The Coming of the Night

by John Rechy

  The French Quarter Cafe had an outdoor section under a colorful awning, red, white, blue. Gay men assembled there, to eat and comment on the men passing by. Jesse had made some good contacts here. Today he sat in the outdoor part—wide awning flapping but holding off the wind—and watched the parade of men. He hoped none of the people he knew would come by to interrupt his special day.

  God, there were a lot of beautiful gay men, and they weren't reticent to be sexy and show it off! Watch that guy across the street! He looked almost naked, chest bare, fingers looped over his low jeans, no belt, top button open. Jesse enjoyed “collecting” in his mind sexy types he would like to make it with, hunky guys not near enough to cruise when he saw them, or unavailable, at the time, like with someone else.

  Maybe he'd never go with only one guy again, he thought, shifting his eyes to the array of men in the restaurant, and then again, alternating, to others walking by, many in shorts, a lot without shirts—and not just because of the increasing windy heat, but because they were aware of looking great in tight jeans, sculpted muscle shirts, tailored Western garb—so many men, so little time. Still, being a long way from thirty, he estimated he could have thousands of encounters.

  Smiling at several of the lusty men who had looked at him—you never knew who you'd meet later, when you were ready—he paid and left the restaurant.

  On the street now, an old man passed by, paused, looked him up and down, and stopped. Ugh! Jesse discarded him with a look of disgust. He felt insulted when old guys thought they had a chance with him. One old guy had offered him money. Well, he wasn't a whore like those guys down the Boulevard. Why did people let themselves grow old? He sure wouldn't.

  Watch. Those two hunky guys approaching him would turn around and look at him. They did. Great! Often, timing went off, like a clumsy dance. You'd look back at someone after they'd already looked back at you. Missed connections. Jesse shrugged, but smiled, at the two guys to indicate that nothing was going to happen now—but maybe later, another time?

  It was a wonder that gay men connected so often, with all the considerations involved in cruising—like who looked first, who spoke first, who claimed to do what in bed and was it what the other wanted. The last wasn't a problem since most gay men, whatever they claimed, were “flexible.” Not Jesse. He liked to suck, sure—who didn't?—and no one complained when he did, but what he loved most was getting fucked. Bottoms, that's what they called guys who liked what he did, Jesse knew. Fine! He was a proud bottom.

  He felt in absolute control over so-called “tops.” He went crazy when a stud rimmed him before fucking him, and he manipulated his ass to make sure the tongue went in. When he had a guy's dick in his ass, he drove him wild. He contracted, released the cock for a moment, squeezing tighter, holding it locked. When a guy claimed he didn't want to come, that challenged him. Before the guy knew it, he'd be shooting loads of hot cum into his ass. Very often he ended up on top, sitting on a guy's cock, controlling the strokes exactly like he wanted them.

  So who was in charge?

  Ugh. Some drag queens, or transsexuals—you couldn't really tell anymore what they were—walked by. Why didn't they stay on their part of Santa Monica Boulevard, farther east, where they hung around along with the male hustlers—some of whom were hot-looking, but fuck ‘em, who needed to pay? One of the two queens, black, looked like a giant, in a green dress slit in front. The other, white, was wearing a huge wig—so stiff with spray that every hair resisted the wind—and a skirt that came just above what would have been her cunt. Was it a cunt already? Jesse wondered. Queens gave everyone a bad name. During the gay parade, they turned up full force, fluttering feathers, posing, blowing kisses. Ugh.

  Why would a man want to be effeminate? Jesse couldn't imagine wanting to be a woman. Gay men desired other gay men. He walked past the queens, ignoring them. He returned his attention to the men roaming the streets, some not fully committed to cruising yet—but wasn't everyone cruising all the time?

  Wild! That guy over there on the corner—Jesse collected him in his mind for a future time. The guy was wearing sweats, but he'd rolled them over his waist a turn or two so you could see a couple of inches of flesh, slim waist, between them and his sleeveless T-shirt. Gay people today sure knew how to turn everything lusty.

  Of course, there were some straight people in West Hollywood, a lot of old Jewish people who didn't even seem to see the gay men, or didn't care that they were gay. Not too many lesbians on the streets—they didn't cruise the way gay men did. They had their bars, of course. Most of them coupled.

  What would it be like to have only one person? Awful. He had been with guys who intimated the possibility of a “longer connection.” He dissuaded them. If someone was real good sex, he'd see them again, sure—but not when they started talking about being “faithful.” Who'd want to be “faithful” for longer than a day? Yet you constantly heard guys in bars talking about their lovers and claiming they were there only to have a drink, because their lovers were out of town, as if having a lover was the greatest thing in the world. Not for him, thanks.

  Wow, was he collecting admiring glances. And look at that hot guy jumping out of his convertible to go into the cleaners—in beach trunks, and nothing else, legs and chest just hairy enough, great tan. The Sant'Ana was sure heating up everyone. It was wild just to walk the streets. Jesse collected more candidates for future times, a man across the street, wearing a white tank top ripped exactly so that his nipples were exposed, and nearby, a great-looking guy in jeans with a large tear on one side so you could see most of his muscular thighs—and, great display, walking along the block without a shirt, a guy in sweats washed and chafed so often that the now-gauzy cloth exhibited a full silhouette of his lower body, the outline of full genitals. Hot!

  The day augured super for this special night, for what he saw now—right now—as the real beginning of his life.

  Buzz, Toro, Linda, Boo, and Fredo

  AFTERNOON

  The Chevy convertible cruised along Valley streets, messy coffee-shops, mini-malls, ugly old buildings, ugly new buildings, as Toro's favorite Judas Priest album blasted the same songs over and over—Toro yelling out their titles—“The Rage!’” “'Rapid Fire!'”—so that they all had to shout to be heard over the tape and the wind.

  Buzz saw Linda touch the edge of her skirt. Again! Hiding what? Making sure what was there? Holding some shit of her own? He'd wait for the right time to find out what the bitch was up to.

  They passed a blond young man in a Firebird. Toro slowed down, parallel with him. The man in the Firebird looked over.

  Buzz stood up in the back of the convertible, the wind forcing him to hold on to the side of the car. “Hey, fag, you wanna blow me?” He clutched his groin.

  The blond young man flicked him a finger, and shouted back, “Go blow your mammas, motherfuckers!”—and sped off through a yellow light.

  “You gonna let ‘im get away with that?” Buzz goaded Toro.

  Toro's Chevy ran the red light, halting cars at the intersection. “I don't let no one get away with nothin’, man!”

  Unless you don't know about it, Buzz wanted to say, but only smiled at Fredo and Boo, both standing up with him in the back of the convertible.

  The Firebird swerved onto the freeway at the very last moment. Toro tried to back up, but he almost crashed into the car behind and had to brake. He greeted the blaring honks with stabs of his upraised finger.

  Boo was laughing, a harsh laughter. “That faggot left us way behind, man.”

  “Fuckin’ fag did it to us, man,” Fredo joined.

  “We'll have to make up for that,” Buzz said. “Right, Toro? Have to show what bad motherfuckers we are, right?”

  “Yeah,” Toro said.

  They all felt the defeat, anger—and he was prepared to contribute to the tension, and even the wind and the heat were adding more. Great night comin’, Buzz thought.

  They neared Hollywood, where Cahuenga leaps into
Hollywood Boulevard.

  “Hey, Linda, what you keep rubbin’ your leg for?” Buzz decided to let her know he'd seen her sneaky actions.

  “I'm wearing your mamma's panties,” Linda said, “and they're too big, keep slipping.”

  “Oh, yeah? Well—” Buzz couldn't think of anything more to say now, but he would, he would.

  “Why don't you take ‘em off, Linda?” Boo offered.

  “Cause you'd be sniffing ‘em,” Linda said.

  “Give ‘em to him, man,” Fredo challenged.

  Buzz studied Toro for a reaction. Nothing.

  Then, “Why do you keep rubbing your leg?” Toro asked Linda. “You got an itch down there you haven't told me about?”

  Buzz leaned over and padded Toro on the back. All right! So Toro was with them, he evaluated. He believed them about last night. Pretty soon, he bet, Toro would frisk the bitch. They would frisk her—good and rough—to see what she was hiding. So obvious about it, too, the stupid bitch. Did she think they were dumb?

  Linda sheltered her hair from the grasping wind. She threw her head back and laughed.

  Father Norris

  AFTERNOON

  From the chapel, he walked to the rectory. The beata who worked on the premises—a Mexican woman who devoted her whole life to ministering to priests—bowed before him, and, in the old tradition, reached to kiss his hand. He pulled away. She looked startled. He raised his hand over her and blessed her.

  Then he hurried into his room. Before a crucifix, he removed his collar. He took off the rest of his dark clothes and replaced them with casual clothes. He removed the glasses he did not need.

  “In your name, Lord—” He made a sign of the cross, bowed his head, looked up at the crucified figure, staring at it for moments. Then he walked out, in search of Angel.

  Za-za and the Cast of Frontal Assault

  AFTERNOON

  Za-Za called to Rex Steed, who was slumped over Tony Piazza, “You want to try again, Mr. Steed—please?” She squinted. Tony Piazza was relaxing his famous butt now to let Rex Steed in! Oh, thank you, God. “Yeah, I'll fuck the fuck out of him,” Rex Steed enunciated.

  Still bent over, Tony Piazza widened his stance, parted his ass with his hands, wide. “All yours, stud.”

  Rex Steed worked himself up, pulling at his cock, pulling, pulling.

  Tony Piazza wiggled his ass. “I'm waitin’.”

  With the sturdy beginnings of a hard-on, Rex Steed poked at Tony Piazza's ass. Tony Piazza contracted, rejecting the cock curtly It surrendered, growing limp on the round buttocks.

  “A star is worn,” Jim Bond said.

  What a désastre, a rebellion of bitchy studs deviating from Mr. Smythe's script! Za-Za glanced at Mr. Smythe. His binoculars were focused—like a two-barreled gun—on this fromage. Fromage?—that meant cheese. Quel dom—? Oh, fuck it. What the hell was that awful—terribly beautiful—Tony Piazza thinking?

  His buttocks tossed into the wind, Tony Piazza was exploring a strange feeling. All along he had been a bottom, taking other people's cocks, in his mouth, up his ass—and he loved that. But what would it be like to feel his cock in somebody's ass? He pushed away the thought. Too bad he had to bring that bitch Rex Steed down a notch, because he wouldn't have minded that blond eight-incher exploring his hole, but he'd had enough of his bullshit about being straight and slumming in gay porn, while he showed off for those rich bitches who'd come to watch. Well, Rex Steed was a fucking whore like the rest of them, and goddamn if he—Tony Piazza, star bottom—was going to let the bitch inside his ass.

  Malheur! If all this was going haywire on the very first page of Mr. Smythe's script, what would be next? Za-Za glanced nervously ahead in the script, hoping for something easier—

  During a break in the fucking and sucking—An entr'acte!

  —all bottoms lean over the edge of the pool, buck-ass naked, while Dak Boxer, in the pool with only boots on—In the pool—with boots?

  —squirts a powerful stream of water—find two water hoses at edge of pool—at their asses, one at a time, the water spraying back after splashing the buttocks, to create a clever fountain effect.

  LARS HELMUT, with his own hose, will then join DAK BOXER, and, the water turned off, they will push the nozzle of the hoses into the bare asses, taking turns, one after the other.

  Oh, the pervert! Za-Za shook her head. Was everything going wacko? She wasn't hesitant about experimentation—and in her serious films she would interject avant garde elements into conventional approaches, all very noirish, creating an existentialist feel during the family outing sequence. But what Mr. Smythe was demanding! The water hose—all right. But nozzles? Quickly she reminded herself, “Mine is not to question why, Mine is but to do or die.” And die she would if she didn't satisfy Mr. Smythe.

  Where were the damn hoses?

  A gasp of wind whipped the script out of her hand, scattering the few pages around her. One floated in the pool. She almost fell trying to retrieve them. Wes Young helped her up—so gallantly!—and gathered the pages, diving into the pool to save the last one. Za-Za felt—yes, she felt—Mr. Smythe's eyes on her as she clutched the dry pages with her teeth to thwart another ambush. She shook the wet page to dry it.

  Oh, but the binoculars were trailing Wes Young, who was moving away, dripping—and the water had been unkind to his thinning hair. Was he aware of Mr. Smythe's attention on him? Did they know each other? Some kind of conflict? Please, God, not another unexpected development.

  With growing desperation, Rex Steed tried again—aiming carefully at Tony Piazza's ass—which snapped shut again, ejecting the desolate cock, which now plopped over the renowned kangaroo.

  This was it! Za-Za rushed over to Tony Piazza, bent down, and whispered, “You know damn well this isn't in the script.” Even in this position—precariously because of her wig—and directing her words at his face—upside down and framed by his spread thighs—she lamented, Oh, to have that miraculous cock at my disposal! “So how can you be so cruel?'’

  “I've been taught by masters.” From under his legs, Tony Piazza quoted a favorite line of Za-Za's.

  The monster, mangling that perfect riposte from The Heiress. Za-Za straightened herself out from under Tony Piazza's butt.

  “Sha-Sha, vie don't I fug da guy? I can get in,” Lars Helmut offered.

  “I can help out,” Wes Young offered like the veteran he was.

  “Want me to slap Rex Steed's ass, Za-Za?” Dak Boxer suggested.

  Tugging nervously at his briefs, Huck Sawyer looked at Dak Boxer with eager eyes.

  “I can get Rex Steed hard,” Sal Domingo asserted. “Obviously he needs true inspiration.”

  Loyal Jim Bond came to Tony Piazza's defense, “Listen, bitch, if Tony Piazza's ass can't get him hard, nothing can.”

  With a cry, almost a sob, Rex Steed propelled his body against Tony Piazza's ass with such force that Tony Piazza fell. “Ouch!” Tony Piazza jumped up and shoved Rex Steed away. Rex Steed landed on the ground, back down, long blond legs straight up.

  Dak Boxer's and Lars Helmut's cocks both pointed at Rex Steed's ass.

  Oh, dear God, Jesus, and Mary, Za-Za prayed, if You come to my aid, I'll return to the Church, I'll donate all of my earnings from today to Your charities—well, half my earnings. Only please, please make Tony Piazza let Rex Steed in! Was this God's answer? She had glanced away toward the neighboring hill. The fire was coming closer in a kind of zigzag.

  But worse still—

  Rex Steed was not making any attempt to get up—-just lay where he had fallen, his legs way out, his feet propped—firmly—on the ground, his eyes closed. Was he dead? Oh, no, that puckered ass of his was very much alive!

  And!

  Tony Piazza was scrutinizing it!

  And!

  His beautiful sturdy cock was unequivocally interested!

  And, oh, saints, angels, and blessed martyrs—

  Mr. Smythe was shouting at her!

  Thomas Wat
kins

  AFTERNOON

  Thomas remained in the tunnel, frozen, listening to slow footsteps and staring at the dried frond the wind had pushed in. It lay, still shuddering, as if dying, not yet dead. The crunching of trash, nearer—footsteps moving down. Thomas wanted to run out but he couldn't. The footsteps stopped. Thomas saw two shoes, two legs. A man had descended from street level. Only the lower part of him was visible in a muddle of light. Was the man aware of him? Or only that someone else was in the tunnel? The figure advanced, down, two more steps. His pants were open. His penis, exposed, was hard.

  Thomas stumbled back down the steps, tearing his hands away from the filthy wall he fell against. He was out of the tunnel. The wind resisted his advancing toward his car, pushing him back toward the tunnel. When he was finally in his automobile, he waited, panting, to restore his breathing.

  Thomas drove back to his beautiful home in his new Cadillac. On Sunset Boulevard—

  “Young man, what are you doing on this street hitchhiking?”

  “Thanks for stopping. Can I get in? Thank you. I wasn't really hitchhiking. I recognized your car and motioned to you. You drive past my house, remember?”

  “Of course! You're the young man who waves at me down the Canyon. I've seen you washing your car, but not today.”

  “I had to pick up some things, and then my car stopped, I was on my way to the parts shop.”

  “Why, I'll drive you, of course.”

  “I'm tired of hassling with the car—”

  “—and in this terrible hot wind—”

  “—yes. You mind if I take off my shirt?”

  “Of course not. I'll turn up the air conditioner.”

  “Thanks, Thomas.”

  “How do you know my name?”

  “The mailman—he says you're really a nice guy. That's a beautiful tape you're playing. It's—”

  “Callas, the Divine Voice. ‘O mio bambino caro—’ Puccini. But how remarkable, I didn't know that young men your age loved opera.”