Rushes by John Rechy

Author:John Rechy
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Grove/Atlantic, Inc.
Published: 1979-11-08T05:00:00+00:00

II

Dominus vobiscum. Et cum spiritu tuo.

8

We give You thanks for Your great glory.

AS OFTEN as he comes to prowl the electric city. Tim is still raided by excitement and fear as he moves like a night animal through the battered landscape. When he does so, he is determined to abandon even the vestiges of his identity beyond the night, compressing its experiences into a pastless present. The boundaries between the two emotions are at times indistinguishable; at times one feels like the other. Even when its scratches bloody him, he is determined never to show the fear constantly there. He conquers it by generating it. His stance and his swagger flash toughness, and a look of surly anger warns. That look slides at the appropriate time into a sexual invitation.

Tim’s face has a crooked angularity which augments his sexuality. His body has the deep outlines of a gymnast’s.

He just left an apartment where he went with a man he met earlier near the Rushes. Although the waterfront is not a malehustling area, Tim can make out. Even among the abundance of free sex along the piers, in the trucks, the bars, there are men, older or not attractive, who spill out rejected.

When the turf known for hustling teems with other young bodies for sale, and there are fewer buyers than sellers, Tim will shift to the waterfront. Sometimes he goes there first, without checking out the surer territory. He carries his hustling stance like a medal into what he considers enemy turf. And he connects there. But not as often as he tells himself.

Because he comes to the area of the waterfront in order to feel outrage and rage.

He loves to watch the men who hunt there for malesex. He cherishes the anger the sight of them elicits; it purges him, soothes him. When they know or suspect he’s hustling, he affronts them, and they look away, as he does—glancing at them as they move often in their strange costumes into the weird bars. When he shoots his cum later with a client, it is as if he has fired his anger like a gun at all the sights he collected.

Earlier, he asked the man he went home with for $10 more than he agreed to, “for cab fare.” He said the words with a crooked ominous smile, and he got the money, as he usually does. As always, he hated the man who licked his stripped body and gave him a fierce hardon. When he came into the man’s mouth—shutting his eyes, pushing his cock as if to choke the man—his fists bunched. There is always that moment in which he is sure he will batter the retreating head. But the next moment he feels a wrenching in his stomach, which weakens him, as when a blow connects. His hands remain fists for only seconds. Then they open up, exhausted as if they have done invisible battle. He feels the men who pick him up pay him to hate them, and he feels they hate him even while desiring him.

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