Sex Still Spoken Here: An Anthology

by Carol Queen

  What’s the inside scoop on your story? When I first arrived South of Market in 1961, I rented a room at the Bay Bridge Motel which still stands across the street from the old Ambush bar. As an eyewitness writer during all the years of my 1001 nights in SOMA, I fell in love with the masculine soul of the neighborhood, and its roots in all the gay men from the Gold Rush onwards through World War II who lived in the SRO cheap hotels where so many died in the urban disaster of the 1906 Earthquake. One of those SOMA pioneers spoke to me. I channeled his voice directly from the past in my epistolary story, “Love Among the Ruins.”

  San Francisco Earthquake 1906: Love Among the Ruins

  Jack Fritscher

  San Francisco, April 25, 1906

  Dear Benny,

  It’s yer old (ha ha) pal Jimmy writin you from General Delivery in Frisco where you might of heard back in Saint Louie we had a little earthquake on my birthday Wednesday last, April 18. What a way to turn 19 (ha ha). No cake for me like two years ago at our fine spree at the Saint Louie World’s Fair before I lit out for Frisco on the train from Union Station. I ain’t forgot that cake or the icin on it. How we had our cake & ate it too. Sorry I ain’t writ you much but I bin thinkin about you, &, pal o mine, I wish you were here, but I’m glad you ain’t been through what I been through. What I seen in the last seven days could break a man’s heart. This whole city it ain’t gone, but sorely wounded. Ma Sloat’s boardin house where I live is all charcoal ashes down South of the Slot, along with all the South of Market buildins around it. So forget that address.

  It were all us workin men livin in cheap rooms down there, & pore families, cuz nice San Franciscans never cross South of the Slot in Market Street. Remember I toll you last letter how the iron cable-car slot worked, runnin down the center of Market Street, pullin the streetcars from the Ferry Buildin west toward Twin Peaks like a hummin metal line fencin off us & the rich folk we work for. It were terrible after the shakin woke us all up at 5:12 in the A. M., yellin in our longjohns, steppin out as I did from my third-floor window that crumpled down like a house of cards to the curb, crushin fellas livin under me, all us who could dashin out into the cold streets, everyone screamin. The Chronicle says 60,000 us souls live down South of Market, & we was all runnin for it, tryin to get away from the fire that started in a Chinese laundry near Ma Sloat’s at Third & Brannan. It just spread & spread through all the broken wood & gas mains shootin flames into the air. At 8:14 A. M. come another quake rollin through, knockin more buildins down like tinder, & puttin folks chokin on all the smoke in a worse panic.

  I don’t want to make you sick, dear Benny, but there was women and children, whole families killed, and lots of men, more than you can guess. Lots of fellas, some of em I knew, trapped in the collapse of all the bachelor workmen’s boardin houses. They saw the path of the fire and they was beggin, shoutin, you could hear, in all kinds of languages, at first for somebody to pull em out, till those that didn’t have guns to kill themselves, becuz they was about to be burned to death, was beggin somebody, anybody to shoot em, & they was shot. Some of em as a mercy was shot by each other, you could see em, some dyin naked as they was born, & even if you turned away, you could hear the shots that stopped the shouts. I didn’t need the priest from Saint Pat’s, which toppled down, kneelin in the holy bricks prayin in the middle of Mission Street, to tell me it was a vision of hell, & I was glad he got up like a man & started pullin trapped souls out from the rubble. Nothin none of us could do to keep somethin like 3000 souls alive in our disaster. Somethin like 500 looters, & still countin, was shot on site includin 2 fellas I knew who was just tryin to get their trousers & shoes & pocket watches & tintypes out of the wreckage. Gunfire & flames & smoke & explosions & the ground quiverin every few minutes like the earth was a bag of gravel. I left Ma Sloat’s hightailin it with nothin.

  Don’t know where I’m gonna live. Am now sleepin rough, in a view with no room, you might say, as I’m campin on leaves of grass in a make-shift lean-to against one a the thousands of tents in Golden Gate Park which you may recall I once toll you you’d like since I could see us walkin there, hand in hand through Paradise.

  You mayhaps have already read in the Saint Louie Post-Dispatch how when our Opera House fell down around his eyetalian ears, the Great Caruso sat on the ground in Union Square & cried, with less courage than Pagliacci’s “Vesti la Giubba,” that he was never comin back to Frisco. The tent my lean-to’s presently up against in the Park sports a “hoochie-koochie” sign from downtown readin “Maiden Lane” (ha ha), & the friendly “tootsie-wootsies” inside it, who I do-for, cuz (among their services to other fellas) they cook for me, have been laughing at Caruso as not bein all that great! They hear tell that the grand soprano Luisa Tetrazzini herself, who don’t scare easy like her warblin tenor chum Caruso, is sometime soon headin back into Frisco to sing free at Lotta Crabtree’s fountain which is about the only thing still standin downtown at Market & Geary. The ladies, who know a town pump when they see one, been cookin what they been jokin is “Chicken Tetrazzini” in her honor. I toll em it should be “Chicken Caruso,” & they all laughed, & give me pie. So life ain’t all bad, or bad at all, & it’s startin over, life is, which is the secret of Frisco.

  I was wondrin if you wanted to come out here to the ruins (ha ha, but I mean it) cuz you said you were needin work & there’s lots of it here now, even more than before, for thousands of us strong young fellas.

  Which vision reminds me I been takin my salt-water sea-bathing, between 7 A.M to 6 P.M., once-a-week out near the ocean, at cold North Pacific temperatures & up to eighty degrees, for twenty-five cents at the Sutro Bath that’s all glass and iron as fine as any building at the Saint Louie Exposition. Reason enough for you to travel west, there’s bathing music performed by the Sutro Baths Band, & I bet we could work for room & board for that ol blonde Ma Sloat nobody calls “Ma Slut” to her face. She’s rebuildin over on Folsom Street upstairs over where her brother Hallam has a piece of property for a new saloon cuz he believes in the future of Frisco even South of the Slot. She says he believes in the future of thirst, & he be namin the little street next his after their father the older Hallam who ain’t unlike yer pa & mine when it comes to bellyin up to a bar to bend an elbow.

  If you have work there in Saint Louie then maybe you could send yer old secret chum a couple bucks to help out, but, dear Benny, if I have to start over, & I do have prospects, I’d a damn sight rather start over with you by my side here in Frisco cuz you never know what’s gonna happen next, but this monkey’s uncle, yours so truly, can tell it’s gonna happen here, & it could be good for us. Remember when you was seein me off at the train station, steamin away, you cracked wise that confirmed bachelors gotta know how to take care of ourselves.

  I can’t meet you in Saint Louie, Louie, where we fell down laughin tryin to dance the hoochie-coochie, but I can meet you at the Golden Gate. Don’t be late! You might want to hear the Great Tetrazzini as much as me (ha ha) except this boy ain’t no more singing soprano. That married bachelor Horace Greeley was right when he said, Go West, young man, go West! There’s gold in them thar hills! I found, down near the Embarcadero, blowin around on Folsom Street, some French postcards like you never seen. It’s an ill wind that blows no good instructions.

  I love this place, but not as much as you know who. There. I finally said what you said when last we parted. Put that in yer pipe, dear Benny, & smoke it. Two bucks would be fine. Yer hand in mine, pal o mine, would be better. If I had a ceilin, I’d be lyin awake at nights starin at it & thinkin of you, takin it all in hand, your hand in mine, hand in glove with you.

  Yer devoted pal,

  Jimmy

  [go to top]

  “The erotic is a measure between the beginnings of our sense of self and the chaos of our strongest feelings. It is an internal sense of satisfaction to which, once we have experienced it, we know we can aspire. For having experienced the fullness of this depth of feeling and recognizing its power,
in honor and self-respect we can require no less of ourselves.”

  - Audre Lorde

  (from “Uses of the Erotic: The Erotic as Power”)

  Amy Butcher

  Bio

  Amy Butcher is a silver fox “liminal guide” and enjoys taking people through transformations. She has been many things, including a tour guide on bike trips through France, a ROPES course instructor, a massage therapist, and book designer. She is the author of the award-winning murder mystery Paws for Consideration and co-editor of Sex Still Spoken Here. Follow her adventures at amybutcher.com.

  Mini-Interview

  How did you start writing about sex? While I didn’t write erotica in college, I had a freshman English teacher (Prof. Sussman, if I remember) who instilled a passionate relationship to the semi-colon. My first attempt at erotica was an effort to capture (and process) the hyper-sexy experience of leading bike tours in France.

  Do you write in multiple genres and, if so, why? Writing erotic short fiction gave me the confidence to move into the longer form of writing murder mysteries. I mean, if you can write the sex (and not just ‘fade to black’) then the rest is gravy.

  How is the Erotic Reading Circle part of your writing process? OMG. So important! One of my biggest lessons has been the somatic experience of reading erotic words aloud in community. Often, when I’ve really gotten to something that is real and deep, I will literally shake after I read. I love having that experience and learning to not just be OK with it but actually welcome the release.

  What’s the inside scoop on your story? My stories are usually inspired by some tiny moment that then expands into a longer story, the substance of which emerges from some dark mysterious corner of my imagination. In this case, it was hearing and being curious about the loud sound of a person walking in stilettos. Couple that with the Castro Theatre, some Thorlo socks, and … still hoping to do a ‘walk through’ to see if I got all the parts right. :)

  Stilettos

  Amy Butcher

  Sturdy. That was the word that came to mind as Kathy regarded her tubular reflection in the full-length mirror. Short, no-nonsense haircut. Broad shoulders. Barrel-shaped torso tapering down to nonexistent hips. Breasts clearly overshadowed by the belly below. Aren’t breasts supposed to stick out further than a belly? she wondered, as she twisted sideway in front of the mirror. Her baggy shorts hung long and loose, like curtains above the thick ankles flowing squarely into Thorlos and low-cut hikers. Sensible shoes, because Kathy—like a good boy scout—was always prepared.

  Kathy liked the streamlined sturdiness of her body. Mr. Bitters, her calico, stretched on the bed and yawned, offering his own opinion. “Well, it’s not like I’m going out on a date. I’m just off to meet Lisa at the movies.” At that he curled into a ball, turning his furry back on her, and she headed out into the night.

  Kathy had just reached the ticket booth at the Castro Theater when her cell phone rang. “Hey Kathy, it’s Lisa. I’m so sorry but I’m not going to be able to make it tonight. Sara is in a bad mood, and we’re out of food. We haven’t been to Rainbow in a week, and …”

  Kathy held the phone away from her ear. She watched the bustling evening crowd pass by while the tiny voice droned on. Eventually, she lifted the phone back to her mouth and broke in. “Hey, Lisa, I’m already at the theater so I’m just gonna go in. Call me later.” Click. She flipped the phone shut without waiting for a response. Dykes can be so flakey sometimes, she sighed, but she was just as happy to have a quiet night at the movies alone.

  As she headed into the darkened, half-filled theater, her rubber soles squeaked slightly on the bare concrete floor. She settled into a middle seat and waited for the show to begin.

  Crack. Crack. Crack. The sound of high heels striking concrete echoed through the theater like rifle shots.

  Crack. Crack. Each aggressive stride rattled the earth beneath her. She really hated that type of shoe, she griped to herself, on political as much as aesthetic grounds. She knew how it would be: some straight woman, her delicate ankles perched precariously on ridiculously narrow stiletto heels, the effort to stay upright requiring an acrobatic stance: hips thrust back, back arched forward, and breasts cantilevered out for counterbalance. Why do women hobble themselves like that, she lamented, just to appear attractive by someone else’s fashion standard … what a waste!

  Crack. Crack. Then the sound of smooth leather sliding across concrete … in Kathy’s row!

  Long and leggy, Stiletto-babe was wearing a brown tweed mini- skirt, a white button down shirt, and a yellow-brown scarf tightly knotted at the base of her neck. She too was juggling popcorn and a soft drink, though less successfully than Kathy had, what with the added challenge of the vintage handbag swinging heavily from her arm. She spilled popcorn like little trail markers as she sidestepped gingerly down the row, collapsing finally with a sigh into the seat beside Kathy.

  Geez, Kathy thought, she would have to sit right there! She turned and cast a judgmental stare. The woman, all blue eye shadow and brown bangs, smiled back, oblivious to Kathy’s intent.

  Throughout the movie Stiletto-babe made Kathy miserable. She hogged the armrest. She crossed her legs, kicking the sharp toe of the stilettos into Kathy’s shin. She even managed, while laughing, to spew popcorn kernels into Kathy’s lap like some poorly aimed aerial assault.

  With each intrusion, Kathy grew more and more annoyed. She turned and glared but to no avail, as Stiletto-babe seemed oblivious. At one point, Kathy leaned over and growled, “Could you please!” But Stiletto-babe just leaned toward her and cooed, “Please what?”

  God, Kathy thought, these straight women are so clueless! She sat there growing more and more annoyed.

  When the credits finally began to roll, Kathy rose quickly. Casting one more frustrated glance at Stiletto-babe, she pushed out past the others seated in her row. Desperate for air, she made a beeline for the side exit. Slamming the door behind her, she strode up the roughly paved alley, past the recycling bins, and headed for the gate.

  “Shit!” she said, as she discovered the gate was locked.

  Just then, behind her, she heard the side exit door swing open and that terrible noise … crack, crack … filled the space.

  Kathy’s shoulders hunched in dread as she turned slowly to face her nemesis. At the far end of the alley stood Stiletto-babe. Hands on hips, pocketbook rocking gently from her arm, wobbling just slightly on those narrow heels. “Oops, looks like we’re stuck,” she said laconically.

  “Unbelievable!” Kathy snorted and pounded back down the alley, practically knocking Stiletto-babe over as she pushed past her. She pulled frantically at the exit door but it wouldn’t budge. When she felt Stiletto- babe bump her from behind, she could no longer contain her frustration. “Good grief!” She shouted as she turned. “Do you have no spatial awareness?”

  But Stiletto-babe just stood there, calm as could be. “Did you like the movie?” she asked. Digging around her purse she pulled out a pack of Wrigley’s, tapped out two sticks like cigarettes, and extended her slender arm slowly towards Kathy. “Want some?”

  When Kathy shook her head “no,” Stiletto-babe just pursed her lips and shrugged. “Suit yourself,” and dropped the gum back into the cavernous purse, snapping it shut.

  “Whadya’ think of that hot sex scene in the movie?” Stiletto-babe asked. “The one in the alley … hmmm … sorta like this one.”

  Kathy stared in stunned silence.

  “The guy was pretty gross but I have to admit, there’s nothing hotter than a good, sturdy body. I like to have something to hold onto when I let go. …” As Stiletto-babe talked, her voice gently modulated, swaying through a tonal range that soothed Kathy’s frustration. Stiletto- babe spoke slowly, curiously, as if this was the most normal of situations.

  Kathy shook her head, trying to come to her senses. What on earth were they talking about? She couldn’t tell if Stiletto-babe was flirting with her or mocking her, but she suspected the late
r. Kathy was handy. She could open doors and fix things like any good butch. She showed her love to her girlfriends by installing new wiper blades on their cars. She brought straightforward competence, not passion, to her lovemaking. So she had no illusions that she might be either ‘attractive’ or ‘a catch.’

  “I like to act on impulse and I’m nothing if not impatient,” Stiletto-babe said with more urgency, wobbling slightly as she took a step forward. In those heels she was at least six inches taller than Kathy, and that step had brought her breasts right to Kathy’s eye level. An edge of dark lace peeked out from behind the second button, which she had undone as she approached.

  Stiletto-babe smiled and said, “I noticed you when I first sat down, before the movie had even started. I have an eye for sturdy butches. In fact, there’s nothing that I like better.” And as if to emphasize her point, she suckled her fingertip and then nestled its moist tip into the notch at the center of Kathy’s collarbone. “Tsss,” she hummed into Kathy’s ear.

  Jeez, Louse! Kathy thought, she didn’t just do that, did she? But her body had no doubt. The moist finger on her skin had been like grounding the last clamp of jumper cables and that sound in her ear the ignition. A surge of energy flowed straight down to her crotch, revving her clit to life.

  Stiletto-babe was now so close that Kathy could feel her heat like a pulse, vibrating through the air. The sweet smell of her soft skin filled Kathy’s nostrils, leaving her weak in the knees. It didn’t help her concentration any that Stiletto-babe had drawn her index finger slowly down between Kathy’s breasts, across the rise of her belly, and was tugging urgently at the waistband of her shorts.

  Pulling gently, Stiletto-babe weighed the density and inertia of Kathy’s flesh. She’d had the pretty bois, the ones who seemed perfect foils to her femme persona, but they were slender and predictable. It was always the same tight jeans, same studded black belt, the same Good Vibes Soft Pack tucked into their tighty whities. She’d been had by the stone butches who treated her like a valued but fragile prize. She’d even been with a femme or two but there was never enough space in the bathroom for the both of them. No, for whatever reason, Stiletto-babe had to admit that it was these sturdy, second-wave feminist butches that did it for her. They were simple and ardent and, most important, never rebelled when she took charge. That was their dirty little secret: they were such bottoms at heart! Leaning in she whispered gently into Kathy’s ear, “Are you ready to eat me out?”