Yes, he can get out gayness from anyone without even sex. Of course, he won't do it for the same gender. It's very passive for opposite gender after all its just feelings emotions and love. In fact, living around him can be very addictive, especially for the opposite gender. If you are around him long enough—especially when they are fucking—it can become so intense that even kissing another guy can upset your stomach if you've fucked him long enough.
It can be worse than synthetic drugs Quaaludes. Once or twice, it can be a fun, eye-opening experience that you might never get again, but the more you do it, the more it becomes a part of you. After a few months, you can't leave. It's the nature of his magic and soul as an Incubus a lust Demon.
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******
He would provide the limitless capital of the Zenith Trust. And he would simply hire the right brilliant, desperate minds to do the grueling manual labor.
When the time came, he would find the young Larry Pages and Sergey Brins of the world. He would fund the creation of Google, YouTube, and the future algorithms of TikTok. He would own the around 80% controlling shares, dictate the cultural direction, and reap the astronomical profits, all without ever writing a single, miserable line of C++ code himself.
Why? Because Marvin understood the fundamental truth of his existence.
He was an Incubus. He was a creature born of desire, passion, and the intricate, beautiful conquest of souls. He wanted a happy, intensely fulfilling, and luxurious life. Openly controlling the media and financial empires of four different countries was more than enough occupational stress.
If he spent his days locked in a server room typing code, where would he ever find the time to actually enjoy the magnificent, breathtaking world he was buying? Where would he find the time to compose symphonies, act, direct masterpieces, and bathe in the adoration of the masses?
Most importantly, where would he find the time to properly worship and elevate his world queens?
An Incubus who neglects his women for a spreadsheet is a pathetic failure of his race. If he became a chained workaholic, he would eventually lose the devotion of Beyoncé, the loyalty of Amy, the wild passion of Jessica, and the countless other brilliant, beautiful women destined to join his long and happy life. He would rather burn billions of dollars in cash than be a man who had no time to make a woman feel like she was the center of the universe.
And he rather chose to release the women from his life than remain entangled with a man who consistently prioritized everything else over their needs and emotions. He understood that maintaining such a relationship would only lead to frustration and disappointment, not only for himself but for the women as well. In making this decision, he acknowledged that sacrificing genuine connections for the sake of money was not an option.
After all, he recognized that if he continued down this path, he would ultimately lose a part of himself and no longer embody the essence of an Incubus—a being of passion, allure, and insatiable lust, one who yearned to surround himself with women he desired, guiding them to bloom into radiant flowers—happy, fulfilled, satisfied, and beautiful—and only by basking in the warmth of their love, devotion, and flourishing hearts with as many women as he desired could he ever feel truly fulfilled.
Marvin smiled, smoothing the lapels of his shirt. Time was the ultimate luxury, and he intended to hoard it exclusively for pleasure, passion and power.
He turned away from the desk, leaving the inked pages of *Bleach* to dry in the sun, and walked out of the room to wait for his agent. The contract was ready, and Hollywood was waiting to be bled.
---
December 20th, 1997, arrived in Los Angeles the way most December mornings arrived in Southern California—with the particular, mild indifference of a city that had never fully committed to the concept of winter. The sky was a pale, washed blue above the Hollywood Hills, and the air carried just enough of a crisp chill to justify a tailored cashmere jacket without committing to anything more dramatic than that.
Inside the sprawling, silent sanctuary of the San Marino estate, Marvin Meyers was already awake.
He sat at the head of the dining table, bathed in the sharp morning light. He wore a dark shirt, looking impossibly handsome, his golden-brown hair perfectly styled, his nebula-blue eyes entirely devoid of the grogginess that plagued humans in the early hours.
He read the reviews over breakfast.
This was not a metaphor or a brief summary. He had explicitly instructed Amy to arrange the morning's global press coverage into three distinct, organized categories: print, broadcast transcript, and online. He worked through the thick leather dossiers in order, utilizing the focused attention of a general reviewing frontline battlefield intelligence.
A cup of chocolate milk cooled untouched at his elbow while his eyes moved rapidly down the columns of text, processing the information with the supernatural speed of a computer rather than merely consuming it.
The print reviews had arrived first, as they always did. The major dailies, the entertainment trades, and the weekly publications had all pushed their *Titanic* coverage to coincide with the opening weekend. He read *Variety* first, then *The Hollywood Reporter*, then *The Los Angeles Times*, then *The New York Times*, followed by a curated selection of regional papers that Amy had intelligently flagged as representative of the national sentiment.
The critical consensus, if the chaotic collection of opinions could be said to have one, was a kind of baffled negativity. It was the arrogant register of critics who had arrived at a screening with massive expectations, found a film that did not fit neatly into any of their available intellectual frameworks, and had responded by reaching for the nearest negative vocabulary.
*The New York Post* had led with a big, bold front-page headline that had been circulating through the panicked entertainment press since late the previous evening:
**TITANIC SINKS AT BOX OFFICE — CAMERON'S OVER $200M FOLLY LIVES DOWN TO ITS NAME.**
The review beneath the headline was thorough, snarky, and brutal in its dismissal:
> "James Cameron has spent over two hundred million dollars—two hundred million, a staggering, offensive figure that bears repeating simply to allow its full absurdity to register in the minds of the American public—constructing an elaborate, waterlogged special effects showcase in service of a love story that would genuinely embarrass a Hallmark greeting card writer. Leonardo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet are certainly appealing performers, doing their considerable best with a bloated script that gives them approximately two dimensions between them. The ship sinks. We all knew it would. It is a matter of historical record. The question a responsible filmmaker would have asked is: does it sink interestingly enough to justify three hours and fourteen minutes of audience time, and the GDP of a small island nation in production costs? The answer, regrettably, is a resounding no. There is a new king of the cinematic abyss."
> *Rating: 4/10*
The *Chicago Tribune* was somewhat less vitriolic, but no more encouraging:
> "A special effects movie thinly disguised as a historical love story—and not a particularly convincing disguise at that. Cameron is an undisputed virtuoso of spectacle and a mere journeyman of human drama, and *Titanic* reveals both of these qualities simultaneously. The last hour, when the legendary ship finally does what everyone has been waiting three hours for it to do, is genuinely extraordinary filmmaking—kinetic, terrifying, and technically breathtaking in ways that no previous disaster film has ever approached. The preceding two hours, unfortunately, are a soapy romantic drama of considerably less distinction. Whether the grand spectacle justifies the agonizing wait is a question each audience member will have to answer for themselves. At these ticket prices, many will decide it does not."
> *Rating: 6/10*
The *Washington Post* had taken a more directly economic, corporate angle:
> "Has 20th Century Fox gone collectively, irrevocably mad? Or has James Cameron? Perhaps both. One struggles to identify the logical decision-making process that led a major Hollywood studio to greenlight an over two-hundred-million-dollar period romance set on a ship that everyone already knows is going to sink. The film's opening day gross of 8.6 million dollars—while technically sufficient to top the North American chart against weak competition—represents, in the context of what was spent making it, the exact kind of terrifying return that sends studio executives reaching for their blood pressure medication. James Cameron, it is being reported in the trades, has already familiarized himself with the location of the nearest cutlery. One hopes the knives are safely stored."
> *Rating: 5/10*
*Entertainment Weekly* had been particularly cutting:
> "Cameron spent $200 million to build a sunken ship for Fox. Yes, I think the film's box office will sink just like that ship. A romance this incredibly shallow should absolutely not cost this much to film. A disaster this spectacular should not be chained to a love story this painfully ordinary. *Titanic* is a film of extraordinary technical achievement in service of an extraordinarily ordinary story, which makes it perhaps the most expensive waste of cinematic craftsmanship since *Heaven's Gate*. At least *Heaven's Gate* was interesting in its failure."
> *Rating: 4/10*
And then, from a particularly emboldened, cynical critic at a prominent independent film journal:
> "James Cameron has prepared his razor blades. Hopefully, the next time we see this director's name, it will not be engraved on a tombstone. *Titanic* is a towering monument to the madness that afflicts directors who have been given too much money and too little editorial oversight—it is grandiose, overlong, deeply self-indulgent, and entirely convinced of its own profundity in direct proportion to its actual shallowness. The film's central love story is a fairy tale for an audience that has never actually read a fairy tale. The ship sinks. Nobody cares."
> *Rating: 3/10*
The Chicago Tribune, after spending three paragraphs mocking the script, abruptly shifted its tone to sheer awe:
"Yet, for all of Cameron's heavy-handed drama, there is a ghost haunting this film that single-handedly saves it from the abyss. Whenever the pacing begins to drag, whenever the dialogue falters, a haunting, ethereal background theme cuts through the theater speakers. That piercing, sorrowful tin whistle acts as an emotional tractor beam, grabbing the audience by the throat and pulling them directly back into the freezing Atlantic. The music doesn't just accompany the movie; it physically anchors you to the screen. You cannot look away when that melody plays."
Entertainment Weekly echoed the exact same sentiment:
"Titanic is an incredibly expensive, flawed spectacle... but the score is a masterpiece of dark magic. The background motifs weave through the film like a living, breathing entity. When the ship finally goes down, it is the devastating, flawless vocal hums and sweeping instrumentation that make you actually weep for these fictional passengers."
Marvin set these papers aside. His expression remained a mask of serene indifference. He had been keeping a separate, much thicker pile on the right side of his milk.
The critical exceptions, when they came, came with laser-like specificity. They completely ignored the bloated budget and the perceived flaws of the script, focusing entirely on the singular, transcendent element of the film that had bypassed their cynical brains and struck directly at their souls.
But it was Rolling Stone that broke the truth to the world. Their review ignored the movie almost entirely, dedicating a big, full-page spread exclusively to the music:
> "Whatever one thinks of Cameron's screenplay—and there is a legitimate, lengthy debate to be had about the depth of its characterization—the film's technical achievements are undeniable, and its emotional intelligence, in certain key auditory passages, is far more considerable than the dismissive, cynical reviews would suggest. The sequence of the ship's actual sinking is among the most harrowing spectacle ever committed to film.
> But the score—James Horner and Marvin Meyers's remarkable, Celtic-inflected orchestral work—deserves to be discussed entirely separately from the film's other qualities, because it operates at a level vastly above them. And we must talk about the closing song. The closing song, *My Heart Will Go On,* is not just the year's most affecting piece of popular music. It is a historical flex of pure genius. If you wait until the final credits roll, you will see a revelation that should terrify every veteran musician in Hollywood. Marvin Meyers did not just provide the lead vocals. He did not hire a backing orchestra or rely on James Horner's session players.
Marvin Meyers composed the underlying arrangement. He played the grand piano. He played the acoustic guitar. He laid down the heavy, atmospheric synthesizer strings. He performed the Uilleann pipes, and he played that iconic, soul-shattering Celtic tin whistle. Every single acoustic vibration, every breath, every soaring note of that masterpiece was generated by a twelve-year-old boy. He is a one-man symphony.
With vocals performed by Meyers that carry an ancient, haunting sorrow no child should possess, it is the year's most affecting piece of popular music. Full stop, without qualification. Marvin Meyers once again proves to the world exactly why the industry calls him God's gift to America. Even at such a young age, he has undeniably become one of the greatest composers of our time."
Marvin's lips curved into a satisfied smirk. But *Rolling Stone* was just the appetizer.
*Billboard Magazine*, the undisputed bible of the global music industry, had dedicated a massive two-page spread exclusively to the film's soundtrack. The headline roared off the glossy page: **THE WONDER BOY REIGNS SUPREME: WHY 'MY HEART WILL GO ON' IS THE MASTERPIECE OF THE DECADE.**
> "If there were any remaining doubts floating around the industry boardrooms about the longevity of Marvin Meyers, *Titanic* has officially drowned them. Following the unprecedented, earth-shattering success of his *Marvin 1* EP—which has now officially moved more than 4.6 million pure physical units in sales, achieved Multi-Platinum certification across the globe, and still dominates the top ten Billboard charts after four months—Meyers has proven he is anything but a one-hit wonder. Everywhere you go, from Los Angeles to London to Tokyo, you hear his vocals.
> But 'My Heart Will Go On' elevates him from a pop sensation to a cinematic titan. This track is guaranteed to completely sweep the upcoming awards season. We are looking at a lock for the Golden Globe, the Academy Award for Best Original Song, and multiple Grammy Awards. Meyers has created another mythic milestone in music history. He took James Horner's beautiful foundation and transformed it into a cultural atom bomb. With *Marvin 1* poised to sweep the Annual Grammy Awards across all major categories, 'My Heart Will Go On' cements his legacy as the greatest musical talent of the 20th century just after Michael. We look forward to hearing whatever this impossible boy creates next."
*****
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