Free Clay's Way by Blair Mastbaum Page A

“Clay?” 
                    He doesn’t wake up. 
                    I lie beside him with my head on Steve’s mattress and softly—like it’s a spiritual experience--touch his chest.  Chemicals rush through my body.  I wish I could jack off, but it’s too risky.
                    Still, he shows no sign of waking. 
                    I move my hand slowly down his chest, feeling the curves of his muscles.  I trace around his nipples.  He’s hot and a little damp.
                    He reacts with almost imperceptibly slow movements. 
                    I sit up and hold my face only inches from his skin above his underwear waistband.  I inhale deeply.  It’s perfect, warm Clay-filled air.  I slide my hand as softly as I can down his stomach and I lift up his underwear waistband a tiny bit.  I push my finger in and feel the top of his pubic hair. 
                    He thrusts forward barely an inch and takes a deep breath. 
                    Someone pounds on the door.    Fuck.   I jerk my hand away and curl up as fast as I can on the carpet to fake being asleep.  I   squint   my eyes so they look closed, but I can still see.  I’m shaking.
                    Clay and Steve don’t move.  
                    Kendra peeks in and takes a photo with flash, then ducks out and closes the door.
                    Cool.  Now this is recorded.  It’s permanent.  It’s real.  I wish that photo were mine.
                    Steve moans and flops around on his bed.
                    I nuzzle into Clay’s side, where his ribs make little ridges under his skin, but he rolls over away from me, still sleeping.
    Downstairs, the party rages on.

Chapter 6
     
    Fresh summer Sake,
    Evening turned fast to morning.
    What a hangover
                                                                 
                    I have a horrible hangover in the morning and I think Clay does too by the look of him.  His eyes are swollen, and he’s walking like he’d do anything to prevent his head from moving too quickly.  I grab my clothes off Steve’s floor.  They’re still soaking wet, dripping all over his records and everything.  I check to make sure doesn’t notice.  Luckily, he’s still unconscious.
                    Clay and I walk out over all the passed-out bodies, and get into his truck.    Everything outside looks boring.  It’s back to the real world again, with adult rules and standards about what’s appropriate and all that.  We drive out of the neighborhood and down the road back to Kailua.
                    Clay looks dazed.
    I feel so stupid.  I wouldn’t have been so daring last night if I wasn’t drunk and stoned.  I stare straight ahead, so he doesn’t have to have uncomfortable eye contact with me.  I watch two girls biking down the street with their surfboards who obviously went to bed a lot earlier than we did.  I don’t want to demand any attention.  I want him to think I’m cool on my own – in my own head, and that the party was no big deal.
                    He turns a corner like a maniac and shifts to fourth.
                    I look around the inside of the truck, which reeks of smoke and sweat so bad it makes me want to hurl.  The brown dashboard’s sticky and dusty and has all kinds of broken tape cases thrown all around it.  There’s a rash guard with a big rip in it on the floor under my feet.  The back windows rattle like crazy when we drive over any sort of bump and one panel is patched with a piece broke off of an old skateboard.  I watch out the window as we drive through downtown Kailua, basically a couple strip malls and some plate lunch restaurants with local dudes hanging