The Sexual Outlaw

by John Rechy

  In the corridor again, Jim sees an obvious bodybuilder. The attraction and the competition are instantly stirred. Jim is prepared to ignore the other. But the other pauses. Jim looks back. With a nod, the other invites Jim into his cubicle. Again the door is closed. Flexed muscles press against flexed muscles. Only that. After minutes, they separate as if they must not allow each other too much time.

  Jim goes back to his cubicle. Again he lies on the cot. One, two. A man wants to fuck him. When Jim rejects the advance, the man offers his own ass—but Jim isn't that attracted to him.

  Outside in the corridor a man lying on the floor is getting fucked.

  In the orgy room, the mass has thinned. Jim surrenders for only moments to the hands, limbs, mouths, bodies. Only for moments. Here, it doesn't seem to matter whose cock, whose ass, whose body.

  Back in his cubicle. One, two.

  Only when he left the baths did Jim—outside, alone— realize he hadn't come.

  10:35 P.M. Outside the Tool Bar. The City. The Lot Outside the Turf Bar.

  He parks across the street from one of the costume bars. He sees two figures disappear behind a wall. He moves across the street. No other hunters, not yet. A man offers him a ride, but he's unattractive, and Jim doesn't accept.

  He returns to his car. One of the two men he saw leans against a van in a lot. Moments later, he's blowing Jim-only for a few strokes, that's all Jim needed to fill this fraction of time. Pretending to hear a noise, he pulls away from the man. “You want to go to my place? I'll be your slave,” the man says breathlessly.

  His words stir the earlier festering memory of the man he went home with earlier. Jim drives away. Again, the memory of the brown-haired youngman he was with when the cops raided the park pursues him. Is he in jail right now?

  Restlessly, he drives from place to place in the vast city, merely moving in his car, not getting out now, as if to feel the energy, all of it, his, the night's, the city's, to grasp it all, as if the city and night themselves are throbbing sexually with him. He feels a giant longing without object.

  As he drives up to the lot outside the Turf Bar, he sees two gay men in cop costumes, goggles gleaming, handcuffs dangling, bully sticks protruding. Both men are heavy, slightly drunk. At the corner, one stands stiffly in a military posture and, boots clicking, salutes the other.

  VOICE OVER: S & M vs. “S & M”

  SOME TIME PRIOR to April 10, 1976, a number of Los Angeles police were involved in a secret mission of major priority. They were on their way to Universal Studios. They might even have to stop off at Columbia Studios and the Western Costume Company. Through those facilities they would obtain important crime-fighting equipment, including: “4 bleached Levi's—tight-fitting; 4 bandanas, 2 red, 2 blue” also, “boots, rough, dirty … [a] motorcycle hat; studded Levi's, jacket.”

  Somewhere else in the cool city of angels, a police officer planning his small—but important—aspect of the operation was doodling nervously on a sheet of paper containing names and telephone numbers of organizations the IRS might have information on and that the suspects might contact as a result of the surveillance involved or of the operation itself. He drew an open-ended parallelogram, another, another, eight such, each straining to become what it finally did only on the ninth doodle: A box!—hesitant, yes, but nonetheless distinctly a box. Now having committed himself, he drew—under the trembling series—an assertive, fully erect version of the same troubling box.

  Elsewhere in the city that seems to float on flowers, for four grueling days four officers, specialists in their fields, were being “briefed and schooled … as necessary” on details including “proper attire to be made with help of Universal Studios.”

  Still elsewhere in the vast city that stretches palmtreed to the lapping ocean, a surveillance team was trailing the main suspects. The surveying officers had become quite familiar with their quarries, they had been watching them intently for weeks and weeks. They even knew—and recorded—how many pieces of mail were received in a day by one of the suspects, and from whom.

  Certainly they must have felt a certain wistfulness, these surveying officers, as they began their final observations before the operation would swing into reality. Is it unfair to imagine that there was no total lack of fondness as they recorded—on videotape and in penciled entries—the last crucial moments of the suspects’ activities before it would all end? Is it unfair to assume that they did not resist at least one final look, an emotional tug, a pinprick of regret? How else to account for the loving intimacy of those final entries? At “2030” (8:30 P.M.) one of the suspects “carryed [sic] lumber out of location,” while another suspect “unlocked van rear door, removed lumber—layed [sic] on fence.”

  It would all be worth it—the weeks plotting careful strategy, fretting, yes, fretting that something—oh, anything—might go wrong. It would be worth it, who could doubt it? Particularly dear to Los Angeles police (behind it all the way, sir), the operation was one of those that elicit personal commitment and enthusiasm. Chins-up team pride.

  Although officially (because how can the public be expected to understand these things?) the police would claim that the operation involved only 60 brave officers, subsequent discoveries would point out that the brave 60 had actually been 103.

  But what of it? It was The Mission that counted. No expense to the City of Los Angeles—anywhere from $150,000 to $500,000, it would later be estimated-was too great. There were the salaries of the officers, the expense of setting up several command posts, the cost of deploying “3 … cars for quick response” and “7 more … at CP [Command Post] 2.” There would have to be a video van, telephones and radios for flashing communiques as the battle progressed. There would be “chase units” for those attempting to escape. And buses. There would be a mobile lighting unit to rival those used for filming Police Story on location (because goddammit this was the real thing), a “small truck for evidence … cartography for scene diagrams,” and police “secret service money.” And helicopters!

  No, no expense must be spared. The operation was of major importance. So much relied on it. So much at stake for the chief.

  It is almost Target Hour!

  But wait, a tense moment occurs at 2105 hours! “Hi Point reports one body transmitter on operator defective, will attempt repairs before entry,” the police log notes nervously. But at 2115: “Scout 1 reports alternate body transmitter available, will switch and test.”

  And so at 2355 on April 10, 1976, a Saturday, dozens and dozens of police set into operation their Mission Impossible.

  They raided a gay bathhouse.

  Almost at the exact time, nearby, a murder and a rape occurred.

  But on The Front things were dandy. Several officers were already inside the raided bathhouse. Six other cops arrived by the driveway, six others climbed a fence to the rear patio from the east, six more from the south, and sixteen entered through the side entrance. Inside, plainclothesmen were already signaling to arresting cops “who has done what to whom,” as the plan worded it; that was their mission—along with, as the same plan phrased it, looking for “exposed genitals.”

  True, it was not just any gay bathhouse they had raided. It was a strange one. Along with small cubicles there was a make-believe jail dungeon for rent; it had bars, chains on the walls. Also for rent were harnesses, handcuffs, paddles.

  For at least two months the cops had known that the so-called “leather fraternity”—a loose, unorganized group of gay men having a common interest in leather and “masculine” costumes—was going to hold a mock slave auction at the well-known bathhouse. Cop surveillance was doubly absurd in view of the fact that the information they spent thousands of dollars and hundreds of manpower hours to gather was accessible to anyone who read the gay magazine sponsoring the affair; an advertisement had appeared in the magazine asking that those who wanted to attend the bizarre function send in $5.00 to receive an “invitation.” In its latest issue, the magazine even previewed th
e affair. Weird as it was, the mock slave auction was not secret—and it was totally consensual.

  By most accounts, the auction quickly headed toward becoming a flop. Police logs reveal that by 10:20 P.M. people had begun to leave—at least 18 out of the 135 to 180 there (including how many undercover cops?). For one thing, there simply were not enough “slaves”—perhaps only four. One invited youngman was asked to be a “slave.” It was explained to him, as it had been to all the others, that he would “belong” for twenty-four hours to whatever “master” bought him, that he would not be forced to do anything—would not, in fact, have to go with the “master” unless he wanted to—that it would all be largely pretending, and that whatever he was bid for would be given to the gay charity of his choice. (The irony in that was not perceived.) Finally, the organizers had to make do with only seven slaves, kept in a “cell row” until each would be paraded onto the platform in the patio.

  After a dance contest dutifully recorded in the police log, the auction began. Despite the carnival hype of two “masters” conducting it, the thing kept pulling toward farce. Too loose, the shackles on a “slave” slipped off and he almost fell, helped solicitously by a “master” or two. Told by his “master” that he would be taken to a cell and chained, one “slave” said testily, “No, I want to stay right here and watch the rest of the auction!” “Okay,” said the chastised “master.”

  Still, they tried to keep it going, the strutting auctioneers puffily vaunting each handcuffed-slave's capacity for pain. One or two of the “slaves” were nude, one wore a leather mask, some wore cockrings. While the “slave” mimed enormous pain and pretended to resist, testicles were squeezed by some of the posturing “masters,” buttocks spread, fondled. One “slave” was briefly turned upside down. Nipples and cocks were pinched with plastic clamps.

  It was very ugly theater of pain, ugly charade, like most gay S & M.

  Then the courtyard lit up angrily, a helicopter washed it in dirty light. “EVERYBODY FREEZE! THIS IS THE LOS ANGELES POLICE!”

  Thus, that April 10, 1976, at “2355 hours,” two reactionary forces collided in a battle of dizzying ironies and tumbling realities. Los Angeles cops attacked the gay “leather fraternity.” A clear vendetta—at the city's groan-ing expense—it was one of the most wasteful, reckless, needless, silly police raids in a long history of wasteful, reckless, needless, silly police raids.

  Why the leather faction?

  With its strange paraphernalia and chains, sinister props and costumes, it is clearly the most vulnerable and potentially embarrassing within the gay world. In television closeup, it would be captured in one of its ugliest moments. No matter that the leather faction was a minuscule segment, it would be depicted as representative of the homosexual world The fantasy auction would be flushed into home screens as real. This would counter gay gains, demands that homosexuals be employed as cops, and pressure that harassment stop. "These are the people demanding acceptance!” the bizarre newsclips would proclaim.

  Within the lighted circle of the hovering helicopter, cops poured into the bathhouse and arrested 39 men and 1 woman, the latter one of the organizers; an enigmatic presence among all the costumed men. (According to the police log, at least one courageous officer was wounded in the Battle of the Bathhouse: “hit in the mouth by an unknown male who was running past him … feels the blow was struck unintentionally … lost one tooth.”)

  The arrested men were paraded before representatives of the District and City attorneys offices (who had approved the raid beforehand) and—important to the police design, indeed essential—before television cameras alerted carefully in advance to create the desired circus. One of the “slaves” was brought out to be photographed semi-nude— and then returned inside to put his clothes on. The camera eye glared at confiscated “toys,” S & M props for make-believe pain. A commercial photographer “just happened” to arrive in time to record the police version of the bust; he was therefore able to sell footage of the event to stations that did not have cameras there.

  Headlines and news stories across the country proclaimed the cop-rehearsed version of a real, sinister ring of gay slavemasters. Newsweek gloated with photographs and text. (In notable contrast, the Los Angeles Times—which has in recent years become exemplary of enlightened coverage concerning gay affairs and problems—treated the matter with unsensational straightforwardness, its letters column underscoring the arrogant waste of funds and manpower in such a police action.)

  It was with the arrival of the police at the bathhouse that real S & M began. The arrested men were handcuffed tightly—some complained futilely of blocked circulation. They were pushed contemptuously into buses, they were shoved, some knocked to the ground. They were taunted by the cops: “Goddam fuckin animals.” “Bastards.” “Queers.” The arrested men had been drinking beer heavily, but hours later they were still not allowed to go to the toilet. Some had to urinate in the bus, others at the processing station. Inflamed wrists were ignored by the cops. Despite the fact that no one was forced to attend the auction or participate in any way—and there were no minors—the 40 were booked on the serious felony of “involuntary servitude,” a charge unused for years and originally aimed at pimps.

  Now in real jail cells, the arrested men felt a closeness that the staged charade of “master” and “slave” had implicitly violated. Experiencing a genuine sense of fraternity, most agreed to stay until all of their number would be released Some slept together in jail bunks. They embraced, kissed Their morale rose on learning that at least 100 gays were demonstrating outside on their behalf and that support, even from the straight community, was mounting—but that morale fell crashing when they heard of hysterical media reports being spread across the entire country claiming that the cops had freed gay slaves, that school books had been found on the bathhouse premises-outrageous and untrue lies, all adhering to the police objective of depicting the charade auction as real.

  Although every other detail of the bust had been carefully planned for weeks and weeks to culminate in this television “spectacular,” a sudden failure in the workings of a police computer was blamed for the fact that the defendants’ names were not correctly recorded. Thus, even those who had been quickly bailed out, were forced to remain imprisoned—some until as late as Monday.

  The day after the raid, police broke into the homes of the organizers of the auction, leaving upturned laundry and waste baskets, gutted drawers, as their calling cards.

  In the following days, the cops cynically claimed they had thought the gay community would thank them for freeing their own slaves. On television a cop held up a pair of confiscated gay handcuffs as if they were objects totally foreign to his own profession—and not one of its main props. Forgetting all the bashed skulls, crushed groins, iron-squeezed wrists, another would claim that the mock slave auction was the most pitiful thing he had ever witnessed. It was all a pose filled with contempt and hypocrisy. In view of their constant harassment of gays and their apathy in responding to calls for help during truly sadistic attacks by gay-haters—the cops’ cousins—obviously no concern for homosexual dignity had motivated the massive attack. The cops themselves had encouraged the auction by buying several tickets in advance and even purchasing a slave. (Apparently they quickly got into the swing of it: The police log indicates that undercover police would “attempt to buy another [slave]—first buy bad.”)

  The public was cynically being asked to believe that the private auction so outraged the cops, aroused such human pity in them, that they carried out into life-smashing reality the fantasy of pain.

  But the cops miscalculated. The raid backfired. Feeling even more unsafe within their homes and on the jungle streets because of depleted police power, the straight community vented, in letters and loud public utterances, their outrage that so much of their money had been drained on a matter of no concern to them or to the police. The ACLU announced its support of the gay defendants. A California senator sent $600 for their
defense. With the backing of councilmen, assemblymen, supervisors, and other legislators, demands were strong for a grand jury investigation into police conduct, their silly priorities at the expense of curbing real crime, the amount of money used in the raid, the number of personnel diverted, the high crime statistics for that night. Feeling the onslaught, the police, the district attorney, and the city attorney began to point accusing fingers at each other.

  But no investigation would be conducted into the misuse of funds. Supposedly because of “pending litigation,” the key police witness in the matter was instructed by the district attorney not to testify before the Governmental Efficiency Committee.

  On the gay front, homosexuals rallied in support of the arrested. No matter, for now, that one objected to the implications of the auction—that was for later important exploration—now was the time for solidarity.

  Unfortunately, the most visible support took a dizzy turn. Instead of an elegant rally provoking true gay pride, a new “slave auction”—a parody of the earlier charade-would be held to raise money for the defense of the 40. Before 600 people, gay leaders—several of whom had long fought bravely and with dignity for the cause of gay freedom—posed on a stage as “slaves” and were “sold” to the highest bidder. A well-known minister, auctioned, proceeded coyly to do a mini-strip, removing his jacket, tie, opening his shirt. Another gay reverend offered “absolution when it's all over.” Part of the auction was conducted by a woman ridiculous in male leather pants. Further attesting to the interchangeability of roles—that the “master” in gay S & M is a closet “slave”—one man auctioned himself off as a “master”! The second auction unhappily converted other gays into seeming camp followers of the S & M faction.

  In a move reminiscent of a scene from Kubrick's Paths of Glory, in which an insane general is assuaged in his intent to court-martial and execute 100 men by being offered 3 instead, the District Attorney attempted to placate both cops and homosexuals by dismissing felony charges against 36 of those arrested; but, exhibiting the idiotic “logic” that only the law can tolerate, he charged the two sponsors of the auction and the two who had acted as auctioneers, with the afterthought felony-charge of pandering—the original charge of involuntary servitude being even more clearly indefensible. Against the 36 others, all charges were eventually dropped. And so the City of Los Angeles had been robbed of more than one hundred thousand dollars to bust a gay bathhouse on hoax charges.