Clay's Way Read Free Page B

the same kind of smells on Clay’s body—which really makes me want to jerk off.  I stand up and walk to my next door neighbor’s shed thinking like a criminal, controlled by his dick.  The door’s open. Cool.
    I walk in and pull my shorts down.  They bunch up around my knees and my dick pops out and points up at my face. I picture Clay leaning back on his stool at 808, with his arms back behind his head, with his dragon tattoo showing under his sleeve, the strip of skin exposed above his waistband, the scar on his forehead, the place where his hair meets the nape of his neck.  I imagine how   rad   it’d be to touch him all over his body, and for his hands to be on me.                 
                    I start beating off.  My hand becomes Clay’s in my imagination.  My dick surges upward and I shoot on my neighbor’s workbench.  It’s more cum than I’ve ever shot before.  I guess I was never really turned-on looking at skate magazines and local ads for surf shorts.  Beating off to those doesn’t even compare.    My cum   looks anarchic all over power tools and screwdrivers.    Biological vandalism.  I light up a cigarette.  I love Clay.  He’s the best.  I look out the shed’s dusty window at my house. 
                    Fuck.  My mom’s home and   she’s   spraying some wilting Mainland flowers that my dad planted yesterday.  They’re daisies and pansies and all these   faggy   sounding flowers that don’t belong on this tropical island anyway.  No wonder they’re dying already.  She’s wearing her work clothes: a boring dark-blue business pants-suit thing with a string of pearls and blinding white canvas   boating sneakers that make her look good and conservative.  It’s all-wrong for what she’s doing.  She should be wearing shorts and a T-shirt like every other mother on this island. 
                    I sneak out of the shed, close the door, and run around the house, then back down the side yard to make her think I’m just coming home from skating.
                    The hose slips from her hand and flies wildly around like an attacking snake.  Water shoots everywhere.  It splashes the cat and it runs under the neighbor’s fence.  Water shoots my mom’s face and soaks her pantsuit so the fabric sticks to her legs.  Her white shirt gets drenched too, and I can see her bra and the shape of her breasts.  Her blond hair is plastered on her face.
                    I caused this.  My ejaculation was so powerful it fucked with our whole plane of existence. 
    I grab my backpack and slip in through the now unlocked back door just off the kitchen.  I grab a soda and go to my room and close the door.  I kick off my shoes, take my shirt off, and throw my skateboard on the bed.  I throw my pack down and stand in front of the full-length mirror.  I look cooler for some reason.  My neck looks thicker.  I practice making cool faces like Clay makes.    “Eh,   brah.  What’s up?”  I suck my cheeks in and pucker my lips out.    “Hey, Clay.  You   wanna   hang out?  Cool.”  I’m such a dork.  I’m not even close to being as cool as he is.  I don’t know what to do.  I need to learn how to surf.  Maybe, I can go over to Waikiki and join one of those tourist classes. I should get a tattoo, but what?    A dragon.  That would be copying.  He’s be freaked out.    A tiger?    A Hawaiian flag?  No way, I’d get my   haole   ass kicked.
                    I shake myself, start over.  “OK, here goes.” 
    Sam, just be   yourself.   “Hey.  What’s up?” 
    That was OK.   
                    I jump on my bed for a while, trying to make as many punk rock sounds and grunts as I can--for practice--watching the earth go by as my view out the window comes and goes, up and down, up, down.  It’s medicinal.  I stop and look at