The Coming of the Night

by John Rechy

  Best of all, at twenty-two—and, here, Jesse decided to wear his faded denim cutoffs, cut short, rather than the khaki shorts he had first pulled out—he had his whole life before him, the part of it that mattered. When he turned twenty-nine, he planned to die, just die. Growing old was kind of like dying, maybe worse because you were aware of growing old—making out less and less until you couldn't make out anymore.

  Jesse couldn't imagine—and he would walk away from that sort of depressing talk—a time, not so far back according to older people—when just being in a gay bar exposed you to a vice raid and you could get busted for same-sex dancing. That old stuff was over, battles—he'd heard about them, who hadn't?—fought and won. Now everything was possible—you could dance all night with different guys at a dance bar, shirts off, pants lowered to the hips, assuming all kinds of sexy positions—wow!—and you'd be cruising all the time. Being gay allowed you freedoms others didn't have. Sure you had to be careful about crazies and muggers on the streets, and there were still vice arrests—but you could always call a gay lawyer, a cute one, and, chances were, he'd get you out of the stupid mess. The clap, you didn't even consider—except that you couldn't cruise for a few days—double ugh—and that was bad enough. The only problem—but get this for a problem!—was that sometimes you couldn't make out with everyone you wanted. so MANY MEN, so LITTLE TIME—he had a T-shirt that said that.

  Jesse's attention was drawn back to the pool when he heard water splashing. The man sunbathing was still there.

  When Jesse strolled out, wind whipped his hair about, giving him an even sexier look. Wow, would you look at that sky? Swept clear blue. But was there a hint of smoke in the air?

  The man had now located himself in an area sheltered by swaying branches, the sun slipping past and spilling on the lounge chair where he stretched. The only others about the pool were a couple with two children, and an older guy in loose shorts—ugh—obviously straight. Others in the court had probably gone to the beach to cool off.

  As Jesse walked past him, the man removed his sunglasses. Jesse returned his look. The man was about twenty-five—maybe twenty-seven, no older—and hot.

  The man's eyes steadied on Jesse's firm buttocks, snug groin. Then he looked up, smiled. “Hi.”

  “Hot, huh?” Jesse said.

  “Very hot.” The man looked Jesse up and down.

  Jesse sat on a lounging chair next to him, exhibiting his blond, tanned legs.

  The man touched his own crotch, outlining the bulge there.

  Nice, Jesse evaluated. Another thing about gay people, they liked to show a bulge at the crotch, even when there wasn't that much to show. Well, he was no size queen, but he wouldn't turn down a shortish fat one. A tiny one, that was another matter altogether. Although his preference was being fucked, he was glad he had a more than adequate cock. People often wanted to suck him, and he'd let them, dutifully, but eventually—and without any difficulty—he'd maneuver to get his choice.

  Jesse touched the man's cock over the bikini, outlining it as it grew larger. The edge of his balls pushed out. Jesse waved with his free hand at the couple splashing with their children.

  They waved back.

  The man next to Jesse leaned back, stretching, reaching out to touch Jesse's buttocks. Jesse raised his butt, allowing the man's hand to probe under the short denim cutoffs, locating the parting, fingers poised there attempting—but the cloth resisted—to push one finger in. That felt hot! Jesse removed his own hand from the man's crotch, and the man's from his butt, and he stood up. “You gonna be around later tonight?”

  “No,” the man reacted to the coming rejection. He turned away in forced indifference.

  Another instinct among gay men, keen reaction to the first hint of rejection, Jesse knew. He hadn't intended to convey that to this guy.

  “Too bad, because I'd really like to get together with you, but I don't have enough time.”

  The man stood up and dove into the pool.

  As Jesse moved out of the court and into the windy streets, he wondered whether the man would have understood if he'd explained that he had just now begun this day's trip, beginning to collect sexiness for late tonight, and that he must remain pure for this special night.

  Buzz, Toro, Linda, Boo, and Fredo

  AFTERNOON

  “Crazy wind's messing my hair,” said Linda to Toro. “Maybe you oughtta put up the top.”

  “I like the crazy wind,” Buzz said as they drove in Toro's Chevy to pick up Boo in another drudgy city in the Valley “The devil winds are supposed to make you crazy”

  “So what do they do for you?” Linda asked.

  Buzz wasn't sure if she'd insulted him.

  Boo was waiting for them at Taco Bell. He hopped in without opening the door. He was seventeen, but he looked younger although he had a sideways glance that made him seem experienced, but maybe that was so because he had all those tattoos on his skinny arms, all jumbled. A cross on his hand looked more like something smashed. A guy had drawn it on him with spit and ink and a knife, when they were in Juv.

  “That's Boo,” Toro said to Linda.

  “Hi, little man.”

  “Don't you never call me little,” Boo growled. “I ain't little.”

  “Cool, man,” Toro ordered. “She didn't mean nothing.”

  “Okay, but don't never—,” Boo said.

  “I just meant you're cute,” Linda shrugged, then smiled.

  Buzz knew how much Boo hated to be called little. He had called him that, once, and without warning Boo had punched him. Buzz would have returned the punch except that Toro interceded.

  When they reached Fredo's “house” in a trailer park, Fredo was calling back into the open door, “I don't know when I'll fuckin’ be back. When you see me, you'll fuckin’ know.” A man's voice called out, “You son of bitch don't fuckin’ talk to your mother like that.”

  A woman's voice called out, “Vé con Dios, mijo.”

  “Shit, she wants me to go with God.” Fredo shook his head. Then he made a sign of the cross, touched the crucifix he wore about his neck. He was swarthy, dark. A big nineteen years old, he cultivated a twisted look to challenge anyone who gave him attitude. He had begun wearing boots with heavy reinforced toes and heels—like the “skinnies”—to go along with his shaved head.

  He acknowledged Linda with his twisted look.

  “I like your haircut, guy, Linda said.

  “Keeps me cool.” Fredo exchanged looks with Buzz and Boo.

  “Wassup with you guys?” Toro asked. “You fuckin’ flirtin’ with each other?”

  That broke Linda up.

  “Fuck, nuthin's wrong,” Buzz said.

  “Nuthin’,” Boo and Fredo echoed.

  “You believe them, Toro?” Linda said absently, as if she hadn't really heard what had been said. She pushed her hair back, held it, safe from the wind only for moments.

  “Sure, I believe them, man,” Toro said. “They're my boys, ain't you, guys?”

  “Word, man,” Buzz spoke out. He frowned when he saw Linda adjust something under her short skirt. Carrying what in her pants? Buzz didn't know why, but he had a hard-on. The Sant'Ana—that was it. No, it was Linda and that short skirt creeping up her legs. That and his anger at her.

  “Why they call you Boo?” Linda asked him.

  “Cause I don't even have to go, Boo! to scare no one.”

  Linda pretended to shiver, “Oooh, bad boy, big bad boy.”

  Buzz thought, Yeah, she's tough, but we're tougher. Would Toro stand with her or them, if it came to that?

  “Where's the shit?” Toro asked casually.

  Now Buzz could utter the prepared words. “The niggers were trying to pass off dummy shit—but we caught it.”

  “Fuckin’ niggers, man,” Boo joined. “Thought they could fake us. Us!”

  “Tried to shake us up for the bread.” Fredo shook his head. “But we messed them up bad.”

  “Where's my money?” Toro's tone
did not change.

  Buzz was ready He brought out of his pocket the money Toro had donated for last night's deal. “Here.” Now there could be no question about what had gone down.

  Linda counted the money. “Hey, Toro, guess what? These guys gave you an extra ten dollars, man. How'd that happen?”

  Buzz frowned. “Huh?” He had counted the money, twice, to get it exact.

  Father Norris

  AFTERNOON

  He knelt before the altar in the church.

  After the pleading Hispanic woman had left, he had remained in his confessional, listened to the words of other confessors, just words. He asked no question to clarify sins, spoke words, blessed the confessors, meted out penance, the same each time.

  When confessions were over, he remained inside the church, praying in a pew. Then he walked past the railing before the altar and knelt staring up at the crucified figure of Christ that looked down at him, the tortured but still adoring body violated, bleeding, bared, almost bared. He, our Divine Savior—He, that same figure in agony, was tattooed on the back of a young man roaming perverse streets. What message have You sent me through that woman, Lord? What is Your bidding?

  Father Norris crossed himself, stood up. His eyes unmoving on the crucified body, he recited from the prayers of holy communion, making them his. “Never permit me to be separated from You. Let not the partaking of Your Body, O Lord Jesus Christ, which I, though unworthy, presume to receive, turn to my judgment and condemnation.” Aloud, he pled, “Help me, beloved Lord, to be ever faithful to Your love. Guide me to You by whatever path You choose.”

  Za-Za and the Cast of Frontal Assault

  AFTERNOON

  With growing attention, for Mr. Smythe to detect through his steady binoculars, Za-Za studied his script from the beginning now. “An inspired script!” she shouted toward the veranda. But for these moments, Mr. Smythe seemed to be holding his focus on Wes Young. Was Mr. Smythe a foreskin queen?

  LONG SHOT. Sergeant LARS HELMUT, lounging pool-side at the motel, naked as the day he was born, lifts telephone—no necessity for prop—and calls for a drink.

  PANNING SHOT. Sergeant HELMUT stretches his unbelievable limbs, semi-hard-on just beginning.

  CLOSEUP. Sergeant HELMUT'S semi-hard-on, growing.

  ENTER. Gorgeous bellboy TONY PIAZZA, in ragged trunks that show the famous kangaroo on his ass.

  Za-Za motioned anxiously to Tony Piazza to find trunks somewhere, not difficult since several had been strewn about. When he started to put on a pair—not ragged—she rushed at him, yanked them away, struggling with them until she had managed to bite and tear a huge chunk out of them. “There!”

  “Wrong side if you want my tattoo to show,” Tony Piazza said.

  “There!” She bit another chunk, threw the trunks at him, and read on as the performers awaited their entrances. Apart, Rex Steed remained steadfast in his cutoffs.

  TONY PIAZZA

  Here's your beer, sir. Would you like anything else?

  LARS HELMUT

  Yah, sug my dig, eat my balls.

  TONY PIAZZA

  Sir, Management has trained us to please our guests, but I don't—

  LARS HELMUT forces TONY PIAZZA'S head over his formidable cock. With the other hand he rips off TONY PIAZZA'S ragged trunks.

  EXTREME CLOSEUP. TONY PIAZZA'S ass quivering, puckering, quivering.

  REVEAL. On another lounging chair, JIM BOND, naked as a jay bird, is jerking off while watching them.

  JIM BOND

  (softly only at first) Oooh, oooohh.

  LARS HELMUT (to TONY PIAZZA)

  Yah, I wanna fug your ass, fug your ass wid da kangaroo tattoo.

  Za-Za's gaze was pulled toward the torturing sight of Tony Piazza's delectable fat cock—wasted, wasted, because it should be in something, preferably her ass. She felt a goosing sensation at her buttocks, but nothing outside it was creating it.

  REVEAL. Straight Lover, played by spectacular REX STEED. He is so startled by what he sees that he drops his pants—

  Now there was a stage direction she might find a way to adapt into an hommage to Mr. Smythe in her groundbreaking A Message from Out There. Za-Za read on.

  CLOSEUP. The head of LARS HELMUT'S cock, a glistening dot on its tip, ready to enter TONY PIAZZA'S vibrating ass.

  REX STEED

  What the hell is goin’ on here?

  Enough! “Action!” Za-Za shouted.

  The performers in the first scene moved into their roles, bottoms preparing themselves with lubricant, Tony Piazza upstaging them by using only spit. With his sergeant's cap on, Lars Helmut flexed his muscles and lounged. Tony Piazza brought him the beer. Trunks yanked off, Tony Piazza deep-throated Lars Helmut and licked his balls, until Lars Helmut pronounced his desire to “fug” him and Tony Piazza bent over—

  “Here's where you enter and drop your pants, Mr. Steed,” Za-Za followed the pivotal cue.

  With intense concentration, Rex Steed opened a second button on his cutoffs, another, about to introduce his “ten inches plus.”

  On the veranda, five pairs of binoculars steadied.

  The cutoffs fell.

  More like eight inches, Za-Za evaluated. But pas mat

  While Wes Young and Dak Boxer idled by the pool and Huck Sawyer hopped about nervously in his famous briefs and Sal Domingo looked away from it all, Bellboy Tony Piazza stopped a quarrel from erupting between Sergeant Lars Helmut and his Straight Lover Rex Steed by dropping to his knees and sucking Rex Steed's cock. Rex Steed followed the script, verbatim.

  REX STEED

  Ummm, ummmmm, yeah, yeah, suck that ten-incher-plus.

  TONY PIAZZA

  Please, please, I want your big dick in my tight asshole, please, big stud.

  “Yeah, I'll shove it way in, fuck the fuck out of your fuckin’ ass,” Rex Steed delivered his lines exactly as rehearsed.

  “Yeah, stud, yeah.” Tony Piazza bent down, offering his buttocks. His head poking out between his spread legs, he smiled over at Jim Bond, who stopped “sugging” Lars Helmut long enough to answer, in kind, Tony Piazza's signal, fingers shaped into an “okay.”

  Something beyond Mr. Smythe's precise directions was going on between those two sluts, Za-Za knew.

  Tony Piazza raised his ass.

  Rex Steed aimed.

  Tony Piazza tightened his ass.

  Rex Steed poked.

  Tony Piazza squeezed his ass.

  Rex Steed's cock slipped up and sideways on Tony Piazza's buttocks.

  “Cummon, stud, push that eight-incher in—” Tony Piazza adjusted.

  “Ten-incher—uh—plus,” Rex Steed attempted to correct.

  “—push that eight-inch pole up my ass,” Tony Piazza retained his expert's assessment. “Cummon, just like you promised, straight stud.”

  They were seriously deviating from Mr Smythe's script! Za-Za stood frozen in horror. Rex Steed was beginning to sweat—so unseemly for the blond beauty—thrusting, shoving clumsily, trying to penetrate the famous ass.

  “What's the matter, stud?” Tony Piazza looked back and up at Rex Steed with innocent heavy-lidded eyes.

  Za-Za wished she had shut her ears, that she had never heard Jim Bond, stopping his chomping on Lars Helmut's balls, say, “Maybe we'll have to let someone else be the straight lover.”

  Dak Boxer and Wes Young volunteered, cocks and balls in hand.

  “Stay where you are!” Za-Za ordered them.

  “Oh, look,” said Huck Sawyer. He had rushed to the edge of the garden. He stood on tiptoes. He was pointing to the hill next to them. “A fire!”

  An arc of flames and smoke, surreal, glowing orange, was pointing, distantly, toward Mr. Smythe's mansion.

  Sal Domingo rushed over to look, leaning over the balusters next to Huck Sawyer. There was the distant sound of sirens.

  On the veranda, Mr. Smythe stood up and shouted, “Proceed with my script!”

  Detecting an acrid sting of smoke that portended sparks th
at might set her wig afire, Za-Za watched in horror as Rex Steed, sweating, still attempted—only attempted—to fuck the fuck out of Tony Piazza's locked ass.

  Thomas Watkins

  AFTERNOON

  Invigorated by a touch of scotch, Thomas Watkins drove down the narrow roads of Laurel Canyon in his Cadillac—he bought a new one every few years. People said Cadillacs belonged to an “old time,” that only old people drove them. Not true. A Cadillac was the most elegant car. Thomas drove it proudly, enjoying its spacious luxury.

  Herbert had left soon after the unsettling talk earlier, had left the way he always left, as if he had said nothing disturbing. Thomas often thought that he came over only to upset him. Otherwise, how to account for the fact that he always did?

  Now he was going—He'd decide later. He simply had to leave the house after the unpleasant interlude with Herbert.

  The young man down the road wasn't there. Naturally not, on this windy, dusty day Still, Thomas felt cheated. He always looked forward to the boy's cheerful greeting as he passed by.

  He drove past the Hollywood Bowl—so many lovely orchestral evenings spent there listening to beautiful music under stars and palm trees, cherished evenings with friends, but shared with no one special, never anyone special—and into Hollywood Boulevard.

  How wonderful this splendidly gaudy street had once been, with shops and curios and Orange Julius stands. Now it was dying. Once-grand theaters that had hosted great premieres, boarded permanently. The Egyptian Theater with its bronze statues and art nouveau ceiling, a burst of gold—forlorn now, its abandoned lobby unswept.

  Look at that fuchsia pornography store—so crude—with those grotesque rubber manikins, one of a woman, the other of a man, both with gaping holes—holes!—for mouths, figures looking like unfinished giant puppets. Only once—out of curiosity—he'd gone into that cavernous sex magazine store on Melrose and had been accosted by displays of chemical inhalants, giant dildos with all kinds of attachments, contraptions—What did they do with all those things? Was that what had rushed out of the closet?