by John Rechy
The more homosexuals are harassed, the more violent crime will rise—and in proportion, because of depleted law-enforcement resources.
Beyond all that, does police harassment stop sexual outlawry?
No. It increases it—creates it—by resultant defiance.
The police count on that.
4:16 A.M. Montana Street Hanson Avenue.
A VAN STOPS. Two men. “Wanna three-way?”
Jim is glad for the straightforward approach. He doesn't want games. He is anxious to go home, but he wants-needs—one more contact for this night.
The man who asked him about the three-way is very attractive—and Jim is instinctively sure they're not cops. He will reciprocate with him, but he can't see the other clearly. So, to protect himself, he says, “I could get into it, but I don't do anything, myself.”
The second man leans forward—he's equally attractive as the first. “You've got a gorgeous bod. Can we follow you?”
Yes.
4:24 A.M. The Apartment.
Before dawn.
Immediately, they're in the bedroom. All naked. Lovers from San Francisco, the two have lean bodies, sensual faces. From the pocket of his shirt, the taller of the two, both dark, brings out two amyl ampules—poppers—and a metallic inhaler.
Jim lies back on the bed—two mouths lick his body; it awakens completely. He flexes on the bed, sending blood rushing to his muscles. Hard naked bodies shift about him. The tall man's cock is inches from Jim's mouth, and Jim is tempted to take it between his lips; but at least for now he wants to indulge the one-way expression of desire for him by the two.
He stands over them, legs spread. The shorter of the two men pops the amyl ampule, holds it up to Jim, the chemical odor holds him tightly, seals these moments of wild sex. He can hear the blood pumping in his head. The sex scene seems bordered, like a photograph, for close observation. The others sniff the ampule stuffed into the inhaler.
Standing, Jim directs the two heads to the areas of his body he wants explored by the eager tongues—flexed biceps, flexed pectorals, tensed stomach, tensed thighs, calves, cock, balls, ass. Now he lies back on the bed, and the glued mouths move with him. Each of the two is alternately jerking his own cock, the other's, Jim's. Now both mouths meet at Jim's genitals; the lips of one pulling lightly at the pubic hairs, the other's eating the head of his cock. The amyl encloses the scene even more tightly.
Like the others', Jim's cock is hard, hard. He stretches on the bed. The two others flank him, head to feet. They suck his cock and balls, their lips and tongues touching over Jim's groin. Now Jim's mouth receives the tall man's cock, then shifts to the other's, back to the tall man's, now the other's. He leans back, body stretching, ending for now the reciprocal acts. Now the taller poises his ass over Jim's straining cock, and the shorter man directs Jim's prick into his lover's ass. Jim enters it. The man raises and lowers his ass on the sliding cock. The third man holding the cock in place, Jim and the other shift their bodies on the bed. The tall man now lies on his back, legs held wide open by his lover into a wide-flaring V.
The shorter man licks Jim's ass. Jim pumps easily, pulling out his cock all the way, pushing it in again, out, in.
Before he can plunge in again, the shorter of the two lovers holds Jim's cock, redirects it to his own ass. The tall man sits up watching. The shorter man's ass is tighter than the other's; it won't open at first—and then it does, slowly, barely allowing Jim's cock entry, opens slowly, slowly. Now the taller of the two pops the other ampule, holding it, crushed, to each alternately.
Lifted by the amyl's waves of sensuality, Jim continues to delve deeper into the other's tight ass, feeling the flesh of the asshole gathering closely about the head of his cock, now about the sensitive ring of flesh below, now about the vein-pulsing shaft. Cum gathers with the sudden joyous rush of amyl as Jim fucks the smooth hole. As the tall man licks the point of contact—Jim's cock and balls and his lover's ass—Jim leans over, straining awkwardly, to suck the tall man's long cock, creating a line of raw sensation between his own cock and his mouth. Now Jim's hand directs the long cock toward the mouth of the man he's fucking.
The tall man kneels before the shorter man bent over. The shorter one receives the cock as Jim thrusts over and over into his ass in exactly the right rhythm, the ass opening to his cock, closing, opening, the softness inside kissing it. Jim looks down—sees his own cock, beautiful and hard and round and long, sees the hair-brushed flesh opening and closing to it, feels the shorter man's full cock pulsing in his hand. Sees and feels flesh and sex.
Male, male, male.
Jim pulls the man's legs wider, to enter the deepest part of him. Jim's lips meet the tall man's, tongues connecting moistly.
Bodies shift. Both lovers kneel head down, buttocks raised on the bed. Jim fucks one, fucks the other, returns to the tighter one, to the other again, the tighter one.
The taller man is jerking off his own cock, and his face is under Jim's groin. As Jim pulls in and out of the other's ass, the tall man licks the lunging cock and the other's parting asshole.
Jim's body contracts! Pulls forward like a gun! Death is challenged. Cocks explode! Jim's cock shoots into the ass. The tall man shoots into his lover's mouth, the other shoots a gliding arc of sperm into the air.
“Oh, God!”
Naked bodies lie back, motionless. They lie there for moments. The odor of sex and amyl hovers over the room.
Now the two lovers dress.
“Goodbye.”
“Bye.”
“Bye.”
In the shower, Jim's soaped hands adore his muscular body. This night's hunt. And what was found? He concentrates on the sound of the jetting water. How many hands? How many mouths? How many cocks? How many assholes? How many lovers, strangers, men? He feels the specialness of his outlawry, and an exquisite joy.
He turns off the water. And what was found? What was searched for? Depression knots tightly at the center of his being.
He stands naked before the mirror. The joy returns.
Without looking out the window at the dawn, he pulls the drapes against it.
He lies naked on the white sheets. His hand cups his cock.
10:08 A.M. The Apartment The Gym.
HE WOKE CHARGED with energy from last night's hunt.
He has breakfast—several eggs mixed with milk, honey, and protein powder; all-grain bread with butter; and—his one indulgence to “trash food”—coffee. He takes a fistful of vitamins.
Ordinarily he doesn't work out on Saturdays, but kinetic power demands it today.
He'll pump his arms.
He inclines a long board on the back of a weighted chair. He grabs a loaded dumbbell. Propping his upper arm and elbow on the decline, he curls the dumbbell with careful slowness, feeling the resistance. One arm, then the other. One set each. Another. Two sets. Four, five. Seven sets. Exhaling in audible bursts, filling his lungs with oxygen, he forces more, low sets. One more repetition. And one more. Just… one … more.
He inspects himself in the mirror. He's ready.
Outside, the sun is white over shaggy palmtrees.
11:05 A.M. Greenstone Park.
He chooses Greenstone Park for the first few minutes of sunning. Relatively subdued in the afternoon—at times completely placid—it is still always potentially a sexual arena.
On the open spoon of grass next to the parking area, a few subdued exiles have gathered to sun in trunks. Jim doesn't join them.
He walks under the concrete grotto and onto the path. So different in the daylight. Sun penetrates the trees in warm patches. Choosing one just large enough to contain his body, he lies on the beach mat, thermos filled with protein beside him, and strips to tiny trunks, almost a posing strap. Minutes pass under the tanning sun. Half an hour. He's glad for the isolation, himself and the sexual sun. Footsteps. Jim opens his eyes narrowly. A hunter is staring at him. Jim stretches his body.
“You've got a beautiful body,” the ma
n says.
Jim feels the outlaw excitement stir.
“I've seen you hustling on Selma, I've got some money, I don't live far,” the man invites.
Just that was enough for now. “Sorry, man, I'm in a hurry today. Another time, okay?” Jim tells the man.
The admiration, the offer of sexmoney—newly charged, Jim drinks from the thermos jar. For moments more he lies luxuriating in the hot sun and the awareness of his own body.
12:23 P.M. Griffith Park.
Griffith Park is the capital of the sexual underground. Sprawling, all alcoves, grottos, paths, glens, branch-formed “caves,” craggy inclines. Miles of sexhunting along declining paths, hills to the sides of the road. When on very hot days the area is closed to cars because of fire hazard, hundreds of outlaws hunt along the lower part of the park or move on foot in a jagged exodus up the hill.
Jim knows the seasonal and hourly vicissitudes of the year-round park, areas shifting with the sun.
Driving up the winding road, he scouts the area. He is wearing his exercise cutoffs, the bikini under it, no shirt, climbing boots. Dozens and dozens of cars, parked tightly by the sides of roads, or driving up and down, radios blaring. Hundreds of outlaws. Many young, attractive. Many beautiful, displaying semi-stripped bodies.
Jim parks in one of his favorite places. He walks to the edge of a foresty area. A “path” declines slightly toward thickening trees. He pauses. No one else is here now, but he descends the short path, into this depth of the park.
As he moves into the green, he hears the sound of his feet pressing the ground. He pauses. He clears his hearing of other sounds. Then he starts walking ahead, this time to gather the sounds his body creates as it passes through the green. His shoulder brushes the branch of a tree, just as his foot presses blades of long uncut grass. Moist. Blades glisten. A brittle twig at the end of the branch cracks. He sees the blades of grass bend under his feet, press into the ground, slide against each other as he passes, and then they begin to rise. Dry brown and yellow leaves on the underside of low brush break. They lie on the ground, dry, along with others, moist, the dry ones turned up, edges stabbing-sharp. A long branch pushed back with his hand resists, pushes, then gives, snapping back, shaking the leaves of another tree. A few leaves fall dead, joining the others on the ground. The branch hits a twig. The shadow of the branch, trapped in a spear of cutting light, streaks the moist green earth, then stops, tangled into other shadows. Jim stops. He stares at the unmoving shadows of tall trees. Where the sun invades, they form diagonals. The tall trees stir only at the high top, goaded by a breeze. There is the vague sound of dry rustling. He inhales. He listens. The sweet musty odor of moist wood and greenery—he smells its definite presence. It mixes with the sounds of grass, leaves, moisture, twigs, branches, shadows, stillness. He looks into the greenness ahead until he sees carved green forms within the frieze of green. He stares down at the ground. He moves his foot on the moist and dry leaves. They stir. Then he moves on.
Back up the path. Ready to commit himself to the hunt, he crosses the main concrete road, to a hill. There are two main accesses to its summit, a gradually ascending dirt road, which requires ten minutes' climbing, and a rougher one over rocks and under snagging branches, which takes two minutes. Jim chooses the faster. Perspiration beads his oiled muscles.
12:34 P.M. Griffith Park. The Hill.
On the hill are several choice spots for sunbathing, the best ones for good sexual contact being feet away from branchy hollows of trees.
The first spot. An unattractive loose-fleshed old man lies there naked, his hand on his spent groin. Abandoned and desperate and alone—one of many lingering, ubiquitous, wasted, judging ghosts in the gay world. Jim avoids him.
Another spot. Another naked man—attractive; he looks up at Jim and invites. An older man, fully, hotly dressed, as if to conceal his body among so much nakedness, stares at them over the bushes. Jim darts into a yawning cove of branches. The naked youngman wraps a towel about his waist and follows. In the leafy cave, he pulls Jim's trunks down, then the bikini; Jim removes the other's towel. Cock rubs cock. The other blows Jim, then straightens up. Jim is about to go down on him when he sees the fully dressed man entering the cove. Jim and the other stop their movement, adjust towel and trunks. Long, long moments, and the man won't leave. Annoyed, Jim breaks away.
At the pinnacle of this hill, two men lie in trunks, side by side, holding hands.
Jim walks to the opposite side of the hill. In another place, barely enclosed by low bushes, a boyish youngman spreads his legs, his own fingers exploring his ass invitingly.
Jim moves on until he finds an unoccupied spot. He drinks from the thermos of protein, spreads his beach mat, removes his trunks and bikini, and lies under the sun, the bikini bunched loosely at his groin. The man who earlier intruded on him and the other has followed him here. Jim ignores him. The man moves desolately away.
Eyes closed, Jim hears rustling branches, quickening sighs. Footsteps emerge from the nearby brushy area.
The sun kisses Jim's body; he dozes for moments. The sound of footsteps rouses him. He doesn't open his eyes. The footsteps approach, closer. Closer. His eyes remain deliberately shut. The footsteps have reached his side. Now a hand pushes away the bunched bikini from his groin, a mouth envelops his cock. Still, Jim doesn't open his eyes. The sun, his sweat, the mouth sucking.… Now he eases the mouth away. Footsteps depart. Jim's eyes remain closed.
Moments later he stands, stretches naked—aware electrically of a presence in the immediate area.
In the bushes to his left, a light-haired man is standing under the sun-mottled leaves; he looks very handsome, young—and vaguely familiar.
The youngman motions to Jim. Jim puts on the cutoffs and moves down the path. Now he sees the man clearly. Attractive, yes, but not as desirable as Jim thought at first; he will make it with him, yes, but he's not sure he'll reciprocate, as he thought earlier. The body is perhaps too thin, the face, though young, is already too sexhungry in its gauntness. But the eyes—so blue. Blue. Again, Jim has a sense of passing recognition.
In the hollow alcove, the man kneels before Jim, taking his cock urgently, sucking it almost desperately, face shifting, rimming him, tongue returning hungrily to the balls, cock; gasping, almost in panic. Now the face looks up at Jim; the man implores: “Spit on me! Piss in my mouth!”
Jim looks down at him, at the impossibly blue eyes. Jim shakes his head. No. The man's eyes!
“Please! Treat me as rough as you want! I'll drink your piss, I'll— …!”
Jim retreats from the blue, blue eyes. Adjusting his trunks, he moves out of the hollow. He turns back impulsively. “Is your name— …?”
But the man moves swiftly along the path, in search of someone else.
FLASHBACK: Griffith Park. Ten Years Ago.
A very beautiful youngman, slender, sandy-haired, full lips. It was his first time in the park, he told Jim, who was not nearly as muscular as now, had more of a gymnast's body then. And it was Jim's first season in the park. Before, his primary scene had been as hustler.
They almost didn't make it. Although the youngman was beautiful, Jim thought him too young, perhaps seventeen, maybe even— … And Jim is very seldom attracted to the very young. But the youngman, alternately shy and youthfully aggressive, insisted. Please. They walked down a long path. They lay on the leaves, both reticent—Jim because of his inability to advance first, and, too, because of the other's newness and youth; the other because of inexperience. But they managed. They moved slowly, cautiously, simultaneously—and they kissed; he was one of the very first men Jim had ever kissed. They kissed very, very long. Mostly that. Lying on the green, brown, yellow leaves, they didn't even undress fully. They merely touched each other, gently, as if for the first time, a slow innocence. That was all. And they came pressing against each other. Just that. Jim never forgot the youngman. Nor his blue, blue, impossibly blue, eyes. Nor his name. Danny.
VOICE O
VER: Consenting Adults, Explorer Scout Girls, and Glittering Bisexuals
1
“JUDGMENT AFFIRMED.”
With only two words, the Supreme Court said that homosexuals are not necessarily entitled to the right of privacy ensured by the Constitution. It did so tacitly by allowing to stand, without hearing, a decision of the United States District Court for the Eastern District of Virginia upholding a Virginia statute making homosexual acts between consenting adults, even in private, a crime punishable with up to three years' imprisonment and not less than one. The state has the overriding freedom to promote “morality and decency,” their honors declared, adding, “We cannot say that the statute offends the Bill of Rights.”
The case was brought up by “John Doe” plaintiffs to test a statute declaring anal and oral sex a felony, whether in public or private. Because the statute did not differentiate between heterosexual and homosexual acts, the two-man majority on the Virginia court of three judges—one dissenting—clearly had to skirt the issue of concurrently barring such acts for heterosexuals. This it did gingerly by arguing that in the case of Griswold v. Connecticut (1965), which the plaintiffs had used as their primary basis for argument and in which the Supreme Court struck down a statute forbidding the use of contraceptives, their decision had asserted the right of privacy only in marriage.
So much for that.
Now they could deal with homosexuals: “… since [homosexuality] is obviously no portion of marriage, home or family life,” the majority opinion thus ignored gay fathers, gay mothers, gay children, “the … question is whether there is any ground for barring Virginia from branding it as criminal. If a State determines that punishment therefor, even when committed in the home, is appropriate in the promotion of morality and decency, it is not for the courts to say that the State is not free to do so.… Fundamentally the State action is simply directed to the suppression of crime.…”