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.
Clay had been born with a silver spoon in his mouth and a face that had always let him get his way, and Clay knew exactly how to charm his way out of, or into, whatever he chose. 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, my good man,” the bartender said, as he walked through the door. “A nice cold one for you, compliments of you-know-who.” Clay glanced at the man sitting in the corner of the bar.