The Coming of the Night

by John Rechy

  Gay guys were supposed to feel guilty about sex. Straight men did. Look around this bar. Everyone was here to find sex, and so what? Double ugh to being straight. You couldn't pay him enough. Anyone who said it wasn't great to be gay must be a troll—or worse, if there was anything worse than a troll.

  The two men playing pool were okay—one was too hairy Jesse wasn't attracted enough to hang around them or even file them in his mind for another time.

  He had gathered remarks—“cute,” “to die for,” “sexy,” “gorgeous,” “great buns!” and, what he liked best, “hot kid.” But he sat apart at the bar. He asked the bartender for a beer. The bartender was shirtless. He wore a leather arm band across his biceps, with silver studs. Even when the bar was not a leather bar, you saw those menacing costumes. Some guys even dressed as cops. Just fantasy—and as long as it stayed fantasy, what was the problem?

  The song on the tape had changed, Gino Vanelli and “Living Inside Myself—feeling lost—Well, you couldn't count on every song joining your celebration. Check out that one guy going out with another. Poured into his jeans so that his leg muscles tensed when he swaggered out, the way they'd strain when he was fucking, and look at how he left his Western shirt open to expose his carved chest. Wow—great pecs. Even the sunglasses he wore—mirrors—were sexy Jesse added him to his collection of future contacts.

  The bartender returned with the beer. They had made it together, but Jesse had no interest in another encounter. Whatever had happened, once was enough. The bartender was asking him if he'd been out of town.

  “No,” Jesse said, “but I was thinking of going to San Francisco some time soon. Haven't been there.”

  The bartender seemed not to believe that. “Gotta be kidding.”

  “I'm still getting off on LA”

  “San Francisco, man,” the bartender advised, “gotta go there to believe it, doesn't stop. You can make out everywhere.”

  The bartender moved away to tend to some new customers. Jesse sipped his beer, absorbing the hot vibes in the place.

  “—that new gay illness—”

  Two men sat near him. He had overheard the words one had spoken to the other.

  With his beer he moved away from them. They seemed so goddamned serious.

  Buzz, Toro, Linda, Boo, and Fredo

  AFTERNOON

  “Hey Linda, would you wear one of those?” Fredo asked her.

  She glanced out the window as they cruised Hollywood Boulevard. She saw what Fredo was giggling about, a pink building with two display windows in which there were lifelike manikins wearing tiny bikinis and lacy things, some covered at the crotch with feathers, like pubic hair, others open there in fancy diamond shapes.

  FREDERICK'S OF HOLLYWOOD

  “Shit,” Linda said.

  “Bet she's wearing something like that already,” Buzz tested Toro's reaction.

  “Let's see,” Boo said. His lips barely tilted in what might be a faint grin.

  Fredo slapped at Boo playfully. “Yeah, come on, Linda, show us.”

  “Later, huh, Linda?” Toro didn't look at her.

  Linda turned to him as if in surprise. Things were looking good, Buzz thought. Toro was indicating—wasn't he?—that he would go along with them, whatever developed.

  Along the Boulevard, gusts of wind lifted newspapers that scattered like birds. Toro's tape seemed even louder when—"Rapid Fire!” he shouted—the wind paused.

  Two girls stood on a street corner, outside a hot-dog stand, fifteen, gaunt, skinny, tiny skirts, teased hair different colors. With them was a tall thin teenage boy with jet-black hair pomaded close to his scalp.

  “Hey, check those punkies,” Fredo said.

  “The guy is cute.” Linda looked back toward the hot-dog stand, then winked at Toro to make it all right.

  “I bet he don't got this.” Boo groped himself.

  “If it's as small as you are—” Linda interrupted herself with a laugh.

  “Bitch! Say that again.” Boo leaned over the back seat. “If I rammed it into you, you'd know you been fucked.”

  “I already know when I've been fucked.” Linda put her arm around Toro, who didn't react.

  “She's just riffin’ on, man,” Buzz calmed Boo. No time yet to show anger that might split them.

  “Don't sweat it, man,” Linda said to Boo. “Everyone knows you're hung like—” She widened her hands.

  “You know it,” Boo mumbled.

  Fredo congratulated Boo with a hand-slap.

  “I bet Buzz knows it,” Linda said.

  “Huh?” Buzz wasn't sure what she had meant. “Shit.”

  “You wanna see my dick?” Fredo taunted Linda.

  Toro turned back and said, still calm, “You guys are gonna fuck things up.”

  “Fuck up what? What you got in mind?” Linda asked Toro.

  She was worried. Good. Buzz's cock stiffened.

  On a side street, grimy men stood against the walls of a boarded building, selling drugs, pimping for bedraggled women. Two men in drag signaled slow-driving cars, puckering their lips and sucking their fingers.

  “Fuckin’ queers,” Buzz said. “They make me fuckin’ mad!”

  “What you got against them?” Linda asked.

  “They fuck each other in the ass, that's what.”

  “Yeah,” Fredo agreed.

  Buzz said, “You a lez, Linda? That why you like queers?” He had to go with it now, or let the bitch think she could get away with shit.

  “Ask Toro,” Linda dismissed.

  “She a lez, Toro?” Buzz pushed on.

  “I don’ know, man,” Toro said.

  “What the hell?” Linda said.

  “Maybe she'll prove she ain't, to all of us, huh, Linda?” Toro turned to her, smiling.

  “What the fuck, man,” Linda said.

  Buzz and Fredo joined Toro's laughter—and so did Boo, almost. He made a cackling sound.

  Now where was all her tough rap? Now she was afraid—and there was no question about Toro's allegiance. Buzz felt aroused—really hard—because Linda was afraid.

  Father Norris

  AFTERNOON

  He drove along Santa Monica Boulevard. So many lost young men. Already corrupted? Not Angel! In his mind he pronounced the name over and over as the woman in the confessional had spoken it—“Ahn-hel,” not “Ain-gel.” Angel—how appropriate.

  As he drove by, young men along the street stared, bent, anxious, inviting through car windows. When he had determined that a particular young man could not be Angel—and he would recognize him instantly—Father Norris looked away, although his hand would rise, about to execute a benediction.

  Had Angel been picked up by one of the men driving around? How could they add to the corruption of these young souls? How could they separate them further from their spiritual yearnings?

  To make a left turn, Father Norris had to stop to allow heavy traffic to proceed along Santa Monica Boulevard. A handsome young man, his shirt open low on a slender, sculpted body, leaned down and forward to peer into his car. Father Norris held his breath. The young man had dark hair, a spiritual look about him, moody eyes like the woman had described. His skin was dark—Had the woman in the confessional told the boy that he would come looking for him? Was that why he was signaling? No—surely the woman knew that it would be necessary that Angel not recognize him as a priest or he would flee.

  The young man stepped off the curb, closer to him, elbows propped on the window

  “Is your name—Angel?”

  “Yeah. Howdya know?”

  Za-Za and the Cast of Frontal Assault

  AFTERNOON

  As she dashed toward the steps that led to Mr. Smythe, who continued to shout at her, Za-Za glanced back to see if Rex Steed's ass was still on display and those readied cocks were still aiming at it. But the wind shoved a palm frond before her and threatened her wig and so she rushed on to her destiny

  Mr. Smythe was standing up. His guests looked like a
3-D audience, Za-Za thought, binoculars glued to their eyes.

  “Mr. … uh”—she almost called him Smythe—“you want to consult with me?”

  What is the meaning of this? Why have you deviated from my script? Why is Rex Steed lying there with his legs open like a pair of scissors? Why isn't Tony Piazza being fucked by him? Why are you destroying my script? Why? Whatever he would say first, he was preparing a statement of doom, doom, doom for her future as an “auteur.”

  “Why did you bring that man here?”

  “Who? What?” Her head was spinning so dizzily that she could feel the wig creeping over her forehead.

  “The old man—”

  “Who? Who?”

  “Stop that! You sound like an owl. The man you talked to earlier.”

  “Wes Young?”

  “If that's who he is. He's old. I want you to get rid of him, I'll include his full pay, send him away.”

  Za-Za clutched her heart. “But your instructions were that you wanted another large uncircumcised cock and you left it up to me to—”

  “Yes, but not on an old man. Get rid of him. Now go back and take care of things.”

  Was he blind? Didn't he see how sexy Wes Young was, in a mature way? And didn't he have any sense of priorities? Didn't he see Rex Steed's wide-opened legs, in serious deviation from his script? Whatever! This was definitely not the time to tell him about her astonishing screenplay, to be directed by her, that would usher a new artistic splendeur into the world of cinema.

  Now, with a heavy heart, of course, she had to face Wes Young. But—on another front—wait a minute! Of course Rex Steed was spreading his legs out. To be rimmed! Yes—and Mr. Smythe had understood that. After all, there was a place in his script where he directed that “two cast members vigorously tongue Rex Steed's blond ass, which puckers and closes, puckers and closes with each lick of a dabbing tongue.” Yes, yes, yes! That was it.

  She was saved! Now to attend to poor Wes Young, who was waiting for her. He had already put on his pants. Had he become so vulnerable that he could sense a development like this?

  “Za-Za, I guess I'm not up for this today. I'd better split.”

  He knew. “Well, darling, if you must, but the ‘rehearsal’ will suffer without you.”

  He smiled. “Thanks. Uh, Za-Za, you suppose you could spare a bag?”

  “Of course.” She didn't bother to hide this from Mr. Smythe, because he would think she was paying Wes now. From a pocket, she brought out a skinny bag of white powder. This'll get him through, for a day or so, she thought. “Here, and I'll keep your pay for you—”

  Wes Young took the cellophane bag, winked at Za-Za, and, still dressing, walked away from the “set.”

  Very sad, very, Za-Za thought. But, then, no one who came into porn should think he'd last forever, or even more than a few years—and Wes had certainly had a longer career than most. No time to dwell on tragedie!

  There was the matter of the rehearsal to attend to. So! But before she assumed her director's function, a quiver of her nose pulled her attention toward the horizon. Smoke smoldered within a nest of hills, as if fire was deciding what to destroy next. Those capricious fires were known to be almost human, fighting those who fought them. Enough worrying!

  “Scene Three!” she called out. “Ready for Scene Three.”

  “Which was Scene One?” Huck Sawyer wanted to know, pulling at the seams of his briefs.

  Za-Za almost smacked him. Why was he fretting so with his briefs?

  “Who got fucked if we're already on Scene Three?” Sal Domingo chimed in.

  “No one,” Jim Bond emphasized the critical situation.

  True—and Rex Steed's legs remained offered up to the hot day—and before Tony Piazza's thoughtful cock. Za-Za saw that with a crushed heart. “Rim his ass, motherfuckers!” she shouted. “That's what he wants.” Her wig was about to topple. Her feet were killing her. But she couldn't lose her poise.

  Huck Sawyer bent obediently before Rex Steed's ass. Almost daintily he dabbed at it with his tongue. Sal Domingo stood scrutinizing the parted legs.

  As in Greek tragedy—and she would use elements of Greek drama in her debut film, a chariot to carry everyone away, but not to the sun—everything was moving toward désastre, Za-Za knew, as Rex Steed's hand reached under his legs and shoved Huck Sawyer away. Huck Sawyer looked at her as if he was about to cry.

  “Shee-eet,” Tony Piazza imitated Rex Steed's voice, “Rex Steed doesn't want a tongue up his ass.” He glanced at Za-Za, and winked.

  That beautiful monster, torturing me with longing.

  Jim Bond surveyed Rex Steed's parted legs.

  Impossible, impossible! Za-Za covered her eyes. Jim Bond had gotten a hard-on at the spectacle of Rex Steed's big ass—and it was big. What was happening? The revolt of the bottoms, with Tony Piazza as its leader?

  “Fuck me!”

  Za-Za clamped her hands to her ears. Too late. She had heard fatal words that could end her career. They had been spoken by none other than Rex Steed—top man extraordinaire, straight stud legendaire—and, oh, quelle horreur, Tony Piazza's cock was advancing toward the demanding blond ass—closer, closer, closer.

  Thomas Watkins

  AFTERNOON

  The little bastard! Thomas thought, wiping away tears—of anger, he emphasized to himself. He maneuvered back onto Fountain Avenue. The insolent little bastard, thinking I was interested in him, stretching his body like that, letting his pants slide down on his stomach as if that would entice me! Wait until he became a few years older—who'd want him, much less pay for him? Thomas felt a tinge of pleasure within his anger, triumph at his having rejected the hustler who had hopped into his car, uninvited, only because he had been driving past, slowly, having taken a wrong street on his way to see the English film.

  But wait. Hadn't the boy indicated that he was attracted to him?—yes, right after he'd accused him of wanting to be paid. The boy hadn't asked for anything. Maybe that hadn't been his intention. After all, he wasn't an unattractive man, like Herbert.

  Thomas turned his Cadillac around at the next block, back onto Santa Monica Boulevard. How could he have been so quick to judge the boy? Of course he wasn't hustling.

  Off the Boulevard now, he saw the boy. He was standing near some trees and bushes, unbuttoning his pants, as if about to pull out his penis, and he was doing that before a parked car. The driver of that car blinked his lights in signal, and the young man jumped in.

  The driver was unattractive, old, perhaps fifty.

  Thomas drove away from the terrifying Boulevard.

  Orville

  AFTERNOON

  “It's Bruce—remember me?”

  Orville didn't recognize the voice on the telephone. “Oh, yeah, we met—”

  “At the Studio Club. We danced and then you came to my place, you gave me your number.”

  Orville still couldn't remember. He danced with a lot of men he went home with. Of course, he didn't give his number out that much—only to people he really wished would call, at least at the time. Most people didn't call, and he never called—you never knew if the person was going to remember you.

  “I've been in San Francisco, that's why I hadn't called before. I was leaving the day after we met, remember?” Bruce was saying.

  “Oh, yeah.” There were three possibilities. Two of them he really wouldn't care to see again, but the third, the blond guy—he sure would see him again. But how to find out who it was?

  “I thought I'd come over, if you're free.”

  “Sure!” How quickly he said that. He wanted to blot out the earlier encounter, and he hoped it would be with the guy he remembered. If not, he'd make an excuse, say he'd had a call in the interim, had to go out.

  He showered, dressed, waited, checked himself out in the mirror. He tried to remember the two men he didn't want. Maybe they had been better than he recalled, or just pretty good but wanting to try again. After all, he had given them his number. What record t
o play? Yes. “Strangers in the Night.”

  Too romantic, too soon. Besides, what if it was the wrong guy and he'd think he was suggesting something long-range?—which he wouldn't mind, a terrific lover, but the right one. Better play it safe. He turned the radio on to the station everyone was listening to. That guy in Van Halen was shouting—not singing—“Everybody Wants Some.” True. Everybody seemed to be looking—

  For what?

  When the doorbell rang, he turned the radio off. It was better not to reveal too much about yourself the first times you were with somebody, because everybody had some kind of expectation going. Orville waited a few seconds before he opened the door.

  “Hi, Orville,” said the blond man.

  All right! He was better-looking than he remembered, tall, lanky like a basketball player, with gray eyes, really sexy As he was appraising Bruce, Bruce was appraising him, approvingly, Orville could tell.

  “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “Yeah. A beer?”

  Orville didn't have beer, he didn't really like beer, drank it only in bars, when it was necessary to look real macho. He preferred bourbon.

  “Bourbon?” he offered.

  “Sure.”

  He made two short drinks. They sat on the sofa. Orville reached over to touch Bruce, and Bruce leaned over toward Orville. They kissed—hot kisses—tongues twisting about each other. Their hands explored. Orville took Bruce's cock out, and Bruce took out Orville's. “Why don't we get comfortable?” Orville spoke the familiar words that meant, take our clothes off, go into the bedroom.

  “Sure.”

  In the bedroom, both naked, kissing, legs wrapped about each other, they sniffed from a small brown bottle of poppers the blond guy had with him—probably butyl nitrite, or maybe that ethyl chloride some guys were sniffing in the dance bars. Warm blood surged to their groins, their cocks straining. Dark flesh, white flesh. They maneuvered their bodies so that now Bruce was sucking Orville and Orville was licking Bruce's balls, inching his tongue so that it would dab at the rim of his ass. That made Bruce go farther down on Orville's cock. Now he had it all the way in his throat—and held it there. Orville felt his cock pulsing inside the other's throat, there for incredible moments, long, long, deep, deeper, deep—and then Orville swept his tongue over Bruce's balls, then farther, farther, licking his ass, spreading it, dabbing at the hole, feeling the brush of hairs on the smooth parting flesh, and he probed with his tongue, deeper in, while Bruce released his cock from his throat, only to lunge at it again, swallowing it all.