The Coming of the Night

  “Wassup?” Buzz answered back, shouting, as they always had to, over the stereo—and, today, the wind—while he sized up the girl next to Toro, where he usually sat, in front.

  “Linda,” Toro introduced the girl.

  Without answering, she cocked her head toward the music. “I like this one.” While Toro bounced his head to the machine-gunning sounds, she repeated random words. “Crushed—rage—” She turned to Buzz and said, “Hi.”

  Dark, a sexy bitch, Buzz evaluated Linda, wearing a brief tight top to show off her tits—look at those fuckers tryin’ to shove out, and look at her skirt so tiny you wouldn't have to lift much to see her cunt. Fuckin’ bitch. He'd like to shove it into her so hard she'd scream.

  Transferring to Linda the smile he had prepared for his explanation to Toro about last night's deal, Buzz hopped into the front seat, his thigh pressed against hers.

  “Hey, don't crowd me, man!” Linda protested.

  Buzz pushed his leg tighter against hers.

  “Yeah, man, don't crowd us,” Toro said, nodding toward the back seat.

  What the fuck! Angry, Buzz jumped to the back. Fuckin’ bitch, she wouldn't be acting so close with Toro if she knew how easy it was gonna be to fake him out about last night and the niggers. Buzz restored his smile at that thought, and waited to speak the memorized words to Toro.

  “Hey, Buzz—,” Linda started, lowering the stereo.

  “Hey, man,” Buzz objected, “turn the fuckin’ sounds up—I like that part.” He waited for Toro to agree. He always played this tape at a blast. Now he continued to nod his head to the lowered sounds.

  Linda didn't respond to Buzz's order. “Huccome you smile so much, Buzz—man?” she asked him. Then she raised the volume again.

  Fuckin’ cunt. She had just wanted to make sure he'd hear her. Well, so what? “How about this, Linda?” He pulled at his lips with two fingers and twisted his smile into a mean smirk.

  Father Norris

  MORNING

  Father Norris had awakened, as he always did on weekends, into the awareness that, very soon, he would be hearing confessions—more than on weekdays, when only beatas—old rigidly religious Mexican women who lived in the neighborhood about lower Sunset Boulevard in the section known as Echo Park, populated mostly by Hispanics—confessed insignificant sins as if they were giant transgressions. Father Norris was convinced that many priests enjoyed hearing sins and passing harsh judgment. Father Terso, old and irritable, was known for the severity of his penances, and some beatas searched him out at confession for that. Father Norris had seen younger confessors pretend not to be aware that the old priest's booth was available, in order to avoid confessing to him. Father Norris tried to be understanding, and that made him lenient in the penances he awarded. Often he wished that he could absorb the sins of those who confessed, absorb them and thus purify the sinner through his own acts of contrition.

  Now, in his confessional, he waited, with his missal, for the next confessor to recite a litany of minor sins. He removed his rimmed glasses. No one would see him without them here. He did not need them, and wore them only in an attempt to thwart the designation he did not welcome—“the handsome young priest.” For a period in his life, he had dieted strictly, to make himself so thin that he would be unattractive, but that only added to the intensity of his moody looks. He tried eating, to gain unsightly weight, but the added food nauseated him, and he stopped, still lean, still handsome. Not that anything could obstruct his devotion to purity. From the first moment in his early life when he had seen the body of Christ wrenching with pain and love on His crucifix, he had known that he would devote his life to Him, serve only Him, love only Him, small token for His extreme sacrifice. Daily, he knelt praying before the crucifix at the altar. Daily he renewed his dedication to serve the tortured figure, “I will be faithful to You, to Your calling, I shall strive to be worthy of You, Your grace and Your love.”

  “I have to speak to him.” Father Norris heard a woman's voice, Spanish-accented, talking too loudly into the usual quiet of the church. “But I was here first,” another woman objected in Spanish. “I know, but—”

  Why the urgency? He was the only one hearing confessions now—Father Terso preferred to hear them during the earliest part of the morning, “when confessors are closest to their most grievous sins.” Father Norris cocked his head toward the small screen that would separate him from the woman who would now be kneeling in the adjoining cubicle.

  “Father Norris!” The voice, clearly that of the woman who had demanded to go ahead of the other, rose in urgency.

  It was not usual to address a priest by his name during confession, and certainly not in that commanding tone. Was she the woman he had seen outside the rectory? She had seemed to be about to approach him when he hurried past her, a strange, sorrowful—ominous—woman wearing a black coat, or shawl, in this heat. Was she in mourning? he'd wondered.

  “Bless me, Father,” the woman in the confessional rushed her recitation in accented English.

  She had not finished the invocation. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. So he said, “What are your sins?”

  “Help my son.”

  “You can't confess for another.”

  “He's a maricon—”

  Father Norris knew the designation—a maricon, a “queer.”

  “—and he's been arrested for prostitution—”

  Father Norris leaned back, away from the words—and then forward.

  “He's out now and back on the same streets.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I went there, to that street, that Santa Monica Boulevard. He was there, he's always there. He saw me, he ran away. When I returned later, he was getting into a car with an older man, Father.”

  Father Norris almost stood to leave the confessional, to confront the woman, tell her that hers was not a confession, that he would not listen to this terrible story, tell her that he—

  “His name is Angel, Father.” She pronounced the name in Spanish—Ahn-hel.

  “Ahn-hel,” Father Norris repeated the name. “How old is—Ahn-hel?”

  “Eighteen.”

  An eighteen-year-old prostitute. How was that possible?

  “Some of the others on that street, the ones who have been there the longest, they're already corrupt, young but corrupt—but not him, Father. Not yet.”

  “The young can be knowledgeable beyond their years,” Father Norris mouthed words. “Have you extended to him spiritually?”

  The woman's voice lowered. “With all my soul. I've seen the power in your eyes, Father, I've seen with what love you kneel before our martyred Lord, I've heard your sermons, I've watched you for very long. I know you. Today I gathered the courage to turn to you.”

  Father Norris listened only to words now. He had seen Hispanic boys about the rectory. Ahn-hel—even in his mind he pronounced the name as she had—would have dark hair, yellowish eyes. And a sad smile.

  “Is that what he looks like?”

  “What?”

  He had thought aloud.

  “He's very handsome, Father. Beautiful, sad eyes. Very sad.”

  “If you bring him to me, of course I'll—”

  “No, Father! Listen! He won't come!”

  “But I cannot—” He prepared words to deny the outrageous demand the woman was about to make.

  The woman's next words were such a quiet whisper that he wasn't sure that was what she had spoken. So he repeated what he had heard, “—naked?”

  “—yes, he has a naked Christ tattooed on his back.”

  A young man was walking the perverse streets of the City, selling his body, which had a tattoo of Our Lord—“Our Lord is stripped of His clothes, of course. He was flogged—” His voice had grown automatic.

  “You don't understand. The tattooed Christ is entirely naked—everything is revealed.”

  Father Norris closed his eyes. The air conditioner must have stopped. He could not hear its whir
, heard only the howls of wind rising—and then a harsh scratching at the small window above his cubicle, which was uncovered at the top. He looked up. A piece of a dry palm frond entangled with debris had been thrust against the window. The snarled mass quivered as if attempting to claw its way in. Then it stopped its desperate trembling and remained there. Father Norris watched it in horrified fascination.

  “Find my son! He's waiting for you.”

  Za-Za and the Cast of Frontal Assault

  MORNING

  “May we gather in the cabana, s'il vous plait?” The voice addressed six handsome men milling about a lavish pool, all naked except for one wearing cutoffs, tank top, and engineer boots. The grounds of the mansion in the hills were bordered by balusters on which were mounted alabaster Greek gods and goddesses. Large trees and high walls thwarted the Sant'Ana, which thrust forth only in nervous attacks.

  Za-Za LaGrande, preeminent director of gay pornography, wore a white chiffon blouse, stylish black shoes—short-heeled to foil a stumble—and pleated loose slacks meant to disguise laborious buttocks over heavy legs. Round face swept with orangy blush, false eyelashes weighted down with mascara, red-waxed lips wilting in the heat, orange wig secured, the director, a man in drag, had just spoken in his—her, she preferred the feminine designation—most authoritative voice, her director's voice.

  It exhilarated her to direct in drag. Drag asserted that it was a queen, a drag queen—notez bien—who shaped the fantasies about “studs” and for the “studs” who imitated her filmed images, the very “studs” who would otherwise deride her as “a fat queen,” not even allow her in the bars they might frequent. Of course, those who saw her movies knew her only as “Z.Z.,” a mysterious appellation that aroused conjecture about her identity, reputed to be, a porn critic wrote, that of a “man's man.” Ha!

  The squadron of nude men—the man in cutoffs lingering behind—followed her into an elaborate dressing room with upholstered benches. She had told her cast only that they would be filming—“and you must strip quickly, au naturel”—in the mansion of “a powerful Hollywood mogul” she discreetly called Mr. Smythe, “with a y and an e.”

  Feeling distressingly like a coach pep-talking his players in the locker room, Za-Za announced, “We're here to rehearse for a film titled Frontal Assault.”

  “How do you rehearse fucking and sucking?” Tony Piazza, a dark broody beauty, spoke out everyone's confusion. A twenty-three-year-old Italian with eyes innocent and knowing, he possessed a sensational round butt so famous his fans claimed they could recognize it even if a shot did not reveal the small kangaroo tattooed on his right buttock.

  “With a vacuum,” Jim Bond, another of Za-Za's stable, offered. He was a not-quite-tall young man with a tendency toward stockiness if he missed a few workouts.

  “Think of it as a command performance,” Za-Za instructed.

  “For the big queen,” snickered Sal Domingo. He had masses of dark curls—and buttocks which, some said, rivaled Tony Piazza's, bruitings that had incited a frosty competition between the two men.

  Decorum intact, Za-Za went on to explain, “Mr. Smythe wants to enact a lifelong fantaisie”—she loved to pepper her speech with French picked up during a night course at a community college—“to see a private performance—he calls it a ‘rehearsal'—for which he will pay beaucoup d'argent, and for which he has écrit a script—”

  “Huh?” Dak Boxer offered. Hairy sinewy body heavily tattooed, he specialized in looking mean.

  “—yes, he has written a script, and he has invited a few wealthy guests for this ‘audition,’” Za-Za moved on intrepidly.

  “Sugar daddies,” said Lars Helmut, except that he pronounced that “chugger dahddies.” Square-jawed, with a dumb face, he appeared all the more muscular because his body was shaved except for one shock of hair at his groin.

  “Vraiment, trésor.” It was true that in addition to being a director of “erotic films,” Za-Za was an “entrepreneur” for gay male clients who were smitten with one or another of her “models”—to whom she always gave new names to add panache. The “erotic film” business had reached a tenuous peak—only a smattering of theaters in large cities exhibited porn. Although the industry was abuzz with predictions that video cassette recorders would soon usher in a golden age, now only a select number of gay performers deemed “stars” made money. Most hustled their bodies.

  None of that concerned Za-Za now. The source of her enthusiasm was that this “rehearsal” would allow her to leap into “the world of true cinema”—because, despite all the buttocks and cocks she had scrunched behind a camera to record, she was, vraiment, trésor, a real artiste. All she lacked was the weight of a studio behind her—Mr. Smythe's studio—for her monumental debut. She had already written the script for her epic, A Message from Out There. The film would be “a kind of Last Year at Marienbad but with real ghosts and in bright color,” she was prepared to tell Mr. Smythe.

  “Now here's a little treat to get you into your roles.” From the depths of her pleated slacks, she brought out a cellophane packet and a tiny spoon she had admired at Knott's Berry Farm, and she passed both among the expectant performers.

  Rex Steed—the man in cutoffs, “the blond God of porn”—didn't use the spoon. He dipped a finger. Obviously to call attention to himself, he had remained partially clothed. Extravagantly handsome, he was one of a handful of “models” who might be called a “star.” He was reputed to pack “ten inches plus”—difficult to verify since photographers learned to shoot from angles that enlarged even modest endowment. Although he was not one of her performers, Mr. Smythe had demanded his presence. “I want to see Rex Steed fuck Tony Piazza's ass.”

  Ah, Tony Piazza! Za-Za's longing eyes stared at him, as they often did.

  Catching her hot looks, Tony Piazza assumed an extra-sexy pose.

  Always tantalizing me, Za-Za fumed. That fabulous ungrateful shit I plucked out of the streets when he was peddling his ass for quarters, and I catapulted him into stardom, like Von Sternberg did Dietrich. Oh, what she wouldn't do to have his fat cock up her ass. But he only got fucked, never fucked, only sucked, never got sucked. Of course, it was true that without her power as a director she would never be able to approach any of these men. Sex was limited to her giving them blow jobs during “auditions.” While she puffed and huffed on her knees, they'd close their eyes. If she dared demand to be fucked, the fabulous cocks, even when they pretended to want to squeeze in, stayed so soft she never even felt them. But, oh, if Tony Piazza would deign to fuck, to put it in, then God would intercede, guide him into her, and he and she—

  Summoning all her dignity, she marched past him and out of the “cabana,” followed by her entourage.

  Atop a grand veranda mantled with bougainvillea, the great Hollywood mogul sat on a high chair as if he were the Pope. He was a man of about sixty, impeccably dressed in jacket and tie, even in the rising heat. Flanking him, in lesser seats, were four of his friends—“talent scouts.” They, too, wore jackets—required?—though no ties. Mr. Smythe had insisted on distancing himself and his friends from the “rehearsal”—“to retain a sense of fantasy.” On small tables before the spectators were binoculars. Mr. Smythe's manor, Za-Za thought as she surveyed his domain and mimed ecstatic appreciation for him to note, seemed arrogantly to look away from lesser mansions in these hills—

  One of which was burning!

  “Thank you for hiring me, darlin’.” It was Wes Young, who had just arrived.

  “How could I ignore your fabulous uncut cock?” Za-Za had a special fondness for Wes Young because he had been one of her first “stars” and had remained “faithful” when others had tried to lure him away. He had craggy good looks, a lanky body. Today his wind-rumpled hair exposed his thinning pate. He claimed to be thirty-five. Za-Za noticed the Erase under his eyes, glazed from the coke he snorted for breakfast. He was the only player Mr. Smythe had not specifically asked for. He had merely stated that he wanted “a d
ark stud with a fabulous uncut cock, lots of skin.”

  Wes Young pecked her cheek and moved on to the “cabana” to undress. Mr. Smythe's binoculars followed him.

  Had Wes Young begun hanging out at the Spotlight, the sleaziest hustling bar in town? After that, where? Za-Za did not let herself wonder what happened to her “actors” when their short reigns ended.

  Now she located herself so that Mr. Smythe might note her concentration on his script. When he first discussed this fantaisie with her, he had emphasized, “There shall be no deviation from my script. But the finale is yours. Étonnez-mol” He had gone on to explain that those were the instructions—“Astonish me!”—that Diaghilev had given Cocteau when Cocteau was commissioned to do the book for a ballet. As if she hadn't known that famous riposte! Indeed, her debut film would be tinged with unobtrusive surréalisme that would evoke the sublime Cocteau, except that her statues would move their mouths, not their eyes. But, now, Trésor, how could she top what Mr. Smythe was demanding in his script? Art couldn't match the epic of sex occurring everywhere, every day, in the liberated gay world. Pornography could only attempt to mirror it.

  “Faire close attention! Tops over here, and bottoms over there,” Za-Za followed Mr. Smythe's directions.

  The roles of top-penetrator and bottom-penetrated were neither strictly adhered to in porn—nor in reality Bottoms might bravely top if called upon to do so, while tops more frequently bottomed. Tony Piazza had acquired legendary status by always being a “bottom,” and Rex Steed had achieved the level of Olympian hero as a rigorous “top.” He insisted that he was “one hundred percent hetero.” He would neither suck, nor be fucked—nor even kiss. That made him even more desirable in some quarters—the unattainable stud who deigned to lend his highly restricted presence to the world of gay porn, which he visited only because of huge demand.

  Tony Piazza, Sal Domingo, and Jim Bond responded as proud bottoms to Za-Za's direction. Dak Boxer, Lars Helmut, Wes Young—and, taking his time, Rex Steed—sauntered together as tops.

  “Vat is da story?” Lars Helmut wanted to know, as if he had just become conscious.