Michael forced himself to say.<br/>
<br/>
There was a loud clatter on the other end  of the line, sounding like the phone hit  the floor. After a long moment of silence, his Dad responded.<i> "I don't know what the hell we could have done for God to have given us a fag for a kid," </i>he said before hanging up on him.<br/>
<br/>
The line went dead. Michael stood there holding the phone, frozen in shock. Still, he tried to convince himself that his parents would come around and accept him, despite what they perceived to be a flaw. He had a trip planned with friends, and they drove to New York City to celebrate his birthday. When his debit card didn't work on the second day of the trip, Michael figured it was because he had spent more than the daily amount on his account that the bank would allow. When Michael returned to school, he received a call from his older brother, Patrick.<br/>
<br/>
His brother said, <i>'Mom and Dad don't want to talk to you, but I'm supposed to tell you what's going to happen. All your cards are going to be shut off, and Mom and Dad want you to take the car and drop it off at the Ferry parking lot. Your phone's going to last for that much longer. They don't want you coming to the house, and you're not to contact them. You're not going to get any money from them. Nothing. And if you don't return the car, they're going to report it stolen."</i><br/>
<br/>
Michael became hysterical, pleading with his  brother to talk to his Mom and Dad when Patrick hung up on him. Hindsight being 20/20, he recalled that Patrick sounded cold, and so unemotional as though the two brothers were total strangers instead of family. From that moment, Michael knew that he was entirely on his own, that he had no home, no money and no family who would help him, and that this was the terrible price he was going to pay for being gay. Being gay was a minor misery compared to the other stuff that happened. Michael knew well what his parents thought of homosexuality, but he still held out hope that maybe over time his family would come around. With the last of his cash, he bought a bus ticket back to New York City, because within a few weeks he defaulted on his rent.<br/>
<br/>
He started couch surfing and persuaded the student center to let him work through the summer for $6 an hour, 10 hours a week. It was crap money, but it was something.  Michael didn't tell anybody the situation he was in. He didn't tell anybody he was hungry every day. He didn't tell them he didn't have a place to stay, because he thought this was his punishment for being gay and he deserved it. Michael would ask friends if he could crash overnight, lying about being too drunk to go home. If that fell through, he'd spend nights in study rooms on campus. He found himself dating men simply to have a bed, which admittedly was neither healthy nor permanent. One night he woke up naked and cold in an alley behind a Chinese restaurant, covered in blood and vomit.<br/>
<br/>
The only problem was that it wasn't his blood. The blood came from a transient man who was clearly dead, and had a few huge chunks of flesh ripped from his torso. Michael didn't remember what happened, or how it happened, but it seemed he or something within him had quickly adapted to living on the streets of Manhattan after all.<br/>
</span><br/><div style="text-align: center"><span style="font-size: 18px">======================<br/>
</span>​</div><span style="font-size: 18px"><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ff9999">"Bout goddamn time you rolled in here Maverick. You're on in 30! And I'll be collecting on what you owe me after the show, princess. Or imma let the boss know  you was late again."</span><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#bfbfbf"> remarked Johann.</span><br/>
<br/>
It had been another hard night for Michael McFadden. He couldn't find a friend to take him in for the night, and the LGBT shelter was full by the time he got off work. He looked rough and cranky as fuck, his hair sticking up in spikes unevenly on his head, jaw unshaven. His bed had been a park bench at Columbus Circle, and his spine felt every board that the bench was constructed of. At least the weather wasn't as shitty as it was now, but he needed a shower and to get ready without an additional headache.<br/>
<br/>
<b>"Jesus Christ Johann. Why you gotta bust my balls? Fuuuck you! I clocked in with seconds to spare, asshole. I don't owe you shit." </b>Michael growled, heading into the dressing room because he knew he was late, and talking to Johann was adding insult to injury.</span><br/><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ff9999"></span><br/><span style="font-size: 18px"><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ff9999">"Don't smart mouth me you little prick. You're lucky Mr. Mohsen even thinks you're worth dancing on his stage. Hurry your ass up, Tina's almost finished with her set!" </span>Johann cursed, rushing back to the front of the club.<br/>
<br/>
The sounds of music coming from the pit echoed through the walls as Michael vanished into  shower, quickly washing up before getting into costume for his routine. He'd only been dancing at Abyss for about a month now, and he was lucky to get this gig after his parents shut down his academic account at CUNY and he was no longer considered a student there. He floated around after that, learning to hustle and try to make ends meet doing odd jobs that didn't pay enough to cover rent and food. He had a few sugar daddies that let him sleep over in return for sex, and one of the lucky guys happened to be a fucking monster. Whoever he was, he'd gotten Michael infected with a lycanthropy virus, and he'd been that way for three years now.<br/>
<br/>
At first he was changing into a wolf, then six months later his features took on a reptilian appearance complete with fangs and scales. In the past year, Michael took on the appearance of  a leopard, and he realized that his senses became that of whatever animal strain he'd been infected with. As he gazed into the mirror now, rubbing baby oil over his rippled chest and abs, his eyes looked very human. Only he could see the glow that simmered deeper in the recesses of his eyes that meant he was something much more than human. Supernatural. Bestial. It was the cobra that he called out, one of the perks of sharing DNA with a snake was its agile movements that gave him an acrobatic ability.<br/>
<br/>
Valentina finished her set, and gave him a playful swat on the butt as she passed by in the dressing room. On the stage could hear the emcee riling up the crowd for him, men and women howling and cheering as he made his way to the stage. Tonight though, there was one man in particular that Michael had to impress.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Yassine Mohsen</i> was the proud owner of Club Abyss, the swanky, upscale club catered to an upscale crowd,  those with discerning kinks. Michael had danced many nights before this, but apparently his innate skills and charismatic personality were too obvious to keep concealed for long. He was considered a newbie still, yet had VIP's requesting private dances from their favorite dancer, Maverick.<br/>
<br/>
<b>He</b> was that fantasy.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Maverick</i> was the fantasy man so many in the audience tonight dreamed of luring to their bedroom. He was the man that could perform all the naughty, forbidden things that their husbands and boyfriends wouldn't.  The moment the melody to <a class="link link--external" data-proxy-href="/proxy.php?link=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DYhszxS7-t3g&amp;hash=c248c1202271f1f6f357c3f8339faad5" href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YhszxS7-t3g" rel="nofollow ugc noopener" target="_blank">Tainted Love</a> started playing, that was his cue to deliver what they all wanted and craved. Surrounded by the flash of the colored strobe lights and the haze from the smoke machines forming a white fog around his feet, Maverick used his body to relay all the messages that were left unspoken. Dropping to all fours, he made a series of sensual body rolls that brought his hips to a slow grind against the stage.<br/>
<br/>
Kicking his right leg forward with pointed toes and flexed calf muscles, his legs pivoted over his head in a revolving whirl of sharp precision and accurate grace as he flipped into a headstand. Every motion was coordinated, graceful and sexual, popping his body up to stand once again on his feet. He thrust his hips out and slowly gyrated them back and forth, as he ripped his T-shirt open, and off his muscled torso. Pecs flexing, his abs cut and shimmering with sweat and a sheen of baby oil. Maverick gave the crowd what they wanted, and in return cash was flying out of their pockets and purses and onto the stage.<br/>
<br/>
But Maverick wasn't looking for a lonely housewife's last five dollars. He sought the man in the thousand dollar suit and $350 Hugo Boss boots with the fat billfold. His employer's Middle Eastern appearance gave him a warm, glowing and almost ethereal quality. But that assessment was totally inaccurate. Yassine Mohsen was the <i>devil incarnate</i>, and Maverick became <i>hell fire</i>, crouching there on the edge of the stage purposely rocking his pelvis, letting his lust-driven undulations pop and thrust upward into the air. His muscled legs separated into a split while bouncing his package in a grind against the stage to coax a particular someone to part with more than just a dollar or two and slip it into his g-string.<br/>
<br/>
A hand trailed down his muscled chest to toy teasingly with the straps on his hips, combined with a seductive smile to encourage a generous donation, hinting at much more.</span>