The Coming of the Night

by John Rechy

  “Yes.” Clint remembered the time they had been together after seasons of silent courtship. “Troy? Dead?”

  “Yes. Dead. At thirty-five.”

  NEW YORK

  A Year Ago

  Clint met him in Fire Island.

  Like so many others populating the gay horizon, Troy was very handsome, lean, hard-muscled—the “great beauty” everyone desired and talked about. He conveyed a sense of contagious sexual delirium, augmented by his constant use of uppers—the best coke, the strongest amyl—and downers, when sleep was demanded.

  That year, Clint and Troy kept running into each other in New York. Both attractive and desirable, they began a silent game to see who would approach first—at the usual places. Studio 54 was for dancing, doing drugs, arranging late-night liaisons, with several, or making out briefly, there, among glamorous bodies in decorated nudity. St. Mark's Baths was for private encounters in rented cubicles, or for orgies. The Penitent was for exotic parties—all black leather, all white costumes, fore-play for orgies scattering into the night.

  And the two men ran into each other, that same year, at the Museum of Modern Art. It was at the Picasso retrospective. Clint stood staring at the artist's “Guernica” when he noticed that, among others there, Troy, too, was gazing at the same mural of anguished bodies. As if they had caught each other in an unwelcome interlude, they turned away without even cursory acknowledgement.

  That season in Fire Island, two summers ago, Clint had gone to cruise the stretch of sand and foliage known as the Meat Rack. Troy was emerging from a sexual encounter with several men—all now moving on to others. This time, Clint and Troy nodded to each other. At the Ice Palace, the late-night emporium, they maneuvered to dance near each other but with different partners throughout the late night.

  On the beach the next day, Clint saw Troy appear over a crest of sand. Facing the strip of beach claimed by gay men and a few women, Troy stood there, tall, tanned,.aware of the admiring, desiring, and envying looks he always collected. Having gathered them, he removed his trunks, tossed his towel over his shoulders, and walked naked up to Clint.

  “When are we going to fuck?” he asked him.

  Clint said, “Now. Here?”

  “Yes.”

  They did, but in Clint's rented bungalow. Troy preferred to be fucked, and Clint preferred to fuck—but the frenzy that withheld desire had aroused demanded no qualification of roles. Breathing coke, inhaling poppers, they kissed, blew each other. Clint fucked Troy, then Troy fucked Clint, and then they changed positions again, and then again. They alternated all afternoon, resting in between.

  As Clint began to doze, Troy sat up, staring in the direction of the ocean on this pristine day. “This is all there is, love—-just sex and more sex and still more sex. That's all God gave only us—and to no one else—to compensate for all the shit they keep throwing at us. It's the only thing that blocks it all out, isn't it?” He touched his beautiful body, and then Clint's, as if to assert the reality of flesh. “That's all some of us have,” he said to himself. “When that's gone—for some of us, there will be nothing.”

  No, that isn't all we have. It can't be, Clint thought, but didn't speak that aloud because Troy had become moodily silent.

  “At times,” Troy continued after staring into a vague distance, “I think cruising—sex—saves some of us from despair.”

  “Would you die for it, for sex?” Clint asked him, smiling to soften the edge of his words.

  Troy said, “If you asked me that when I had a cock in my mouth and a cock up my ass, I would know that, yes, I would. If you asked me afterwards, I might reconsider.” He laughed, erasing seriousness.

  That night they ran into each other at the Ice Palace. As if there had been no intimacy between them, they looked away, thwarting any further intimacy—the silent courtship had been too long, the sexual encounter had been complete, and an unexpected vulnerability had been exposed.

  The next season, earlier this summer, Troy did not appear in Fire Island. Clint heard rumors—that he had settled down with a French lover—no, an Italian—that he had moved back home to South Dakota—no, to Utah—“some odd place like that—imagine?” Someone said he had retired to write “a slim—very slim—pamphlet about the handsome men he hasn't slept with—yet.”

  Now Troy was dead.

  In his hotel room in Los Angeles, Clint felt a surge of sexual desire. He drew from his unpacked suitcase a fresh bag of cocaine he had brought with him, carried always in reserve. He snorted from it, again, more. The sexual urgency increased, an urgency to push away death—and to expiate the judgment of the face of the man in Sag Harbor—and to do both with an assertive act of living, with sex—lust and desire, yes—but not what it had twisted into, what he had seen that long night in New York, punishment for desire, sex that was no longer sex.

  He forced himself to get up. He showered, did not shave, touching the stubble that framed his face. He breathed more of the coke, more, until he felt his body jolt into bold alertness. He dressed in jeans, shirt open over a white sleeveless undershirt, low boots, a uniform suited for the hunt without signaling any faction. He had brought no leather garments with him.

  At a chic, loud restaurant near the hotel, he couldn't eat.

  He drove the rented Mustang to Santa Monica Boulevard. He parked on a side street. He walked long blocks. The Sant'Ana wind hushed eerily, then resurged with new power.

  Hundreds of men were out on this sweaty night. So many men, so many beautiful the way only gay men could be, men who emphasized their sensuality. Many shirtless—flaunting defiant, defined bodies, some posing as cowboys, bikers—they strutted by, displaying the new masculinity that was entirely gay. Everyone seemed happy, euphoric, laughing, sitting in outdoor restaurants, standing outside bars, laughing, walking or standing along streets, laughing—laughing that laughter that he had located last week in New York, mirthless laughter veering toward hysteria, and he understood it, and the look that went with it, that reflected a sad frantic weariness even when the face smiled, an inherited weariness that came from the knowledge of a troubled journey ahead—“all the shit they keep throwing at us,” Troy had said—a journey already charted, but not by them.

  The sexual urgency he felt wouldn't be fulfilled in crowded bars.

  Removing his shirt, leaving on the undershirt to cling to his body, Clint prepared to cruise the alleys of West Hollywood that thrived, especially on weekends, even before the bars closed.

  Men flowed along a row of dark garages. A good-looking man passed Clint, stared back, moved into a garage. Pants lowered, cock hard, the man squatted against the garage. Clint stood before him. The man pulled Clint's cock out, licked his balls, under his balls, then sucked him. Clint felt his urgent cum shoot into the other's throat, deep down.

  The other man stood up. At other times, Clint would have walked away—he had come—and that would be understood. Now he lowered himself before the other man, whose pants remained opened, and he sucked the still hard cock. He needed to feel life surging into him. Moaning softly, arching his body, the man came in Clint's throat, warm cum coursing into the depths of his body.

  Ernie

  EARLY NIGHT

  The arrest he had seen had sent his mood crashing. He had left Griffith Park immediately, and knew he would definitely not go out tonight. The hot day had turned bad.

  In his apartment he watched television, looked through a porn magazine, ate a tuna sandwich, took a shower, had some potato chips, and made a firm decision.

  Hey! He'd call friends to come over!

  He had lots of friends. Sometimes they went out together to a gay Mexican restaurant—why did gay guys like Mexican food so much?—and commented on cute waiters or customers. They did, he didn't. He didn't like too much idle cruising when he went out. He wasn't a swivel head like some guys who never stopped cruising, right?—like one friend of his, who'd whistle out loud if any attractive guy came in.

  Sure, that was it
. He'd call a few friends, he'd go out and buy some dips ‘n’ chips and a few cold ones. Sure. The guys'd be over in no time.

  In no time—

  “Ernie! Great idea! How many did you invite? Seven's an orgy More than that is a mess.”

  “Jeezus, Sam, I didn't call you over to have a goddamn orgy. Hey, we're all just friends, right?”

  “Which means we don't fuck each other. I know. Here's James. Hi, sweetie. I heard you broke up with Milo. Sor-ree.”

  “Milo? I broke up with him ages ago, and you know that, Sam. I just broke up with Tony.”

  “Oops!”

  “Put on a little weight, huh, Ern?”

  “Yeah—five pounds, all muscle, James.”

  “Hmmmm. Anything wrong with your teeth, Sam? You keep picking at them. Got something caught there? A hair?”

  Just imagining how it would go made Ernie say, Fuck it, especially since, afterwards, they'd want to go out cruising and leave him with all the paper plates and soggy dips. For sure they wouldn't want to waste this hot night on friends. Oh, no, all they wanted was to go out and fuck their brains out—and so did he.

  Mitch

  EARLY NIGHT

  Mitch remained parked where the motorcyclist and that handsome kid had spoken to him, in the alley and against the wire fence bordering a section of the small park there. Had he imagined that the kid had been referring to him when he shouted, “Him!” to the motorcyclist?—if that's what he had said. What had the motorcyclist meant when he called back—and Mitch was sure of this—“Over there, later!”—pointing to the shed they had gone to in the park?—as if they were scouting—

  For what?

  Mitch saw figures disappearing into mesmerized shadows. They moved as if in some entranced dance, gliding, pausing, all men—like at the darkened beach earlier.

  Leaving his car parked against the wire fence, he got out. He walked along, trying to locate the entrance to the park. No entrance here? Where? Not here either. Where! He clenched the wire fence, shaking it, as if to tear it open.

  Dave

  EARLY NIGHT

  “Cummon, dude, we're wasting time.”

  The kid stood by the side of the motorcycle. He bent over and leaned his head on Dave's shoulder,

  “What the fuck you doin'?” Dave turned his voice gruff.

  The kid nuzzled on the bare shoulder.

  Dave dropped his hand before it would touch the blond head. He revved the bike. “Now stop fuckin’ around and hop on, we gotta go choose some more hot dudes for your celebration, and then you and me've got a hot date at the last.”

  The kid hopped on. “Yes, sir!”

  Sir? Yeah! Mocking? Learning?

  Learning.

  Nine

  Into the small park in West Hollywood a hushed incursion begins, increasing as night deepens. Men sit alone within shadows, on benches, on the bleachers facing the darkened fields. They roam about paths, lawns, in and out of patchy gray light, shadows shifting within the Sant'Ana night.

  The open space between the toolshed and the wired field is so hidden by then that if a police car flashes bright lights into the park, the glare will not stir the darkness there.

  Jesse

  EARLY NIGHT

  Spooky, Jesse thought, the way the Sant'Ana stopped, just stopped, leaving all this heat. He mopped his chest with his tank top and remained shirtless as he leaned against the motorcycle he had ridden on all day The biker, seated on it, had parked near several bars and a cruisy alley He and Jesse were reviewing the parade of men to choose from for this night's celebration. They had already selected a few from among the hot men spilling out of nearby bars, bared flesh exposed to dark heat.

  “Him,” Jesse chose a young guy in shorts—jockstrap peeking out—cap cocked. “And him.” A guy in tight jeans—big bulge—striped tank top.

  As the two men Jesse had chosen passed by, the biker called out now-memorized lines, “Real hot time—that park”—pointing—“late night, tonight.”

  Like others, the invited men looked from the biker to Jesse, who confirmed the invitation with a great smile and a nod. He and the biker had refined the approach, the doubled attraction.

  “That guy.”

  Jesse looked at the man, the first the biker had chosen by himself. He had emerged out of one of the garages. Wearing jeans and a white sleeveless undershirt, he wasn't dressed like the biker, but he looked like he belonged to the same breed, maybe even about the same age, too. The two resembled each other—no, not at all. Yeah, in an odd kind of way For sure both were really hot.

  “Yes, him,” Jesse approved.

  “Hey!” the biker called out to the man leaving the alley across the street.

  The man turned, stopped, stared, as if deciding whether to walk away Then he did.

  The biker revved his bike angrily for attention.

  The man turned around.

  Did they know each other? Jesse wondered. Was the guy in the undershirt avoiding the biker?

  The man across the street walked on to Santa Monica Boulevard.

  “Hop on, dude,” the biker told Jesse.

  Jesse jumped on. Something between those two guys—

  They caught up with the man who had emerged from the alley. The biker rode by slowly, parallel to him. “Real hot night—over there.” This time, he had spoken those words in a kind of quiet way, almost timid, Jesse thought, and as if he really wanted to say more to him.

  The man looked away from the biker and looked at Jesse.

  Jesse smiled, his most irresistible smile.

  The biker revved up the bike, and they drove off.

  “I know a coupla places we can go scout for some tough dudes,” he said.

  As they drove past men lingering along the street, Jesse wasn't sure how many guys they'd already invited to his celebration. Some would tell others.

  Buzz, Fredo, and Boo

  EARLY NIGHT

  “Whatya doin'?” Boo asked.

  “Christ!” Fredo said.

  Buzz was trying to make a U-turn in the middle of Santa Monica Boulevard. “That queer threw a bottle at us and I'm gonna go back and kill ‘im.” He thrust his upraised finger at cars honking.

  “Traffic's too tight,” Boo said. “The fag'll be gone by the time you turn.”

  “That shit queer,” Fredo said. “Did you see him—standing there almost naked? That's a fuckin’ sin.” He crossed himself.

  “The fag'd be gone if we went back,” Buzz agreed. He steered back onto the Boulevard. “Fuckin’ car you hotted don't have air-conditioning, and it's fuckin’ hot. When'd the wind stop?” He held his hand out the window.

  The wind had stopped. Trees along the Boulevard and beyond braced, upright, for its possible return. The ring of fire about the City settled there, an unmoving dark glow.

  “If we stay away for a while, that guy at the corner'll come back,” Fredo said, “cause he was hustling. Some of them ain't queer, go for bread. I know a guy did that kinda shit, and he ain't queer, just gets picked up and robs the fags.”

  “They're all fags,” Buzz dismissed. They rode along the upper part of the Boulevard, West Hollywood, where they had driven earlier, up and down, braking before gay bars to shout and threaten.

  “You know where lots of them go late at night?” Fredo asked.

  “Where?” Buzz demanded.

  “A small park.” Fredo rubbed his shaved head excitedly. “The guy I told you about, who robs queers—he goes there.”

  “Where is it?” Buzz clutched the board from the crate he had smashed.

  Father Norris

  EARLY NIGHT

  “Your mother—,” Father Norris said to the young man, who sat on the bed in the rented room.

  The boy removed his shoes, which, Father Norris noticed, were worn.

  “I don't have no mother.” The boy did not look up.

  Father Norris understood. The boy had to deny connections in the world in which he was now existing.

  His s
ocks in his hands, the boy looked up at Father Norris. “Naked—?”

  Father Norris nodded.

  The boy took off his pants, he wore no shorts. He reached for his shirt, began slipping it off—

  Father Norris closed his eyes. He did not want to see yet. Not yet. Not too soon. He allowed moments to pass.

  When he opened his eyes, Father Norris saw the boy lying on the rumpled green bedspread, naked, one leg propped up, the other dangling on the floor, his hand cupping his groin.

  “Now what do you want me to do?” the boy asked.

  So innocent, so eager to surrender to salvation. Father Norris clasped his hands before him, touching his lips in the attitude of prayer. “Your back, Ahn-hel.”

  The room was silent. Had the wind stopped? Yes, as if everything was now entranced.

  The boy started to twist over on the bed. He paused. “You'll have to go easy, man. Put it in slow and use a lot of spit if you don't have lube with you. If I say stop, stop till I say okay, and then go slow.” He turned over, parting his buttocks with his hands.

  Father Norris did not hear the boy's words—-just sounds. He had closed his eyes, had clasped his hands before him as if in prayer. Prepared to gasp, he opened his eyes now.

  There was nothing on the boy's back! No tattoo—nothing!

  Father Norris reared back fiercely from the boy.

  “What's the matter, man?” The boy sat up, facing him.

  Father Norris gasped. His voice turned into choked groans. “The naked Christ—where? Where!” The groan of anger became a sustained sob. His eyes blurred with perspiration or tears. His hands tore apart from their prayerful position. He advanced on the boy “Where!”

  The boy backed away, slipping off the bed, pulling back. “If you try any shit, motherfucker, I'll shout and the guy downstairs'll be up in no time.”

  “You deceived me!” Father Norris wailed into the room, beyond the room. “You deceived me!” He sat on the bed, rubbing his face. “You deceived me,” he whispered.

  He was alone. The boy had run out of the room, his shoes and socks left behind.