by John Rechy
Johnny still can’t pee.
The man moves over to the urinal immediately next to him. Johnny can hear his own heart pumping—rather, two hearts, one pumping in each ear. . . . He has stood like this before, in toilets of bars and bus stations, of Pershing Square—luring interested men by shaking his cock before the urinal long after he was through—but only to entice, only preparatory to leaving and expecting to be followed, propositioned, paid—never consummating the implied contact in the restroom, however. But that was three years ago.
So long ago.
Emboldened by the fact that Johnny hasn’t moved away, the man lets his hand fall, preparatory to touching Johnny’s thigh. Next: He’ll hold my prick—then a blowjob in a public head, Johnny thinks. At the precise moment when the man’s tentative gesture would have become sure, Johnny withdraws before the man can touch him; he buttons his pants, hurries out of the head—past the other man, who had been standing by the door all along quietly watching.
“Why-don’t-you-let-him-suck-you?” the second man says to Johnny; “I’ll-watch-out-for-you.”
Johnny dashes out of the theater.
Reflecting the city’s brazen lights, the Cloud, shutting out the stars, is orange tonight.
By the motel pool. Sunbathing. Saturday morning.
In brief white trunks, his hands stretched over his head, toes pointed as if to offer even more of his body to the sun, Johnny lies on a beach chair. He has a mental picture of himself: the white of the trunks contrasting sharply with his dark, dark skin; and this picture nestles comfortably, warmly, in his mind.
Constructed about the pool and as if incidental to it (the pool must have come first; then they said, “Let’s build a motel around it!”), large rooms with sliding glass doors as front walls are tiered in two white layers like a wedding cake, each line of units linked by a narrow, long terrace and a balustrade of imitation-Creole curled-iron grillwork. At the head of each stairway leading to the lower level, and at the foot of each, stand two statues facing each other happily: an Egyptian woman with a sash, and an Egyptian man with a loincloth. They hold torches which at night turn into orange electric lights, and they both look like movie extras in a De Mille epic. Stubby palmtrees guard the walks that lead across the grass (more like a carpet than anything produced by nature) toward the area of the pool, which is shaped like a four-leaf clover, its shallow “stem” evidently intended for children to wade in. About the pool are fringed peppermint umbrellas, white iron tables and chairs matching them—other chairs in flowery designs, still others like giant cups—others long and lazy. All Disney-contemporary.
Johnny is the only one by the pool right now—others apparently prefer the beach on the weekend. The sun is warm, almost hot.
Here and there, along the rooms, cleaning women dump bunched sheets into their carts, soon carrying away last night’s secrets. A little boy of about five or six years sits on the grass away from the pool; he seems to be playing idly with something on the ground, perhaps a bug.
Tap . . . tap . . . tap.
Heels on the cement walk.
Johnny closes his eyes quickly.
Scraping of a chair being moved.
Shwooosh! A large table umbrella being opened.
Tinkling of ice in a glass. Someone is drinking, and that someone is not too far away from where Johnny is lying.
“Excuse me, do you have the time?”
Johnny opens his eyes and smiles (always ready to charm). He sees a youngwoman sitting only a few feet away from him under one of the enormous mushroom umbrellas. Squinting against the glare of the white sky reflected by the water, he looks at his watch. “Five minutes after 11.”
“Thank you,” she says in a velvety voice. She tinkles the ice in her glass, almost as if it were a signal for his attention. Holding the glass out for Johnny to see, “Breakfast,” she says.
“Orange juice?” Johnny asks; he has remained propped on an elbow.
“Orange juice and . . .” she sniffs at the glass “. . . and vodka,” she says. “It doesn’t smell.”
The little boy on the grass is looking intently at them, as if wondering what game they’re playing.
Because she wears an enormous wide-brimmed hat (her hair tucked under a tight cap that’s a part of the hat) and impenetrably black sunglasses like Batman’s mask, Johnny can’t really tell what her face looks like. He can, however, see her body; and it looks like this:
Quite tall: very long-limbed and perfectly proportioned. Like Johnny’s, it’s the color of dark honey. She wears a bikini—blue-and-white zebra-striped. High-heeled shoes support slender, well-curved legs and thighs which flare softly from her hips in the continuation of gentle parentheses. Johnny’s eyes slide from the squeezed split between her breasts to the flat belly, to the part where her hips—rudely intercepted by the lower half of her bikini—begin to widen. A fine, velvety, all-but-invisible down of tiny blond hairs gleams below her navel on her oiled body—that portion not shaded by the umbrella or hat.
Johnny imagines the triangle under the zebra stripes. Would her pubic hair be blond?—those tiny hairs say so; they might be bleached by the sun though. He imagines her opening, just slightly swept with fine blond hairs.
He pictures his dark pubic hairs meshing with her blond ones.
But Johnny isn’t a hunter; he’s used to being hunted—and this is true even with women (part, again, of the “femaleness”). He may invite with smiles, with all his charm—and does; but the proposition must always be made by another. He could never, never allow anyone—male or female—the pleasure of feeling he wanted him/her enough to initiate the pursuit.
So he leans back on the lounge chair, closes his eyes, and waits for her to—hopes that she will—advance.
Now the question may occur: Does Johnny Rio consider himself heterosexual? He would answer the question like this, as if putting it to a jury to draw its own conclusion: First, I have never desired another man, I’m aroused only by what another man does—and not by him; second, I have not reciprocated sexually with another man—nor have I ever let a man come on with me other than with his mouth—and of course his hands—on my body; and third, I’ve done it for money. . . . Johnny himself will agree that all that is part of the Myth of the Streets (primarily the myth of male hustlers): a curious myth which says that a man may go with other men, over and over—especially to make money—and with as many as he wants—and still be “straight” (that is, heterosexual) as long as he doesn’t reciprocate sexually. Whether all that is true or not—self-knowledge not being one of Johnny’s characteristics, he’s content to leave the Myth intact.
Now Johnny would probably hesitate to admit this; he might even exaggerate: But the fact is that he’s been with only a handful of women (though many more have wanted him)—compared to large numbers of men.
Not counting the ordinary child-sex experiences with girls, he has been with five—though he’d quickly point out: “With most I made it more than just once though.”
First, there was the pretty blonde in high school (the one who said she liked to watch him as he walked away because he walked so sexy).
Second, there was the high-school teacher in her 20’s, very highstrung, who asked him to come up to her hotel room to discuss his grades. She greeted him in a nightgown.
Third, there was the girl he met when he was in the army and stationed at Fort Sam Houston in San Antonio. Again, she was blond, and she had a new car; and it excited her to think that her family would be very angry if they knew she was dating a soldier who was only a private.
Fourth, there was the strange, terrified, lonely, lovely girl he met in Los Angeles. Later, she turned into a junkie and a prostitute and her pimp was a woman.
Fifth, there was a mad married woman of 30 or so whom he met in, of all places, a homosexual bar in Hollywood, when she swept in by mistake, all covered with mink, and sat next to him at the bar, thinking (Johnny is sure of this): “How great!—all men and I’m the only woman
!”
The first one, he made it with only once.
The second one, twice—the two semesters she was his teacher.
The third, only three times; she was too busy wanting to be seen by her parents.
The fourth—. . . Johnny prefers not to count.
And the fifth, the red-haired married woman, he made it with at least seven times for slightly under two weeks—the time that remained of her California visit from Washington, where, she said, she was married to: An Important Man. (It amused Johnny that, being a Southerner, she pronounced “important” as “im-POH-tent”—exactly the way she would have pronounced “impotent.”)
And, in those years back again in Laredo—Away—there have been neither men nor women. Because, Johnny would explain, I had to be alone—completely and away from sex!
“Hey!”
Johnny opens his eyes lazily, as if he’s been dozing.
The youngwoman sitting near him pushes her giant hat back. With one shake of her head, she unfurls her shoulder-length blond hair, which curves swiftly into a tilt at the ends. As if to show Johnny Rio what her face looks like, she removes her sunglasses too—slowly and dramatically. Still, the shadow of the umbrella hides her somewhat, so that the only real parts of her face appear to be the unreal ones—the ones she’s painted on: the fuchsia mouth, the thick long eyelashes, the blue lids, the arched eyebrows.
“Did you call me?” Johnny asks her, sure of her interest.
“Yes. . . . Sip?” she asks him, extending the glass of orange juice and vodka to him.
Johnny stands up—his turn to exhibit himself; stands before her, looking down between her full breasts, like navel oranges. He has a fantasy: his prick between her breasts while she presses them with her hands. He’s so carried away by the image that he hasn’t yet looked at her face, which is turned up to him as if for inspection. Now he sees it. Her face matches her body; she’s a blond beauty.
He takes the glass, swallows from it, returns it to her. Her gestures slow and deliberate for him to perceive and interpret, she rotates the returned glass 180 degrees in her hand so that she will be drinking from the place his lips touched. Preparatory to drinking, she runs her tongue along the rim of the glass, looking up at him, smiling a strange-hybrid smile that is innocent and enticing.
Almost with apprehension, Johnny—who feels very protective toward children—looks around for the little kid who’s been playing on the grass. The kid is looking at Johnny and the youngwoman quizzically. Playfully, Johnny cocks his finger at him in imitation of a gun and “shoots”: “Bang-bang!” But the kid didn’t “shoot” him back nor play dead, didn’t even seem to want to be involved in a game. Sad kid, Johnny Rio thinks.
“My name is Tina,” the youngwoman says, drawing his attention back to her. “What’s yours?”
“Johnny Rio,” says Johnny.
“You’re dripping wet, Johnny Rio,” says Tina.
“I haven’t even been in the water,” he says, knowing she knows it. Intrigued by her, he wants to make it; he also knows that for it to happen she must take the initiative, and she’s doing it already:
“You’re perspiring though,” she says. “Cummere.” He sits on a chair, leans toward her, and she wipes his chest lovingly with her pink towel. She does it slowly, rubbing the towel over his shoulders, looking straight into his eyes. Her lips have the pout of a child’s—but he can’t determine her age; she could be 19, she could be 30. She’s too tanned, too made up to tell. “Betterrr?” she purrs.
“Better,” he says, feeling good. Yes, he wants to screw her; wants to very, very much—because—. . . Well, because, after so long, he wants sex—and, yes, with a woman; and because she’s really gorgeous and has indicated she’ll do all kinds of crazy things in bed; and because—. . . because—. . . Because he wants to erase—. . . something . . . something about last night. To cancel it. To put it away finally.
As if understanding that whatever will happen must be initiated by her (or must it be like this for her always; is this her scene?), Tina says bluntly, “Want to see my—. . .” suggestively, sleepily, her heavy eyelashes lid her blue eyes “. . .—my room?” she finishes.
“Crazy,” says Johnny, his heavy eyelashes lidding his eyes sleepily.
“Cuhrrrrrazy, baby,” she growls, huskily; wiggling her butt as if she’s being pleasantly goosed. She gets up. Actually, she hardly reaches Johnny’s ear—despite the high heels. She looks now like a tiny Amazon. “Cummon,” she says, playfully pinching a coiled cluster of hair on the lower part of his stomach.
He follows her toward her room.
On the way he notices the lonesome kid looking down forlornly at the grass. As they pass him, he looks up at them. A cute kid. Sandy hair. Blue, blue eyes. But sad.
At her room, which is on the ground level, Tina slides the glass door open.
Johnny notices the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door. Was it there from last night? Or had she hung it up this morning, knowing he would come here with her—that he would or someone else would?
I won’t let that turn me off, Johnny thinks. Already, his trunks are tightening at the crotch.
As in every other motel of this kind, the rooms are very much the same. This one has a large bed, the table lamps with shades like extravagant hats, other lights hidden somewhere about the curve of the ceiling, the fake rubber plants, the water-color prints, the small brown-enamel refrigerator convenient for drinks, the small bar, and the three stools standing on ostrich legs.
Johnny Rio sits on a stool at the bar while Tina gets a tray of ice cubes from the refrigerator. She moves sensually; each movement ends in a pose. She reminds Johnny of one of the stars in the movies on Main Street, the kind in which all the girl does is remove her clothes while she:
Pouts.
Sits.
Stands up.
Lies down.
“I bet you’re an actor,” Tina says.
That turns Johnny off badly. He’s often asked that, and it annoys him, associating a certain prettiness with actors. “No,” he says curtly.
“Sorrreee,” she says, realizing he’s offended. “I only meant because you’re so goodlooking . . . and I like only goodlooking men . . . Johnny Rio,” she explains, hugging his name.
That pleases him, and he mellows.
“Same?” she’s asking him, indicating the drink.
“Uh-huh,” he nods.
“I love vodka for breakfast,” she says.
“I had waffles and sausages,” Johnny ribs her rigid pose of sophistication.
“Ah used tuh hayve them on th’ fawm.” She assumes a hickish accent.
“I knew you were a farm girl!” Johnny came back.
She wrinkles her nose cutely at him—forgiving him the dig—brings him the drink (having filled hers), slides onto the stool next to him. She moves her bare leg, brushing his. Both face ahead. Then, as if on cue, they swing in a quarter arc, and their legs lock like two sets of prongs.
But, now, neither advances further—as if waiting to establish, by the next move, on whose terms who will have whom. Knowing this, Johnny forces her to act; like this: He jumps off the stool, breaking the contact; and—perversely—he moves away from her in deliberate indifference, to the sliding door, even unlatching it as if to walk out unless she moves quickly.
And she does: She floats toward the door to him. “Silly,” she says silkily, standing very close to him. “Sillleee.” She’s barely inches away from him, looking up at him. “Close the door,” she says.
“Please?” he insists, perversity flaming at the prospect of making her beg.
“Please,” she says, adding a heavy, suggestive emphasis to the word.
He slides the door.
Fingernails long and red, like weapons already bloodied in other battles, she holds his shoulders.
On tiptoes, she brings her mouth to his; their mouths are barely touching, lips tingling at the promised contact, cherishing the promise before the act. He embraces her,
his hands on her hips; but he’s waiting for her to move first.
And she does. She rolls his trunks down, slowly, her hands inching them down over his hips, first in back, then in front—just enough to free his cock. Now he does the same to the lower part of her bikini—just to the very point where the opening between her legs begins to show. He leans back deliberately, and he sees that her hair is indeed blond there—delicate and blond, just a puff. She holds his hardening prick lightly in her hands, rubbing it, then drawing it slowly into her—while he puts his hands on her buttocks, which are firm and tight; pulling her body to his.
The glass door slides open.
The little boy who loitered outside stands there watching them. Nervously, hurriedly, he says, “I thought you were through, momma.”
Desire smashes inside Johnny like glass on tile. He raises his trunks, his cock quickly limp.
Adjusting her clothes, Tina yells at the child: “Get the screw out of here, you little bastard! Haven’t I told you—. . .? Haven’t I?”
Visibly trembling, the little boy says, “I thought you were through, momma; you said—. . .”
“TO STAY THE HELL OUT!” the woman shrieked. “And I’ve told you to call me Tina. Tina! Tee-nuh! I’ve told you that a hundred times!”
She reaches out to slap him, but he rushes out before she can touch him. Instead, her hand slams against a table. “Ouch!” she yells. “I broke my nail! Look what he made me do! I broke my nail!” She sticks the wounded finger in her mouth as if it were a placating lollipop.
Johnny merely looks at her.
“Damn crazy kid,” she says, trying to smile now, evidently intending to resume where they were interrupted. “I told him to stay out until I called him. I sent him out earlier—when I saw you outside. I’ve told him to act like he doesn’t know me when I’m with a guy. He’s done it before. Sometimes just beats on the door. . . . Why didn’t you latch it again? . . . Crazy kid. I should put him in a home, but I guess I love him too much.” She said that easily. “He’s ruined more—. . . Crazy kid! Sometimes I think I ought to take him to a psychiatrist,” she said in a rough, scratchy voice. “I should’ve let his old man keep him. But I guess I love the kid too much,” she repeated, again easily. “But we’re wasting precious time, Johnny Rio, baby.” Once again her voice is furry. “Checkout time’s at noon, and there’s a lot of things to be . . . done.” Again she places her hands on his shoulders.
