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Kyungsoo came inside his ass, and before he pulled out, a finger slowly pushed its way in beside the softening cock. Jongin made a choked sound, but couldn’t find the effort to push Kyungsoo off. When he withdrew, the finger remained, fucking in and out of Jongin’s hole easily, curling and stroking over his sensitive walls. Jongin came all over his sheet with Kyungsoo’s finger fucking his ass and his other hand pulling tight around his cock.
Jongin sighed, stretching out like a lazy cat over his bed, Kyungsoo draped over him. He contemplated complaining about his roommate’s heavy ass, but couldn’t muster up the energy. Suddenly his eyes fluttered open and he jerked awake.
“Shit, what time is it. I gotta go out early tonight.” Jongin scrambled up, carelessly kicking Kyungsoo aside, ignoring the other boy’s protest.
“Wait, what? Isn’t today your day off this week?”
“Yeah, but Lu Han’s been sick, so I’m covering for him this week.” Jongin wobbled his way towards the bathroom, pulling up his pants hastily. He could feel Kyungsoo’s incredulous stare on his back.
“Why are you picking up his appointments? Are you really that desperate about getting your number one spot back?”
Jongin didn’t bother answering him, choosing instead to slam the bathroom door closed.
It was nearing noon when Jongin found his way back to the dorm. He sighed, rubbing at his eyes. It had been a long night, and he felt a bit too wired up to sleep now, with the sun up harsh and bright in the sky. When he stumbled in, the flat was quiet. He had a brief debate in his head and then made his way towards Sehun’s room, hoping to catch his friend for. he didn’t know what. He just hadn’t seen Sehun a lot lately. Except when he barged in, there was just Joonmyun, Sehun’s roommate, sitting on his bed. Jongin paused, unsure of what to do next.
“Are you looking for Sehun?” Joonmyun raised an eyebrow at his appearance. He looked kind of a mess, sure. It’d been a long night. Jongin nodded.
“I think he’s over at Lu Han’s room. He’s been sick and all.”
“Oh, okay.” Jongin nodded again, stopping himself from rolling his eyes and saying ”I know.” He shuffled on his feet, thinking about what he should do now that his friend wasn’t available. Then he realized Joonmyun was still talking to him.
“You should get some sleep, Jongin. I heard Kyungsoo say you’ve been covering for Lu Han’s appointments. I don’t want to tell you what to do but you’ve been working double the amount you usually do, and you’re busy enough as it is.” Joonmyun had his overly concerned older-brother face on, and Jongin really couldn’t help rolling his eyes this time. It was sweet really, in a way. Joonmyun was the one who had actually been around here the longest in their dorm, and somehow he took that as his responsibility to look over all the other boys. It didn’t help that Joonmyun also had nice-person syndrome. Jongin was about to open his mouth to say his goodbye and get the hell out of there when an idea occurred to him. In his defense, he was really tired and not thinking straight and probably a little pissed off at everything for reasons he didn’t care to delve into.
Jongin peeled himself off the doorway and sauntered into the room, closing the door behind him. He pulled off his jacket, throwing it on a chair, and walked over to where Joonmyun was sitting on his bed. The older boy stared at him wide-eyed. Jongin knew he had his game face on, all flirty smirks and hooded eyes. Joonmyun had never seen this. In fact, Joonmyun was the only one left in their dorm who had never had a job together with him. Jongin was starting to suspect the older boy was avoiding it on purpose, except that made no sense because he had seen the way Joonmyun looked at him sometimes, like Jongin was something he really wanted to touch but couldn’t.
So he dropped down into Joonmyun’s lap and looked up at him beneath lowered eyelashes. Joonmyun’s hands grasped clumsily at his sides, as though he couldn’t decide what to do with them. Joonmyun tried to push him off, but Jongin was persistent and the effort was half-hearted anyway.
“What are you doing, Jongin? Don’t joke around like this-“
“I’m not joking,” Jongin rolled his hips down, and savoured his success as the older boy let out an involuntary gasp, his eyes flickering down to trace the curve of Jongin’s lips then turning abruptly away as if burnt. “Hyung, you want me to relax, right? I couldn’t come at all last night, they were all such horrible fucks. ” Jongin whispered into Joonmyun’s ear, his voice a little hoarse and begging.
“C’mon, Joonmyun hyung, everyone else has already fucked me, don’t you wonder what it’s like?” He leaned down to lick around the older boy’s earlobe. Joonmyun jerked, his breath turning into gasps, but he didn’t push him away. “Do they tell you how good I am? I could be really good for you, I could suck you off real slow and dirty, then I would take your cock in my ass, just sliding down and impaling myself on you. fucking myself on your cock. The slide in is going to be so hot and smooth, because I’ve been fucked open all night. just for you. Hyung, don’t you want that?”
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Photo: Library of Congress.
A few people dressed in white and all clutching bibles approached the church across the way, and one older woman took a key out of her purse and unlocked the door. They all went inside, leaving the door open. I could see into the stark, bleak-looking little room where metal folding chairs were lined up on either side of an aisle. Churches like this one had sprung up all over L.A. in recent years, especially in the poorer neighborhoods. I was always noticing them now, so many little churches occupying small storefronts where previously there had been a donut shop or a cafe or a vacuum store—some failed business of one sort or another that had been replaced by the business of God. Everywhere I looked I saw these little churches, on every street. There was the Abundant Mission Church and Iglesia Cristiana Jesucristo Rey and Light Mission Center and Praise Christian Fellowship and Foursquare Gospel Church and the World People Church, Our Lady of Loretto and the Salon Del Reino de Los Testigos de Jehova and many, many more—I had made a list of dozens of such places in my neighborhood alone—which catered to different races, from Filipino to Korean, and many Latino groups. For a newly arrived family from El Salvador or Guatemala or Mexico these little churches were like a life raft in a stormy sea of change, places where you could worship with your own kind, in a language you understood, and with the bible in his hand maybe the husband wouldn’t succumb to drink, and the kids could avoid drugs, and the wife could feel hope, and nobody would have to feel alone. That’s how I sometimes thought of it, anyway, when I thought of it at all.
As I sat looking into the interior of Centro Misionero Belham y El Amor de Cristo, it occurred to me that Chandler had understood this city in a way no other writer had, how it was a place of extremes and addictions, cults and corruption, hedonism and a strangely virulent puritanism. “I was the first to write about Southern California in a realistic way,” he once said. “Now half the writers in the country piddle about in the smog. To write about a place you have to love it or hate it or do both by turns, which is usually the way you love a woman. But a sense of vacuity and boredom—that’s fatal.” Los Angeles, he said, was just a tired old whore to him now.
But it must have been beautiful when he first arrived. It must have seduced him, as it would so many others.
Reina de la Ciudad de Los Angeles: Queen of the City of the Angels, a tired old whore. In the sun-drenched streets of the New American Paradise, Marlowe found his own heart of darkness.
The church across the way seemed emblematic to me of something that had always been a part of L.A., something Ray must have seen firsthand from the moment he arrived, and that is what a fertile ground L.A. was for the many forms of religious fervor that took root here—what Edmund Wilson, in a 1930s essay on L.A., called “all the little god boxes.” When Ray arrived in 1913, L.A. was overrun with militant moralists and reform-minded preachers and health-nut gurus, body-worshippers, yogis, cultists of all stripes, but it was also exquisitely corrupt, with gambling and prostitution and graft and greed rampant everywhere, a city where every kind of chiseling flourished. By the time Aimee Semple McPherson established her Angelus Temple in 1919 and began drawing worshippers by the thousands to watch her preach, dressed in her flamboyant costumes (Mayan princess, Greek goddess, vestal virgin), the reformers and preachers and moralists could hardly keep pace with the con artists. It had always been a two-tiered city, Los Angeles, pretty on the outside, rotten underneath, a place where the cops and politicians were as crooked as the crooks, and nobody would come to understand this better than Raymond Chandler.
But it must have been beautiful when he first arrived. It must have seduced him, as it would so many others.
Not long after Ray arrived, Warren Lloyd found him a job working for the Los Angeles Creamery as an accountant. The offices were on South Olive Street in downtown L.A. Chandler sent for his mother, Florence, who came from London to live with him. That must have been the plan: He would go to America and get settled and then she would come to live with him and they would get an apartment and set up house together, just the two of them, as they had done so often in the past. It did not mean an end to his friendship with the Lloyds or his attendance at the Friday night soirees with The Optimists. Florence fit easily into this circle, made up, as it was, of people of varying ages, and soon she was taking part in the musical evenings and poetry readings and the sessions at the Ouija board, with Warren and Alma and Estelle and Edward, and Cissy and Julian, to whom she took a special liking because not only was Julian close to her own age but he had once lived in London.
Sometimes Ray and Warren would go to the movies together. The big picture palaces were just opening then—like the ornate Million Dollar Theatre on North Broadway and the Rialto and Grauman’s Chinese Theatre. They liked melodramas, in part because Warren often liked to conduct a little experiment with the audience, as part of his fascination with human psychology. He and Ray would sit on opposite sides of the theater and, at a certain point in the movie, always during a particularly serious or sad moment, one of them would begin laughing and then, from the other side of the theater, the other would join in. The object was to see how many people in the audience they could get to laugh with them at an inappropriate moment. Often they were successful. The point must have been to prove how sheeplike people can be. How they could be led into ignoring their own sensibilities in favor of some kind of groupthink. Just the opposite of how a man like Philip Marlowe would behave. The loner, suspicious of humanity and its motives. Always holding himself apart, outside the mainstream, marching to his own tune.
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