The Coming of the Night

by John Rechy

  “Smell the leather!”

  The kid jerked back. Dave held his head there, just held it—until he felt the kid relax. Then, quickly—for sure on a stronger rush of amyl—the kid burrowed his head against the opening of the leather chaps, his mouth searching for the tear on the Levi's.

  “Stay there! Smell my crotch, little bastard! Smell the sweaty leather, ya hungry little bastard.” The kid's tongue licked past the leather, to the tear, his mouth attempting to pull out the cock straining under it. Dave rubbed the gnawing mouth about his crotch. “Yeah!” Then he released it on the protruding head of his cock, forcing it to stay there until, in one rough movement, he returned the kid's grasping mouth to the edge of the leather chaps. “Didn'ya hear me, ya fuckin’ cock-sucker? I said, smell the sweaty fuckin’ leather, smell the—”

  The kid pulled away and stood up.

  Defiantly? The rush of amyl fading or had he moved too fast? “Got you too hot again, huh?”

  “No. Maybe. Weird. I don't know.”

  But you will know. Dave leaned back on the bike, arms behind his head—one of his most commanding poses, he knew. He touched his dark stubble, a finger lingering on the scar. He said lazily, “So what are you really lookin’ for, dude? Cummon, tell me, cummon.” He allowed himself to entice in a mellower way “Cummon, kid.”

  The kid smiled, all that blond hair tossing about his face. “It's a special day for me—like a celebration. I want to just keep getting hotter and hotter and sexier and sexier until it's real late at night. Then I'll have lots and lots of sex, hot sex, with lots of hot guys, really hot, not go home to do it, either—stay in one place, because I don't want to waste time, not even come till the last, and that'll be the hottest, and it all has to be the wildest. Really wild.”

  The kid was perfect. “Sounds—hot,” he borrowed the kid's word. “Whatya say you and me ride around and find the best place for your celebration?—and we'll round up lots of dudes for later?”

  “O-kay!”

  But now the kid looked almost embarrassed, shy. “And what about you?” he asked.

  Dave had known the kid wanted him real bad—and wanted his own hot trip at the same time. Well, he wanted the kid—and his own trip—and they'd have both. “Me? I'll be the last one, the one you'll want to shoot your load with. I'll hold mine, too. We'll get off together. Dude, I'll make fuckin’ sure you have a real special night. Okay, kid?” He linked the thumb of his black-gloved hand over his thick studded belt, to add a master's authority to his question. “Now I'm gonna do something for you.” He held Jesse's arms up, exposing the blond hairs under them. He licked under the kid's arms, one, then the other, around, up, down, in, rough lappings of his tongue. “Now that I've licked off that fuckin’ deodorant, you'll smell like a real man for a real man, dude.”

  Seven

  Scratchy vines—stirred violently today by the Sant'Ana—cling to the high wire fence about the unused field in the park in West Hollywood. A few trees bunch in isolation in one corner of the field. Branches lean over the open passage between it and the brick toolshed. Those branches, and the narrowness of the open space, create a permanent dusk there until night drops its heaviest shadows over it.

  Jesse

  AFTERNOON

  In the alley where they had stopped, Jesse stood before the guy on the bike. It hadn't excited him when the guy made him lick the leather. He'd done it only on his way to suck the guy's cock, a good, thick one. Maybe that's not all that had excited him. He'd sniffed poppers before, but the biker's—Wow! The amyl had jerked him into a furious rush, blood thumped at his temples, hot darkness engulfed him like he might pass out, and he felt so fucking lusty that maybe he'd kinda wanted to try something new. When the pulsing darkness opened, he'd pulled back, angry—and he might have stayed angry, except that it had been wild when the biker licked the deodorant off his armpits.

  “Say, dude,” the biker had assumed a huskier drawl, “you ever try two cocks up your tight ass? That'd double up on the guys you'd have for your celebration.”

  The way he was smiling and rubbing his scar—Jesse wasn't sure he was serious. When he'd gone with the two guys who'd taken turns fucking him last week, he'd teased both cocks at the same time. He'd only imagined that he had both in. Another great thing about being gay—allowing everything as long as it stayed fantasy.

  A burst of wind dragged some palm fronds into the alley Suddenly they lay still, before them, abandoned. Ugh. Jesse looked away from them.

  “Me and another dude, at the same time, at the last of your celebration—but me at the very last,” the biker offered, still smiling. “How about it?”

  “If the other guy's as hot as you.” Jesse decided to go along with the talk—-just fantasy. He knew how turned on the biker was by him. So he would tease, flirt, play with him—the guy was too cocky Jesse knew how to take control of guys who thought they were in charge and were as hot for him as this guy was.

  The biker held his gloved hand to his mouth, licking the black leather, once. “Ever had anything bigger than two cocks?”

  Buzz, Boo, and Fredo

  AFTERNOON

  When he heard footsteps on the litter of the abandoned house, Buzz, still on the floor, sat up. His cheek had stopped bleeding, cauterized by the hot concrete.

  “Jesus, man, she sure cut you up.” Fredo leaned over Buzz. He and Boo were back.

  Buzz adjusted his pants, sitting up. “I'll fuckin’ catch up with that cunt and fuck her ass till she's fuckin’ wasted.”

  “Hey, Buzz, ain't that a sin?” Fredo asked.

  “Only when queers do it.” Buzz spat into his hand, rubbing dust off his face.

  “That right? The Pope says so?” Fredo asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Huccome you wanna fuck her ass?” Boo asked Buzz.

  “Cause it'll hurt her.”

  When they emerged out of the house, the wind toppled a garbage can, spilling more garbage in the alley. A woman hidden in rubbish staggered out. Buzz pulled at her rags and shoved her away. They walked along the alley.

  “Whose car is that?” Buzz asked. Boo and Fredo were getting into a crudely painted car.

  “Fredo hotted it, man.”

  Buzz jumped into the driver's seat. “Let's go find some rough action.” He spat into his hands and wiped blood on his face.

  Father Norris

  LATE AFTERNOON

  Perspiring, feverish despite the air-conditioning he kept on, Father Norris waited in his car for the boy walking toward him—Angel—the boy who had walked away earlier, perhaps because of the woman in black on the street. Just an ordinary woman dodging the wind, he dismissed now.

  A squad car drove by, slowed, stopped just ahead.

  “Sir, we've been watching you circling the block, and—”

  “I'm looking for Angel. Do you know him? A young Mexican boy with amber, almost-yellow eyes, and a tattoo on his back.”

  “Oh, sure, Father—you are a priest, aren't you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sure we've seen him, hangs around the street to be picked up, that kid with the sacrilegious tattoo on his back.”

  “No, no—his tattoo is not sacrilegious.”

  “You would know, Father.”

  “You see, he loves Christ with such passion that he wants Him to become part of his own flesh. The tattoo represents his attempt at total communion—”

  “We understand, Father. We stopped you because there are a lot of perverts out here, looking for these kids, wanting to sodomize them, and at first we thought that you—”

  “That I—you thought that I—?”

  “Sorry if I offended you, Father. Good luck in your holy mission, I can tell that you'll accomplish it.”

  “Yes!”

  Father Norris ended the imagined interrogation when the police car drove away after idling a few moments, surely realizing that he was not one of those debauched men out to debase these boys, to, to—

  “How're-ya?”
/>   The boy was leaning against his car window. “You're Angel,” Father Norris said.

  “Yeah.”

  Father Norris opened the passenger door. Hot wind gasped in.

  The young man got into the car.

  He was more beautiful than the woman had described him. As beautiful as a martyred saint.

  “How do you know who I am, man?”

  “I've heard about you, Angel.” It had to proceed exactly, slowly, step by step.

  “Yeah? You guys talk to each other about us?”

  The boy's eyes contained a deep sorrow that his pose attempted—unsuccessfully—to hide.

  “So what are you looking for, man?”

  “Your back—”

  “That'll cost you more,” the boy said.

  Father Norris lowered his head, twice.

  “You got a place?” the boy asked.

  Za-Za and the Cast of Frontal Assault

  LATE AFTERNOON

  The journey to face Mr. Smythe on his veranda must have taken her ten years, a slow death march. Behind her, everybody was in the wrong ass, and he was about to blame her. But! Hope sprang. What if, before he could accuse her, she blurted out just the story of her epic film?—grab him with it, leaving for later the description of the play of light and shadows, the screen split by a bolt of color—avant-Bergman. She did have to tell him—a lot of blurting—about the scene that would honor L‘Avventura, except that her characters would move fast—run—hop!—from level to level.

  “Za-Za!”

  “Please let me explain my—”

  “What is there to explain, my dear? Why, this rehearsal is splendid. Beyond my imagination.”

  Was she hearing right? “I'm—well—I'm glad you like it.” Where had those insipid words come from?

  “Like it? It's sublime, my dear, simply sublime, to turn it all around, to have all those inviolate asses violated, to have all those wasted cocks put to use. Why, my dear, it is—it is—inspired. You have inspired your actors—”

  Actors! Those whores piled on top of each other? Actors? What a slur on Cary Grant, Gary Cooper, Clark Gable—my goodness, Trésor, they all had G's and C's in their names. What could she do with that in her epic film?

  “But how can you possibly bring it”—Mr. Smythe's wrinkles tangled into a smile—“how can you possibly top all this?”

  Za-Za tried to assume a mysterious look, to give herself time to think.

  “Remember? Etonnez-moi! Astonish me! Now run along, my dear, move on to the grand finale you've surely planned!”

  My God, the old geezer is cuckoo. If she didn't blurt now about her film that would return grandeur to cinema, another opportunity might not occur. “Sir, I have an idea—”

  “But of course you do, my dear, and I have no doubt it will be splendid. Now run along this moment.” He walked back to his throne on the veranda, where his guests had not glanced at her.

  Za-Za looked disconsolately ahead.

  That slut Tony Piazza, that magnifique ingrat, that beautiful tramp—look at him spinning like a top in Rex Steed's ass, after he vowed he would be a bottom till the end of time.

  “Za-Za?”

  “What!” She had no time for Huck Sawyer, lurking around, although, Lord love him, he was the only one not mounting anyone.

  “What shall I do?” Huck Sawyer tugged nervously at his briefs—arousing himself out of sheer anxiety, the dear thing, and—“What is that?” Za-Za reeled back.

  “What!”

  “That! That! Under your shorts!”

  “It's my cock, Za-Za, what else?”

  “Let me see.” She pulled at his trademark Jockeys. She staggered back, almost toppled over. “My God!”

  “What, what, what!” Huck Sawyer was almost in tears, his hands working furiously at his crotch as if only that might calm his nerves.

  Za-Za grabbed his undiscovered cock with her hand, pressed it forcefully down, and let go of it. It sprang against his stomach, vibrated there—stout, assertive—higher than his navel, higher than—“Trésor! I am going to make you a star!”

  Thomas Watkins

  LATE AFTERNOON

  Thomas drove down Laurel Canyon. He congratulated himself on the fact that after his usual scotches he steered with even greater confidence than otherwise.

  He held his breath.

  The young man still wasn't there, at his usual place.

  Thomas parked across the narrow street, in the shadows of trees, a few feet away from the garage outside of which the boy so endlessly washed his car. In the early afternoon, never this late. When it was fair, not windy. Still, Thomas adjusted his rearview mirror so that he could watch the entrance to the boy's house. He remained there, waiting. Longer. Longer. Almost dozing. Waiting—

  The boy!

  Thomas saw the familiar car driving up to the house where the young man lived. Oh, God, he didn't even know his name. What would he call out? Boy? Of course not. Young man? Yes. He rolled down the window.

  The young man stepped out. He ran to the passenger side of his car and held the door open for—a girl.

  Outside the car, they kissed, very long. The girl's neck strained to meet the boy's lips.

  What was he doing with that girl? He had to let him know he was there. Thomas turned on his headlights, to signal through blades of dust and wind. He started the car, made a difficult turn on the narrow street, and drove slowly alongside the boy and the girl. They blinked at his headlights. Ahead, he braked, turned the inside light off and on, off and on, for the boy to realize that it was he.

  The young man ran to Thomas's car. He leaned into the open window. Thomas smiled at him.

  “What the fuck are ya starin’ at, you fuckin’ old faggot?” the young man shouted.

  “What?”

  “Listen, you queer creep, I've seen you drivin’ up and down lookin’ at me when I'm working on my car. Didn't you see me laughing at you? Couldn't you take a hint when I flipped you a fuckin’ finger?”

  “Laughing—? At me?” No, no, he had smiled, waved, Thomas was sure. Why was he lying? Why?

  “Now get the fuck away, cocksucker!” The young man banged his fist on the fender of the Cadillac.

  “Ignore him, Scotty,” the girl's voice called out.

  Thomas drove away, down the road, to—

  Where?

  That bathhouse he'd driven past some time back, in West Hollywood, so popular on weekends even in the afternoon. It would relax him.

  A car coming up the hill swerved to avoid him. The driver yelled at him. Let him, he had been driving perfectly well, not recklessly like others drove along the canyon.

  Those damned palm fronds! One had tangled under his car. He tried to ignore the scratching. It grew louder. He stopped on a side of the road. He looked under his car. A huge frond clung there. He yanked at it. It wouldn't budge. He yanked more. It seemed alive, fighting him. He pulled and pulled. It clung. The wind was aiding it. Was that blood on his hands? He pulled and pulled at the sharp edges of the frond.

  He loosed it. The wind swept it away Who was screaming out like that—with such terrible urgency?

  He looked around. There was no one but him.

  Orville

  LATE AFTERNOON

  Orville sat before his large television and sipped a watered bourbon. Driving up to Griffith Park had been a mistake. Had the strange wind made him act like he did with that muscular guy he wanted? It contributed, and it was now blowing harder. The glow of fires in the hills was singeing more of the sky, he could see through his picture window. Even inside, he could smell ashes. He wished the Sant'Ana night had already come and would be over with. But time seemed to be dragging on, as if it was trying to keep the night away.

  When he had finished watching a musical with Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers—no one new could beat them, no one—on the old-movie station, he showered, slowly, the third time today. He was very attentive to never smelling bad. He changed into fresh jeans, fresh tapered shirt, another
set of boots, also Tony Lama. He wouldn't wear the hat, though. Too windy.

  He would go out, idle some time, and then go dancing at the Studio Club. He was a great dancer. He smiled at that. Maybe tonight he'd meet someone terrific who would be looking for someone terrific, maybe someone on the rebound from a bad affair and looking for a good one—someone special, true love.

  He sighed.

  The hot night was waiting, and he was resigned to joining it, but only the early part of it.

  Before he walked out, he clamped on his cowboy hat.

  Paul

  EARLY NIGHT

  How long had it been since he'd been here to cruise? Paul parked his car in the lot adjoining the beach that turned gay as soon as it was dark. He got out and walked toward the shoreline. Against the wall of a locked rest room, a man blew another while a third masturbated. Paul walked on.

  Even before he'd moved in with Stanley, he'd stopped coming to a narrow stretch of beach under a dilapidated pier. Earlier in the day, men made out under shafts of shadows. Toward night, they began to spill beyond the rotting structure. From where he stood, still away from the pier, Paul could make out entangled figures.

  He turned back, got into his car, drove away to Venice, to the section where he had been earlier, where he had met that strange guy who'd come home with him. He'd take a walk on the cooling sand, and think.

  Christ! It couldn't be. That guy standing by his car parked at the edge of the lot—it couldn't be that son of a bitch with all his bullshit about his lesbian girlfriend. What the hell was he still doing here?

  Looking for me? Odd as the thought was, Paul did not reject it. He slowed his car, still a distance away from the man, who stared out at the ocean.