The Coming of the Night

by John Rechy

  Clint felt a respect for fate, and this beautiful young man was pursuing a sort of destiny he had clearly chosen for himself tonight—perhaps only thought he had chosen it—and that must be allowed, wherever it led him beyond the choice.

  He turned the kid's face toward his, licked the perspiration there, cooling the heated face, licked the lips—

  “Fuck me,” Jesse whimpered.

  This is all there is—just sex and more sex and still more sex. That's all God gave only us—and to no one else—to compensate for all the shit they keep throwing at us. It's the only thing that blocks it all out. That's all some of us have. When that's gone—for some of us, there will be nothing.

  In a rage at death—in a rage at the world that in countless ways exiled this young man from everything except this and then would condemn him for it—Clint thrust himself into the naked body He held himself there, kissing the young man on the lips, and came.

  Jesse kissed the man back.

  Clint released the beautiful body.

  Jesse leaned back against the wall.

  Clint moved away from the night.

  And yet, as he walked toward where the sky would eventually dawn, he had the impression that he was walking into deeper darkness, deepest night, and in those uncertain moments, he saw a stark form, a gaunt, terrified man—was he really there?—standing at the edge of the park shouting—was he really shouting?—no, whispering, but it was as if he was shouting each gasped word—

  “Plague—Plague is coming. Plague—”

  Clint shook his head—no—and walked away.

  Shadows stirred about the toolshed.

  Jesse waited.

  There had been three punks! Dave remembered. Only two of them had been chased out. Where was the third? He ran to the toolshed.

  The kid was all right! Dave saw, and he shoved aside two men advancing. The wooden board the punk had carried lay on the ground. Dave touched the kid's shoulder, turning him around. “Did that punk hurt you, kid?”

  “No.” Jesse laid his head on Dave's shoulder.

  Dave took off his leather glove and stroked the kid's hair with his fingers, calming him, stroking. “I won't let anyone harm you, dude.” Christ, he had beautiful hair. He felt the kid's skin—so smooth!—against his own bare chest. He ran his fingers down the naked body—so beautiful. He held the kid's face in both his hands, close to his own. Christ, even all shaken up like this, he was beautiful. The kid edged his face closer, opening his lips. With a finger Dave touched them, the parted lips, touched them, his face only an inch away from them, touched them, and he opened his own mouth and leaned forward, to—

  “Do you love me?” the kid whispered.

  “What!” Dave halted his movements.

  The kid did not repeat his words.

  Dave eased the kid away from him. He turned him around, to face the wall.

  “More,” Jesse said.

  Yeah! The dude was tough, ready for anything, not scared, real tough. Everything would proceed like they'd planned. He'd promised the kid a wild celebration, the two of them together at the end of the night, and that was now

  A shadow joined two already watching.

  Dave clenched his hand into a fist, holding it, hard, against the kid's ass.

  The kid did not move.

  More shadows huddled.

  Dave brought out a small bottle, an oily mixture. He rubbed his fist with it. He cracked an ampule of amyl and held it to the kid's nose. He cracked another and held it to his own. He rubbed his greased fingers on the boy's ass and held his hand there, fingers tightening.

  Gathered shadows watched.

  Dave released one finger into the kid, then another—and he waited—three fingers—and he waited—another finger—four—deep in—

  The kid wrenched.

  Dave's hand clenched into a fist and pushed.

  Jesse exhaled, a smothered moan.

  Dave twisted his wrist, slowly, and pushed again.

  Cold perspiration draped Jesse. He wanted to shout, scream, protest, wanted—

  “More.”

  Yeah! Ultimate trust, closer than brothers, the strongest bond among tough men, real men, all willing, no sissies, nothing questioned, all allowed!

  Dave held his fist inside the kid. Yeah—and after this, he would fuck him, spill his cum in him—-jet loads of cum into the tough dude—and the kid would come, they'd come together—He held the fist in, in—

  Jesse pressed his mouth against the wall, gnawing at brick. He screamed—no sound.

  Dave withdrew his fist—slowly, slowly, inch by inch, finger by finger before the congregation of men staring in silent awe. He faced them and held his clenched fist up.

  Blood flowed down it, down his elbow, down to the ground.

  Dave retreated in horror. He staggered from the sight, fell back. “No, kid! No!” he shouted into the stagnant night.

  Jesse's body tried to cling to the wall.

  Father Norris stood before the toolshed. He saw men kneeling beside the beautiful naked body. With a moan he threw himself into it. When he pulled out, the naked Christ crumbled, shaking, bleeding, outstretched hands reaching.