The Sexual Outlaw: A Documentary

By John Rechy

From the award-winning writer, “a passionate manifesto for gay rights by an author who openly and unapologetically identifies himself as a participant” (People).
 
In this angry, eloquent outcry against the oppression of homosexuals, the author of the classic City of Night gives “an explosive non-fiction account, with commentaries, of three days and nights in the sexual underground” of Los Angeles in the 1970s—the “battlefield” of the sexual outlaw. Using the language and techniques of film, Rechy deftly intercuts the despairing, joyful, and defiant confessions of a male hustler with the “chorus” of his own subversive reflections on sexual identity and sexual politics, and with stark documentary, reports of the violence our society directs against homosexuals—“the only minority against whose existence there are laws.”
 
“An intelligent, persuasive and, in its way, heartbreaking manifesto.” —The New York Times
 
“A jolting book . . . An intense, personal, and courageous document. A book written out of rage, unnerving, thought provoking.” —Los Angeles Times
 
Praise for John Rechy
 
“Rechy shows great comic and tragic talent. He is truly a gifted novelist.” —Christopher Isherwood, author and playwright
 
“His tone rings absolutely true, is absolutely his own, and he has the kind of discipline which allows him a rare and beautiful recklessness. He tells the truth, and tells it with such passion that we are forced to share in the life he conveys. This is a most humbling and liberating achievement.” —James Baldwin, novelist, playwright, and activist
 
“His uncompromising honesty as a gay writer has provoked as much fear as admiration . . . John Rechy doesn’t fit into categories. He transcends them. His individual vision is unique, perfect, loving and strong.” —Carolyn See, author of Dreaming: Hard Luck and Good Times in America

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Dec 1, 2007
• ISBN: 9781555847326

John Rechy

John Rechy is the author of seventeen books, including City of Night, Numbers, Rushes and The Coming of the Night. He has received many awards, including PEN Center USA's Lifetime Achievement Award and the Lifetime-Recognition Award from the University of California at Riverside. He lives in Los Angeles.

Book preview

The Sexual Outlaw

Other Books by John Rechy

CITY OF NIGHT

NUMBERS

THIS DAY'S DEATH

THE VAMPIRES

THE FOURTH ANGEL

RUSHES

THE COMING OF THE NIGHT

The Sexual Outlaw

For all the anonymous outlaws.

And for the memory of my mother.

Copyright © 1977 by John Rechy

Foreword copyright © 1984 by John Rechy

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Scanning, uploading, and electronic distribution of this book or the facilitation of such without the permission of the publisher is prohibited. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated. Any member of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use, or anthology, should send inquiries to Grove/Atlantic, Inc., 841 Broadway, New York, NY 10003 or [e-mail].

Published simultaneously in Canada

Printed in the United States of America

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Rechy, John.

        The sexual outlaw.

        1. Homosexuals, Male—California. 2. Prostitution, Male—California. 3. Sexual deviation—California.

I. Title.

HQ76.2U5R43      1984      306.7′43′09794      83-49452

ISBN 9781555847326

Grove Press

an imprint of Grove Atlantic, Inc.

841 Broadway

New York, NY 10003

Distributed by Publishers Group West

www.groveatlantic.com

10  11  12  13  14      15  14  13  12  11  10  9  8  7

CONTENTS

FOREWORD

FRIDAY

11.07 A.M.  The Apartment. The Gym.

1:04 P.M.  Santa Monica. The Beach.

2:25 P.M.  The Pier.

VOICE OVER: Promiscuous Rage

3:48 P.M.  The Restroom by the Pier.

MONTAGE: The City

5:12 P.M.  Hollywood Boulevard.

5:39 P.M.  Selma.

FLASHBACK: Selma. A Year and a Half Ago.

5:55 P.M.  Selma.

6:17 P.M.  Laurel Canyon. Someone's Home.

VOICE OVER: Interview 1

7.01 P.M.  Selma. The Hustling Bar. Selma.

8:05 P.M.  Dellwith.

9:08 P.M.  Downtown Los Angeles.

10:32 P.M.  Greenstone Park.

FLASHBACK: Greenstone Park. A Year Ago.

MIXED MEDIA 1

10:34 P.M.  Greenstone Park.

11:48 P.M.  Montana Street. Hanson Avenue.

12:10 A.M.  The Apartment.

VOICE OVER: Interview 2

12:35 A.M.  Montana Street. Hanson Avenue.

12:47 A.M.  Sutton Street.

1:15 A.M.  The Street and Alley Outside the Hawk Bar.

VOICE OVER: Selective Sins and Exhortations

2:22 A.M.  The Alley and Streets Near the Target Bar.

2:51 A.M.  Outside Andy's.

3:05 A.M.  The Garages, Yards, and Alleys Along Bierce Place.

VOICE OVER: Four Factions of the Rear Guard

3:40 A.M.  Albertson Avenue.

FLASHBACK: A House. Last Week.

3:46 A.M.  Terrace Circle.

4:12 A.M.  Greenstone Park.

VOICE OVER: Cops and Muggers

4:16 A.M.  Montana Street. Hanson Avenue.

4:24 A.M.  The Apartment.

SATURDAY

10:08 A.M.  The Apartment. The Gym.

11:05 A.M.  Greenstone Park.

12:23 P.M.  Griffith Park.

12:34 P.M.  Griffith Park. The Hill.

FLASHBACK: Griffith Park. Ten Years Ago.

VOICE OVER: Consenting Adults, Explorer Scout Girls, and Glittering Bisexuals

1:12 P.M.  Griffith Park. The Hill.

1:38 P.M.  Griffith Park. The Road. A Path.

1:47 P.M.  Griffith Park. The Isolated Cove.

MONTAGE: The City

2:12 P.M.  Griffith Park. The Road. Another Hill.

2:47 P.M.  Griffith Park. The Arena.

3:05 P.M.  Griffith Park. Along the Road.

4:04 P.M.  The Movie Arcade.

MIXED MEDIA 2

5:02 P.M.  Hollywood Boulevard. Selma.

FLASHBACK: Christmas Eve. Two Years Ago. Selma.

5:08 P.M.  Selma.

5:25 P.M.  Roo's Home.

VOICE OVER: Hustlers, Clients, and Eminent Psychiatrists

6:56 P.M.  Griffith Park. The Twilit Road.

7:14 P.M.  Griffith Park. The Lower Areas.

VOICE OVER: Getting Involved

8:44 P.M.  Greenstone Park. The Area of the Garage on Oak Street. Greenstone Park.

VOICE OVER: The Gay Parade

11:47 P.M.  Selma.

VOICE OVER: Beyond the Fag Hag

12:31 A.M.  Santa Monica Boulevard and Highland Avenue.

12:38 A.M.  A Side Street Near West Hollywood.

12:51 A.M.  Santa Monica Boulevard and Highland Avenue.

FLASHBACK: The Beach at Night. A Week Ago.

12:55 A.M.  Santa Monica Boulevard and Highland Avenue.

VOICE OVER: The Gay Sensibility

1:09 A.M.  The Lots and Alleys Near the Costume Bars.

2:17 A.M.  The Garage on Oak Street.

FLASHBACK: The Garage. A Year Ago.

2:21 A.M.  Oak Street. The Garage. The Tunnels. The Shed. The Street.

VOICE OVER: The Gay Threat

4:08 A.M.  The Apartment.

SUNDAY

7:34 A.M.  The Apartment.

FLASHBACK: Griffith Park. An Early Sunday Morning.

11:07 A.M.  The Apartment.

12:02 P.M.  Griffith Park. The Isolated Hill.

FLASHBACK: Griffith Park. Nine Years Ago.

MONTAGE: The City

1229 P.M.  Griffith Park. The Roads. The Hills.

1:12 P.M.  Griffith Park. The Beginning of the Invasion.

1:28 P.M.  Griffith Park. The Invasion.

3:54 P.M.  Griffith Park. The Detention Compound

MIXED MEDIA 3

VOICE OVER: Imaginary Speech to Heterosexuals

4:58 P.M.  The Movie Theater.

6:06 P.M.  The Afternoon and Early-Evening Bar. Another Bar. The Turf Bar.

FLASHBACK: Somewhere in Los Angeles. Last Summer.

VOICE OVER: The Ugly Gay World

7:16 P.M.  Hollywood Boulevard. Selma.

FLASHBACK: Selma. Ten Years Ago.

7.23 P.M.  Selma.

7:45 P.M.  A House in the Hills.

8:30 P.M.  Selma.

VOICE OVER: S & M

8:59 P.M.  The Baths.

10:35 P.M.  Outside the Tool Bar. The City. The Lot Outside the Turf Bar.

VOICE OVER: S & M vs. S & M

11:26 P.M.  The Parking Lot Outside the Turf Bar.

VOICE OVER: Contradictions, Ambivalences, and Considerations

11:44 P.M.  The Tunnel Near Sutton. Hollywood Boulevard. Santa Monica Boulevard. Selma. Terrace Circle, Bierce Place, Greenstone Park.

VOICE OVER: Attack!

1:06 A.M.  Outside the Tool Bar.

1:23 A.M.  Outside the Turf Bar. A Parking Lot. The Alley.

2:08 A.M.  A Deserted Part of the Beach.

VOICE OVER: The Sexual Outlaw

2:42 A.M.  The Orgy Room.

3:44 A.M.  Selma. Greenstone Park. Montana Street. Han son Avenue.

4:15 A.M.  The Garage on Oak Street. The Tunnels. The Garage. Greenstone Park. Montana Street. Han son Avenue. The Garage.

FOREWORD

I conceived of this book as a prose documentary. The stark style I attempted—different from that of all my other books— and its black-and-white imagery are intended to suggest a documentary film. The essays function as voice-overs and speak at times in affirmation of Jims actions, at other times in questioning, still others in argument, even opposition. The deliberate fluctuations and contradictions are essential to the meaning of this book.

In writing The Sexual Outlaw, I attempted what I consider a new approach to the so-called non-fiction novel: I arranged random real experiences so that their structured sequence would stand for narrative development. Although there is a protagonist whom the book follows intimately, minute by recorded minute for a full weekend, there is no strict plot. Although there is a vast cast of characters, most are nameless and appear only briefly as their lives intersect with the short segment—virtually pastless—of Jims life isolated for attention here. I wanted to create characters, including the protagonist, who might be defined fully—by inference—only through their sexual journeys.

This book was composed in two main parts: the experiential passages in which the protagonist, Jim, sexhunts throughout Los Angeles for three days and nights; and various essay-style sections. The experiential chapters were written first, straight through, with only noted designations of where a certain essay would be inserted later. Then I wrote the individual essay sections.

Since the initial publication of this book, some changes have occurred and new, profound dangers have emerged within the world it describes; and so this book remains today as a prose-documentary reflecting a certain time, one composite weekend in the mid-1970s.

Because several of the essays are identified by definite dates—all in the 1970s—I considered revising parts of them for this present, new edition: But reading over those essays, I realized—sadly—that in far too many instances the dates identifying journalistic stories or headlines might be brought forward in time, and the same documented outrages would still reflect today's troubling realities.

John Rechy

Los Angeles, 1984

Living an experience, a particular fate, is accepting it fully.… It is not a matter of explaining and solving, but of experiencing and describing.

—ALBERT CAMUS,

The Myth of Sisyphus

And still deeper the meaning of that story of Narcissus, who because he could not grasp the tormenting, mild image he saw in the fountain, plunged into it and was drowned. But that same image, we ourselves see…. It is the image of the ungraspable phantom of life; and this is the key to it all.

—HERMAN MELVILLE,

Moby Dick

The Sexual Outlaw

11.07 A.M.    The Apartment The Gym.

HE PREPARES his body for the hunt. A dancer at the bar. A boxer in the ring. Prepares ritualistically for the next three days of outlaw sex. The arena will be streets, parks, alleys, tunnels, garages, movie arcades, bathhouses, beaches, movie backrows, tree-sheltered avenues, late-night orgy rooms, dark yards.

The city is Los Angeles.

Beyond the window of his apartment, yellow-green palmtrees stand aloofly. Later they will watch distantly as he prowls through the floating sexual underground.

He is stripped to sweat-faded cutoffs. His pectorals are already pumped from repetitions of dumbbell presses on a bench, inclined, flat, then declined; engorged further by dumbbell flyes extending the chest muscles into the sweeping spread below the collar. His lats—congested from set after set of chin-ups—slow, fast, wide-grip, medium-grip, weights strapped about his waist for added resistance that will allow him to do only half-chins as the muscles protest-flare from armpits to mid-torso. His legs are rigid from squats held tense at half-point.

Round, full, his arms are hard, hard from sets of curls, the dumbbell an appendage of strength and power in his hands. The horseshoe indention at his triceps is engraved sharply by repetitions of barbell extensions.

Now the barbell—chrome, red-collared—rests at his feet. Dark weights are balanced harmoniously on each side of the bar. He bends over, jerking the bar widely in one move to his shoulders, and barely pausing, lifts it over his head and lowers it behind his neck. The deltoid muscles waken in welcome shock. One repetition, another, and another. Eight. Nine. Ten. He reverses the motions, places the bar at his feet. Breathing deeply, he moves away from the bar for thirty seconds only. Sweat coats his body like oil and stains the cutoffs at his groin. Deliberately he avoids the mirror on the wall. That crucial encounter comes only at the last.

He does another set of standing presses with the loaded barbell, heavier now with added dark round plates. Seven sets in all, decreasing repetitions, adding weight each set.

He lies on the bench, declined, his feet strapped at the ankles with a belt at the upper end. He raises his torso only a few precious inches, hands at his back, crunching the abdominal muscles until the ridges ache. Seventy-five repetitions. His stomach demands to stop. Twenty-five more. Muscles strain against the flesh. Twenty-five more.

He jumps off the bench. He's panting, his body is electric.

He looks down at the loaded barbell. He will attempt one more press. He adds plates to each side. He raises the bar to his shoulders, begins to lift it over his head. Muscles protesting, the weight pauses midway. His will insists. He challenges the moment's stasis.

Breathing orgasmically, he exhales and with a thrust of his hips he raises the bar over his head.

Now in its mysterious rite of destruction and construction, the body is rushing fresh blood to pulsing muscles, making them stronger and bigger, preparing them for the next, heavier onslaught, the next steel workout. Tomorrow his muscles will be larger than today.

He stands before the mirror. His cock strains against the sweat-bleached cutoffs.

1:04 P.M.    Santa Monica. The Beach.

He parked his car in the lot near the crumbling pier. Here, tribal crowds thin into exile territory. Near a squat, short restroom, men on towels watch new arrivals to the beach.

As he walks on the hot sand, he carries a beach mat and a thermos full of protein to feed his muscles throughout the day. He's wearing his workout trunks over a very brief bikini which snaps at the sides. His already copper tan is rendered deeper by a film of oil. From behind blue-tinted sunglasses, he surveys those gathered here, intercepts looks—but he moves along the sand toward the ocean. Like the day and the sky, the ocean is blue and magical.

At the edge of the beach, huge, rough rocks separate this portion from another. He climbs over them, toward the fire-gutted skeleton of a pier. Decaying boards slant toward the sand. The beach extends in a lapping tongue; men lie singly in that parabola of sand—the more committed in brief bikinis, or almost naked—genitals sheltered only by bunched trunks.

Locating his beach mat, Jim strips to the white bikini; he pushes it up even farther on his thighs. He drinks from the thermos of protein. Now he stretches on the sand, eyes closed, aware of prowling figures rehearsing for the balletic cruising already commencing mutely under the shadowy pier.

Not yet. For him, not yet.

Jim—he calls himself mat sometimes, sometimes Jerry, sometimes John—removes the bikini, lies boldly naked on the sand. Because of a mixture of Anglo and Latin bloods, his skin quickly converts the sun's rays into tan; the tan turns his eyes bluer; long-lashed eyes which almost compromise the rugged good looks of his face, framed by dark hair. The sun licks the sweat from his body.

As he lies passive to the sun's indifferent love, he imagines how his body looks to others: naked, tanned, hairs gleaming, muscles sequined with sweat on oil….

He wakes abruptly. A youngman is squatting next to him, hand sliding along Jim's muscled body toward the hardening cock.

A few yards away, an old fisherman, his wife huddled on the shore like ragged flotsam beside him, throws his line into the restive ocean.

2:25 P.M.    The Pier.

Jim twisted his body away from the youngman's spidery touch. Not yet. He wanted more sun; he lay longer like a sacrificial warrior surrendering to it.

Now he's ready. He drinks again from the thermos. He puts on the sweat-faded cutoffs, leaving the bikini, his sunglasses, the thermos, and the beach mat in a secluded place. He looks at the gutted pier.

Years ago it supported a carnival street, brazen in its garish tackiness, a discord of colors and architecture waning furiously. Tattoo parlors with butterflies, hearts, nude women; arcades lighting up neon pinball mazes; imitation-foreign restaurants with patchwork faces. Then came the rock groups and their followers, the flowers in their hair soon to wilt; summer radicals drove out old sailors and derelicts. Inevitably the dinosauric demolition machines came crushing everything into dust. The shells of buildings remained, as if the pier had been bombed. Then came fire. And another fire. The pier became a blackened skeleton. Below it, a subterranean world thrived among falling posts and dank sand.

A gladiator, Jim stares at the arena under the pier. The sunlight stops sharply at the mouth of the rotting wooden cavern. An invisible boundary observed by the light. Beyond the twilight opening, the mouth darkens deeply.

As he moves into the periphery of the dusky cavern, he's aware of his bare feet touching the hot sand. He pauses, to feel the texture of the grains of crushed white earth. At first there is the heat of the sand, where the sun has scorched for hours. Just at the moment that he would have moved to break the sensation of heat, his feet sink below the surface. He looks down. Among the pale grains, some gleam in glassy pinpoints. The sand forms mounds. As his feet move barely, feeling the surface heat again but not as intense, the sand forms new curves, almost pinnacles. Rushing grains slide down to fill new hollows. He sees shapes of vague geometry. He looks a few feet away and sees a series of ripples in the sand. A choppy breeze chose this one area to carve. Only a few inches away, the beach is moist where the retreating tide clung farthest. There, the sand looks brown. He sees the undecipherable message the scratchy footprints of a bird have left. He walks toward the moist parabola. Only his toes touch the moist section. His heels remain on the hot dry beach. He's aware—but the perception is not as clear as he anticipated—of the dual sensation. He stands there for moments. Then he buries his feet deliberately in the moisture. He feels the cool grains of sand sliding, surrounding. He takes a few more steps and looks back at his footprints molded parallel to the scratchings of the bird. He inhales the odor of water and sand and seaweeds and the moisture clinging to the sunless rotting pier. He presses one foot, to etch a deeper footprint on the wet sand. Then he moves on.

Under the pier, the sand is moist. He passes from day to twilight to night in moments. In this darkness only violence or sex can happen. An experienced hunter, Jim knows that although he sees no one yet in the murky mist—and his eyes are adjusting quickly—soon, very soon, figures will emerge. Shadows within shadows.

For moments, he stands in the twilit area; exhibiting his body, making sure, as always, that he is clearly seen.

Look. There's a black solitary outline in the depths of the pier. Jim moves farther into the shadowed world. The sand, untouched by the sun, becomes wetter. His eyes adjust totally.

Beyond, the tide rises. Swoosh! Swoosh. Swoosh! Swoosh. Sounds echoing in the dark. Through slits left exposed by boards fallen in diagonal patterns on the sand, shafts of light penetrate like cold knives.

Jim moves fully into exile country. Just as he knew, there are many other outlaws here. At least six shadows materialize into bodies as they glide closer like hypnotized birds. Against a pole, two men are pasted to each other. Muted sighs and moans blend with the lapping sound of the ocean beyond.

Knowing that a loose circle of ghostly figures is focusing on him as he stands in a pocket of dim light, Jim pulls out his cock as if to piss. Quickly, a tall slender young outlaw holds Jim's cock. Almost as quickly, a short, tightly sculpted, goodlooking youngman, completely naked, trunks in his hand, is licking Jim's sweaty chest. The moist tongue slides down Jim's stomach, encloses the cock still held by the tall one. For seconds only, Jim inches farther into the dim-lit cave within the darker cave, so that his gleaming body being adored will be visible like a pornographic photograph.

Moving back into the shadows, Jim reaches down and grasps the blood-flushed cock of the youngman sucking him. It feels like an extension of his own. Now both Jim and the naked youngman stand, cocks pressed together in one thick shaft, which the tall one sucks.

Other shadows cluster, watching, forming other intimate groups nearby. The tall youngman licks Jim's balls, the tongue explores his buttocks. Swiftly turning his body around, torso bending forward, back to Jim, the naked youngman parts his own buttocks, inviting Jim's full cock to enter the waiting asshole. With his finger, Jim feels the tiny knot of flesh, locating the entry for his cock. The tall man thrusts his tongue into the crack of Jim's buttocks. The naked youngman reaches back, guiding Jim's cock into the saliva-moistened ass.

But now Jim's not sure he wants to fuck. A switch has been touched, loosing an electric sexuality; he does not want to end the scene with orgasm—not yet; his flexing muscles are riding on the kinetic motion of the earlier workout; he will require much more than these moments’ sextime.

But the firm round ass grinds, insisting. Jim lets his erect cock touch the puckered point of entry, and then slide up against the crack, mixed sweat lubricating cock, ass, pubic hair. The tall youngman slides on the sand between Jim's arched legs and licks his balls. With one hand Jim grasps the slender waist of the naked youngman, with the other he holds the other's round cock about to burst.

Clustered throughout under the crumbling boards in the water-decayed cavern, other outlaw torsos shine darkly in the mottled light. The sound of sucking, of sliding flesh. Sighs. Sounds of orgasm float through the darkness.

Two more outlines have materialized about Jim—he feels more mouths. His mind explodes with outlaw images: men and men and men, forbidden contacts, free, time crushed, intimate forbidden strangers.

Sensations increase, a tongue slides over his balls, another on his ass, his cock still only simulating entry into the anxious asshole. And now his lips are on those of a beautiful youngman suddenly beside him, and in one swift thrust Jim's cock enters the grinding ass, and his hand holds the squirting cock of the naked youngman he's fucking.

Male and male and male, hard limbs, hard cocks, hard muscles, hard stomachs, strong bodies, male and male.

Jim is close to coming. His hand is sticky with the cum of the naked youngman he's still fucking, and he rubs the moist cum on the face of the tall man licking his balls, and Jim and the beautiful youngman continue to kiss.

Not yet!

Jim breaks away from the bodies.

Again in the shaft of light, he adjusts his trunks. Carefully avoiding the broken boards, the rusted nails, he moves toward the sun. Into the bright beach.

He blinks.

He returns to his beach mat, again he drinks from the thermos of protein.

Removing his trunks, he walks naked into the ocean's tide, letting the water wash his body.

The old fisherman and his ragged wife continue obliviously staring toward the horizon vanishing in the rising mist.

Clothes adjusted now—the warm sun evaporating the moisture on his body—blue-tinged sunglasses covering his eyes again, beach mat rolled, thermos under one arm, Jim looks at the dark shell of crumbling pier. Nothing seems to move there, no sound comes from it.

A youngman emerges from out of the scorched darkness. He and Jim glance at each other in recognition. Is that the youngman he fucked or the one he kissed?

They walk away in opposite directions.

VOICE OVER:    Promiscuous Rage

I SPEAK TO a mixed group of gay and straight people:

The promiscuous homosexual is a sexual revolutionary. Each moment of his outlaw existence he confronts repressive laws, repressive morality. Parks, alleys, subway tunnels, garages, streets—these are the battlefields.

To the sexhunt he brings a sense of choreography, ritual, and mystery—sex-cruising with an electrified instinct that sends and receives messages of orgy at any moment, any place.

Who are these outlaws?

Single men, married men; youngmen, older ones; black, white; your brothers, your fathers; students, teachers, bodybuilders, doctors, construction workers, coaches, writers, cowboys, truck drivers, motorcyclists, dancers, weight-lifters, actors, painters, athletes, politicians, businessmen, lawyers, cops.

What creates the sexual outlaw?

Rage.

None more easily prosecuted—even so-called liberals condone his persecution—his is the only minority against whose existence there are laws. Labeled a seducer of unwilling partners, he knows that homosexual rape is rape of homosexuals by heterosexuals. Branded a child molester, he knows heterosexual molestation far, far exceeds that of homosexual. And he knows that what police chiefs proclaim rampant violent gay crime is crime by straight gay-haters against homosexuals.

A man emerges staggering out of the brush in a park, his face smashed in blood. Yelling Queer! Queer! four thugs kicked and beat him with sticks. The cops are called. Not one shows up.

But tell them two men are fucking, and they ‘ill storm the area in minutes.

Easy, often set-up homosexual arrests may be callously used to cover up statistically the staggering number of unsolved murders, robberies, rapes. An arrest—often arbitrary (you were there)—brings instant punishment, even when you're finally proved not guilty: handcuffing, incarceration, insults, the outrageous fees of attorneys, bail, the slaughtering anxiety of court appearances, and

Reviews for The Sexual Outlaw

[libncourt · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

Like many of Rechy's books, THE SEXUAL OUTLAW is powerful, fascinating, and very depressing. The themes present in his novels are here in this non-fiction work - the power of physical beauty, narcissm, sex as liberation, unfulfilled desire, etc. Along with a narrative of one hustler's quest for validation through his sexual encounters, Rechy threads in a treatise on what it means to be homosexual in twentieth century America. Much of what he says is relevant to the twenty-first century as well, as the current battle over same-sex marriage attests.Those looking for explicit sex will find it in abundance here. Rechy pulls no punches in his depiction of homoerotic love. Yet he is wise enough to see the sadness in the "sexhunt," and his "character" Jim, we know, will never find that elusive thing for which he searches, the combination of sexual gratification and personal intimacy. None of us will find it. We hate Jim for his narcissm and his superficiality but admire his rebel stance. He is a man-loving man not ashamed of the fact.Rechy's accounts of police corruption concerning gay men and the hours spent nabbing "sexhunters" that could otherwise be spent apprehending murderers, rapists, and thieves are enough to make one's blood boil. And I love his comments on gay sensibility. But I find his whole stance on S&M somewhat puzzling and hypocritical. While no advocate of or participant in that particular sexual lifestyle, I fail to see the difference between the physical pain inflicted by "masters" upon "slaves" and the psychological pain engendered in the course of the sexhunt. Indeed it would seem the latter pain would be the more enduring and damaging.This is an important book, more than twenty-five years old, but still relevant.Reviewer: Randall Ivey "Randall" on Amazon.com