San Francisco Noir

softened and she melted me in places I didn’t even know I had places.

Then she grabbed me behind the neck with her free hand and gathered herself like a hurricane off the coast.

And then BOOM! she shoved down with all her might, with all those muscles, with all that leverage, all that wet and that swell, sliding down deepdeepdeep into the depth of her holiness, all the way to the bottom of the well, splitting her open like an atom, an explosion of heat blowing my mushroom-cloud heart all the way up.

More crazy roar big cat scratch fever screams as she rocked slowly, flexing in rhythm with the tide, tugging and grinding, pressing flesh on flesh, sweat beading out now, the sound of squishing liquid wet, ecstasy crawling from pleasure center to pleasure center up and down my tingling spine as she pulled me up higher and higher, while ripping into my skin. Is that sweat or blood trickling down my neck? my brain asked. Yes, it is, my body answered.

She was back in my face again, the Snow Leopard. I could finally see her, as a strip of moon filtered through her skylights, and she poured herself through my windows, and this is what took me to the edge of Lover’s Leap.

She nodded at me ever so tiny, she wanted to know if I was ready to jump off with her, to take the great plunge, and into her eyes I nodded, Yes, I’m ready, jump off and I’ll jump with you.

Funny what a person can get used to. When the muzzle of her petite little pistol first nuzzled my earhole, everything else in the entire world faded away, and there was nothing but the cold steel feel of that gun, death at the tip of her finger.

But by the time I heard the click of the trigger, I had quite forgotten, in all the excitement, that her petite little pistol was there at all. It took me a moment to realize what that sound was, to remember that her gun was indeed in my earhole.

How long was it between the time I heard that click and the time that bullet ripped down the tiny barrel of her pistol, barreled through the hole of my ear and into the fishy tissue of my brain? Couldn’t be more than a flicker of a blink, right? A heartbeat? At what point during its passage through my skull did the bullet take me from orgasm to death? I cannot accurately answer that question.

But as a sex maniac, I couldn’t have asked for a better death: coming and going in the same moment, at the hands of the Snow Leopard.

Acknowledgments

The editor wishes to thank the following for their encouragement and support: Andy Bellows, Sona Avakian, Jennifer Joseph, Paul Yamazaki, Miriam Hodgman, The Matlock Brothers, Ashish & Janaki Ranpura, Daphne Gottlieb, Alan Goldstein, Tasha Keppler, Daniel Mandel, Jane Ganahl, Cheryll Eddy, Jeffrey Chan, Justin Chin, Mattilda, Johnny Strike, Nichelle Tramble, Michael Disend, Alan Black, Jill Tracy, Charles Gatewood, Marta Koehne, Stacey Lewis, Melissa Wagner, Jon Bradford, John Hurtado, Richard Poccia, Sherry Olsen, Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Nancy J. Peters, Elaine Katzenberger, the gang at City Lights, and to Chris &Alex for logistical support; past, present, and future.

ABOUT THE CONTRIBUTORS

ROBERT MAILER ANDERSON was born in San Francisco in 1968. He finished his first novel, Boonville, in a hotel room in North Beach while jocking coffee at Caffe Trieste. He now lives with his wife and three children in Pacific Heights above a robot, and is a board member of SFJAZZ and the S.F. Opera Association.

WILL CHRISTOPHER BAER is the author of the Phineas Poe trilogy: Kiss Me, Judas, Penny Dreadful, and Hell’s Half Acre, to be released in omnibus edition fall 2005 by MacAdam/Cage. He lives in California. For more, see will- christopherbaer.com.

KATE BRAVERMAN first came to San Francisco as a runaway in 1965. She has written four novels (including Lithium for Medea and Palm Latitudes), four books of poetry, and two collections of short stories, mostly set in a California that doesn’t appear on the postcards. She is the recipient of many awards and fellowships for both her fiction and nonfiction. Braverman currently lives in Russian Hill with her husband.

DAVID CORBETT was an operative for the San Francisco private investigation firm of Palladino & Sutherland for fifteen years. His first book, The Devil’s Redhead, was nominated for the Barry and Anthony Awards for Best First Novel of 2002, and his second, Done for a Dime, was nominated for the Macavity Award for Best Novel of 2003 and was named a New York Times Notable Book. He lives in dismay.

BARRY GIFFORD, a novelist (Wild at Heart, Wyoming), poet (Back in America), and screenwriter (Lost Highway, City of Ghosts) has resided in or around San Francisco for thirty-five years. “After Hours at La Chinita” is an excerpt from his forthcoming book, The Stars Above Veracruz. For more information please visit www.BarryGifford.com.

JON LONGHI is the author of five books: Bricks and Anchors, The Rise and Fall of Third Leg, Everyone at the Funeral Was Slam Dancing, Flashbacks and Premonitions, and Wake Up and Smell the Beer. He has been published in numerous anthologies and has performed his work throughout the United States in cafes, bookstores, libraries, and nightclubs. He lives in San Francisco.

ALVIN LU was born in San Francisco. He wrote the “City God” column for the San Francisco Bay Guardian for several years and is also the author of a novel, The Hell Screens, published by Four Walls Eight Windows.

PETER MARAVELIS has been a bookseller for over fifteen years. He is currently the events coordinator for City Lights Bookstore. He was born and raised in San Francisco where he currently lives.

EDDIE MULLER is a native San Franciscan and author of three popular studies of noir: Dark City, Dark City Dames, and The Art of Noir. He is a multiple Edgar and Anthony Award nominee, and the recipient of the Shamus Award for Best First Novel (The Distance). He is founder and president of the Film Noir Foundation, a nonprofit dedicated to the rescue and preservation of “lost” and damaged noir