Two

You can enter the park in West Hollywood from San Vicente Boulevard and walk in along or behind bleachers that form an L about the baseball field. Impromptu games occur on that field, seldom scheduled. From an adjacent court, the thump-thumping of a basketball is almost constant during the day, at times into evening. Young men join games in progress or wait for them to end so they may start their own. Within this pretty park, regular strollers glance at the players or move on along its many walks. Others remain on benches, reading, having a soft drink, a snack, or just resting.

These regular activities are altered, somewhat, during the Sant'Ana winds. Then, like today, everything seems astir.

Jesse

AFTERNOON

In his apartment, Jesse outfitted himself in the uniform of many gay men in West Hollywood, snug shorts, to show off his legs and round butt, a tight tank top, to show off his swimmer's torso and his slim waist, and Reeboks, without socks, to bring it all together.

Proud to be gay and sexy!

Older people—people over thirty—still had all those guilts about being gay. Guilty about what? he'd like to ask them. He wouldn't change being gay for anything in the world. He didn't have to march in the Gay Pride Parade to show he was proud. He did go, though, to cruise among all those showy guys without shirts, marching or watching. He always drew lots of admiring looks himself, and extended a lot. He wasn't what people called an activist. He showed his pride by being gay every moment of his life. What better way?

What was so special about being heterosexual? He had noticed that, very often, attractive heterosexual men didn't do much for themselves, let themselves get out of shape, wore baggy clothes. Gay men of the same age cared, went to the gym, stayed trim, healthy.

Best of all, at twenty-two—and, here, Jesse decided to wear his faded denim cutoffs, cut short, rather than the khaki shorts he had first pulled out—he had his whole life before him, the part of it that mattered. When he turned twenty-nine, he planned to die, just die. Growing old was kind of like dying, maybe worse because you were aware of growing old—making out less and less until you couldn't make out anymore.

Jesse couldn't imagine—and he would walk away from that sort of depressing talk—a time, not so far back according to older people—when just being in a gay bar exposed you to a vice raid and you could get busted for same-sex dancing. That old stuff was over, battles—he'd heard about them, who hadn't?—fought and won. Now everything was possible—you could dance all night with different guys at a dance bar, shirts off, pants lowered to the hips, assuming all kinds of sexy positions—wow!—and you'd be cruising all the time. Being gay allowed you freedoms others didn't have. Sure you had to be careful about crazies and muggers on the streets, and there were still vice arrests—but you could always call a gay lawyer, a cute one, and, chances were, he'd get you out of the stupid mess. The clap, you didn't even consider—except that you couldn't cruise for a few days—double ugh—and that was bad enough. The only problem—but get this for a problem!—was that sometimes you couldn't make out with everyone you wanted. so MANY MEN, so LITTLE TIME—he had a T-shirt that said that.

Jesse's attention was drawn back to the pool when he heard water splashing. The man sunbathing was still there.

When Jesse strolled out, wind whipped his hair about, giving him an even sexier look. Wow, would you look at that sky? Swept clear blue. But was there a hint of smoke in the air?

The man had now located himself in an area sheltered by swaying branches, the sun slipping past and spilling on the lounge chair where he stretched. The only others about the pool were a couple with two children, and an older guy in loose shorts—ugh—obviously straight. Others in the court had probably gone to the beach to cool off.

As Jesse walked past him, the man removed his sunglasses. Jesse returned his look. The man was about twenty-five—maybe twenty-seven, no older—and hot.

The man's eyes steadied on Jesse's firm buttocks, snug groin. Then he looked up, smiled. “Hi.”

“Hot, huh?” Jesse said.

“Very hot.” The man looked Jesse up and down.

Jesse sat on a lounging chair next to him, exhibiting his blond, tanned legs.

The man touched his own crotch, outlining the bulge there.

Nice, Jesse evaluated. Another thing about gay people, they liked to show a bulge at the crotch, even when there wasn't that much to show. Well, he was no size queen, but he wouldn't turn down a shortish fat one. A tiny one, that was another matter altogether. Although his preference was being fucked, he was glad he had a more than adequate cock. People often wanted to suck him, and he'd let them, dutifully, but eventually—and without any difficulty—he'd maneuver to get his choice.

Jesse touched the man's cock over the bikini, outlining it as it grew larger. The edge of his balls pushed out. Jesse waved with his free hand at the couple splashing with their children.

They waved back.

The man next to Jesse leaned back, stretching, reaching out to touch Jesse's buttocks. Jesse raised his butt, allowing the man's hand to probe under the short denim cutoffs, locating the parting, fingers poised there attempting—but the cloth resisted—to push one finger in. That felt hot! Jesse removed his own hand from the man's crotch, and the man's from his butt, and he stood up. “You gonna be around later tonight?”

“No,” the man reacted to the coming rejection. He turned away in forced indifference.

Another instinct among gay men, keen reaction to the first hint of rejection, Jesse knew. He hadn't intended to convey that to this guy.

“Too bad, because I'd really like to get together with you, but I don't have enough time.”

The man stood up and dove into the pool.

As Jesse moved out of the court and into the windy streets, he wondered whether the man would have understood if he'd explained that he had just now begun this day's trip, beginning to collect sexiness for late tonight, and that he must remain pure for this special night.

Buzz, Toro, Linda, Boo, and Fredo

AFTERNOON

“Crazy wind's messing my hair,” said Linda to Toro. “Maybe you oughtta put up the top.”

“I like the crazy wind,” Buzz said as they drove in Toro's Chevy to pick up Boo in another drudgy city in the Valley “The devil winds are supposed to make you crazy”

“So what do they do for you?” Linda asked.

Buzz wasn't sure if she'd insulted him.

Boo was waiting for them at Taco Bell. He hopped in without opening the door. He was seventeen, but he looked younger although he had a sideways glance that made him seem experienced, but maybe that was so because he had all those tattoos on his skinny arms, all jumbled. A cross on his hand looked more like something smashed. A guy had drawn it on him with spit and ink and a knife, when they were in Juv.

“That's Boo,” Toro said to Linda.

“Hi, little man.”

“Don't you never call me little,” Boo growled. “I ain't little.”

“Cool, man,” Toro ordered. “She didn't mean nothing.”

“Okay, but don't never—,” Boo said.

“I just meant you're cute,” Linda shrugged, then smiled.

Buzz knew how much Boo hated to be called little. He had called him that, once, and without warning Boo had punched him. Buzz would have returned the punch except that Toro interceded.

When they reached Fredo's “house” in a trailer park, Fredo was calling back into the open door, “I don't know when I'll fuckin’ be back. When you see me, you'll fuckin’ know.” A man's voice called out, “You son of bitch don't fuckin’ talk to your mother like that.”

A woman's voice called out, “Vé con Dios, mijo.”

“Shit, she wants me to go with God.” Fredo shook his head. Then he made a sign of the cross, touched the crucifix he wore about his neck. He was swarthy, dark. A big nineteen years old, he cultivated a twisted look to challenge anyone who gave him attitude. He had begun wearing boots with heavy reinforced toes and heels—like the “skinnies”—to go along with his shaved head.

He acknowledged Linda with his twisted look.

“I like your haircut, guy, Linda said.

“Keeps me cool.” Fredo exchanged looks with Buzz and Boo.

“Wassup with you guys?” Toro asked. “You fuckin’ flirtin’ with each other?”

That broke Linda up.

“Fuck, nuthin's wrong,” Buzz said.

“Nuthin’,” Boo and Fredo echoed.

“You believe them, Toro?” Linda said absently, as if she hadn't really heard what had been said. She pushed her hair back, held it, safe from the wind only for moments.

“Sure, I believe them, man,” Toro said. “They're my boys, ain't you, guys?”

“Word, man,” Buzz spoke out. He frowned when he saw Linda adjust something under her short skirt. Carrying what in her pants? Buzz didn't know why, but he had a hard-on. The Sant'Ana—that was it. No, it was Linda and that short skirt creeping up her legs. That and his anger at her.

“Why they call you Boo?” Linda asked him.

“Cause I don't even have to go, Boo! to scare no one.”

Linda pretended to shiver, “Oooh, bad boy, big bad boy.”

Buzz thought, Yeah, she's tough, but we're tougher. Would Toro stand with her or them, if it came to that?

“Where's the shit?” Toro asked casually.

Now Buzz could utter the prepared words. “The niggers were trying to pass off dummy shit—but we caught it.”

“Fuckin’ niggers, man,” Boo joined. “Thought they could fake us. Us!”

“Tried to shake us up for the bread.” Fredo shook his head. “But we messed them up bad.”

“Where's my money?” Toro's tone did not change.

Buzz was ready He brought out of his pocket the money Toro had donated for last night's deal. “Here.” Now there could be no question about what had gone down.

Linda counted the money. “Hey, Toro, guess what? These guys gave you an extra ten dollars, man. How'd that happen?”

Buzz frowned. “Huh?” He had counted the money, twice, to get it exact.

Father Norris

AFTERNOON

He knelt before the altar in the church.

After the pleading Hispanic woman had left, he had remained in his confessional, listened to the words of other confessors, just words. He asked no question to clarify sins, spoke words, blessed the confessors, meted out penance, the same each time.

When confessions were over, he remained inside the church, praying in a pew. Then he walked past the railing before the altar and knelt staring up at the crucified figure of Christ that looked down at him, the tortured but still adoring body violated, bleeding, bared, almost bared. He, our Divine Savior—He, that same figure in agony, was tattooed on the back of a young man roaming perverse streets. What message have You sent me through that woman, Lord? What is Your bidding?

Father Norris crossed himself, stood up. His eyes unmoving on the crucified body, he recited from the prayers of holy communion, making them his. “Never permit me to be separated from You. Let not the partaking of Your Body, O Lord Jesus Christ, which I, though unworthy, presume to receive, turn to my judgment and condemnation.” Aloud, he pled, “Help me, beloved Lord, to be ever faithful to Your love. Guide me to You by whatever path You choose.”

Za-Za and the Cast of Frontal Assault

AFTERNOON

With growing attention, for Mr. Smythe to detect through his steady binoculars, Za-Za studied his script from the beginning now. “An inspired script!” she shouted toward the veranda. But for these moments, Mr. Smythe seemed to be holding his focus on Wes Young. Was Mr. Smythe a foreskin queen?

LONG SHOT. Sergeant LARS HELMUT, lounging pool-side at the motel, naked as the day he was born, lifts telephone—no necessity for prop—and calls for a drink.

PANNING SHOT. Sergeant HELMUT stretches his unbelievable limbs, semi-hard-on just beginning.

CLOSEUP. Sergeant HELMUT'S semi-hard-on, growing.

ENTER. Gorgeous bellboy TONY PIAZZA, in ragged trunks that show the famous kangaroo on his ass.

Za-Za motioned anxiously to Tony Piazza to find trunks somewhere, not difficult since several had been strewn about. When he started to put on a pair—not ragged—she rushed at him, yanked them away, struggling with them until she had managed to bite and tear a huge chunk out of them. “There!”

“Wrong side if you want my tattoo to show,” Tony Piazza said.

“There!” She bit another chunk, threw the trunks at him, and read on as the performers awaited their entrances. Apart, Rex Steed remained steadfast in his cutoffs.

TONY PIAZZA

Here's your beer, sir. Would you like anything else?

LARS HELMUT

Yah, sug my dig, eat my balls.

TONY PIAZZA

Sir, Management has trained us to please our guests, but I don't—

LARS HELMUT forces TONY PIAZZA'S head over his formidable cock. With the other hand he rips off TONY PIAZZA'S ragged trunks.

EXTREME CLOSEUP. TONY PIAZZA'S ass quivering, puckering, quivering.

REVEAL. On another lounging chair, JIM BOND, naked as a jay bird, is jerking off while watching them.

JIM BOND

(softly only at first) Oooh, oooohh.

LARS HELMUT (to TONY PIAZZA)

Yah, I wanna fug your ass, fug your ass wid da kangaroo tattoo.

Za-Za's gaze was pulled toward the torturing sight of Tony Piazza's delectable fat cock—wasted, wasted, because it should be in something, preferably her ass. She felt a goosing sensation at her buttocks, but nothing outside it was creating it.

REVEAL. Straight Lover, played by spectacular REX STEED. He is so startled by what he sees that he drops his pants—

Now there was a stage direction she might find a way to adapt into an hommage to Mr. Smythe in her groundbreaking A Message from Out There. Za-Za read on.

CLOSEUP. The head of LARS HELMUT'S cock, a glistening dot on its tip, ready to enter TONY PIAZZA'S vibrating ass.

REX STEED

What the hell is goin’ on here?

Enough! “Action!” Za-Za shouted.

The performers in the first scene moved into their roles, bottoms preparing themselves with lubricant, Tony Piazza upstaging them by using only spit. With his sergeant's cap on, Lars Helmut flexed his muscles and lounged. Tony Piazza brought him the beer. Trunks yanked off, Tony Piazza deep-throated Lars Helmut and licked his balls, until Lars Helmut pronounced his desire to “fug” him and Tony Piazza bent over—

“Here's where you enter and drop your pants, Mr. Steed,” Za-Za followed the pivotal cue.

With intense concentration, Rex Steed opened a second button on his cutoffs, another, about to introduce his “ten inches plus.”

On the veranda, five pairs of binoculars steadied.

The cutoffs fell.

More like eight inches, Za-Za evaluated. But pas mat

While Wes Young and Dak Boxer idled by the pool and Huck Sawyer hopped about nervously in his famous briefs and Sal Domingo looked away from it all, Bellboy Tony Piazza stopped a quarrel from erupting between Sergeant Lars Helmut and his Straight Lover Rex Steed by dropping to his knees and sucking Rex Steed's cock. Rex Steed followed the script, verbatim.

REX STEED

Ummm, ummmmm, yeah, yeah, suck that ten-incher-plus.

TONY PIAZZA

Please, please, I want your big dick in my tight asshole, please, big stud.

“Yeah, I'll shove it way in, fuck the fuck out of your fuckin’ ass,” Rex Steed delivered his lines exactly as rehearsed.

“Yeah, stud, yeah.” Tony Piazza bent down, offering his buttocks. His head poking out between his spread legs, he smiled over at Jim Bond, who stopped “sugging” Lars Helmut long enough to answer, in kind, Tony Piazza's signal, fingers shaped into an “okay.”

Something beyond Mr. Smythe's precise directions was going on between those two sluts, Za-Za knew.

Tony Piazza raised his ass.

Rex Steed aimed.

Tony Piazza tightened his ass.

Rex Steed poked.

Tony Piazza squeezed his ass.

Rex Steed's cock slipped up and sideways on Tony Piazza's buttocks.

“Cummon, stud, push that eight-incher in—” Tony Piazza adjusted.

“Ten-incher—uh—plus,” Rex Steed attempted to correct.

“—push that eight-inch pole up my ass,” Tony Piazza retained his expert's assessment. “Cummon, just like you promised, straight stud.”

They were seriously deviating from Mr Smythe's script! Za-Za stood frozen in horror. Rex Steed was beginning to sweat—so unseemly for the blond beauty—thrusting, shoving clumsily, trying to penetrate the famous ass.

“What's the matter, stud?” Tony Piazza looked back and up at Rex Steed with innocent heavy-lidded eyes.

Za-Za wished she had shut her ears, that she had never heard Jim Bond, stopping his chomping on Lars Helmut's balls, say, “Maybe we'll have to let someone else be the straight lover.”

Dak Boxer and Wes Young volunteered, cocks and balls in hand.

“Stay where you are!” Za-Za ordered them.

“Oh, look,” said Huck Sawyer. He had rushed to the edge of the garden. He stood on tiptoes. He was pointing to the hill next to them. “A fire!”

An arc of flames and smoke, surreal, glowing orange, was pointing, distantly, toward Mr. Smythe's mansion.

Sal Domingo rushed over to look, leaning over the balusters next to Huck Sawyer. There was the distant sound of sirens.

On the veranda, Mr. Smythe stood up and shouted, “Proceed with my script!”

Detecting an acrid sting of smoke that portended sparks that might set her wig afire, Za-Za watched in horror as Rex Steed, sweating, still attempted—only attempted—to fuck the fuck out of Tony Piazza's locked ass.

Thomas Watkins

AFTERNOON

Invigorated by a touch of scotch, Thomas Watkins drove down the narrow roads of Laurel Canyon in his Cadillac—he bought a new one every few years. People said Cadillacs belonged to an “old time,” that only old people drove them. Not true. A Cadillac was the most elegant car. Thomas drove it proudly, enjoying its spacious luxury.

Herbert had left soon after the unsettling talk earlier, had left the way he always left, as if he had said nothing disturbing. Thomas often thought that he came over only to upset him. Otherwise, how to account for the fact that he always did?

Now he was going—He'd decide later. He simply had to leave the house after the unpleasant interlude with Herbert.

The young man down the road wasn't there. Naturally not, on this windy, dusty day Still, Thomas felt cheated. He always looked forward to the boy's cheerful greeting as he passed by.

He drove past the Hollywood Bowl—so many lovely orchestral evenings spent there listening to beautiful music under stars and palm trees, cherished evenings with friends, but shared with no one special, never anyone special—and into Hollywood Boulevard.

How wonderful this splendidly gaudy street had once been, with shops and curios and Orange Julius stands. Now it was dying. Once-grand theaters that had hosted great premieres, boarded permanently. The Egyptian Theater with its bronze statues and art nouveau ceiling, a burst of gold—forlorn now, its abandoned lobby unswept.

Look at that fuchsia pornography store—so crude—with those grotesque rubber manikins, one of a woman, the other of a man, both with gaping holes—holes!—for mouths, figures looking like unfinished giant puppets. Only once—out of curiosity—he'd gone into that cavernous sex magazine store on Melrose and had been accosted by displays of chemical inhalants, giant dildos with all kinds of attachments, contraptions—What did they do with all those things? Was that what had rushed out of the closet?

He drove past a surly group of young men and girls idling before a stained outdoor food stand. Why did they want to look unclean? He certainly was not an enemy of young people. Look at his affection for that young man down the road near his house. He did resent the “new gays,” as they called themselves, who denounced as “repressed” everything that had occurred before them.

Did they know that the behavior they derided and even judged had been demanded in those times of outrageous pressures? “Vice” roundups of bars, routine! A bullhorn blasting its command, “All queers march out in single file!” Show identification while you stood in the glare of headlights. When they demanded to know if you were queer, answer, No, or they'd arrest you. Still, a voice out of the crowd would inevitably shout back at the cops something like, “Oh, ladies, you're too much,” and a derisive chant of “Oh, Mary!” would go up among the captives—and right here in the City of Angels, gay men fought police raiding a popular bar, years before that protest in New York everyone talked about. He himself had said to an officer, “Don't push me!” The officer had been so stunned he released him. Thomas smiled at the treasured memory.

He was driving past what had once been a fabulous dance emporium, now a congregation hall for some demented fundamentalist religion.

Those times! “Soliciting”—a crime. Entrapment—rampant. Men ordered to register for life as “sex offenders,” forbidden to frequent “known gathering places for perverts,” police breaking into homes, violent headlines you lived with, “HUNDREDS OF PERVERTS ROUSTED, QUEERS QUESTIONED.” Sinners! Neurotics! Criminals!—judgments from pulpits, psychiatrists, the courts. Thomas had slowed toward Hollywood and Vine. Only Musso & Frank's Grill remained. Other great Hollywood restaurants—the Derby!—all gone! Ghosts of Astaire and Rogers—

Did those “new gays” spinning about like giddy tops in discos care to know that dancing with someone of the same sex was punishable as “lewd conduct” then? Still, a club in Topanga Canyon boasted a system of warning lights. When they flashed, lesbians and gay men shifted—what a grand adventure!—and danced with each other, laughing at the officers’ disappointed faces! How much pleasure—and camaraderie, yes, real kinship—had managed to exist in exile.

Did those arrogant young people know that, only years ago, you could be sentenced to life in prison for consensual sex with another man? A friend of his destroyed by shock therapy decreed by the courts. Another friend sobbing on the telephone before he slashed his wrists—

Thomas's hands on his steering wheel had clenched in anger, anger he had felt then, anger he felt now. And all those pressures attempted to deplete you, and disallow—

“—the yearnings of the heart,” he said aloud.

Yet he and others of his generation had lived through those barbaric times—and survived—those who had survived—with style. Faced with those same outrages, what would these “new gays” have done?

“Exactly as we did,” he answered himself.

The wind had resurged, sweeping sheaths of dust across the City, pitching tumbleweeds from the desert into the streets, where they shattered, splintering into fragments that joined others and swept away.

Now, they said, everything was fine, no more battles to fight. Oh, really? What about arrests that continued, muggings, bashings, murder, and hatred still spewing from pulpits, political platforms, and nightly from the mouths of so-called comedians? Didn't the “new gays” know—care!—that entrenched “sodomy” laws still existed, dormant, ready to spring on them, send them to prison? How could they think they had escaped the tensions when those pressures were part of the legacy of being gay? Didn't they see that they remained—as his generation and generations before his had been—the most openly despised? And where, today, was the kinship of exile?

He had neared Barnsdall Park. He never could pass by without turning up into the circular drive to delight in the splendor of the Hollyhock House. He did that now, and there it was, one of three homes built by Frank Lloyd Wright in the City, timeless architecture, old and futuristic. Oh, thank God for it!—and for the miracle of Monet's “Water Lilies,” La Divina Callas, and for Proust.

He had driven down Sunset, toward downtown, in the area known as Silverlake, down a side street, another—Where exactly was he? He slowed his car.

My God, there was the tunnel Herbert had mentioned. A gaping mouth, dark even at this time of day, opening from the street—

Thomas drove away from this terrible coincidence.

He turned, circled the long blocks—and parked his car, not near, away Having driven here—unintentionally—he wanted to see the place that Herbert claimed as his.

He walked there slowly, past an abandoned lot full of weeds, and, now, palm fronds shaken loose by the heated winds.

He stood at the mouth of the tunnel, looking up the stairs. He took one step in, another. The smell of urine assaulted him. Up ahead, at a landing on the concrete steps, a pale light—no, a shaft of light spilling from the street itself—created shadows. Actual lights within had been gouged out, shards of glass pulverized by shoes.

Thomas continued to stand in awe of this terrible place. Now he was able to see that on the walls of the fetid steps—certainly no one would use it to cross the street anymore—there were gnarled words, splotches of paint, carved scrawls. He walked a few steps up.

I WANT A BIG COCK UP MY ASS—Next to that, a crude giant penis had been etched into the wall.

SUCK MY BIG DICK—A long phallus, bags hanging from it.

Thomas squinted to read.

I WANT BIG HAIRY GUY TO WHIP MY ASS, SHOVE DILDO—

MEET ME 2/30 A.M.—SHOW HARD FOR BLOW—

Real proposals? Fantasies?

SIT ON MY FACE, I EAT ASS

—YOU DRINK PISS? EVERYTHING YOU GOT—

Who read these? Who scrawled them?

The rancid odor overwhelmed Thomas. He gagged. He covered his nose and moved farther up into the tunnel. He stood in the shaft of gray light from the street. He heard the rumble of a car above him. He heard the wind, distant, like moans. He heard a noise, scraping, scratching—He froze. The wind had hurled a tangle of weeds and trash from the street down the stairs. There it lay, gnarled, twisted, and—

Someone else was in the tunnel.

Orville

AFTERNOON

There were several gay neighborhood bars in the Silverlake area, a section of Los Angeles that bears spotty signs of better times, especially in spacious houses that perch away from it all on the slant of hills gathered about an artificial—silver—lake. Early Saturday afternoons in these bars, gay men gathered to shoot pool, drink beer, catch up on bar talk—and, of course, to cruise—but serious cruising occurs mostly at night.

When Orville walked out of his house earlier—he always paused to assess his surroundings, gentrified houses on hills dotted with wild flowers—he decided, definitely, that he would avoid the hot-night's cruising, sexy but also frantic if you got caught up in its fever. He would go to a couple of bars nearby, look them over, try to connect early, something mellow.

Holding on to his cowboy hat, he hopped into his pick-up and drove to one bar, had a beer, talked with friends, played a game of pool—no one there who interested him—and then drove away to another bar.

There, cars spilled out of the lot into side streets, everyone stirred by the Sant'Ana. Orville parked his pickup and cocked his hat. The wind tossed it into the street. As he ran to catch up with it, a car drove by, brakes screeching. That was always alarming in this area—lots of punks prowled, harassing gay men. The car had apparently stopped for him to reclaim his hat.

“Ride ‘em, cowboy!” Laughter.

Stupid kids, Orville dismissed the group driving away.

He walked into the bar, a heavy cruising bar at night. During the day, it was kept dark like all other gay bars. The flush of light announcing an entering presence always drew evaluating eyes, withdrawn if there was no further interest.

Orville paused at the entrance, his imposing figure a silhouette. From the sound of voices—and laughter, a forced laughter often heard in bars—he could tell there were many more men than usual, and that the more relaxed cruising of weekend afternoons would be replaced by more serious hunting. When his eyes adjusted, he walked in, recognizing a few acquaintances. Although it wasn't a leather bar, there were two or three men in leather. That scene was becoming so prevalent that you'd see leather guys even in dance bars, the silvery studs on their outfits blinking like sequins. Orville was not into leather, but if someone was attractive, he'd go with them, after informing them he wasn't into “S & M.”

He decided to sit alone, to signal availability. He waved at a cluster of men he recognized—maybe he had made it with one or another, wasn't exactly sure. They waved back, in tacit understanding of his separation. In sex-hunting places everything else became secondary to a conquest.

An attractive guy was staring at him, about thirty, masculine. “Buy you a beer?” the man asked Orville.

“I'll have one with you, but I'll pay for my own,” Orville said. He always liked to assert equality. As they sipped their beers—the shirtless bartender recognized Orville but discreetly kept from more than greeting him—Orville did what had long become automatic for him. He looked for signals that this man was not interested in him because he was black. Even when two men indicated interest in each other in a gay bar, their eyes were constantly searching about, evaluating other possibilities. Orville noticed, with the usual relief this precipitated, that the man's eyes glided away toward attractive white men and then returned to him. Orville moved his leg so that it touched the man's groin. The man's cock was hardening.

“Your place or mine?” the man asked.

“Mine,” Orville offered, always proud to show off his home.

Outside, Orville stood deliberately for seconds in the bright glare of the afternoon. The two exchanged directions about where their cars were parked, where they would meet, one to follow the other.

“Nice place,” the man complimented Orville's house. They were in the living room. He pointed at the enlarged photographs of glamorous stars. “Those are great.”

Not surprised by his home—and he had admired the photographs, easily. Orville noticed that the man's chest was brushed with hairs, just dark enough to show, a turn-on. Plus the guy had slim hips, another turn-on. This would be a real good scene, Orville was sure. He would keep his cowboy hat on, his boots, and—

The man took off Orville's hat, placing it on a chair nearby. Then he groped Orville's crotch. “Wow.”

Bewildered for only a moment—maybe the wind had tilted the hat precariously and the man had intended only to adjust it—Orville reached for the other's groin. This was just preparation. They'd move into the bedroom, take off each other's clothes. He'd keep the boots on.

The man pushed Orville's hand away. “No, let me.” He slid down on his knees, unbuttoning Orville's jeans, pulling off his boots, the pants. As he knelt before Orville's hardening cock, he seemed to be whispering to himself.

What? Muttered words. Orville listened instead to the wind.

The man's mouth opened, sliding Orville's cock into it, sucking hungrily, making urgent, gagging sounds.

Orville reached down, to touch the man's crotch. The man pushed his hand away. “No. Let me. I want to suck your big, bl—”

Orville thrust his cock into the man's throat, throttling the words.

The man pushed his head forward, swallowing the cock, gurgling as if gasping, allowing the cock to slip out, grasping for it with his mouth, swallowing it again. He pulled back and stared up at Orville. “You like to see a white man on his knees sucking your big dick? Yeah, look down at me while I deep-throat your big black cock.”

Orville closed his eyes.

“Yeah!” The man was groveling on the floor, running his tongue around Orville's balls, up the length of the cock, interrupting himself only to gasp, “Black cock. I'm sucking off a black stud. Ummmm. Look down at me, black stud—ummm—look at this white man sucking your big black cock. Ummm-ummmm. Yeah! I'm your white cocksucker—sucking black cock.”

Orville shoved the man back. Excited, the man crawled toward him. “Yeah, black stud, yeah, push me away, call me your white queer!” “That's it, man,” Orville said. “Get the fuck out of here!”

Paul

AFTERNOON

“You didn't believe I'd go out and cruise, did you, Stanley?” Sitting on the porch of their house, Paul could hear the wind stir distant waves. “I know why, too, because all along you've taken me for granted. I've been stupid to put up with your bullshit.”

“I'm really sorry, Paul. You call the shots now. Nothing's worth losing you. I'm not going to San Francisco, not this weekend, not next. Let's fuck, babe, cummon. I love you. Why else would I have driven back from the airport?”

But he hadn't. Paul sat alone on the screened porch that had charmed him and Stanley when they had leased this house by the beach. He had been sitting there since shortly after Stanley left, imagining that he would turn around at the corner and come back. When time stretched, he imagined him turning off the freeway. Then he imagined him rushing back from the airport.

Would he be able to go out on him? The bars would be charged with sex on this hot, windy day

Paul had been very active soon after he came out—hunting for sex every night, several encounters in one day. That had been before Stanley. Unlike others who welcomed that life, who wanted only lots of sex, never with the same person twice, Paul was always looking for one person to share his life—friend, companion, lover. During those times of cruising bars and discos and, soon, shadowy parks, dark alleys, spontaneous orgies in garages, it became difficult to enumerate how many people he had made it with, and, even then, he would still be left unsatisfied—and curiously frightened. He would imagine what it would be like to wake up with someone he would get to know, would have breakfast with, go out with, and return home with to have great sex. He did not narrow the possibilities by creating a strict fantasy of what that person would have to be. He would know when he met him.

He did, when he met Stanley at a disco. They kept abandoning other partners to dance with each other. Soon, they were dancing only together, both shirtless, gyrating back, back, and then toward each other, closer, dancing pressed against each other, open mouth on open mouth, flesh on flesh, tongues probing, hard cock against hard cock. And they talked!—outside, between dances, as they stood cooling off on a balcony, talking about themselves and asking about each other, asserting their identities.

There followed “the perfect almost year” that included their moving in together into the small house in Venice. Whether during that time Stanley went with others, Paul would wonder only later. Not then. All he knew, then, was that he was happy, and that he did not miss the world of anonymous sex which had begun to terrify him.

Stanley did miss it. That became clear with sudden absences, quarrels—and it all led to their present arrangement, Paul “faithful,” Stanley in what he chose to call “a committed open relationship—and no contacts within the same city”

Paul had, at first, tried to equalize the arrangement. When Stanley was gone, he went to discos, only to discos so that he could tell himself he had “gone dancing.” That would turn out to be true. When an agreement was made to go home with someone, he would separate with an excuse—“I just remembered”—and go home, hoping Stanley would be back. But Stanley never came back early, often extended his days away.

That son of a bitch made me come while I blew him and he had no intention of coming—thinking that would pacify me. “This is it, Stanley,” Paul said aloud. “No more. I swear it.”

Inside, he stood over the turntable where Stanley had left the record he'd played last night, “Judy Garland's Greatest Hits.” No question about it, Garland was a great performer, but she made Paul nervous with that edge-of-despair note in her voice. Gay people said things had changed a lot, but Garland remained a favorite among many gay men, often a closet favorite. He replaced the Garland record with a favorite of his own, from last year, Geraldine Hunt and “Can't Fake the Feeling.”

The telephone rang.

Stanley! He would be calling from San Francisco, to say he was coming back. Maybe he'd just waited at the airport, here, didn't even take the plane, thinking it all out, and now—

“Hello?”

No answer. Hang-up. A wrong number. Oh, no, it was Stanley—Paul was sure of it—Stanley, making certain he was still home—Stanley, rushing back to him, at this very moment. Paul lifted the needle from the turntable, to stop the record Stanley wouldn't like. The needle slipped and scratched across the surface.

Nick

AFTERNOON

He'd gotten into three cars—and not a single hustle had worked since that cocksucker jerked himself off in his car. The reason he'd come out earlier than usual was to make extra bucks, maybe rent a motel room for himself tonight, watch TV Sant'Anas made you weird, man, and if you became frantic on the street, you didn't make out. Where the fuck was all the money today?

“Hustling?” A man had stopped his car at Nick's corner.

“Yeah.”

“How much to blow you?”

“Fifty.”

“Okay Get in.”

Nick did, and saw, ahead, a guy standing at a corner, an older man. That's how they worked, in two's. A cop picked you up, drove to a corner where another cop stood, both would flash badges, cuff you.

“Changed my mind,” Nick said, and jumped out, sure he'd saved himself from being busted.

When he looked back, he saw that the man he had seen at the corner was a woman—the dusty wind and his imagination had converted her into a man.

Goddammit! The guy hadn't been a cop, and look at him taking off with another hustler. Fifty bucks blown away. What the fuck was happenin’ today, man?

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 the 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. Yeah, 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.