Numbers

by John Rechy

  Emboldened by Johnny’s gesture, the man drops his hand quickly into the empty seat, his fingers reaching out to brush Johnny’s thigh.

  Deliberately looking tough, Johnny turns to face the man in a manner designed to throw him into a further quandary—looking at him with contempt—a warning not to proceed any further. The man draws his hand away, gets up to leave.

  And Johnny lets his hand drop openly between his own legs.

  The man sits down again, just as Johnny knew he would; sits this time immediately next to Johnny, who has removed his hand from his lap and leans back arching his body.

  Acting quickly—perhaps apprehensive that Johnny’s erratic mood will change again—the man lets his hand glide over the armrest, over Johnny’s thigh. The game he’s playing is arousing Johnny, and this shows through his pants. The man’s fingers hover anxiously over Johnny’s groin; now they barely brush his hardening prick, lightly. Since Johnny hasn’t moved, they explore more openly.

  Moving his jacket so it extends over Johnny’s lap in order to hide his own motions from the penetrating eyes focused on them like radar, the man begins to unbutton Johnny’s fly. Apparently expecting to have to work through shorts, he’s evidently surprised (he starts) to encounter bare skin immediately as he explores inside Johnny’s fly. His hand encircling Johnny’s hardening prick, he draws it out; his hand slides up and down on the now-stiff cock, jerking it under the jacket.

  Unexpectedly, Johnny twists his body away. Abruptly, he pushes his prick back into his pants, buttoning up as hurriedly as he can—with some effort because of the bulge. Suddenly he stands up. The man has withdrawn his hand in almost-fear. Is Johnny going to hit him? Maybe he’s a decoy. The man sits there rigidly. And this is what Johnny does:

  Moving out—but his body facing the man—he pauses in front of him so that the man’s face is only inches from Johnny’s crotch. In one rash moment—which is what Johnny counted on—the man pushes his head forward, his mouth on the bulge showing through Johnny’s pants—this time ignoring the certainly staring eyes. Johnny feels the promise of bursting pleasure as the man’s mouth tries vainly to suck him through the cloth of his pants.

  As suddenly as he stood up, Johnny moves away—but only into the aisle, waiting there. The man gets up, moves down the stairs, expecting that Johnny will follow him to the restroom, where they can finish the act implied.

  Instead—though he doesn’t know why—Johnny walks up, deeper into the roiling dark. Still in the aisle, he waits for his eyes to adjust to the denser black. Soon, faces begin to bob out of the darkness like objects rising to the surface of the sea. There are perhaps two dozen people, or more, scattered about the last few rows of this side of the balcony. It’s Saturday, predictably it’s crowded with sex-hunters. The atmosphere of sex is as thick as the dark. Like gray moons, faces turn toward Johnny, who can see perfectly even here—and so, importantly, he can be seen perfectly. In the eye of the darkness, the darkness doesn’t exist.

  To the side of the second-to-the-last row, there’s a stretch of about five empty seats. Johnny sits there. He wants them to come to him.

  Now as he walked along this row, he noticed a youngman lean forward toward him from the last row, inviting him to sit next to him; and he’s still straining to look at him. Johnny glances up at him, then turns away, looking down at his own groin.

  Instantly, the youngman climbs over the back of the seat. Already his hand is on the armrest next to Johnny; already his fingers extend over the edge. Even in this light his faun eyes reveal his infatuation with Johnny. Somewhat thin, he’s in his early 20’s.

  Not even going through the preliminary movement of allowing his hand to float over Johnny’s thigh preparatory to letting it descend—quite openly, hurriedly, frantically, as if Johnny will get away from him, he touches Johnny’s cock, which is still semihard. Oblivious of everyone else, he struggles with the buttons on Johnny’s pants. The more frantic he becomes, the more the buttons resist.

  Johnny won’t help, his hands at the back of his own head—to make sure that those certainly looking on know that he isn’t touching the other; that it’s the other who desires him. Glancing behind him, he sees several men staring down hungrily from the upper row, mouths open as if vicariously preparing to experience what they know the youngman wants to do with Johnny. This multiplying of desire augments Johnny’s craving ferociously.

  Having succeeded in opening his fly, the youngman fondles Johnny’s balls and then takes the stiffening cock out. In one sudden unexpected downward thrust of his head—rashly ignoring any possible danger of hostile eyes—he swallows Johnny’s prick to the very rim of his balls. Johnny feels a fierce, shooting, incredible pleasure as his cock swells in the moist mouth; feels that miraculous pull of the body as if his whole being is draining to the tip of the sexual organ—as the youngman assumes a perfect rhythm, up and down, in the sliding movements.

  But even as he feels these exciting sensations, Johnny is searching the row above—this time not for the eyes that will multiply his pleasure—but:

  Because—bewilderingly—he’s suddenly anxious, inexplicably anxious, for this youngman to move on—and for someone else to take his place!

  He withdraws his cock from the youngman’s mouth.

  The youngman remains bent over him. “Don’t you wanna come?” he whispers.

  “No, man, no, I can’t. Cool it,” Johnny whispers back.

  “I’ll wait, I’ll make you come,” the youngman pleads.

  Johnny doesn’t want to hurt him. How can he explain that all at once, in a way that confuses him too, he needs someone else? “No,” Johnny says, “I just don’t want to come.”

  “Please,” the youngman begs—so urgently that Johnny opens his legs as a signal that he’ll let him.

  The youngman’s mouth pounces as if starved—sucking him expertly. He knows how to keep Johnny exactly at the very edge of release without carrying him over: contracting the muscles of his throat, relaxing them to reduce the pressure just enough to stem the tide, knowing uncannily when he can thrust down again, stopping just in time.

  Johnny’s whole body seems to be flooding to that one area of feeling. Even cramped as he is, he can ride to release in a moment. Now the youngman wants to prolong it. But Johnny brings both his hands over the other’s head. His body contracting, his cock pushed all the way inside the other’s mouth, Johnny comes in an exploding spurt, another, another, sailing to another, while the youngman drains his cum.

  Through, Johnny’s body relaxes in the seat; but even now the youngman won’t unglue his mouth from his prick, which begins to grow soft inside the warm mouth. Despite the discharge, Johnny feels a lingering pleasure. Finally he withdraws his cock with his hand. The youngman sits up—still obviously hungry, still wanting him.

  Others here have witnessed this scene—a scene not rare but not common even in such a balcony, where the groping is usually done as an end in itself or as an invitation for completion in the restroom. Now, as if Johnny’s sexual release has made them restless, there’s a silent moving among those others—as if they’re playing a game of musical chairs without music. They move in the smoky darkness as if in a dream. The imitation of a dream.

  The youngman next to Johnny still hasn’t moved. Johnny turns his body away, tries to concentrate on the movie.

  Minutes pass.

  Suddenly he realizes with a fusion of excitement and apprehension that he’s far from satisfied. The youngman next to him would be only too glad to repeat the act—already he’s reached out tentatively twice to see if Johnny will respond again; but Johnny doesn’t want the same person. He wants—needs—someone else.

  Perhaps an hour passes. The youngman has given up—finally has moved dejectedly out of the balcony. Several others have sat next to Johnny. But for one reason or another, he didn’t encourage them, and they moved away. Although he still needs someone else—yes, very much—he’s being particular.

  He’s tempted to explore
the other side of the balcony—partly blocked by the projection room; but he knows instinctively that those who come together for a mutual purpose congregate in one area. So he remains where he is, alternately wishing that this flaring sexual excitement would abate, alternately glad it doesn’t.

  Sitting there waiting, he feels—he knows he is—more desirable than ever.

  And he feels alive.

  Intermission.

  Warm yellow lights melt the cold darkness. The surreptitious movements stop.

  Johnny is aware of eyes focusing on him anew—to see him better in this light. There’s no doubt he’s the central point of attention. Fresh desirable bait among the fish circling the dark sea hungrily. Johnny stretches his body.

  A handsome dark-haired youngman is coming up the steps, slowly as if, like Johnny earlier, he wants to exhibit himself. Seeing him, Johnny feels his heart sink as if into a frozen lake: The thought that at least some of those who wanted him—even one of them—may—just possibly may—now prefer this youngman frightens him (although he’s of course convinced that he, Johnny, is much better looking, much, much more desirable). One rejection—real or imaginary—can slaughter Johnny Rio, even among 100 successes. If he can lure that dark-haired youngman to sit next to him, to come to him on his—Johnny’s—terms, then—. . . As before, he sprawls invitingly, convinced that this youngman won’t be able to resist him—if he’s come to join the hunt.

  The dark-haired youngman sits in line with Johnny, yes—but on the opposite end, many seats and an aisle between them—in a section of the balcony where, for now at least, he’s alone. Again like Johnny, he seems to expect others to come to him. Maybe their scenes are the same.

  The lights off, the theater is again a cavern of dark.

  Someone is moving down from the upper row. Will he sit next to me or next to him? Johnny wonders anxiously. Neither. The man walks downstairs. No test.

  Then Johnny sees the thin youngman who sucked him off earlier returning to the balcony. Ineluctably, he moves toward the dark-haired youngman and sits next to him.

  Motherfucker, Johnny thinks. Cocksucking motherfucker! He feels depressed, rejected—although he’s already explaining defensively to himself: After all, he did want to come on with me again, and I didn’t let him; if I had encouraged him, he’d still prefer me.

  But the doubt festers. Instead of his earlier triumphs, this possible rejection dominates his thoughts. Son of a bitch, he keeps thinking, that son of a bitch preferred that other guy to me—but maybe he didn’t see me this time, didn’t expect me still to be here; yes, that’s it! He locks the thought in his mind—tightly. That’s it!

  He decides to try this—although he knows that, if it doesn’t work, depression will crush him: He slides down the back of the seat in front and sits on a lower row, where the thin youngman (and the dark-haired one, too—but Johnny is convinced he wants someone to come on with him) will be able to see him clearly. Johnny places his hand between his legs and lightly outlines the bulge there—in this way announcing to the thin youngman that he’s ready again.

  And why is he doing this if he doesn’t want that same youngman?—if he needs someone else?

  Because, Johnny would answer, he just has to prefer me!

  And what he did worked. The thin youngman has left the other one and is once again sitting next to Johnny. Johnny lets him touch his cock again; but when the youngman tries to take it out, Johnny twists his body, having—yes, cruelly—established all he needed to know—that he was preferred over the other. In a quandary the thin youngman disappears out of the balcony once more, perhaps still expecting Johnny, or even the other youngman, to follow him to the restroom.

  Instead, the dark-haired youngman moves across the aisle, nearer to Johnny but still on the upper row. He leans forward, obviously staring at Johnny, who is now sure of the other’s interest. He’s coming to me, Johnny thinks triumphantly.

  But this happens: Another man has moved up the stairs and stands in the aisle as if choosing whom to sit next to. Before he decides, the dark-haired youngman slips over the seat in front and sits only three places away from Johnny. The other man moves into the same row, however—which is perhaps what the dark-haired youngman was trying to thwart—and sits exactly between Johnny and the other youngman. He can, therefore, be after either. For now, however, it’s a draw. Again, although Johnny doesn’t need that man, he does need to know the man wants him more than he wants the other youngman. Actually, of course, Johnny would prefer the handsome dark-haired youngman to come on with him—only because (he would explain quickly), being goodlooking and desirable, he’d be much more of a conquest, especially since others evidently want him on the same terms Johnny needs to be wanted—onesidedly. So Johnny once again invites by cupping his own groin. The man in the middle is looking at him with unmistakable interest.

  If I want him, he’s mine! Johnny thinks.

  Suddenly the dark-haired youngman gets up, passes the man in the middle, passes Johnny, and sits next to him on the other side. Johnny has won. The two flank him; and then another man sits on the seat in front, where Johnny’s feet are propped so that they straddle that man’s shoulders, his head leaning back toward Johnny’s crotch.

  Johnny’s conquest is complete.

  Unexpectedly, causing Johnny’s feeling of triumph to crumble, the dark-haired youngman thrusts his leg intimately against Johnny’s.

  Christ, Johnny thinks, he wants me to come on with him, too—mutually; he thinks I dig him too!

  The thought disturbs him so sharply that he gets up hurriedly, walks down the stairs, leaves the balcony, goes to the lounge, into the restroom.

  No one here. Johnny stands pissing. Though angry, he still needs someone else.

  Footsteps. It’s the dark-haired youngman. In a panic that he’ll indicate once again that he thinks Johnny desires him back, Johnny is about to button his fly and walk out, when the youngman says, “Let me blow you.”

  The panic stifled immediately by that expression of one-way desire, Johnny remains standing before the urinal, his cock out. My terms!

  The youngman kneels before him and sucks him. But he does it badly, merely slides his mouth back and forth on the tip of Johnny’s cock. Obviously inexperienced, he’s probably used to being the one standing. It will take a long time this way, others will certainly be coming downstairs—and Johnny is anxious to come again to still the fever. So he reaches for his own cock and jerks it in the youngman’s mouth.

  “Let me know when you’re ready!” the youngman says excitedly; and he licks Johnny’s balls.

  “Now!” Johnny gasps. But the cum is already shooting out, the white liquid drips on the youngman’s cheek, which he quickly wipes with his own hand, using that hand to jerk himself off.

  As Johnny walks out, the two other men who sat near them moments ago are moving hurriedly toward the restroom.

  Johnny rushes past them, out of the theater, into the night’s shroud of fog and smoke.

  SIX

  THREE.

  Johnny has just awakened. Still drowsy from the iron-heavy sleep, his mind said: “Three.”

  Three what?

  He lies in bed naked with a hard-on. Since his midteens he’s slept stripped. In warm weather, he doesn’t even cover himself with a sheet, loving the sensuality of his nudity. He loves to wake in the morning to the sight of his body—so dark in summer on the white sheet.

  The blinds closed only partly, the room is suffused in that golden light which magically brings out all colors as if they’re on fire in their respective hues.

  Three. . . .

  Right on the threshold of recognizing its significance, his mind repeats the number insistently.

  The drowsiness is melting slowly. Johnny’s head is propped on his hands. He’s staring down pleasurably at his body. In that yellowish light it glows like warm copper; the narrow strip sheltered from the sun by the trunks is now exposed stark white. The hair about his crotch looks darker than it is
, in contrast to the sun-bleached hairs on the rest of his body. Johnny is fiercely aware of his body as he wakes.

  Three?

  Three!

  It slips into his consciousness.

  Three people.

  I was in that movie about four hours, and three people came on with me, and many others wanted to, and two sucked me, and another tried to, and I came two times! He thinks that victoriously.

  Now two things have changed for Johnny from the earlier time he lived here: Last night he didn’t make himself available to men for money only—no, he went to that theater balcony for the experiences themselves. And: When he was “strictly a hustler,” Johnny made it with those who paid him what he asked for—middle-aged men, young ones, it didn’t really matter as long as they didn’t absolutely turn him off; he hardly looked at them. Last night, however, with no intention of asking for money, he became much more selective. Several of those who obviously wanted him, he turned down. It amounted to this: Without himself desiring back (no, not at all, Johnny is quick to emphasize), he chose to be desired by the most attractive only—and Johnny has, of course, always been able to gauge another man’s desirability, although the Myth of the Streets says otherwise.

  Feeling a squeezing violence after he left the theater last night, he came straight to the motel, took a sleeping pill, and sank into dark sleep.

  Now he feels the same fierce sexual excitement of last night, a continuation, as if sleep merely interrupted the sensation but didn’t calm it.

  To still it now, he jumps up from the bed quickly.

  He has inserted in the high door sill between the bedroom and the small dressing room the portable chinning bar he brought with him (along with cables and iron exercise-shoes): to work out regularly while he’s here; for exercise is such a beloved ritual he wouldn’t think of laying off even for the ten days he’ll be here—or going to a gym where others might distract him.