by Bill Noble
The stage manager was a whip-thin woman in black. "Mick Jagger hung out on
that couch," she said, "and Bonnie Rait." She waved her arm at the cave-like,
underground dressing rooms, painted in blobby primary colors. "You've got
sodas in the cooler, and I can turn the heat on if you want."
It was a frigid San Francisco night, rain sluicing down onto the abandoned
streets. I was in the basement of Slim's Nightclub with the sex-glitterati of
Northern California. Carol Queen was in her frumpy everyday street clothes,
looking mischievous, hugging her man of eleven years (tonight was their
anniversary), and telling stories about "outrageous boots I have worn
onstage." Susie Bright herself, the doyen of sex in a shapeless sweatshirt,
was alternating between being the perfect host and worrying that no audience
would show up on such a night. Simon Sheppard, the David Letterman of gay
porn, was wiggling into a really ugly Nehru shirt he'd bought in a Goodwill
in 1968. Standing quietly in a corner was a small woman of almost unbearable
beauty. She was dressed in brocaded crimson silk, with a crimson cape and
gold-braided pillbox hat. It was Ginu Kamani, the most august literary figure
of the evening.
The occasion? The launch of The Best American Erotica 2000, Susie's annual
anthology: twin stage shows in New York and San Francisco. We were the
writers, some of us come from as far away as Denver and Los Angeles to read
to our (hopefully) adoring audience.
We trooped with our plates to the kitchen. The Mexican chef recommended his
steaming trays of "nacho casserole." He grinned as the bartender shouted
through the door, "Is that what you're calling that stuff now?" We ate.
We did sound checks on the carpeted, duct-taped stage. I shuffled through my
manuscripts, steeling myself for my ten minutes of fame. The air was
permeated with the smell of hair spray and the earnest grunts of men and
women stuffing themselves into sexy clothes.
Finally, Slim's was filled to overflowing, a great mix of the sexual
avant-garde, young San Francisco professionals, college kids, and literary
folks. At the last moment, the friend arrived who was going to be my "Big
Hungry Woman" (the title of my story in the anthology). In a few moments, she
wriggled into a ebony spandex dress and whipped scarlet lipstick across her
mouth, ready to go onstage. We huddled together on the stage stairs, wrapped
in a sheet.
Susie Bright sailed out to stage center, comfortable, eloquent, funny, and
heartful all at the same time. She was wearing a black push-up, skin-tight
vinyl shorts, and a floor-length black velvet cloak. As the evening wore on,
the cloak fell farther and farther off her shoulders. If Susie's boobs had
announced they were running for president that night, they would have swept
the California primary.
Molly Weatherfield, one of the legends of lesbian pulp fiction, led off with
an over-the-top B&D "pony" story. Amelia G, a prolific noirotica writer, came
on next--her first reading before a large audience. She had driven in from
Los Angeles just moments before. She flung her purple-sequined jacket onto
the stage and dove into her BAE story, the most startling sex-toy tale I've
ever heard, in one of the most startlingly sexy outfits I've ever seen.
I was next. I curled up in a sheet and my friend dragged me onstage as an
anonymous bundle. She reached inside the bundle and pulled out a butt plug.
She showed it to the audience with a puzzled frown. In turn, she pulled out a
Hitachi Magic Wand (titters), and a huge strap-on (a grin, and more titters
from the audience), and, finally, me. She hauled me to the mike by the scruff
of my neck and left me standing there. I read a masturbation poem dedicated
to one of the legendary boatmen of the Grand Canyon ("whether he wants it or
not"), and then a short fiction piece, "Revenge."
After me, three great readers. Jess Wells declaimed a flawless woman-to-woman
story that might forever change your view of real estate agents. Ginu Kamani
read a glorious monlogue from *Junglee Girl* called "Waxing the Thing,"
speaking with utter and hilarious authenticity in the voice of an Indian
village girl. And then Simon Sheppard took us back to the heyday of the
Haight-Ashbury to cavort naked in Golden Gate Park on "blue lightning." No
one made it to intermission with their mind unaltered.
The last half opened with Susannah Indigo excerpting a strange and unbearably
erotic chapter from her latest novel about a woman who has disappeared into
the walls of her house, to watch. Bob Vickery, a stalwart of gay erotica,
lamented the anonymity of sex writers. His story, whose chief character was
the literary porn hero Bob Vickery ("Buck's eyes went wide. '*The* Bob
Vickery?' he said. 'Oh, my God, I've *dreamed* about meeting you!'") I've
never seen an audience laugh so hard--my belly muscles were still sore the
morning after. After Bob, Carol Queen shimmered onstage, draped in glittering
gauze. She made us intimate, naughty partners in a torrid selection from her
book, *The Leather Daddy and the Femme*. Susan St. Aubin read one of her
magnificently erotic stories of utterly ordinary people. And then a tattooed,
mini-skirted Michelle Tea took us right to the edge of climax (and not a
breath further) with a scaggy reminiscence of teen-aged girls and Motley
Crue.
Susie closed the evening by reading the last story of this year's BAE, Aimee
Bender's "Quiet Please." It may be the last story anyone ever needs to write
about librarian fantasies.
After that, the house lights came up. We made brilliant chit-chat and signed
books. Here I was, in my pirate shirt and emerald vest, living out every
older man's dream, awash in momentary erotic celebrity. It was time to head
for home, across the Golden Gate Bridge in the storm. I hugged all my friends
in the audience and struggled to graciously fend off the dozens of women who
begged me to share a night of tumultuous passion with them (I lie).
All in all, it was probably the best spoken-word event I've ever attended. My
fellow readers were magnificent performers and great writers. Susie brought
her grand vision of a world of sexual health, tolerance, and joy. I was
buoyed by the depth and breadth of the writing that's being done about our
erotic lives and dreams. BAE is high on the Amazon sales list--people are
listening! Maybe more people than the millions chained by the oppressive
vision of sex that assaults us from the Right.
It wasn't a bad way to start a new century: happy, horny, and hopeful!
