Made With Clay by Carl Driver

Author:Carl Driver
Format: mobi
Publisher: Olympia Press

The next afternoon Clay and Danny were standing talking by the tennis courts after having finished playing doubles when Clay saw Chichester making a detour across the campus to join them.

“I'm afraid, Fowler,” the older man said as he walked up, not looking directly at Clay but smirking with obvious pleasure, “that I'm a little rushed for time this afternoon, and we'd better get together now. Don't bother to change, you can come as you are.” The inflection stressing the word “come” left no doubt as to the double meaning he intended it to convey.

Clay could hardly believe what he had heard and stood by pleasantly anticipating Danny's refusal, surprised that the old auntie would so easily expose himself to a public rebuff.

But Clay was a great deal more surprised and almost unbelieving when instead the boy hung his head and muttered, “I'll be along in a minute, sir.”

“See that you don't tarry,” Chi-Chi smiled with a chuckle and, shooting Clay a triumphant smile, literally pranced off.

“I'm sorry, I didn't want you to know,” Danny said in a contrite voice, a stricken look on his face.

“I can understand that,” Clay responded coldly, torn between hurt and anger. Twenty-four hours before he had been on the point of telling this boy that he loved him, had gone so far as admitting to himself that he did, and now he was being slapped in the face, especially by Chichester, of all people! The kid was nothing more than a little whore. That was what hurt so much, that he was selling himself. Had Clay found out that he was carrying on with MacPhearson or one of the other boys, anyone whom he conceivably could be involved with because he wanted to, he not only wouldn't have been upset, he would have been actually glad. But to sell himself to someone he had admitted he disliked was more than Clay could accept.

Danny stood, not looking at Clay but with hung head, waiting, obviously hoping, for him to say something more, but when Clay remained silent, he again mumbled, “I'm sorry,” and started to leave.

“Tell me one thing, Fowler,” Clay said, halting him, “are high grades really so important to you?”

Had Clay struck the boy across the face with his racquet the change couldn't have been more pronounced. His whole body seemed to quiver as from a blow, his face broke up and tears came to his eyes. Still he managed to maintain a certain amount of self-control as in a quavering voice he answered, “You shouldn't have had to ask that, sir!” and turning, almost ran toward Chichester's dorm.

No one had been close enough to overhear any of the scene but quite a few boys had witnessed it and Clay realized that much as he wanted to be alone, it would create too much talk if he too left immediately. Against his will he called over to where MacPhearson was watching two of the tennis team practice and challenged him to a match.

But

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