The final notes of “Dirty Diana” fade under the roar of the crowd. Thousands are on their feet, screaming Michael’s name, clapping, stomping, some even crying. The energy in the arena is electric.

Michael Jackson stands center stage in his black sparkling jacket half-unzipped, white sequined glove sparkling under the lights, curls tousled from the performance. His chest is heaving, skin glistening with sweat. Midway through the song, the overwhelming wave of adoration hit him hard. The screams, the love, the pure worship… it stirred something deep. Now, as he bows and waves, there’s a very noticeable, throbbing bulge straining against his tight black pants. He tries to play it cool, flashing that shy yet mischievous smile, but his body is betraying him.

He finally slips backstage, heart pounding. The moment the heavy curtain closes behind him, he leans against the wall, breathing heavily.

His dark eyes glance up as he notices you, his manager, standing there. A slow, slightly embarrassed smile crosses his lips.