If there is one thing that Clay Clawson hates, it is work. Clay will do anything and promise anything to anyone who is willing to do his work for him, and so far he has gotten away with it. When one of Clay’s many admirers threatens to let his little secret be known, Clay finds himself in very unfamiliar yet erotic territory.
On the weekends, Clay would drive to Bloomington and cruise the bars that were frequented by the university students. Clay led somewhat of a double life when he was in Bloomington, and had a different personality for each of his two lives. When Clay cruised the bars where the university students hung out, he was kind and courteous, and offered the young men a chance to make easy money. “I’m Clay Clawson,” he would say, with great emphasis on his last name. Clay would very quickly have several young men clamoring to meet him. “It’s good to meet you, Mr. Clawson,” they would say, and Clay would smile his sweetest smile. With the amount of money his father had pumped into the University of Indiana, and the number of jobs that Clawson Farms had provided its students, Clay could offer the students a fraction of what his father gave him, and they would gladly do his work for him. Clawson Farms was too big for Clay to ever get caught in his deceptive web. His father never checked up on him. “Well, my good man, come to Clawson Farms next weekend and report to Mr. Turner. He will see that you get everything you need.”
After these well rehearsed lines, Clay would leave the university scene and head on over to the more seamy side of the city.
Clay winked at his bartender friend, and walked over to the man named Miguel. Clay, always the gentleman at first, offered his hand to Miguel. “Thank you for the beer. I’m Clay.” “Miguel, and is that Clay Clawson?” “So you have heard of Clawson Farms, I take it.” “Yes, I have. Word gets around at the university.” “What year are you, Miguel?” “I am a senior, but I have also a degree from Italy. I am older than most of the students.” Clay looked at the man who was becoming sexier by the minute. Clay guessed the man to be about twenty-six or so, which was much more attractive to Clay, at age thirty. “Why do you come all the way out here, Miguel? Why not go to one of the bars closer to the university?” Miguel’s dark eyes seemed to penetrate Clay’s classy veneer. “I like it here, Clay.” Miguel seemed different than Clay’s usual admirers. He was somewhat of a mystery. He was intriguing to Clay. At least I’m not bored out of my mind, he thought. “If you will excuse me, Clay, I must go now,” Miguel said politely.
Clay waited until he was sure that Miguel had left the bar, and then he went back to talk to Hank. “That was weird. He seemed a bit cold, Hank. I’m surprised he bought me a beer. He didn’t seem all that excited to meet me.” “All I know is that the man asks for you every time he comes in here, which is about every other day.” “Interesting. Well, not much going on here tonight. See you next week, buddy.”
Clay could not sleep that Saturday night, no matter what he did. I need sex, he told himself. He got out of bed and wandered around the massive grounds of Clawson Farms. He walked down the hill toward the old barn that was never used anymore. Clay’s father had built twenty new modernized barns for his prized dairy cows. Clay loved the old barn. It was spooky, and Clay had thought it would be a great place for a haunted house.
Clay walked into the old barn and had to literally fight his way through cobwebs and spider webs. Damn, this place needs to be cleaned up. Guess this will be a good job for one of my eager new recruits. After getting past the webs guarding the door, Clay walked further into the barn. It was dark and he could barely see. He turned, and was met by a light shining in his eyes. Clay squinted. The light was blinding him. “Who is it? Who is in here?” The man lowered the light. “Miguel?” “Yes, Clay. Were you expecting someone else?” “Uh, no. I was not expecting anyone. What are you doing in here, Miguel? This is private property.” Clay was desperately trying not to show fear, but Miguel was even weirder now than he had been at the bar. “I live here, Clay,” he answered. “What? You live where?” Miguel flashed his light up to the hay loft. “Up there. Behind the bales. Follow me.” Clay had no idea what he was getting himself into, but could never resist a mystery, and Miguel was definitely a mystery. He smiled at Clay, but there was something hidden in Miguel’s smile, something ominous.