Clay's Way (21 page)

              I jerk him off faster.

              His dick rises up in a strong pulse and he shoots on his stomach like ink thrown on rice paper to make Japanese characters. 

              I made him come. 

              He came for me.  No one can take him away from me.

              I pull my shorts down and get out my dick and hold it in my hand.  This boner is from Clay, I think.  He gave this to me.  He still likes me.  It has to be.

              I rub his chest. 

              His heart flutters.  Three beats in a row, quickly. 

              Oh, my God.  I fucked him up by jerking him off.  I over-excited his heart.  It was bad for him.  I shouldn’t be doing this.  I’m using him like an object, like a porno mag.  I picture Anar coming in and me and him having sex with Clay’s passed out body, jerking each other off on top of him, coming together on his skin.  I’m so fucked-up.

              I look down at my torso.  The similarity of our bodies totally turns me on.  I use my left hand to beat off, which is difficult, because I’m right-handed.  I like it because it feels more like someone is doing it to me.  I rub Clay’s thigh and down his leg and I come in seconds.

              He twitches, rolls over, opens his eyes and sits up.

              I pull my shorts up as fast as I can and push them into my crotch to wipe up the cum.              

              “Could you get me a beer?” he asks, like it’s totally appropriate.

              I feel, for a second, I was dreaming this whole thing and I just woke up.  “Uhh... sure, I guess.  Hold on.”  I get a dreadful feeling thinking of having to talk the Australians to get beer.  They’re intimidating, but I’m indebted to Clay.  I made him almost kill himself.  I should do a lot more than get beer.  I get up and duck outside and walk past the other tents.  They’re lit from within by flickering lanterns.

              I try to get a good look inside Anar’s tent.  I see his sister reading tarot cards for her friend. 

              Her friend’s legs are sunburned and plump, like a turkey that’s been roasting for hours.  I wonder how she could be so normal and calm after what happened.

              I stand outside the Australians’ tent and perfecting a look so that they won’t think I’m scared or nervous or weird or the psycho queer poetry boy I really am.  I relax my mouth and let the tension out of my shoulders.  “Hey.  What’s up?” I practice.  I peek in.  It’s warm, inviting, and cozy compared to the dark, gray, and confusing environment of our dreary tent.

              They’re sitting Indian-style in a circle, smoking a joint, lit by the yellow glow of a kerosene lantern.  Their thick tan thighs are splayed out with half-full beers resting on their crotches.  One guy looks up at me.  “Eh, mate.”

              I can’t compete with his gracious nature.  “Hey,” I almost say, but the sound hardly leaves my mouth.  I feel damaged and tired.   I have too many problems with people I already know to meet new people and exert any sort of social effort.

              These guys would hate me if they weren’t fucked up, anyway. 

              “You think I get a couple brews from you?”  I try really hard to blend in, but I can’t stop rubbing my eye.  It stings from the salt on my skin mixing with the rainwater and going in my eyes.

              “Cooler’s outside.”

              The raindrops feel like bullets hitting my face.  I stick my hand into the icy, slushy water and grab two beers.  My hands feel numb from the ice and cold beers.  I should go back in and say thanks, but I know I’ll do it wrong, so I run back.  This beer could be the last opportunity I ever get to do a favor for him, before he rejects me and tells me to go fuck myself. 

              Someone is running after me.  The rain beams me in the eyes too hard to see clearly.  I get a chill up my spine, scared of the spooky figure behind me. 

              “Sam!”

              I ignore it.

              “Sam!” 

              It’s Anar.  I stop and let him catch up with me.

              “You didn’t see me in there.”  He’s smiling, almost evil. 

              “See you in 
where
?  What are you smiling about?”

              “Those Aussie guys’ tent.  I was sitting right there and you didn’t even notice me.”

              A couple hours ago I couldn’t notice anyone but him.  Weird.  “Oh...uh...what were you doing hanging out with 
them
?”

              “I went over there to give them their board back, and then I just ended up hanging out.  They’re really cool.  I told them the whole story.  How I rescued Clay.  They were pretty impressed.”

              He’s using my boyfriend’s near-death, triggered by me and him jerking off together, to get points with some dumb jocks, to make himself seem cooler.  What an asshole.  “Why should they know?” I snap.

              “You stole the guy’s board.  
You’re
 obviously not a surfer.  It’s an old limited edition, handmade board that he’s had since he was 16 in Perth.  One of the first short boards ever made, and you broke the fin off.  What was I supposed to do, just tell him he should live with it?”  His honesty comes off as being obsessive-compulsive.

              I look away.  A couple is fucking in the surf, right out in the open in the rain.

              “I hate them.  They’re assholes.  Who cares?”

              “I do, and they’re not assholes.  A couple of those guys have been around the world.  Cool stories.”

              “Yeah, while you sit there like the admiring little brother.  It’s so typical.  You’re just keeping their egos puffed up.  Pathetic.”

              “Sounds like you with Clay,” he snaps.

              “Fuck off, dude.  He almost died!  Hippie…”  I walk away.  A girl with flowers and peace signs painted on her cheeks with glow-in-the-dark green paint runs past me, topless in the pouring rain.

              “I saved him.  You owe me.”  This is starting to seem like some exaggerated soap opera. 

              I leave him standing in the rain and walk back.  Numbness in my hands has started working its way up my arms and into my torso, then up my spine into my brain.  I think the rain is trying to cleanse me.  I have to re-adjust my face before I go inside to see him.  I can’t look pissed off from my argument with Anar, and I can’t still seem cool-acting from having to deal with the surfers.  All I can manage is a bland sadness.  I feel like a chameleon. 

              He should really like me now.  I duck into the tent, wet and pathetic. 

              He’s sitting up like he just went to a movie and dinner, completely normal.

              “Clay?”

              “Yeah.”  He sounds cool and raw.

              I begin to cry.  I didn’t feel it coming.  The tears just flow out.  “I’m scared.  I’m so sorry.  I love you.  I can’t stand the thought of being without you.”

              “Do you know what just happened to me?”  He acts like he didn’t hear me.  Why isn’t he pissed off?  He should be jealous or sad.

              I made him try to kill himself.  I want to remind him of me and Anar, simulate us coming together, thrust out my hips and fake jerking off and shooting on Anar’s chest.

              “I died and came back.  It was so amazing.” 

              What’s he talking about?

              “There was 
real
 peace.  It was calm.  No one around.”  His voice is full of wonder and naiveté, like he’s amazed how words sound coming off his tongue.  “There were fish, and glowing rays.  The current was stronger than I’ve ever felt.  Farther and farther.  Can you imagine the way true peace feels?  Tranquil amongst the war.” 

              What the fuck?  Hippie boy speak. 

              He rolls over and lies down, cuddling with the sleeping bag.  His tattoo faces me, like a medieval shield designed to scare away enemies.

              “I’m sorry, Clay.  I fucked up.  I hate Anar.”

              He must think I’m such an immature little fool.  “You look so cute.  I can’t believe how cool you look.  You’re like a mystic sea-boy.”  He looks at me like I’m a swirling psychedelic poster and he’s tripping.  He could baffle the most accomplished psychiatrist right now.

              “Do you feel all right?”  There’s definitely something wrong with him.

              “I’m cold.”

              Yes!  A chance to make him feel better, to have a use for once.  I wrap his flannel sleeping bag around him, and he pulls it up to his neck and tucks it under his chin like a little boy.

              “Where’s that guy?”  Something’s not connecting in his head.

              “He’s asleep, I guess.  I don’t know.  Are you sure you feel all right?” 

              “I feel good.  Really good.  I don’t know… yeah, like…  really awesome good.”  He turns the other way and takes a sip of beer.  “You can’t just ignore him, you know.  He’s full of light.  It would be cruel to blind yourself of his aura.  He’s a powerful being.”

              This is awful.  “Yeah, OK.  Don’t worry.”

              “You learned all your bad qualities from me.  Take solace.”

              I can’t keep my hands still.  I feel cornered, wierded-out, guilty, embarrassed, and worried.  This is really confusing.  Yell at me.  Punch me in the eye.  Be the macho surferboy that I knew before.

              Guys out on the beach chant in Hawaiian.  “
E
 
ulu
 
I ka
 
lani, e
 
ulu
 
I ka
 
honua, e
 
ulu
 
I ka
 
pae
 
aina
 
o Hawai’i
.”  It’s louder than the wind and rain.

              “I bet you wanna escape right now.  Don’t deny your feelings.  Run away if it feels right.” 

              Fuck.  He’s the anti-Clay.  I wanna scream, 
Leave
 
me alone, you demonic alter-ego of Clay!
  I get a chill that makes me shudder.  “I just wanna make sure you’re all right.  That’s all I care about.”

              He closes his eyes, like he’s thinking about something that makes him happy.  I’m not sure if I’m imagining his expression or if it’s really there.  There’s only this flickering kerosene lantern to see by. 

              “Why’d you go into the ocean?”

              “You know.”  He rests his head back on his arms.

              A sharp chill runs up my spine.  The lantern is blown out by a strangely cold gust of wind that felt like it came straight from the Arctic.             

              “Something was in the water, Sam.  This feeling.  It’s like I 
understand
.”

              “Understand what?”  I try to light my lighter.  I keep flicking it, but it just hurts my thumb.

              “I know why you did that with Anar.  I know how the world works…” 

              My lighter lights like magic.  It burns really bright for a few seconds.  “Oh.”  I’m too stunned and scared to say anything else.

              “You thought it would make everything better.”  A strong breeze that smells like sweat and blood floats surges the tent.  “I don’t blame you.” 

              “You should.  I was acting like I accused Tammy of being.”  I can’t believe I just said that.  Is nothing sacred?  I don’t like all this out in the open.  It takes the romance and mystery away.  What will I hope for, now?  Reality is stealing my dreams.  I feel exposed and exploited.

              Clay looks at me, unabashedly.  He’s embarrassed by nothing.  “It’s different.  You have good intentions.  Tammy’s just insecure about me.  She caught me jerking off to a picture of you.”

              Strong hot blood floods my veins and arteries.  I feel my face turning red and hot.  What photo of me?  How did he get a photo of me?  Is it old?  Maybe, I’m younger and more innocent in the picture and he prefers that to how I am now.  “What’s up with you?  Why are you being like this?  What’s going on?”

              He looks amused.  His eyes follow my hands and my every movement, while I shift my legs and adjust my T-shirt to get more comfortable.  He doesn’t realize he’s being different.               

              I sit helpless in the face of my own creation. 

              He’s everything I wanted him to be. 

              I hate him.  I ruined him.  My thoughts changed reality.  I feel like we’re in a different dimension.  I should have kept my thoughts to myself.  I want his arrogance back, his tough-boy charm.  I should have left him alone.  A roar coming from the ocean builds.  I’m scared.  The earth is coming to get me.   

              Down the beach, people yell and howl like animals.  The rain starts pouring down even harder.

              I look out the tent door and see silhouettes in the rain. 

              The ghosts from the ‘60s have come alive to antagonize us. 

              I let my eyes focus and adjust to the darkness.  

              Girls throw off their bikini tops and drop the bottoms on the sand.  The suits look like jellyfish washed up on shore.  Boys fling their shirts off and jump out of their shorts.  The color of skin replaces the flower-printed colors of fabrics.  

              A guy flexes his thick white thighs, like in a tribal dance.  Two girls run by, naked.  One carries a dead fish in her hand.

              A man with a fire torch, burning bright despite the rain, dances, then throws it as far as he can, leaving a fiery trail traced in the sky.  Another thin blond guy jumps around.  His dick is halfway to a boner while he watches naked girls run past him. 

              A tall girl with black long hair like Pele masturbates in the surf with her back arched dramatically. 

              A couple has sex in the surf.  They’re painted with warrior body paint.  The girl rides him on top, with her arms flexed, like a bodybuilder’s.  The guy moans and pushes into her as hard as he can.