The Coming of the Night

by John Rechy

  Two tough-looking guys—them, Jesse chose—pulled away the man who was still inside the naked body. They turned the kid around roughly They licked his body, up, down, took turns blowing him, blew each other, rimmed the kid together—wild, wild—probed his ass with fingers—hot, lusty—rubbed saliva in to prepare him for the cock piercing him, and then there was another, two cocks alternating every few strokes. A third?—the guy he had just nodded to? Wilder than he had anticipated. More!

  A tall man advanced from the periphery of the toolshed.

  Him, Jesse chose.

  The tall man held a vial of amyl to his own nose, then to the kid's.

  Jesse inhaled. Not enough. He inhaled again. Not enough. More—The gasps of amyl ganged up in a series of heated throbs.

  The man fucked the kid, keeping the bottle of amyl stuffed into his own nose—cock in, out, in, deep in—

  “Fuck me!”

  “I'll fuck the hell outta ya, ya teasin’ motherfucker!” the tall man said as he came.

  All right! A little rough talk. O-kay! More!

  Before he moved away, the tall man spat on the kid's ass.

  Orville made his way into the park from a street. He walked across, heading toward his car in the farther lot. He slowed, he looked back. He thought he saw the guy he had wanted to go home with earlier. Following him here? No, couldn't be. He saw only shadows. What was happening over there by that toolshed?

  Three men—Jesse recognized two from outside one of the bars where he and the biker had recruited—enclosed the naked body. Bare flesh clustered within stabs of amyl and heat, popped ampules passed around, mouths on mouths, mouths on cocks, cocks, hands, mouths—Jesse guided a cock into him, bent to suck another—felt cum spurting inside his ass, in his mouth, on his thighs—“Fuck me!” he breathed, and he felt the night cloak him in heat.

  In the parking lot on the far end of the small park, Buzz opened the door of the stolen car and stepped out with his club. Boo and Fredo followed with theirs.

  By the toolshed, three men grappled over the kid. One spun him around, they fell, and he forced the kid's head down on his cock, another cock joining, both cocks crammed into the kid's mouth—

  Jesse inhaled amyl-drenched heat, and with his hand led one of the cocks in his mouth to his ass—A night worth waiting for! Would the biker be watching, getting hotter for him?

  Groaning with desire, a heavy man shoved aside two men groping the naked body.

  Jesse twisted away from the man he hadn't chosen, didn't want.

  One powerful hand keeping away the men he had tossed aside, the heavy man clasped the naked body and pulled it out of deep shadows, into a larger area, against a side wall.

  Jesse tried to pull away from the fierce grip.

  The man fought him as he undid his belt.

  Jesse tumbled to the ground, felt a foot pinion his shoulder, and then he was aware of moisture spattering his body He rolled over on the patchy grass, kicking hard at the groin of the man urinating on him. The man flailed with his belt at the naked skin—

  Orville yanked the man away from the kid. “Dirty pig!” he yelled at him.

  With a whine, his mouth trying to connect with the black man's groin, the man staggered back, stumbled, fell moaning on the merry-go-round, which spun slowly about as he tried to jerk himself off.

  “You all right?” Orville bent over the kid. Even while wrestling that filthy son of a bitch away, he had become aroused—had pulled his own cock out.

  “Yes.” Jesse wiped dirt from his body, raising himself. Nothing to be afraid of, nothing to stop his great celebration, which would continue, must continue—

  “What the hell are you doing here like that?” Orville felt sad for this kid, felt hot for him, felt rage, felt desire—

  “Fuck me!” Jesse chose the black man and braced against the wall.

  Orville shook his head, sadness deepening, desire growing, demanding. He lunged into the naked body.

  Jesse threw his hips back to receive him.

  Turning the kid's head, to face him, keeping himself inside, deep, Orville whispered, “Feel my nigger cock in your goddamned white ass, boy!”—and he came in violent spasms.

  Jesse's body trembled. He felt—Wild! More!

  At the merry-go-round the heavy man came into his hand.

  The words he had spoken resounding in his mind, Orville hurried away to leave behind the unwelcome reality of what he'd said and done. Almost halfway out of the park, he saw the man he had danced with all night at the Studio Club.

  They turned away from each other.

  Soggy heat clamped Jesse's flesh. In this less sheltered area, he saw himself naked in the dim light. No, he didn't feel afraid, why should he? He felt hot, hotter—

  More—

  Hands—he had not seen whose, had not had a chance to choose, could not tell how many—flung him back down on the ground. Mouths licked his body, his balls, his cock. A tongue jabbed into his ass. Cocks slapped his face, stinging his flesh. Hands spread his legs open, wide, wider, hurting, wider. A hand held a cracked ampule of amyl to his nose, cupping it there to enclose the rush until—

  Jesse almost blacked out, as if the night had invaded him. Circles of darkness spun out, then enclosed, narrowed, and opened when he gasped. Cum squirted inside his mouth, on his face, on his ass. Shadows fled, discarding him on the dirt, a foot rolled him over. He heard a sound that was like crying. Who? A howl? He had not howled. He reached for someone's hand held out to him, lifting him.

  “Are you okay?” Paul asked the kid.

  “Yes.” Jesse touched his own face, a bruise there. He felt the burn of the belt that had struck at him. He looked at the guy who had helped him up. More. Him. The celebration—

  “Can I drive you home?” Paul asked.

  The kid shook his head urgently.

  Paul retreated from the naked body, turning away, because he had understood this kid, had seen himself there, had felt a violent craving to squash himself against the wall, to be entered the way this kid was being entered, over and over, to take one cock after another, up his ass, in his mouth, to block out the desolation he felt, to make up for all the years away from this exciting terrifying world—No.

  He would not return. With his handkerchief, he wiped perspiration from the kid's face. Then he hurried past two men rushing toward the kid's body, hurried away through unmoving heat, to his car.

  At the entrance to the park, Nick stared ahead. He had walked here after the man who had picked him up on the Boulevard had blown him in the car. He moved behind bleachers, past men inviting him with stares. What was he doing here? All these guys cruising—queers looking for each other, not hustlers. Over there on that bench, a guy blowing another, and two guys jerking each other off against that tree. Why was he here? He walked across lawns, farther in, toward—Looking for—

  He stopped. Had a man just fucked that naked guy against a brick wall? The guy was young, good-looking, coulda been a hustler himself—tanned—no, dark—light hair—? No, dark—the street light made it look light—No—Yes. It was—Yes, it was—When had he opened his fly? He was holding his cock, and it was hard—and pressed against the naked body. He was aware of smooth, moist flesh enclosing his cock. He heard a sigh, a sob—his own—whispering, “Angel!”—and he came.

  He walked, slowly, along the grass, out of the park.

  Alone, Jesse felt a longing for—even more! Yes, him—

  Near the merry-go-round, Tony Piazza stared at the naked guy who'd just been fucked, and there was another guy about to go at him. He snorted several pinches of coke from the bag he'd stolen earlier. All that fucking and sucking at that bullshit mansion earlier, that fuckin’ script—a goddamned script—all that bullshit—Hardcore? Shit! This is the real thing—over there, that kid, those guys. For as long or as short as it lasts, this is the real thing, he knew, as he jostled aside the guy about to enter the kid—cum spattered on the bare ass—and he rammed himself in until he came.

/>   Buzz, Fredo, and Boo invaded the park, Buzz running ahead.

  Jesse heard discordant sounds. Cops? Bashers!

  Alerted by a different rhythm, the sounds of invasion, men about the toolshed scattered.

  Jesse remained against the wall, did not dare move.

  Ernie made his way past the bleachers, going back to where that kid was getting fucked. By now, there'd be lots more cum in him, and he'd jam his own in—a real fantasy, all that male cum in that beautiful ass—Wait! That cocky guy strutting toward him, tryin’ to look rough, pretending he was a real redneck. Nothing wrong with pretendin’, right? He'd check him out before that other man cruising did. He'd swagger right up to the tough-lookin’ guy and—Wait, there were two other guys with him—

  Driving by, Thomas Watkins had seen men entering a small park, and he had followed them. Now on a tree-flanked path, he heard shouts, saw tangling shadows. He heard curses, the thud of clubs or bats. He moved toward the struggling figures. Thugs were pummeling two prone forms with wooden boards!

  Ernie crouched as blows beat down on him and the other man on the ground.

  “Fuckin’ faggot queers!” The words shattered the silent heat.

  Ernie tried to twist away from the motherfuckin’ bashers, but he was trapped, and so he lay very still with his eyes closed, pretending he'd passed out so the fists and kicks would stop, pretending this wasn't happening, pretending—

  “Stop it! Stop! Help, help!”

  Who had shouted that? He had, Thomas realized when he repeated the cry into the night.

  Startled, Fredo and Boo turned toward the old fag who had shouted. The two assaulted men staggered away. One fell face down.

  Raising himself forcefully, willing his body forward, attempting to pitch himself out of this sweating, bleeding nightmare, Ernie ran out of the park.

  Against the wall, Jesse heard footsteps approach closer, stop. He did not dare look back. The biker? No. Whoever was there remained. Jesse heard only harsh breathing.

  Orville heard shouts as he was about to enter his car.

  Board raised, Boo rushed to beat the shit out of the old faggot who'd yelled for help.

  Thomas faced the menacing form about to spring on him.

  “Hey, faggot, you want this?” Boo taunted, hitting his own palm loudly with his board. “Ya wannit?”

  Thomas did not move. If he could only reach out, wrest the club away. If he could only move—

  “Well, you got it, queer!” Boo flailed the board before him, with each step moving closer to the old faggot. He felt hands clutch his shoulders, twisting him away from the old queer. Clint smashed his fist against the punk's surprised face and seized the club, striking at the punk, forcing him down.

  Fredo rushed with his board to charge the fag wrestling Boo to the ground. Hands wrenched him back, down.

  Dave planted a boot on the fuckin’ punk's chest and, leaning over, punched the contorted face. “Fuckin’ shit punk!”

  Fredo grasped the biker's boot, sending him reeling back. Fumbling for his club, Fredo raised himself.

  Clint pinned the punk's arms back.

  Dave's fist crashed into the punk's face.

  Boo and Fredo slipped, fell, stood, ran. Now two other fags were chasing them, pummeling them. Bleeding, startled, reeling, running, Fredo and Boo reached the stolen car in the parking lot. Fredo tried to open the motherfuckin’ door—locked. Boo shook it, cursing, Motherfucker, motherfucker—

  A hand spun him around.

  Orville's fist struck at the punk's face.

  Boo dropped to the ground, and Fredo fled into the street. Boo remained bleeding on the concrete. He did not move until he was sure the nigger queer was gone, and then he ran out of the park in the direction where Fredo had disappeared, and he shouted back, “Fuckin’ faggot queers!”

  Orville waited by his car until he saw the punk disappear. He was about to get in and drive away when—Was it him? Yes. He saw, looking at him and waiting by his own car, the man he had danced with earlier. Was it possible they might still connect? He'd wait, only a few minutes—a minute—Was it still possible?

  When Paul saw the man he'd danced with all night hit the punk, he felt good, and then he felt even more regret that he and the man had not connected. Was it still possible?—the black man was staring back at him. Sometimes it worked out after all kinds of misunderstood signals. He'd wait by his car, a few minutes, wait for a signal—Was it still possible?

  In the park, Clint faced the man in leather who had joined him in stopping the assault. The older man who had intercepted the mugging watched them a few feet away. Clint sat on a bench. The man in leather sat next to him. Cruising shadows reconvened about the park. How quickly the sex-hunt survived everything, Clint thought.

  “We showed those punks,” Dave said.

  “There's many more,” Clint said. They talked in hushed voices, not to disturb the night. “A friend of mine died,” Clint spoke words his mind had been repeating.

  “Older guy?”

  “Young.”

  “Accident.”

  “He died from a strange illness. Something mysterious, something new, something terrible—”

  “That bullshit some guys are talkin’ about?” Dave lowered his voice more.

  “If it's not bullshit—” Clint looked about at the cruising forms. He wiped cold sweat from his face.

  “There's one sure way to push all that crap away,” Dave said.

  With sex, Clint's mind echoed Troy's distant words.

  “Wanna get into some heavy stuff with me, dude?” Dave tried to sound as if that had only now occurred to him, had not occurred the moment he had seen this moody, sensual man leaving the alley, the moment when he had felt an allegiance between them, a common bond, the moment when he had known that they were of the same breed. “Share a sex slave? Do everything? That kid I was with—”

  The real bashing, the invitation to mimed violence—that paradox had eluded him, too. And yet—Both of them fucking that beautiful kid, telling him what to do, ordering him into humiliation, desiring him and desiring each other, and—Clint's cock hardened.

  What the fuck was wrong with this guy? Dave knew he was interested, way interested. So what was bothering him? This? “Nobody's gonna force anything, the kid wants it, a kind of celebration, gettin’ fucked over and over, but I know he'll want more, wants it wild and hot, wants the wildest at the end of the night, and I know how.”

  From the distance, Thomas still stared at the two desirable men. He wished he had wrested the clubs away from the thugs. Still, he had summoned help, and he and those two men had joined for moments against the invaders. Now the two men would go off together, and he would be alone.

  “Whaddaya say, dude, share a sex slave?” Dave rubbed his fist.

  Clint stood, staring down at the biker's black-gloved hand. “No,” he said, and he walked away.

  Thomas moved toward an exit near a desolate merry-go-round. He would now retreat to his haven in the Canyon.

  Alone, Jesse waited for fear to allow him to breathe freely. The silent presence had remained there—Jesse saw a black shadow against the wall, a shadow growing, nearing. Jesse saw the shadow raise a club—

  “Fuckin’ faggot,” Buzz barely whispered as he moved toward the naked queer.

  Jesse saw the shadow of the club rise higher, ready to crash down on him. He closed his eyes.

  Buzz still waited before the naked body he had been staring at since he had run away from the old fag who had shouted for help. He listened to the naked queer's frightened breathing, and that excited him. He pulled the board back, to crush with more force when he dashed at the queer. Now!

  Jesse felt a body hurl itself against him.

  Buzz's cock pulsed inside the naked body—“This is what you want, isn't it, ya fuckin’ queer!”—and then, coming—“and this is what you're gonna get!”—he swung the board down with all his force—

  Thomas Watkins grabbed the raised club, beatin
g the thug away with it, driving him down to the ground, beating—

  Buzz reached for the old faggot's legs.

  Thomas kicked at the thug.

  Buzz tried to pull the fag down.

  Thomas kicked at him, harder.

  Buzz squirmed, covering his head.

  Thomas kicked again at the twisting body, kicked harder each time, and with each kick he uttered fierce words. “For! All! The! Cruel! Names! For! Every! Ugly! Thing!”

  Thrashing with his hands—his face and body hurting, bleeding—Buzz fled out of the park.

  Jesse's body felt—Felt—

  With a gasp, Thomas stared at the beautiful naked boy, the glistening body against the wall. The frustration, anger, yearning of this long, endless day tangled into desire, only desire. The boy would reject him, but he could overcome him, he was strong, he had just proved it. He staggered forward.

  He stopped.

  Oh, no, he would never force himself on anyone, much less a beautiful and vulnerable young man.

  As he walked to his car, Thomas passed a handsome man he recognized.

  Clint made a loose salute toward the man who had stopped the bashers earlier.

  Thomas Watkins nodded to him in mutual acknowledgement. Tonight, he thought, I have surrendered the impossible.

  Against the wall, Jesse felt captured by the heat, the darkness, felt throttled by the night, the heat, felt abandoned by the dead wind—He was—

  Afraid.

  He was—

  Soon there would be others here. The terror in the park would fade, his own terror would fade—It was already being pushed back by a demand for—

  More.

  Clint saw against the brick wall of the toolshed the beautiful kid who had smiled at him outside the alleys.

  Jesse looked back and recognized the man the biker had recruited. He nodded.

  The naked body was shivering within the unbudging heat. Clint held the young man in his arms, close to him, sheltering him from the night, felt the young man's trembling—Should he try to talk him away from whatever it was that was driving him to this? Yes—

  No.