Furiously as if she was responsible for it all, he searched the block to make sure he had seen a woman at the corner. Yeah, there she was—and, man, was she a weirdo, rushing away, then just standing there like she didn't know where to go, and wearing that black coat—in this damn heat—like she was actually cold.
Clint
AFTERNOON
He checked in at the Château Marmont off Sunset, a still fashionable hotel because of its offbeat-starrish clientele. He didn't like gay hotels, he didn't like ghettos. That's how he thought of the pockets of gay men living in New York's West Village, Castro Street in San Francisco, and, increasingly, West Hollywood—there was talk about turning it officially into a city, a “gay city.” When he had first come to reside in Los Angeles, he had stayed briefly at this hotel before leasing a house in the Hollywood Hills, later transferring to New York. It had seemed appropriate, on this day, to return to the same hotel.
In the elevator, a woman kept staring at him. He looked away, knowing she was trying to recognize him. “Aren't you—?” she began to ask when they were alone in the elevator.
He shook his head, rejecting identity for now, a life in another world. The world of gay sex hunting thrived on anonymity. It was a world of lives without past, only present. The present began the moment you appeared, available, in cruising turf. Within that anonymous world, he needed to define himself.
At the window of his hotel room—the hotel is built on a slight elevation—he looked down on a palm-fringed pool. The wind crinkled the water as it sliced across it. Beyond, it swept along Sunset Boulevard, the area of stylish shops and cafes, canopies flapping now, tables outside occupied despite the wind. Inside his room, the sound of the wind was muted, absorbed by the hum of the air conditioner.
Hot, sweaty, tired, he took a shower. He remained under the water for long moments, letting it stream down his trained body.
He put on a bathrobe, swallowed a quaalude to bring him down from the coke he had snorted again, and he began to unpack. Responding to an overwhelming weariness that warred with the lingering edginess of the coke, he closed his eyes as if even in that position he would surrender to the exhaustion extending from last weekend. He turned on the television, the sound off. On the screen, wind swept across streets—bending trees, scattering blossoms within clouds of dust, a glowing dusk. There was an abstract beauty within the storm, if it was separated from disaster. He snapped the television off. The screen faded into a lingering pinpoint of light. Then it vanished, the screen blinded by impassive gray.
He lay on the bed. Sunlight carved shadows into the room, creating a premature twilight. What had sent him here was all that he had seen and experienced as if for the first time, last weekend.
NEW YORK
A Week Ago
He worked out early, in his chromy apartment building gym. Then he dressed for the sex-hunt—in jeans, the correct style of lumberjack boots, plaid shirt open. It was a warm New York day full of sun: He welcomed that because this would be his first weekend of cruising familiar areas since he had returned to Manhattan from a sojourn on Fire Island one week ago.
As he had waited then at the station for the train into Manhattan, he had run into a friend who related, in enraged detail, that a friend of his, whom Clint did not know, had been brutalized by a group of straight punks a few nights ago. The man had left a gay bar in nearby Sag Harbor and was walking home when five teenage males drove by the bar shouting, cursing. They seemed to have driven away, but had stopped, gotten out, and were waiting to ambush the man. They kicked him with heavy boots, screaming, “Queer! Faggot! Cocksucker!” Thrashing him with their belts, they shoved him against a garbage bin. As he lay on trash, they spat on him, and one of them pissed on him. All this violence had occurred with such swift force that those who had run out of the bar to help, including Clint's friend, had not been able to reach the man before the marauders drove off. The man was now in a hospital, in critical condition, the punks had not been arrested. Other gay men waiting at the station had reacted to the news, like Clint, with the usual anger—another outrage on their turbulent horizon.
Back in Manhattan, Clint took the subway from his expensive apartment on the East Side. He intended to get off a few stops before his destination, to savor the day, and then walk on into the West Village to cruise familiar streets and bars.
When he stepped out of the subway and into the street, he expected a splash of sun. The day had altered. Grayish sunlight filtered through the City's grime and a thickened layer of clouds. That cast on the scene a muted light which banished shadows, rendering everything stark, as if a camera had found its focus.
As he walked along the streets—strawy grass sprouted out of cracks in the concrete—Clint saw the usual bands of gay men, many handsome, many shirtless, exhibiting prepared bodies, exulting in vaunted freedom, drenching the air in sensuality, this vague army of “lumberjacks,” “motorcyclists,” “cowboys,” “leathermen,” all in masculine regalia even while they tended to flower stalls, or shopped at chic boutiques or antique shops.
And yet—
Yet, born ironically out of a detestation of effeminacy—the horror of being labeled “sissies” had become an aversion to “looking gay”—this new gay man—and Clint knew he was among them—had become as identifiably gay as drag queens. When that aversion to being effeminate succeeded, it produced stunning men, supremely arrogant, proudly sexual, flaunting a unique masculine glamor, their walk a graceful strut.
But the aversion did not always succeed. Among the macho men, there were those who wilted under the uniform—under tension, or when drunk. Then, wind milling gestures, sighs, cries of “Oh, Mary” ambushed the postures. The strut would transgress into a swish, a tensed fist might melt into a drooped hand. The laughter—
Clint heard the familiar laughter as he walked on. He lingered before a group of about six men, all in decorated leather. Today the laughter sounded different to him—a forced, toughened laughter. The same laughter that erupted in crowded bars in deep-night hours? He listened. It was a mirthless laughter. It broke in the middle—a lonesome hollow at its core—retreating as if it had stumbled on a raw bruise. Then it jerked toward forced euphoria. The sound of dubious survival.
On this shadowless afternoon, Clint moved on past dying buildings, toward deserted piers at water's edge, past loitering men in masculine drag. Among them, queens strolled or leaned into cars driven by men looking for “women.” “The visual assault of gay theater,” a friend of Clint's had once described this vista of costumed men. “Camouflage,” Clint had contributed.
To enter the remains of a warehouse, which extended the length of two blocks to the brink of the Hudson River, Clint stooped under an oxidized gate. Fire, vandalism, and marauders had battered the abandoned building. Blackened frames, scorched walls, shards of glass in windows remained. Fire-carved gouges riddled the ceiling, higher than two stories. All was quiet as Clint penetrated the dusk of this giant gutted room he often hunted within.
He walked along floors pocked with holes, littered with broken glass, metal pipes, tangled wires, scrap iron rotting. Truncated stairways led to the bones of other smaller rooms. At the farthest end of the skeletal warehouse, a portion of the wharf had collapsed into oxidized water.
Clint was aware of familiar sounds separating from silence. Many presences were stirring, footsteps disembodied. He heard those noiseless sounds as never before, strange in this decayed structure. Within a small hollow room permeated by the odor of amyl poppers, four men bunched into one contorting form, hands groping, mouths licking, kissing, mouths sucking, random cocks inserted, withdrawn. Clint neared the cluster. A man standing held Clint's cock for a kneeling man
to suck. “Suck, pig queer!” the man barked at the squatting man. Clint had heard those words, similar orders, had used them himself, responded to them. They aroused him now. But today they seemed to continue to echo in the burnt-out cavity of this warehouse. He moved away, as if cast adrift by t
he twilit day.
He walked along charred ruins, in and out of wafting poppers. He passed two men fucking in a burnt-out hollow. A man on the floor licked the inserted cock as it emerged. Lying on rubble, another man moaned, an ampule of inhalant stuck into one nostril. Legs straddling him, two men pissed into his mouth. One of the men standing beckoned Clint to join them.
Had he dozed, only for a moment, pushed into defensive sleep by the clutter of memories? Clint's bathrobe was soaked with perspiration. He removed it. Had the air conditioner in the hotel gone off, if only briefly? Sant'Ana winds toppled electric lines, creating outages. He listened, heard the hum of the air conditioner.
Ernie
AFTERNOON
At the gym nearby, in West Hollywood—large windows faced the street so that those walking or driving by might look in and see terrific bodies—Ernie worked on his pecs first, proud of the flare they created toward his shoulders. Lots of bodybuilders emphasized the lower pecs. In the extreme, that gave the effect of breasts, and if you took steroids, you got “bitch tits,” pointy nipples. Ernie didn't do too many shrugs either, not liking the slope that many musclemen developed. Hey, everything was okay if that was your trip, right?—if you wanted to look like a goon. Like that Lars Helmut.
“Hey, Lars, I figured I'd run into you at my gym someday.”
“Yah, Ernie, I figured dat, too.”
“How d'ya know my name and where I work out?”
“Word gets around about da cute guys.”
Someday that would happen—but Ernie would be blunt and tell Lars that he wasn't into huge muscles like his, ugly trapezius muscles that looked like padding under your neck. His more moderate “traps” emphasized his wide shoulders.
And made him look shorter.
Hey, his height never bothered him, right? He was now evaluating himself in one of the mirrors that outlined the room, multiplying bodies, not all of them that muscular, several beginners here. He stood on his toes, not so he would look taller—that didn't bother him—but just to stretch his calves, which were good, hard to develop, too.
He wiped sweat and looked around. More gay men were working out now. When he first started, several few years ago, he was exceptional—not among the professionals who hung out in Venice Beach, but on gay turf. Now, every few blocks along Santa Monica Boulevard, chances were you'd see a trained body on a gay guy. Jeez, even some effeminate guys worked out. There they were pumped, while they shrieked, “Go, girl,” and wilted like big lilies. Hey, it was okay with him if all gay guys were trying to get into shape now, like a fit army during peacetime.
“How're you doing? I was watching you work out.”
The guy who had spoken to him was right, yes, good-looking, muscles beginning to shape. About his age, younger.
Ernie flexed, inviting a compliment.
“—and I was wondering if you'd give me some tips. My upper arms—”
“Sure, guy.” Ernie loved being asked to be an inspiration. He agreed to show the guy the proper grip with a barbell. “Not too wide, because then you have to swing your body, not good for the biceps, not good for the back, gotta protect your lower back.” Yes, he'd go home with him. Lots of people waited until the end of the night, especially on weekends, to make a connection, and sometimes ended up alone. If you made out early, you could relax, and even if you went out again, you'd go to the bars with a different attitude, that you'd already made it, and so you didn't have to make it. Besides, people said the “devil winds” stirred bad stuff. So what was wrong with makin’ out early, relaxin’, maybe watchin’ a porn flick together on his projector, spend the night, see each other again, get somethin’ going, become lovers. Hey, this guy was real cute.
“I can tell you know how to work out,” the guy said, “cause you got a great bod.”
O-kay! That was it. He'd make it, early, settle down for the rest of the day, even if the kid had to leave. He felt—crazy, right?—that this encounter would save him from prowling on this restless night.
“You wanna come over to my place, after we finish working out?” he said casually, as if it didn't really matter.
“Yeah.” The guy smiled, smiled. “I gotta tell you, I'm into big guys.”
“Well, you sure got one here, guy.” Ernie tried not to flex too obviously in response to the compliment.
Mitch
AFTERNOON
“I'm sorry, Mitch. I just couldn't face myself. I used you, Mitch.”
“You were looking at that woman, Heather, I knew it—”
“Yes, the same woman you were looking at. We both wanted her. When you went to the rest room—”
“Are you going to start that up again, Heather?”
“No, listen. When you went to the rest room, she came over—we kind of made a date. Her tanned body excited me, Mitch. I imagined her naked. I imagined her going down on me while I imagined what it would be like to go down on her.”
Mitch understood now, but he was still angry. “Goddammit, Heather, you used me, you said I followed that guy into the rest room, that I was looking at him—”
“Discover yourself before it's too late!”
The words exploded Mitch's imagined encounter with Heather, leaving him staring at the woman who had spoken them.
“Didn't say nothin’. You a psychic, too?” The woman, old, burnt brown by the sun, an orange bandanna wrapped about her forehead, was one of many psychics along the boardwalk of Venice Beach. She sat behind decorated fruit crates and a sign.
PSYCHIC
ALL PROBLMS SOLVED.
DISCOVER YURSLF BEFOR ITS TO LATE!!!!
“No,” Mitch told the woman. “I read your sign and I guess I heard it aloud.”
“Don't run away. Five bucks and you'll know everything you want to know.”
“Nothing to know.” Mitch walked away from the beach psychic. He forced his concentration away from Heather's accusation and onto the concrete stretch bordering the beach, a carnival stretch of gaudy shops—he lingered before each—some meant to last only for the day, cardboard boxes and wooden crates adorned with paper, balloons, beads, shiny tinfoil stars. Other shops, more permanent, wedged into old buildings. Posters, cheap jewelry, sunglasses, trashy clothes with false designer labels, a band of black men with improvised instruments, a magician with a bird, a ventriloquist, a clown, derelicts huddled on benches next to astrological charts—and, everywhere, male and female bodies, gliding by on skates, in bathing suits or clothed, idling about or lying, almost exposed, on the beach, ignoring sand slicing by in sheets of wind while agitated waves crashed against the shore.
Mitch reared back. The man Heather had pointed out on the beach earlier—had accused him of staring at—was walking toward him, no longer in trunks, now in shorts and an open shirt. Yes, and this much was true. The guy had come into the rest room soon after he'd gone there. What the fuck did the son of a bitch want? Wasn't it enough that he'd caused that scene between him and Heather? Jesus! The woman who had paused at a bracelet shop—that was the woman who'd been with that guy, the woman Heather had been looking at. Mitch braced to confront them both.
Dave
AFTERNOON
He tinkered with his Harley, polished the chrome. Ordinarily he would have done it outside, on the sidewalk, his shirt off, like now, because you never knew who might be driving by and stop, get together, dude. But the dusty wind did not allow that this afternoon. In his garage, he treated the leather seat with special soap, special shine, the odor of leather, of rough sex, so overwhelming that he paused to snort an amyl inhalant and felt such a rush that he rubbed his groin against the leather seat of the bike—
“Get on that fuckin’ bike, motherfucker, yeah, shove your face against it. Now pull down your fuckin’ pants. Down!” The lithe form did.
“Now spread ‘em, let me, see that hole beggin’. Yeah, motherfucker, you're right, I handcuffed you to the bars. Tighter? You feel that? Yeah, sniff the leather, sniff some amyl. Smell the leather of your master. Ye
ah, sniff, beg, beg for it, pig! You want this belt across your fuckin’ ass before I push my cock into your fuckin’ hole? Yeah? Yeah? Then feel it, you fuckin’ shit!”
His cock bore into the begging asshole—so deep it would come close to the leather on the seat of his spectacular machine. He would leave his cock buried, feeling it throb as he smelled the leather. “Beg, motherfucker, I said, beg, you cocksuckin’ queer! Beg for my fist up your fuckin’ queer ass—”
He stopped rubbing against the machine, and blocked his fantasy of a slave he would work over on it—stopped because in a few more strokes he would have come, dude, and he didn't want to waste that on fantasy.
Three
Many regular visitors choose not to walk on the grass in the park in West Hollywood. They prefer to wander among cleared paths, some of which lead to a lot with parallel bars and other gymnastic props. At times, the equipment there is used by young men showing off as indifferent cars drive along the bordering street. In another small lot nearby, there are a merry-go-round, a slide, a set of swings, and a few benches. Children swirl or play within enclosed pits of sand. Against one extremity of the park are two small buildings, one story, each the size of one large room.
Their location and a clutch of trees and shrubs about them tend to block the wind from that area on Sant'Ana days—today—but, then, the heat lingers, hovers, stays there.
Jesse
AFTERNOON
In his tight cutoffs and tank top Jesse strolled along Santa Monica Boulevard, welcoming the anxious wind that mussed his hair.
West Hollywood!
“Boys’ town,” some people called it. Whatever they called it, it was the place to live in California—although some claimed that in San Francisco things were even hotter, along Castro Street, and, in New York, the Village. He intended to visit both those cities. All gay men did. For now it was L.A.
He stopped at the French Quarter Cafe to have a green salad, iced tea, some fruit—he didn't care for junk food, what it did to the body.