Welcome to DBZ Saiyan Garden

He waited in the wings, leather straps almost cutting into his pale skin. They started to play his music and they announced his name.

“The Oh So Fuckable, Gohan!!!”

He came out, white skin standing out against black leather — looking hungry.

Because they liked that.

They were the usual, sad looking degenerates — fat men with fat wads of one’s in their fat fists.

He eyed them as if they were all beautiful and in a graceful swing of his leg, squatted in rhythm to the music, moving his hips as he gripped the slippery pole. He arched his body, neck hanging back as his body moved towards the pole, so that he could entwine himself about it.

He was masked. They liked the mystery of him.

They would probably like the youth of his face even more but he had once danced without his mask and men went mad. They all had wanted to take his youth but his youth was long ago taken, yet they all still saw it within him.

Because they wanted to see it.

But with his mask on, he was sinister. He was gritty.

They liked that too.

He danced for awhile, teasing them with the ability of his body’s flexibility and rhythm and when he felt their need grow hot, and their itch grow, aching to stuff an endless stream of one’s down his g-string, he removed his clothing bit, by teasing bit, teasing them to the point of insanity.