He had his way with us: Clay's concerts are like sex.

This is the Night
He preens, he struts, he shines, he grabs our attention, a peacock displaying his feathers, magnificent in black suit and violet silk tie. We sit up and take notice. His stylized, scripted arm and body movements as he stands behind the mic are like the ritual courtship dance of a grouse or the antlers display of an elk. We see you, Clay, we see you.

The Girl is Mine
He makes us choose HIM.

We Will Do Anything He Wants
He walks to the left of the stage, other Idols spread out behind him. He gently raises his palm. He wants us to stand. We obey. We leap to our feet. Why? We don't know. Does it matter?

Can You Feel the Love Tonight
At last, he gently makes love to us but pauses before the climax. He makes us BEG him to finish, and we scream for the final note of the song endlessly while he smirks, listening to us plead and waiting until our cries thunder through him. And then he gives us what we want, that last motion, that last thrust, that last note of the song. We are exhausted.

Invisible
"Ready to do it again, honey?" he seems to say as he rises up out of the stage, looks out at the crowd, and smiles at his lovers. He teases and plays with us, galloping from one side of the stage to the other, tugging and clutching and laughing, wailing his words to the sky, as we sing in ecstasy along with him, approaching our communal climax. At last it's over, and we lie back, spent but happy as he walks from the stage.

last updated 9/09/03