The Coming of the Night

by John Rechy

  It was Ernie's turn, right? Fair's fair. He raised the guy and slipped down on his knees, opening the guy's pants. The guy pulled away, but Ernie had already grasped his cock.

  Jesus Christ, the guy was tiny.

  “Footsteps!” Ernie pretended apprehension. “Lots of vice cops in the area. Let's split!” Anything to get away. He didn't feel good about what he'd done, he wasn't cruel. If the guy had been just average size, okay, but, hey, if you didn't feel desire, you didn't feel desire, right?

  Back in his car, he drove up and U-turned to park in an island of granulated dirt when he saw, ahead, on a hill, a man in trunks.

  Before Ernie could begin the trek toward him, another man who'd been cruising him got out of his car, slipped down a slope, and motioned. Go with him or check out the guy in trunks?

  “Hey, muscle guy, cummon down, I'd sure like to spank those cute buns of yours.”

  Well, there was no decision to be made now.

  Ernie proceeded up the hill. Why was everybody into kink nowadays? What was wrong with good old-fashioned body-worship?

  Can you believe who that was up there on that hill?

  “Hey, Lars! I knew I'd run into you someday.”

  “Yeah, Ern, I've been hoping—”

  “Howya know my name, Lars?”

  “Word gets around da park about cute guys, ya know?”

  Pulling away from his fantasy, Ernie climbed up craggy rocks until he reached the man there.

  Real good-looking. Not in trunks. Bare ass naked.

  So what? Challenged, Ernie took off his own clothes. His cock was already aroused, and so was the other guy's.

  The naked man inhaled eagerly from a vial of Bolt, butyl. He stumbled. The small dark bottle smashed on a rock. The man made an anxious sound, almost a sob. “I got more poppers in my car.” He grabbed for his trunks. “Wait here.” He rushed down twisted paths.

  The guy couldn't make it without poppers! That happened more and more. Some guys stood alone sniffing and jerking off. Not that he minded an extra buzz or two from the stuff, who wouldn't? But you were still making it with a guy, not the butyl. Hey, wasn't sex enough anymore? Ernie dressed and walked back to his car.

  He'd go home.

  He'd try just one more time.

  He'd go home.

  Soon, he was slipping down a slope off the road. A guy leaned against a tree along the trail. Really sexy, with a denim shirt and Levi's and a cowboy hat and boots. Must be cowboy day in the park!

  “Hi, cowboy,” the man said to him.

  So? “Hi, guy.”

  “Just in from the roundup?”

  “Later, guy.” Ernie slipped away from the park cowboy. No telling what he was into.

  Down the path, a shirtless man motioned him into a branchy cove.

  There, the guy blew him. Then Ernie sucked him until the guy pulled away and got on his knees, spreading Ernie's buttocks with his hands, and slipped his tongue into his ass, nestling it in the puckered opening till Ernie was moaning. The guy straightened up, cock probing the saliva-moistened ass. Ernie bent over and took it like a man.

  He felt hot spurts of cum shoot into him. “Ahhhh!”

  The guy pulled out. Adjusting his clothes, he told Ernie, “Maybe I'll see you later, when I'm ready to get off again, and then I'd love to have that big dick of yours up my ass.”

  Big dick!

  Any disappointment Ernie might have felt at not coming—and he had wanted to come, to end this Griffith Park afternoon—was swept away by a surge of joy.

  Mitch

  AFTERNOON

  Mitch walked away from the ocean's edge, letting the hot wind dry his face—moist from the ocean's spray, nothing more.

  He got into his Cougar coupe at the parking lot and pulled away to—

  Wherever.

  On the freeway, people were driving erratically, dodging away from swirls of dusty wind, or attempting to avoid a desolate tumbleweed swept in from miles away.

  Heather's car was parked in her garage. He waited before he knocked—and immediately wondered whether he might prefer that she not be home.

  “Mitch—”

  “Can I come in?”

  “Of course. I was watching the news.”

  Mitch was glad the television was on. They sat together, facing it.

  On the screen a house raged on fire. Water raining on it from hoses did not daunt it, the flames leaping up as if to stifle it.”—not far away from the mansion of Studio Head Dick Gellman, who was entertaining guests at a swimming party when—” Now the scene of disaster faded off and an announcer informed viewers that in the late news there would be an “in-depth report on male hustlers.” “They ply their trade along Santa Monica Boulevard, selling their young bodies to the highest bidder. They can earn hundreds of dollars a night.” The screen scanned anxious young men along Santa Monica Boulevard.

  Mitch reached for the remote control. He clicked off the television. “We can't pretend there's nothing to talk about.”

  “No, we can't,” Heather said.

  Now he would speak words he had rehearsed on the drive here. I'm sorry, Heather, about what I said—that you were responsible for what was happening between us. You were right, it was me. After I left you, I went to the beach, I met this guy, I really wanted him. Instead, I used him to prove I'm not gay—but I am—

  “I'm sorry—,” he began.

  “No, Mitch,” she stopped him. “I'm the one who should apologize. I haven't been honest with you. What you said is true.” She put her hand on his cheek. “I did want that woman on the beach, and I do. And others, before her.”

  Mitch wanted to laugh, wanted to hug her, be angry at her, hug her. He kissed his fingers and brought them to her lips.

  Dave

  AFTERNOON

  The little dude would turn back. Watch.

  Dave bet himself that as he saw the kid he'd been cruising walk away. A real beauty Look at those buns. Showing them off in those tight cutoffs. Begging for something up that ass.

  The kid slowed down.

  All right! I told ya.

  The kid turned around, waited, took a few steps back, stopped again.

  I got ‘im. Dave stretched back on his bike. He let the unlit cigarette dangle from his lips. No question about it, that dude'd never been in a leather scene, not even a light one. That aroused Dave even more. Initiation—that was righteous, to introduce gay guys to what they were looking for without even knowing it sometimes, a feeling he still remembered from the time he had entered the leather scene and played bottom, briefly Even now, when he saw someone who was exactly right—he'd let himself imagine—just imagine—being a bottom again. But the guys he'd consider that with ended up wanting to be bottoms themselves, with him. Dave's hardening cock had shoved against his jeans, right to the edge of the rip he had encouraged near his crotch. He ran his finger along the tear until the head of his cock protruded.

  “Hi, I'm Jesse.”

  Dave placed his gloved fist on the handlebars of his chromy bike, as if he might just rev it up and drive away. He had no intention of doing that. This kid was right. He allowed his lips to curve, only on one side, a crooked smile. Cupping it carefully from the wind, he lit the cigarette in his mouth. He squinted as the smoke he counted on smirched his face. He did not hold out his hand. He just tilted his head, retaining his squint even after the wisp of smoke had faded into a violent throb of wind.

  “I'm Dave, dude.”

  Six

  As the afternoon declines, most of the frequenters of the park in West Hollywood, many retired, leave, having perhaps begun to doze on a bench under shady branches. Parents gather their children, going home for evening activities. Often a lone player will command the basketball court, competing aggressively against an imaginary rival. But it is too windy for that, on Sant'Ana days like today.

  Every now and then, toward late afternoon, a man alone may enter the park, looking around as if inspecting the territory.

  Jes
se

  AFTERNOON

  What the guy on the bike said after he had mentioned his name—and it seemed that way, that he only mentioned it—Jesse wasn't sure. The wind had whipped up whatever words he said after that. A question? The crooked smile lingered on the biker's rugged face, a scar prominent within dark stubble. Even that, the scar, added to his sexiness—and look at how he just lay back as if he didn't realize the tip of his cock was shoving out of the rip in his jeans.

  Wild and hot and lusty! That conclusion confused Jesse even more because now he could tell that the guy was older than he had thought, maybe even thirty-five. A real macho guy and yet—get this—so clearly gay. Great! Gay men had become much more masculine than straight men, and they weren't hesitant about parading that gay masculinity, cocky attitude. This guy had all that, and more, and it was his own.

  Well, Jesse would throw back some attitude of his own, just as good. He leaned to one side so that the wind would tousle his hair even more, and he parted his feet slightly to call attention to his terrific legs. He lifted his tank top to blow down onto his chest as if to cool himself but, really, to exhibit carved ridges on his slender waist, which he emphasized further by, then, running a finger along the front edge of the cutoffs, hardly lowering them but suggesting that he might. The success of his performance was obvious because now the biker's prick protruded even farther out of the ripped pants—the whole round head. Maybe the tough guy wanted to convey that the bulge in his pants was real—some gay guys stuffed their groins. Stupid. Because what about the crucial time when the bulge wasn't there? Ugh.

  “What did you say just now?” He'd stay around for a short while longer, see what this older guy was all about.

  “I said, sit on my fuckin’ cock, you goddamn tease!”

  Wow! Jesse was as excited by the prospect as he was by the commanding tone in the guy's voice. “Out here? On the street? In the afternoon?”

  “Yeah, mount the bike backwards and sit on my fuckin’ cock.” The guy flicked his cigarette at the street, one flick and the wind pulled it away. When he leaned back against the machine's handlebars, more of his cock protruded out of the ripped fabric.

  Jesse looked around, people passing by—mostly gay men because of the proximity to the bar. Even without much going on, several guys were staring, looking back intrigued.

  If he did what the guy was challenging him to do—and if he did it real quick, for the buzz—it would sure add to the charge he was counting on for tonight.

  He jumped on the motorcycle, straddling it backwards. He pressed his hips back. The guy arched his body. Jesse felt the biker's hard cock probing out of his pants and then he felt the guy's fingers lifting up the edge of his cutoffs, attempting to reach the opening. Jesse felt the round, moist head of the cock on his flesh and—

  Wild!

  Three gay men walking by halted, watching, excited, as the guy on the motorcycle moved his hips up and down against the tight cutoffs.

  Now with his finger the biker lifted the cutoffs higher. His cock rubbed Jesse's bare flesh all around, and then it found the parting. The head of the cock held there, only held at the opening. Two more men had stopped to stare at the exhibition.

  “Too hot, too soon!” Jesse jumped off the bike, adjusting his cutoffs. He'd walk away.

  “Hop on and we'll go for a ride, kid.” Pushing his cock back into his pants, the biker shifted his position on the bike. His gloved hand revved it up. He planted a booted foot hard on its side, ready to launch forward.

  Why not? Jesse jumped on behind the biker, holding on to him, arms tight about his waist. He moved his elbow higher because the handcuffs the guy had latched to his belt scraped against his skin.

  Buzz, Toro, Linda, Boo, and Fredo

  AFTERNOON

  Linda's crooked smile remained as she faced Buzz, Boo, Fredo inside the abandoned house Toro had led them into. Weeds crept out of cracks in the rotting floor. The stench of cheap wine wafted into the heat. The wind entered in gusts, stirring litter, and then it would retrench, leaving the house quiet, as if it was waiting for sounds of violence.

  Toro said to Buzz and the others, “You ain't answered her question. This where you want her to prove she's not a lez?”

  Something was off, way off, Buzz knew. They'd talked a lot about banging a bitch together. But was this it? Buzz stared at Toro for a signal. Nothing.

  “Whatya intend, Buzz-man?” Linda said.

  “Go on, tell her, Buzz,” Toro said.

  “To fuck your fuckin’ ass, bitch,” Buzz said.

  Boo laughed, a sound in his throat, and spat on the ground. So did Fredo, harsher. Both hopped about Linda, Boo fumbling at his groin.

  Buzz's cock was so hard it almost hurt. Goddamn—that fuckin’ smile on her face. He wanted her to scream. Now she would! He'd make her scream.

  He leapt at her.

  He staggered back, holding the side of his face, feeling moisture there, seeing it, red, dripping onto the filthy ground. Only then did he realize what was causing the sting on his cheek and remembered Linda slicing at it.

  Linda stood before him with a small razor blade, the kind carried in a plastic holder, ready.

  Boo and Fredo stared at Buzz's bleeding cheek.

  “Who's next?”

  Toro had said that. The sting on Buzz's face became pain. He held his hand against the rip. Blood seeped through his fingers. Toro stood next to Linda, and he was holding—

  A knife.

  Buzz reeled back against Fredo and Boo, who almost fell.

  “Fuckin’ jokers,” Toro said in a calm voice. “That's what you are, fuckin’ jokers. You wanted to know what Linda was hiding, right? Fuckin’ stupid bastards, she did everything except show it to you. Now how much did you get for the shit you grabbed and sold last night?”

  “The niggers tried to fake us, didn't they, Boo?” Fredo said.

  “We messed them up good,” Boo said.

  “After you got the shit, maybe. You think I wouldn't know? I never cheated you, motherfuckers. Now fish out whatever you got with you—fish it out, suckers, or I'll get Linda to slit your belts and I'll shake it out of you.”

  “Let's just do it, Toro, I'd like to see Tiny's prick.”

  “Who you calling tiny?” Boo's face twisted.

  “You, man, she called you tiny,” Buzz shouted through blood on his lips. “You gonna let her call you that?”

  “Cunt!” Enraged, Boo grabbed his crotch and jumped in front of Linda. “It ain't tiny, bitch!”

  Linda slashed her razor blade before his groin. “Come on, I'll make it tinier, motherfucker.”

  Toro's knife gleamed in a pool of pale sun.

  Boo retreated, mouth gaping.

  “Jesuschrist!” Fredo dug into his pockets, handing a few crumpled bills to Toro.

  Linda collected the money. “Now you, Tiny,” she ordered Boo.

  With a shrill cry, Boo lunged at her. Toro threw him onto the ground and clamped him down with a foot. “Come on, fucker, dig.”

  Boo fished in his pockets, bringing out crushed bills. Toro released him. Fredo and Boo ran out of the house, scattering litter.

  Linda faced Buzz. She held the razor blade out. “How'd you like this up your ass?”

  Toro laughed and pointed his knife at Buzz's stomach. Buzz staggered back, fell. Squatting, Toro pinned him with his knees. Linda leaned over Buzz, opening his belt. Toro pulled off the loosened pants and stood, shaking out the pockets, turning them inside out, retrieving squashed bills.

  “Jesuschrist, the fucker's got a hard-on,” Linda laughed. She held the blade at the edge of Buzz's shorts, and she ripped at them, exposing the erect cock.

  “Don't!”

  Linda made a slicing motion over Buzz's cock, and then again, nearer, again, even nearer.

  Buzz screamed and closed his eyes.

  He heard garbage crunching. He opened his eyes. Toro and Linda were gone. He heard the motor of Toro's car starting up.

  His cheek
still bleeding, his pants down to his knees, Buzz rolled over on the ground, onto his erect cock. He pressed his body down, hard, pumping—“Fuck your goddamn ass, fuck your goddamn ass”—until he came.

  Father Norris

  AFTERNOON

  On a side street off Santa Monica Boulevard, Father Norris waited in his car. On the Boulevard a young man had signaled him to park there. That other young man claiming to be Angel earlier had duped him. Simply the ways of the vile streets. But there was no question—no question at all—that the young man now approaching his car—Father Norris's eyes were fixed on his rearview mirror—was Angel. As he had driven by him slowly and paused, he had seen him and known. He was dark, with longish black hair, about eighteen years old—very handsome, and beautiful, with sad eyes. How accurate the woman's description of her son had been.

  “I'm Angel, you're looking for me.”

  “Yes.” Father Norris closed his eyes.

  “Why?”

  “Because I want to save you.”

  “Save me?”

  “Yes. The fact that you've chosen to have an image of Our Lord Jesus Christ, during his greatest sacrifice, tattooed on your own flesh, your back—that's evidence of your devotion, whether you recognize it yet or not. I'm here to answer your plea for salvation, because there is no substitute. Oh, let me guide you to your mission.”

  “I accept that, Father.”

  “How do you know that I'm a priest?”

  “Because I've been waiting for you, Father. I knew you'd come looking for me, for the tattoo of Christ, naked—entirely naked, Father—entirely, the way He must have been, exposed, Father—”

  “—concealing nothing—nothing, finally!—in His total and passionate sacrifice for us!”

  In his car, Father Norris opened his eyes. Where had Angel gone? He had been so immersed in his revery of what their encounter would be like, shutting his eyes to imagine that Angel was already sitting next to him and that they were talking, that he must have missed him as he walked by—or had he walked away before reaching the car? If so, why?