The Coming of the Night

  Distant streetlights cast an ashen orange mist as Clint left the piers, walked to the maze of parked butcher trucks a few blocks away. During the day these trucks hauled denuded carcasses of cattle to wholesale butcher shops across the street. Now, night, in the aisles between the trucks, silhouettes of men waited. Moans emerged from the trucks. Clint jumped into the darkness of one. Hands, mouths, cocks, the stench of poppers—

  Back on the street, he faced an apartment building. Wordless graffiti—phallic swirls and arcs—blackened its walls. From a few lighted rooms, naked men signaled with their genitals to those on the streets. Men straggled past like deserters in neutral turf. On stairs descending into a darkened building, a man fucked another.

  Feeling pulled along by a trance—no, still trying to break it—Clint walked along the territory of leather bars, street curbs cluttered with garbage. Behind him, the sound of coarsened laughter erupted. There was the assertive sound of booted footsteps. Four men in vitreous leather swaggered along the ragged street. All carried rings of keys looped through thick belts, colored print handkerchiefs in back pockets. They marched toward the Mineshaft, a gray short building. No sign designated its presence next to a wholesale meat company. Steps led up into a dark maw, its entrance.

  Recognizing him as one of their breed, the men nodded to Clint, the barest hint of a nod. Clint listened to the sound of their mirthless laughter.

  A taxi stopped before the darkened gash of stairs. A leatherman—slouched leather cap, tight chaps, tailored motorcycle jacket, leather gloves, knee-length boots, handcuffs dangling from a thick belt—walked out of the cab. He pulled on a chain. Harnessed by studded collars attached to the chain, two men, young, naked except for leather jockstraps, emerged. As the man in leather pulled at the chain until it was taut, the two nude men crawled on the street. Like fierce subdued dogs, they snapped right and left as if at an invisible torturer.

  Fantasy, nothing real.

  Within growing shadows in his room, Clint clung to the credo he had lived with in the world he had gazed at that night, last weekend.

  Ernie

  AFTERNOON

  Ernie walked along the streets of West Hollywood with the guy who had asked him for workout tips. They had agreed to take a shower at Ernie's. The guy's name was Andy, and he was real cute and masculine. Ernie was explaining to him why he preferred weights over machines that were now becoming popular. “Cause, hey, you can feel the resistance, see the weight, right?”

  “Right, yeah.”

  They might get into a posing scene, Ernie planned. That was one of his favorites. Since Andy wasn't really a bodybuilder yet, he'd want to be guided into some poses, assuming them while admiring Ernie's style. Hey, hadn't the guy asserted he was into big muscles? It would all be much better than trying that with some of the bodybuilders who'd manage to crash through their game-playing enough to get together, because, with them, the competition turned in earnest, both guys looking at themselves in the mirror to let the other guy know he wasn't shit—wanting to touch each other but damn if either one would go first, a real competition that produced two losers, no sex.

  Ernie checked his walk. Some bodybuilders—like that fuckin’ Lars Helmut—walked funny, arms way out as if their lats were so wide they interfered with their arms, legs kind of twisted as if their thighs were so huge they were bumping into each other. Ernie let his arms relax a little and he took longer steps.

  “What do you do?” Andy asked Ernie.

  Ernie said, “I work in a garage. Garage mechanic.” That wasn't true, but it made him sound like a macho stud.

  “Wow,” Andy said. “I like working on cars.”

  Oh, oh. Ernie didn't know much about cars. If the guy started talking about engines and—

  “But that's not what I meant,” Andy said. “I meant what do you do in bed?”

  Ernie preferred a mutual scene, starting out with some good, wholesome body-worship. He'd lay back in bed, hands behind his head, all attitude, and let the other guy lick him all over. Then—fair was fair, right?—he'd return the favor before they got down and sucked each other in a hot 69, maybe a mutual rim, too, and then he'd ease the guy over and fuck him and then he'd lie there with his own legs open and get fucked—total scene, right?

  “I—,” he started to answer.

  Andy interrupted, “I'm into big guys.”

  Ernie puffed up his pecs—a hint of what was to come. He was getting to like this guy. He'd ask him to stay after sex, make some popcorn, have sex again—he dodged as the wind shoved a palm frond straight at them before veering into the street, causing a car to brake—and if this guy slept over, they'd listen to the wind, not be out in it.

  He led Andy past a waterless fountain in the courtyard of his building. He pretended to have to bend to tie his shoelace so that if the old queen in the apartment nearby was looking out—and she always was—she'd have a chance to see him with this good-looking guy. Eat your heart out, old bitch. When there was no indication of movement at the windows of the old queen's apartment, Ernie started to whistle, and stopped himself when he realized that he was whistling “Don't Cry for Me, Argentina,” the number the bitchy queen loved to taunt him with. No stirring at the windows. Ernie just moved on.

  But there he came, that fucker, swishing down the walk. “Hi, sweetie,” the old queen called out, like they were sisters.

  Ernie deepened his voice so low that he could hardly get the words out, “Hi, man.”

  Running, he led Andy away into his apartment, not wanting to risk how the jealous queen might come back at him.

  “Nice place,” Andy complimented.

  “Thanks. A friend decorated it for me.” That was a lie, too, not that his place was all that, but, even so, he didn't want Andy to think he was an interior decorator and not a mechanic. He knew a scene could be blown away with less than that.

  Now they'd shower, soap each other off, hands lingering over cocks and balls, brushing along the crack of the buttocks, tantalizing—

  “Hey, let's get goin’, guy/”

  Ernie removed his shirt. With a sexy nod of his head, he motioned Andy to follow into the bedroom. “You like a mirror scene, after we shower?”

  “Uh—”

  Naked, Ernie flexed in the mirror, looking great, healthy sweat redrawing his muscles, cock already hardening.

  Andy was staring at—

  His cock, Ernie realized.

  “You said you were big,” Andy did not disguise his disappointment. “I told you I was into big guys, I made it clear, and I said it again while we were walking here, and you said you—”

  “I thought you meant big muscles, and look—” Ernie tried to thwart what was happening. He did his most muscular pose before the mirror.

  “I meant big cocks,” Andy clarified. “Usually I check guys out in the showers, but you wanted to shower here. So—anyway, we're here, so—” He shrugged, made no move.

  “Damn, I suddenly remember!” Ernie grabbed for his clothes. “My lover's coming back this afternoon, from San Francisco.”

  “Mine, too,” Andy said. “Nice meeting you, and thanks for giving me your workout tips.”

  Jeez, the guy was turning fern right before his eyes. Thank God he'd been saved at the last moment. “Hey, you're welcome,” Ernie said.

  Then the guy was gone.

  Fuckin’ size queen!—and a swishy one on top of it all, and skinny, too, thinking he had muscles. Shit.

  His clothes still clutched in his hands, Ernie looked at himself in the mirror. Goddammit, look at that bod!

  But he knew that now he would need reassurance, to wipe out what had happened with that motherfuckin’ skinny, fern, and real ugly size queen.

  Mitch

  AFTERNOON

  When he realized that the man walking toward him wasn't the man he had seen earlier with Heather—and that the woman who had paused at an earring stand on the beach walk wasn't with him—Mitch had continued to stare at the man wearing shorts and an op
en shirt—until he realized the man was not only staring back at him but was about to approach him.

  He had walked away, even when the guy had said “Hi” to him and extended his hand. Obviously the guy was trying to come on to him, and that disturbed him. But what was wrong with talking to him? So he came back, extended his own hand in greeting. The guy seemed nice enough, masculine, too—they might have been buddies looking for girls to pick up on the beach. But then they had got all tangled up about the guy claiming he'd been cruising him—he hadn't—and jabbing at him for only now realizing Heather was a lesbian.

  Christ! He'd caught up with the guy again.

  “Now you ‘re following me, I'm not,” the guy said.

  “Look, I—forget what I said.” Mitch really wanted to talk to this guy. “Maybe you'd like to come over to my place—man.” He smiled for the first time. “It's a long way away, though, but if you—” The guy—what had he told him his name was?—Paul?—was studying him as if to decide what to say next, do next. So Mitch continued to smile his most sincere smile.

  For seconds—maybe a minute—the guy seemed to be about to walk away. Then he said, “You want to come to my place? It's only a few blocks away”—still hesitantly as if not yet committed to it.

  “Yeah,” Mitch agreed. So what if the guy was gay—and desiring him? Gay guys were attracted to straight guys, so what? That didn't mean anything had to happen—and it wouldn't. All he wanted was a guy who would understand how he felt, and this guy looked like he would.

  They walked together away from the beach.

  Dave

  AFTERNOON

  Chaps over ripped Levi's, boots almost up to his knees, leather vest wide open on his lightly furred chest, thick studded belt with key ring loaded with keys—on the left side, fuckin’ proud top man, dude!—studded leather bands hugging his biceps, cap slanted almost over his eyebrows so that he'd have to raise his head and then look down at everyone—and an intricate array of silver chains linked about the black leather—Dave, inhaling the smell of leather and what was left of the amyl he had just popped, mounted his polished Harley, gleaming black and mean, and rolled out of the garage, followed by the sounds of his favorite group—Man 2 Man—turned up loud—

  You can't decide if I'm good or bad,

  But don't let it drive you mad,

  All this time you tried to tell,

  You could have sent me straight to hell—

  He arranged his large navy-blue print handkerchief in his left pocket. He preferred the relative ambiguity of dark blue. That signaled a preference for fucking and being sucked, but it also suggested further possibilities. Red, yellow, black handkerchiefs—yeah, and brown, why leave anything out?—came on too strong too soon. How great, this language of sex spoken by studded dog collars, belts, keys, colors, a code that asserted the bond among real men. Love? Shit. Whatever that was, it was weak, like sissy sex. Commitment to rites that celebrated manhood, gay manhood—there was no other kind—rites pushed close to the edge and then closer—what could unite tough men—and that meant tops and bottoms, masters and slaves, dude—what could unite tough men closer than that?

  Courting the bike's hardness between his thighs, Dave popped a fresh ampule of amyl and left it in his nose until all its vapor was gone. The buzz began inside, an implosion, and then it exploded, encircling him in darkness, which opened into—

  Desire, throbbing, hard desire, dude.

  Why give yourself a complication

  When I can bring you fascination?

  Trust me and I'll be your fire—

  The flush of the heated wind against his face renewed the rush of amyl. He pushed down, hard, with one boot, starting the bike.

  You'll turn into someone that I choose—

  Look in the mirror and be surprised,

  You'll see a person you won't recognize—

  Trust me, and I'll be your fire,

  Don't burn with the heat of desire—

  With a growl that he intensified by revving the engine, the motorcycle invaded the streets.

  He parked in the lot of the heaviest leather bar in the City, next to a garage, in an area designated BIKES ONLY. He tore off the tip end of a cigarette. That way, when he lit it, the smoke would quickly curl toward his eyes and his scar, and he would retain a squint.

  A heavy leather drape shielding the door shut out daylight, invited the atmosphere of night. At first, he couldn't see beyond the reddish smokiness. He didn't have to see. He knew the bar exactly—stark, unadorned, the main section separating into smaller sections, even darker, iron bars creating the impression of cells.

  He waited at the entrance until he felt eyes pulling toward him, expecting a signal back. Not now. He was feelin’ out the scene, checkin’ it out. Men, all in variations of studded leather—some wearing jackets in the Sant'Ana-heated air-conditioning, several shirtless, chests crisscrossed with harness straps—sat on stools at the long bar, or loitered about drinking beer, only beer, cigarettes dangling, or hovered over two pool tables—all tough dudes, rough dudes, real men—

  “Lawd-sake, hon-nee, look what just walked in. Look, girls!”

  “To die for, but I saw him first, Mary—”

  Dave wanted to puke when he heard that, coming from a group of men in leather gathered in a corner. The men, four, were all out of shape, stomachs protruding, shoulders sagging. They were drunk—and—fuck this shit—effeminate, hands whirling, leather askew. Why were there so fuckin’ many of those guys? Shit, did they think just wearing leather was enough?

  As he approached the bar—and the bartender, wearing only leather chaps and boots, had already set out a beer for him, the kind of client leather bars like to display—one of the effeminate men, his leather cap toppling to one side, whistled in admiration.

  Dave detoured from the bar and faced him. “Who you whistlin’ at?”

  “Just admiring you, macho man,” the man slurred.

  “Light my cigarette,” Dave said.

  “Yes, sir!” the man said. “Looking for a slave, master?”

  “Yeah.” Dave spread his booted feet and looked down.

  The man slid onto his knees.

  Dave waited to get full attention. He spat on his own boots. “Shine them with your tongue and my spit,” he ordered.

  The man licked the glossy boots, hands on the floor like paws. “Master—”

  Dave pulled away. “I'm looking for a slave, yeah, but not a fag like you. Lookin’ for a man.”

  The man raised himself uncertainly from the floor. His companions squealed with delight.

  Back at the bar, Dave half-leaned against a stool, gloved hand over his groin, his other hand holding the beer at his lips.

  A young man, good looks obscured by groggy eyes within dark circles, stood mutely before him. He was wearing a yellow print handkerchief on the right side.

  Dave placed his gloved hand on the man's shoulder, coaxing him down. Kneeling, the dazed man looked up at him and opened his mouth. From about the bar, men moved in closer to watch. Dave began to open his fly.

  “Yeah, stud, yeah, do it, let the queer drink!” the man who had licked Dave's boots encouraged, voice deepened.

  Dave spread his fly open. He swigged from the beer. He let the liquid spill out of his mouth, down his chest, down along his crotch, down along his stiffening cock, into the pleading mouth of the man kneeling before him.

  “Pretend you got what you really want,” Dave said, moving away, buttoning his fly. Fuck, I could have any one of these fags in the bar, he thought, cocking his cap farther forward. But he didn't want any of them. On this night of fierce hot winds, he was looking for someone special. A slave, yeah, but not just a slave—great-looking, sure—but someone who'd never got into anything real heavy, lookin’ for it without even knowin’ it. And maybe—the devil winds were blowin’, dude!—he'd recruit another top man, maybe from San Francisco or New York, where they really knew how to get down. They'd give the slave a night to remember.
>
  Dave drank his beer, and he listened to the music he was sure was being played for him, “Fire and Ice”—yeah, fire and ice!

  Outside, he felt so fuckin’ wild he laughed aloud at nothin’ as he mounted his bike.

  The coming night was pulsing with excitement—and look, over there, fires were circling the City.

  Four

  One of the two small buildings located farthest from the streets in the park in West Hollywood is an office, closed early and on weekends. The other is a toolshed, locked when not in use. It adjoins a wire-enclosed field, perhaps once a track field. It is the one section of the park that has been neglected. Only patches of yellow grass grow on it Between the toolshed and the abandoned field, there is an open passage, a space about eight feet wide, perhaps twenty feet long. You have to know it's there to walk through it.

  Today, because the toolshed is sheltered by its location, only the wind's muffled panting, and the heat, alert that this is a Sant'Ana day.

  Jesse

  AFTERNOON

  After feeling out the streets—and finding them lusty—Jesse went to a cruisy bar to charge himself up some more for tonight.

  It was early for heavy cruising, even within the created atmosphere of night, but there were more people than usual in the bar—because of the sexy winds? The Pat Benatar song spewing into the smoky air was just right for this special afternoon, saying it about being hot and playing with fire. Wow, even the DJ who chose those tapes was in on his celebration. Gay people played with fire, played with it, which meant finding more ways to add excitement all the time. If you kept the fire going, you'd never burn out. That happened only when you stopped.

  Two men were playing pool. Gay men loved pool tables in bars. It gave them a chance to pose, look even more masculine—and it gave others the chance to admire them while appearing to be entranced by the expert shots.

  The men at the pool table had taken off their shirts—typical of players on display. One had rubbed a light film of oil to highlight his chest. Both were showing the outline of their genitals under tight jeans. Now one of the men pretended to spill beer on his jeans, around his crotch, clearly to emphasize his big cock for a guy leaning against the wall. Wild!