by John Rechy
The guy crawled away, under another row.
Hey, whatever turned you on, right? Ernie looked about. He sure could use a cock in his mouth. One was waiting on the other side of the aisle. A tall guy sprawled back, working himself up. Ernie sidled along two seats, and then another.
A white light swept the theater. Bodies scurried about the rows, guys jumping up, sitting down, adjusting their clothes. A veteran, Ernie knew what was happening. A worker in the theater had been warned that vice cops would be coming in. In minutes, the whirling light was gone. Everyone was sitting watching the screen where a guy in the shower was attempting to take two cocks in his mouth. Damned if that made sense, cops busting in on guys doing what was happening right on the big screen!
Ernie left, feeling frustrated—hadn't made it even once. Hey! He'd take a drive to Griffith Park.
In a few minutes, he was in the giant park, acres and acres of natural foresty land in the midst of the City. Sinuous paved drives wound for miles up and around hills. To the sides of the main roads and down intricate paths, branchy trees, tall brush, and tangled vines formed secluded coves and grottos.
Ernie parked his sporty Volkswagen in a lower level of the park and decided to walk up the main drive. He'd already removed his shirt, oiled his muscles—lightly, not heavy like that Lars Helmut, who always looked like he was about to melt.
He walked down an incline, just to feel the cruising out. He heard a rustling that didn't come from the wind, which parted leafy branches to reveal—Five guys—no, six—Doing what? All you could see was flesh. The odor of poppers invaded even the harsh wind. Ernie moved away—he wasn't one of those pushy guys who just busts in on an orgy.
Hey! Look at that guy with the deep tan!
Against the sun, the man—tall, lithe, wearing a cowboy hat he was holding in place with one hand—stood atop a small mound. The guy's free hand was floating over his groin in signal.
Ernie walked up the dirt path, flexing, to the crest of the mound.
He halted.
Jesus, the guy was black!
He'd never gone with a black guy. You couldn't say he was prejudiced—that just wasn't for him, nothing wrong with it, right? What would it be like to have a black cock in your mouth, how far could you take it? Or in your ass? Or to push your white cock into a black ass? Black lips wrapped around white cock—white dick, black lips, black cock, white lips, black ass, white cock, black—Why deny he was getting hard? He looked around. He didn't want word to spread that he was into black guys.
Looking back, inviting, the black guy disappeared into a hollow of branches and vines.
Ernie followed.
Mitch
AFTERNOON
That son of a bitch thought I wanted to give him head! Shit! He'd gone with the guy to talk, just talk, man—but then the guy made an advance right away, like to kiss him, for God's sake—on the lips—and he pulled away, right away. He didn't want to hurt the guy So what the fuck was wrong with suggesting a head-job? Goddamn Heather! Just because one time—one time—he couldn't get hard. Look, he was hard right now.
Back at the beach, Mitch walked on, along the tawdry stretch of glittery shops.
In a small arena, men with giant muscles were working out even with the wind tossing sand at them. The men, in bikinis, were aware of people gaping at them, although they pretended not to notice.
Mitch looked away All bodybuilders were queer, everyone knew that, and he didn't want to get into another big mess like with that guy earlier, who hadn't looked gay. That guy—he'd been nice, sure, who would deny that?
Two effeminate men were walking to their cars in a lot. A ratty kid rode by on a bicycle and flung the remains of fried chicken at them. “Faggots!” he shouted back as he sped away “Get off the beach!”
A piece of oily skin hit Mitch. Not wiping it off, he walked onto the sand, past two short palm trees, fronds rustling angrily. He inhaled, prepared to greet the clean scent of water. Instead, his nostrils detected the odor of something burnt but not yet ashes. He walked to the edge of the water.
His hands covering his face, he hunched there.
Dave
AFTERNOON
He swept into West Hollywood, his presence and the growling of his motorcycle alerting all cruisers that he was here! Top leatherman looking for action—
Jeez-us!
Will ya look across the street at that hot kid showing off his ass in those tight denim cutoffs?
Dave revved his engine for attention. The kid looked at him, and he looked back—hard, for only seconds. Then turned away from each other.
Dave made a U-turn and parked his bike outside the cruisy bar the kid must've just left. The kid had walked only a few steps away, lingering but not looking back. Placing an unlit cigarette—tough prop, dude—between his lips, Dave shifted his body about on his bike and sprawled back on the handlebars. He propped one booted foot on a side of the bike and planted the other on the sidewalk. He cocked his cap lower over his eyes, and waited.
Five
Several people, the older ones—and younger ones usually on break—often come to the park in West Hollywood to sit on benches and have their lunch. Almost everyone is careful to collect paper plates, containers, napkins, to discard in one of several trash cans along the paths. Among those who frequent the park, there often develops a camaraderie. The conversations are mainly topical, mostly about local matters. Did you feel the recent tremor? Will it ever rain again? Will West Hollywood become a city?
Is it true that the Sant'Anas augur disasters?
JESSE
AFTERNOON
Let Mr. Macho wait there thinking he was going to be knocked over by him. Well, he'd just continue walking away, let the guy get hot over him. Jesse had known, as the biker roared by and they looked at each other, that he would come back and park his motorcycle near him—and he did. Now Jesse decided he'd look back, once, before moving on.
Double wow!
It astonished him that his cock reacted. The biker was an older guy, thirty, maybe older. But he was sexy—and knew it—with dark stubble on his face, a wild body. And attitude! For God's sake, the hair on his head was beginning to thin. Jesse saw that when the wind jerked the leather cap back and the biker had to hold it, relocating it at a slant.
Despite the guy's age, all of it came together. Jesse allowed himself a few more casual glances. Still, guys decked out like him might be into weird stuff. He didn't mind some rough probing when a guy was fucking him—that felt good—and if the guy was a dirty talker—“I'm gonna fuck the hell outtaya, ya know ya wannit up your fuckin’ ass, don'ya? don'ya?”—hot stuff like that. Jesse could get into it.
Heavy stuff turned him off—S & M, huge dildos, belts, chains, handcuffs. Ugh. Still, being got up like the biker didn't mean you were into all that, just rough decoration. It didn't even mean you were a top. Lots of leather guys were bottoms, and others turned bottoms at the right opportunity. The sight of a guy in high leather mincing along like a queen wasn't rare, either. This guy on his bike looked real—not real real but fantasy real, which was much better, like he could play a good macho. The navy-blue handkerchief dangling out of his left pocket meant—left or right, which was it? Those signals confused Jesse, and he didn't bother with them on himself. He was almost sure left meant top, and dark-blue signaled being into fucking. Even that could be contradicted when things got going, and the one fucking wanted to be fucked. Where Jesse definitely drew the line was with guys who wore dark-red handkerchiefs. He knew what that meant. Ugh. The only thing that belonged up your ass—after a finger or two—was a cock, period.
Jesse realized he had continued to look at the biker, and, no doubt about it, the biker was interested in him, staring at him from under his slouched cap.
Too old, though.
Lusty.
Too old.
Hot.
Old.
Now the man on the motorcycle raised his right arm up, back, stretching or showing off the da
rk tufts of hair under his arms, or the tattoo of an eagle or something. Jesse didn't like tattoos, but on this guy—
Wild!
Then Jesse noticed that the biker was wearing a black glove on the outstretched hand. Now he lowered that hand, very slowly, then clenched it into a fist, which he raised in one harsh thrust.
Jesse walked away. Too weird.
Buzz, Toro, Linda, Boo, and Fredo
AFTERNOON
They cruised off Hollywood Boulevard, into a section of decrepit vacated buildings, condemned and boarded, taken over by derelicts who ripped away barricades and signs forbidding entry. Occasionally a portion of a wall would crumble, tossing dust into the wind. Along sidewalks, next to garbage spilling out of bags torn open by the wind, a few men lay, passed out on heaps of rags that flapped about their bodies. Others walked by dazed, on drugs or drunk. On corners, ragged women attempted to hustle, raising their skirts to reveal naked hips. A boy of about ten yelled out his offer of ‘hides.
Toro pounded the steering wheel to rapid-fire blasts from the Judas Priest tape.
Buzz had been trying to figure things out since Toro had seemed to challenge Linda to prove to all of them that she wasn't a lez. Maybe she wanted to fuck them all. A fuckin’ nympho. He'd prefer it if she didn't want it. Either way, he'd make sure they gave her something she didn't want. Like the time he and Boo and Fredo had picked up a skinny ugly druggy, and they felt her up, and then threw her panties away so she'd have to walk back to the street in her tiny skirt. They had followed her, jeering, so other guys would see her.
Even the wind was giving Buzz a rush. It would pause, everything settling, and then it would gust and stir trash around.
Toro turned into an alley A few derelicts lying on newspapers tried to hide, grabbing at debris. The wind blasted in as if through a tunnel.
Toro parked the Chevy before the remains of a small house on what might have once been a lawn, now a sprawl of debris, liquor bottles, old newspapers, cans, weeds with tiny yellow flowers. Either fire or the rumble of an earthquake had crushed the house. Only portions of some walls remained, their sides swathed with smoke. Jagged edges of gouged windows had trapped fragments of splintery dried brush, which rustled when the wind whipped in.
With a nod of his head, Toro motioned Linda to get out. She did.
Too easy? Or afraid not to? Buzz jumped out of the car. Boo and Fredo followed. Through the skeleton of a door, Toro led them into the pulverized house. Buzz, Boo, and Fredo faced Linda. Toro stood halfway between her and them.
Linda glanced at Fredo, then Boo, and then at Buzz. “This where you guys want me to prove I'm not a lez?” She was smiling.
Father Norris
AFTERNOON
Of course Angel would ask him why he was looking for him. He couldn't know, not yet. “Ahn-hel”—Father Norris breathed the name—“I want to see—”
The young man groped his genitals. “This?”
Father Norris glanced away, shaking his head, no.
The young man reached for the door. “Are you a cop?”
Father Norris didn't hear the boy's words. He was hearing his own before he even spoke them. “I want to see your back.”
“I don't get fucked,” the young man warned.
“I want to see your back.”
“My back? See it? Just that?”
“Yes.”
“Sure. Money first.” He removed his hand from the door.
Father Norris fumbled for his wallet, handing the boy bills. The woman's words this morning in the confessional had alerted him to prepare for whatever might be required. Before Father Norris could say, No!—because this was not the proper place for such an immense revelation—the boy had taken off his shirt, lowered his pants, and twisted his lithe body around. Father Norris braked. The boy's skin was tanned—not brown and—
“Where is it? The tattoo?”
“Huh?” The young man clasped the door handle.
“You're not Angel!” Father Norris wailed.
The young man jumped out.
Father Norris was calm again, entirely controlled, entirely. He had been naive to believe this journey would be uncomplicated. Our Lord's journey had been a harsh one, but at the end of the night of torture, He had attained His goal. And so would he.
Za-Za and the Cast of Frontal Assault
AFTERNOON
“Fuck me, fuck me!” Rex Steed couldn't stop shouting those words—his eyes closed, thighs spread, feet pointing to the sky, hands parting his buttocks before a pensive Tony Piazza.
Had Rex Steed gone crazy? Was he possessed?—like in The Exorcist just before the demon girl whirls her head around, a scene that Za-Za would pay homage to in her debut film, adding a light touch, of course, like Lubitsch.
“He vants it bad,” Lars Helmut observed.
“Somebody better get in his ass,” Dak Boxer offered.
“I think he's dead,” Jim Bond said. “The strain—”
Mr. Smythe and his guests were standing—watching this spectacle go wildly out of hand.
She must try to bring order out of this chaos, whatever would salvage the opportunity she had counted on to allow her artistic future to blaze. Let's evaluate, Trésor, she spoke to herself. Rex Steed was asserting his desire sans equivoque. Yes, the top man in the business—the one who claimed to be Mr. Straight—was asking—pleading, begging!—to be fucked, and Tony Piazza—that stunning man of her desires, the most famous bottom in the business—was clearly indicating—there was no mistaking the intention of that upraised cock—that he was willing—eager!—and, God save us all, able—to accommodate him. That was the case. What to do?
Inspiration!
She ran over to Tony Piazza, turned him around and smacked his eager cock so forcefully with her hand—ignoring his “Ouch, bitch!”—that it began to deflate immediately, and in an extension of the same movement, she grasped Rex Steed's legs by the ankles, and pulled them shut—holding them that way with all her strength and against his resistance.
The binoculars on the veranda swirled.
Tony Piazza grabbed his balls as if in pain. Jim Bond soothed them for him, fanning them with his hand. Huck Sawyer started to run in panic at the turn of events, but he stopped when he couldn't decide where to go. Sal Domingo doubled over with laughter, seizing that opportunity to locate his ass for full display to the veranda. Lars Helmut exchanged mysterious looks with Dak Boxer.
Thrusting out forcefully with his knees, Rex Steed freed himself of Za-Za's clasp and sent her reeling against Tony Piazza, who shoved her farther away, almost into the pool.
On the ground, Za-Za pressed her hands abjectly against her cheeks, attempting to be philosophical about this ghastly saga. She might learn something or other from it for her newer wave film, like when Claudette Colbert—
Oh, my God! This was no longer a rebellion. It was a revolution! Among fluttering bougainvillea and delicate lilacs and noble birds of paradise scattered just beyond the pool area—she saw this while she remained, prostrate, on the ground—famous tops Dak Boxer and Lars Helmut were patting each other's asses! And! Jim Bond and Sal Domingo were staring at the two tops as if they were gravely considering how best to join the unexpected proceedings. Poor sandy-thatched Huck Sawyer was the only one doing anything that made sense—running around in bewilderment and tugging at his Jockeys.
Raising herself from the edge of the pool, Za-Za gave a little scream, all that her voice would allow her in response to what she saw now that she was upright.
Tony Piazza had grabbed!
The long blond legs!
By the ankles!
And was spreading them even wider!
And now he was leaning over to spit into the parted buttocks and on his own cock in unequivocal preparation—
To—
To—!
Tony Piazza buried his cock in Rex Steed's ass.
Thomas Watkins
AFTERNOON
Just as he promised himself, Thomas dr
ove back to his haven, his serene home, away from that terrifying street with all those corrupted young men. Once inside, he served himself a civilized scotch, only a dab extra so he wouldn't need another.
“Tom—”
“Oh, my God, I didn't see you in the shadows.”
“I'm sorry I startled you.”
Thomas couldn't restrain his delight. He'd imagined him earlier, hitchhiking, but now there he stood in the familiar baggy trunks, the young man he often saw down the road. “But how did you get in?”
“You left the door open. I rang, then knocked—I guess you didn't hear me—and then the door opened on its own—and so—You don't mind my calling you Tom, do you?”
Thomas preferred his full name, but he wasn't about to intrude on this lovely unexpected encounter. “Of course not. And you're—”
“Lawrence, but everybody calls me Larry.”
“Larry.” Thomas became very shy, though there was no reason—Larry had come looking for him after all those times of smiling and waving at each other—flirting, as it now turned out so clearly “I've often thought of stopping to talk to you, when you're working on your car, but—”
“I kept hoping you would. But that's okay, because here I am—”
But he wasn't, only in Thomas's imagination as he faced the empty shadows where he had envisioned the young man in his baggy trunks. Yet the boy did wave at him all the time—maybe anticipated his passing by? What if he drove down now, slowly? Perhaps the boy would be inside his house, looking out in case he came by, not knowing what to do this Saturday, and maybe he liked English films—that film was, after all, about runners—
From his wide window, Thomas saw palm trees bending as if in protest.
How much of his loneliness—although he wasn't really lonely—was a result of the fact that he didn't take chances? That's what that terrible Herbert implied. Oh, the hideous man came right out and said it. Was it true?
He went to his bedroom. He had never worn a denim shirt he'd bought impulsively. He tried it on. Slightly tight—because his chest had become broader. To accommodate that, he might leave two buttons open—many gay men did that.
