February 10, 2016

Lovers come and go here...

The theme of #1lineWed this week was "scent." I selected a snippet from the introduction of The Dom Channel, my latest kinky BDSM short story:

There's a scent when you walk in—one that lets you know these walls have seen time pass. It's like lemon and sky. Candle wax and cinnamon. Lovers come and go here...

Thank you so much to the readers who have bought the story. I've been running like a wild thing lately, and I haven't had the time to properly let you know how thrilled I am with every sale. If I could, I'd set up a corner bar called Alison's. (See the sign in neon?) I'd have my Smith Corona up on the counter, and I'd type you a fresh short story every night.

Instead, I'm sliding these pages through the ether to you. $2.99 for a short shot of pure kink. Don't forget to lick the rim.


February 05, 2016

An Every-So-Often Orgy

Here's a little peek behind-the-scenes at what I've been working on. Or one of the projects, at least. I'm kissing distance from finishing a novel. Flirting distance from typing "The End" on a 40K novella. And at the first adorable stages of batting my eyelashes at a hunky new book that arrived in my dreams the other night.

But for now, here's the cover of a brand-new short I'm almost ready to post. I started this one in 2013—crazy how sometimes the stories take longer than the novels!

What else have I been doing? Scrambling. But that's to be expected, I expect.

Thank you very much to those who have bought The Dom Channel. Your support is immensely—and intensely—appreciated!


January 21, 2016

The Dom Channel

Very soon (if I've dotted my t's and crossed my legs), The Dom Channel will be available for pre-order with an on-sale date of January 25th. This is one of those stories that got away from me. The characters flat-out refused to behave the way I was on my knees begging them to. Why? Why wouldn't they listen to me? Because they exist in their own worlds, and they do what they want. Not what I tell them. Haven't I learned anything over the past quarter of a century? Apparently, not.

I've mentioned this piece before. But I got sidetracked by life and couldn't tie up my loose ends until this morning. Guess what? I have a thing for kinky roommates. (Who knew?) These players definitely fit the definition. Derrick is the dom who insisted on walking a fine line between clever and creepy. Does buying a ball gag ahead of time (in case your roommate is a sub who wants to play with you) mean he's intuitive? Or just a little, um, edgy... You tell me.

This story is the first in what I hope will be a long series of Apartment pieces. This is 01. If you want to check out other roommate stories, please try your hand (ha) at Cuffing Kate. I thought that novella was totally innocent. Some readers had an issue with Kate reading her roommate's diary, which never even occurred to me. You never know what's going to push people's buttons.

FYI—I just peeked. I have 443 stories about roommates on my hard drive. That's crazy, isn't it?

The Dom Channel is a short story (about 4K words) priced at $2.99. Think of me as your smutty bartender or sultry barista. I can serve you a cup of coffee, tequila shooter, or a slow-brewed, handcrafted shot of independent erotica. While you're waiting for this one, have a freebie on the house:

Any Lightness Between Black and White
A Loose Interpretation
Hole in the Wall
The Super


P.S. Cover is by Riendo—who owns my heart with her stellar eye.

January 20, 2016

Alison Out of Work

So I lost my job on Friday... A job I've held for several years and absolutely adored. I'll be writing more about this at some point, but not yet. Because write now (ha), I mean right now I'm just a bit ... well. Wordless.

The thing is, I've been struggling for the past few months to figure out how not to spin. You've seen my progress. (Or my attempts at progress.) I'm doing my best not to panic. To breathe deep. To mainline coffee until I am so fucking percolated nothing can touch me.


I don't have a tip jar. I'm not searching for handouts. But if you were ever considering buying one of our indies—now would sure be appreciated. For about the price of a cup of coffee, you can pour our kink to your brim.

Alison After Dark
Alison On the Rocks
Alison On Top
Alison's Cheating Heart
Banging Rebecca
Bent Over His Desk
Bisexual Husbands
Even Deeper
Filthy Housewives
The Spanking House

There will be more soon. Plus, I have a story coming out in Violet Blue's latest gorgeous collection. Stay tuned—and thank you.


January 18, 2016

Write Now.

Some of my brainstorms are just that. Storms. They come crashing down on me, leaving me wet and shaken. Others are more like brainfucks. Seductive whispers to get me into bed...leaving me wet and, you guessed it, shaken.

So here is my latest brainstorm. Brainfuck. Brainwave.

Today, at ten a.m. California time I'm going to live write a short erotic story. Here. For your enjoyment. I'll be updating the piece as I go along, refreshing the page every five minutes. How can you be sure that I'm not simply pasting in a previously written story? Well, that's where you come in. For the next 3.5 hours, I'm asking for your input.

Name my characters. Give me a setting. Suggest a type of kink to incorporate. I'm all yours. Will I use all the ideas? I don't know. I've never done this before.

Will this even work? I have no fucking clue. Maybe I'll be here all by myself. But that's the thing with brainwaves, you never can be sure if the idea will work if you don't try. And 2016 for me is all about trying.

See you at 10.



Let's just say this is the strangest type of writing I've ever attempted. You're watching. I'm writing. I will do my best to make this work. Every five (or so) minutes, I will update. You'll see the story built in real time from 10 a.m. to 11 a.m. Fingers (and toes) crossed that I will come up with something coherent, creative, and climax-worthy. Back in five.


The New Girl
by Alison Tyler ... and everyone

Cerise sat in her cubicle, staring at the screen on her computer. Dull. The words were dull. The numbers were dull. The pie chart was dull. Although the bright graphic did make her want to eat pie. Maybe she'd sneak out to the break room and see if there was anything left over from latest birthday party. Beth had turned 29. Again, according to the office gossip. There might be a little of the coconut cream pie left over.

She was about to slip down the hall when her phone vibrated. She slid the cell from her pocket and saw that her coworker, one office over, was all over Twitter. Rocko was a rule-breaker, that's for sure. He didn't care if Twitter was banned from the office. He figured that if someone was watching him online, then that person was breaking the rules, too.

His feed was hysterical. Constant comments on their boss's attire. Did Mr. Manning actually wear socks with little capes attached? That would be too surreal. But Rocko could get in trouble. Cerise had only been at the office for a week, but she was already fluent in the employee rules. Whenever she landed a new job, she did her best to learn the lay of the land. To blend in as best as she could with the whims and wiles of the new setting.

She decided to stop by Rocko's office on the way to the break room. He wouldn't necessarily listen to her. Why should he? She'd only gotten her name on her parking space the day before. But she could speak her mind.

That's when she saw Tina, at Rocko's desk. What on earth was going on? Tina waved her over. "I'm just messing a little."

"You signed into his Twitter account?"

"He left it open."

"You're going to get him fired!"

"No... I'm going to spice up his morning..."

Cerise stared at her, confounded. She didn't like conflict. Rules were her friends. "What are you talking about?"

"Do you remember what Mr. Manning said at the last meeting?"

"No Twitter. Not during office hours," Cerise parroted the words precisely.

"That's not exactly what he said. He said there would be consequences."

"Isn't that the same thing?"

Tina grinned at her. "You're new here, Cerise. You don't necessarily understand how this office works. When Manning says 'consequences,' well..."

Rocko interrupted them then. He was licking his lips. Cerise's heart sank. There went the last of the cream pie. "Tina, you're such a..."

"A what, baby?"

"A tease," he said. "I can see your panties when you bend over like that."

Tina shot him a look. Then she realized her slacks had slid a little while she'd been Tweeting for him—or as him. The fuchsia lace band peeked over the top of her pants. Rocko came a little closer. "Putting words in my mouth?" he asked, reading what she'd been typing.

"Something like that."

"I'd rather put something in your mouth..."

Cerise stared at her two coworkers in open shock. What the fuck was going on? So she'd only been at the office for a week, but she'd worked in places like this before. And nothing compared to the way that
Rocko was now openly leering at Tina.

"Shut the door," Tina said.

Cerise started to leave. Whatever these two were up to, it didn't involve her. But Rocko stopped her. "No, you get to stay. Shut the door with you on this side." She didn't know why she listened to him. She ought to have retreated to her own office. Yet something in the heat between Rocko and Tina mesmerized her. So Cerise did as he asked, pressing her back to the wood. Were her two coworkers actually going to have sex at the office? If Twitter was verboten, would fucking be allowed?

Tina already had her black silk blouse off. Rocko sat in his chair and began to run his hands over Tina's lovely body. He unfastened her bra and began to kiss her breasts. Cerise felt herself starting to become aroused. How had this happened? She'd been analyzing pie charts only minutes before. Now, she had a front row seat to what looked like the hottest coupling in the office. Rocko, with his gorgeous brown eyes and thick black hair was definitely the stud of the organization. And Tina couldn't have been cuter. Red ponytail worn high up, green eyes that dazzled when she smiled.

And now... Now, Tina had Rocko's slacks open, and she was manhandling his cock. Right there. Right in front of Cerise. Right as... there was a knock on the door. Cerise looked at her office mates with wild eyes. What did they want her to do? Should she tell whoever was there to come back later?

"It's got to be Lily," Tina said. "Or Rose."

"Or both," Rock said.

"Let them in," Tina insisted.

"You can't be serious." This was Cerise, attempting to save them. "They'll see you. Your... your cock is out." Was she the only person with any self-preservation instinct? If they weren't careful, they'd all be fired.

"Nothing they haven't seen before," said Tina. Cerise slowly moved aside and opened the door. In walked Lily and Rose. The women were both attractive, both blonde. But Lily was tall and lean, with short birch-colored hair, and Rose was slightly shorter and very curvy.

"Saw your Tweets," Lily grinned. "Office orgy 10 a.m. Sharp. Sorry we're late."

Rose pulled a strap-on from her purse. "I brought this," she said. "I wasn't sure if there'd be enough cock to go around."

"Good thinking," Tina said. "Why don't you ladies strip. Rocko and I are going to get comfortable on the carpet."

Cerise stood in stunned silence. Her jaw had actually dropped. Like in a cartoon. Except this was real life. Real, dirty, sexy, filthy life. A life where Rose from accounting was now stripped and sliding into a  harness. She attached the dildo as if working with sex toys was second nature. From her bag, she pulled out an industrial-sized bottle of lube. She raised her eyebrows at Cerise.

"No, no, I'm good."

"You're all wet already?"

Cerise was tongue-tied. "I mean, I don't need any. I'll just watch."

"Ah, a voyeur," said Lily. "Lovely. We're into being watched." She pulled off her dress to reveal she was wearing nothing beneath. The woman was the office manager. She ran the whole place with no underwear on. Cerise felt as if her mind might actually explode at some point. She was over stimulated and under prepared to deal with her horny coworkers. All she'd wanted was coconut cream pie. And now she was the odd woman out of the office orgy.

She slid down the back of the door, until she was seated on the floor. Tina was on her knees, sucking Rocko's thick cock. Lila and Rose were sixty-nining on the carpet, with Lily deep-throating Rose's synthetic hard-on, and Rose moaning as if the dick were real. As if she could feel Lily's full lips traveling the length of that beast, sucking her in like a pro.

And that's when Mr. Manning arrived.

Cerise stood and hurried to the far wall. She didn't want him to think she was part of the... the festivities? Frivolities? Fuck fest that was going on right in front of him. But how could she distance herself? There was the scent of sex in the room, and the players were apparently undisturbed—and definitely undeterred—by the arrival of their boss.

"Ladies," Mr. Manning said as his eyes swept the room. "And Rocko," he added, taking in Rocko, who had his eyes closed as Tina used her heavenly mouth to bring him undiluted pleasure. Mr. Manning had a wry smile on his face. He didn't seem the slightest bit put out by the activities going on in Rocko's office.

"Sorry I'm late," he said as he began to take off his suit jacket. "Got caught up reading the latest figures that Cerise sent me." He nodded to the new girl. "Thanks for those," he said. "I appreciate your attention to detail."

"You're welcome," she said, her voice a whisper. Then, because she couldn't help herself, because this whole thing was too surreal to believe, she said, "What is going on here, Sir? I mean, they're fucking..." she nodded to Rocko and Tina, who were now bent over the arm of the sofa. Tina still had on her dove-gray slacks, but they were pulled down to her ankles. Rocko had slid her panties to the right, and he was driving into her from behind.

On the floor next to them were Rose and Lily. Rose was on her back, and Lily was bouncing up and down on the faux cock, groaning as the mammoth toy hit the perfect spot inside her. She looked like a goddess, lost in rapture, a petal-hue to her cheeks.

Was Cerise dreaming? Was she standing in her shower at home, using the vibrating massage spray to stimulate her clit while she fantasized about her coworkers? Maybe. She shut her eyes. Could she feel the water on her? Was the steam caressing her body?

No, that was Mr. Manning, who had his hand on her arm and was talking to her, but she had zoned out the first few words. "...happy workers, happy office."

"What did you say?"

"We celebrate each other's birthdays. Compliment new haircuts...."

"I'm sorry, Sir," Cerise said. "I've worked in offices before. This doesn't compute. They're all fucking."

He nodded, agreeing complacently with her assessment. "And they're having a good time, by the looks of things."

Rocko and Tina had now parted. Tina'd taken off her high heels and her slacks. She stood for a moment in her pretty panties, before sliding those down, as well. Then she positioned herself in front of Lily, so that the gorgeous office manager could slick her clit while still fucking Rose.

"You're okay with all of this?" Cerise asked her boss.

"Of course."

"But you're not okay with Twitter."

"I said there would be consequences..."

"I guess I'm just not understanding..." her eyes were now focused on Rose, who had changed the position of herself and Lily. Lily was on her hands and knees, and Rose was fucking her doggy-style. Tina had splayed herself on her back, and Lily dropped her head forward and nuzzle her cunt. Rocko was sitting on the sofa, slowly jerking himself off while he watched the three ladies maneuver each other to new heights.

"Consequences..." Mr. Manning said, and he had his shirt unbuttoned now. Cerise took in his broad, muscled chest. He was eyeing her with a devilish look. "Consequences can mean many different things," he said. "For Rocko... later on today, it means I will bend him over my desk and fuck him until he comes all over my blotter."

"You didn't actually say that in the meeting," Cerise stammered. She stared at Rocko. He winked at her.

"Of course not," Mr. Manning agreed. "They all knew what I meant. I figured, if you had any questions, you'd come directly to me."

"So you're good with this?" she spread out her hands. "This office orgy?"

He nodded, and he tilted his head at her, waiting to see what she'd say. Obviously deeply interested in her response.

"Tell me more," she said, "about these consequences."

"Well, Rocko also finished the last of the cream pie. That means, I'm going to have to use my belt on him before I fuck him."

Rocko mock shuddered. He looked delighted.

"What else?" Cerise asked. She was so wet now. It was difficult for her to speak.

"Tina was Tweeting for Rocko today, wasn't she?"

Cerise nodded.

"That means I'll be icing her nipples and using little clamps on them." Tina met Cerise's eyes and gave her a look that let her know she'd understood this fact the whole time. "Punishment like that makes Tina so wet that I slide into her pussy like a dream."

Cerise cleared her throat. "Is that so?" She felt as if she might come at any moment.

"Any other questions?" Mr. Manning asked. He was now standing before her in his crisp slacks, and she could tell he was hard.

"Do you actually wear socks with capes attached?"

Mr. Manning shot Rocko a look. "You'll get ten extra for that," he said to his subordinate. To Cerise he said, "They joke that I'm some sort of super hero. Because I can go all night long." He took her hand and brought it to the front of his slacks. "Care to find out for yourself?" he asked.

Cerise gazed around the room. Then she started to undo the row of pearly buttons running the length of her dress. She might be the new girl, but she'd definitely do her best to fit in. Like she always did.


Okay. Whew. That was one hour on the dot. 2,100 words. Ideas from Twitter, Blogger, DM's, emails. Thank you all for participating. What a rush! Hope you had fun, too!


January 13, 2016

Someone else's wife...

The RWA theme this week was "old"—which is apparently a word I don't reach for too often. In my current work-in-progress, a search for "old" won me: gold, bold, told, blindfold, hold, and cold. So I slid over to Figment, where I found this.

And yes, I'm still pounding away at this book. I paused, to write 44K on a different novel. That's how my brain works. A little of this, half a dozen of that. Ultimately, something will be finished. At least, that's what I tell myself every day.

Figment is probably my favorite project of all time. I am continually surprised by the characters. The concepts are spilling into other works. I can't escape, and I don't want to. I promise to post a release date, as soon as it releases me.


January 11, 2016

John, I'm Only Dancing...

I've dreamed about Bowie.
I've played his mesmerizing voice on vinyl. Cassette. Ether.
But when I think about Bowie, I remember that I listened to his words. Over and over and over. And I did not turn the wheel.


P.S. Beautiful photo by Riendo.

January 07, 2016

Rose tint my world.

Actually, I'll rose tint it for myself.

That's the plan, anyway.

Radio silence? No. Not me. Just like Marilyn Monroe, I had the radio on. Everything else was tuned out. I've written over the past few months about plans and schemes. Breaking bad habits. Focusing on the positive.

And hello. Guess what?

It's working. I'm working. I'm a work in progress, baby. (Aren't we all?)

This isn't a newsy post. Because I have no news to share. But if you're wondering where I am—I'm right where you left me. At my desk. Fingers stroking the keys. Voices in my head.

The light is on.
My words are running wild.
Fucking themselves in every dark corner, every back alley.

Lick your finger, turn the page, read me all night long.


December 23, 2015

I resolve to revolve.

Yesterday morning, I asked a friend if she was planning any revolutions for 2016. I meant, of course, resolutions. But my girlfriend just looked at me and then laughed.

"Slip of the tongue," I said.
"What are you up to?" she asked.

And I decided right then that in 2016, I resolve to revolve. To revolt and evolve. There are no stoplights ahead. There aren't even any rules. In the past, I said I spun. I was a dervish then. Now, I'm moving to a slower groove. I'm taking my time. I'm seeing ideas—projects—the whole fucking world—from a variety of angles.

You say you want a resolution?

Well, I'm dissolving (the negative), involving (the positive), and trying my best to solve (the myriad of questions that keep me up in the night).

Turn my switch to "on," baby. Put your ear to my speaker. Close your eyes and listen to my RPMs.

I resolve.
To revolve.

If you let yourself, you'll hear my crackle and hum.


P.S. I'm taking off until the New Year. Please keep sending me your gorgeous photos. Check your mail box for prizes (which I'm late on, but not never on.) Share your own resolutions—or revolutions—here. And have yourself a merry everything and a happy everything else.

December 21, 2015

Trollop with a Question #88

You've walked past the shoe store more times then you can count. In fact, your soles are wearing thin—but your soul is filled with yearning. The window beckons with promise. Inside there is only one pair of shoes. And they're in your size.

They might be thigh-high boots with chrome zippers running all the way up...

Or, perhaps they're stack-heeled Mary Janes with golden buckles.

Who knows, they could be glossy red patent leather stilettos, and he might be on his knees, ready to lick the pointy tip.

What do your dream shoes look like? 
And who are you going to fuck in them?
I mean, what are you going to do in them?

This Monday's question was inspired by Sommer Marsden.


P.S. Yes, those are my shoes. And yes, I'm standing on bubble wrap.

December 17, 2015

"Alison Tyler makes it look easy..."

I am up to my hooha in deadlines. Okay, you got me. I never, ever say "hooha." I don't even think "hooha." But the other day, I was behind a Honda in traffic, and the owner had changed the word Honda on the spare tire to Hooha. Which cracked me all kinds of up.

So anyway, that tapping sound you hear in your head is me typing. (Or maybe that's the sound I hear in my head.) I'm so focused right now, that I'm writing in my sleep. Although, last night, I had a dream in which I played Dirty Mad Libs with myself. I woke up with the phrase: "She had a (noun) in her mouth." Like you do.

Both of the novels I'm writing are almost at the same place—it's surreal. 135 pages on this one. Nearly the same on that one. I am moving back and forth between the projects, and honestly, I'm loving both. But what it's not is easy. You would not believe how hard I edit my work. I lose more words than I gain on many days, which can be a drag, but hell. I've been doing this so long, I manage to keep my faith.

Still, hearing Lisabet Sarai say I make it look easy is like a cherry on my day. Whipped cream on my morning. Frosting on my... yes, you get the picture. Her review of Those Girls delighted me, and made me refuel my desire to finish Those Days, which is the novel-length book about Sandy—my protagonist in Those Boys & Those Girls.

Thank you, Lisabet. Your words hit me right when I needed to hear them.


P.S. I'll be back on Monday. If you want to thrill me this weekend, hit me with a photo for my December contest (I'm loving the pictures I've received thus far). (Isn't "thus" a fun word to say?) Also, don't forget to answer my Monday question. And, if you're waiting for prizes from me, I'm mailing packages today and tomorrow. They're a little late, but they're wrapped!

December 16, 2015

He didn't even pack.

He'd bought her flowers at the grocery store, even though he knew she would make fun of the gesture. She wanted fancy flowers. He'd bought daisies. Because it was the thought, right? And to him, she was a daisy.

She'd been the one to surprise him, and he'd had the memory of catching them in bed together etched into his brain even deeper than her name was in his skin.

Yes, there she was.

He didn't do anything. Not like in the soaps where it was all drama all the time. He didn't yell. Didn't beat up the other man. Didn't listen to her tell him that she still loved him. He didn't even pack.

"Wait... don't."

He heard her voice, a wilting flower.

He had his wallet. Fuck the clothes. He'd never want to put them on again. They would smell like her, like the laundry detergent she always used. It had never occurred to him to buy one type of laundry soap for the scent. He'd always purchased whatever happened to be on sale. Or closest to the register.

Fuck the rest. When they'd gotten together, she'd been the best thing that had ever happened to him. When they broke up, he was lower than a ditch.

He never talked to her again.
He was that kind of a man.


December 14, 2015

Trollop with a Question #87

I'm your nighthawk at the diner. I'm the waitress on the nightshift, hair in a sloppy bun, white lace-trimmed apron over a pale pink uniform. I must be. Because it's still dark outside and I've been up for hours. I dreamed I was writing until I shook myself awake and actually sat down to place my fingers on the keys.

Dream words don't count. The real ones do.

It's Monday, and I haven't stopped for a pause, for a break, for days. I'm simultaneously writing two novels—with two deadlines weighing on my shoulders, breathing down my neck. That cool shiver. That delicious flare.

The best part is that I know where I'm going. With both projects. Uncanny! Unheard of! The worst part is that I hear the clock ticking all the time. Tick. Why aren't you writing? Tock. How dare you sleep?

But here I am for a refill, for a quick double-shot, for a question.

You sit at my counter. It's been a long fucking night. You could use a cup of coffee. You could use a blow job, if we're passing things out. If we're being open between friends. I set your cup on the counter, I slide you a smile, and I ask this question. This one question that lets you know your bad luck has turned golden. That all is going to be well in the world—or at least in the next hour and a half. I tuck a strand of wayward silver-streaked ebony hair behind my ear, and I say...


What do I ask you?

What is that perfect question between strangers? To break the ice. To mend the tears.

You tell me.


December 10, 2015

The Ridiculous Christmas List

I didn't really adhere to my plan this year. I was going to do themes. I had them all lined up neatly (at least, I did in my head) First, Star Wars. Then... life got in the way, and I woke up and realized with a start, with a bang—two weeks until Christmas, and no lists are in the house!

Sommer nailed me a while back because I do drift around on the net, looking at baubles, and bangles, and other b-words when I am thinking. Seriously. I trail my fingers over trinkets and trench coats, Mary Janes and make-up sets. Sometimes, I'm doing research. My character, Nora, in With or Without You dressed in an interesting fashion that I spent hours compiling. (She had a boom box necklace that I still dream of.)

Which is my roundabout way of saying, this is where I go. What I land on. What I look at. Put them all together, and you end up with The Ridiculous Christmas List.

We start with The Art of Pin-Up, a Taschen title I've been fingering for years. With a price tag of $120, it's more dream than reality. But lovely to look at.

I can't imagine anyone will be surprised to learn that I want this ringing in my house. Yes, it is a payphone replica. No, really.  For about $75 you can step back in time. (You know me and payphones!)

My favorite types of shoes have names like "oxford pumps," "stack-heeled Mary Janes," and "granny boots." These dangerously sexy Doc Martens combine several features I adore. Clunky heel. Lace up. Shiny leather. I can see me in them, striding down the hall in a pencil skirt and crisp white blouse. Is that a handsome man on his knees behind me, or did I just delve into Alison on Top? Sigh. They're currently between $130 and $280.

No luxury list would be complete without perfume. The next on my list is Elie Saab, which my fickle heart has fallen for. At least, today. (Priced between $47 and $95.) I haven't been faithful to a single scent in more than twenty years. It's a problem. But that's one place where cheating works for me.

It's a red record player for $199. Need I say more? Well, maybe. Because here's a jukebox, a mother-fucking jukebox, for a grand. More than 140 of my stories feature jukeboxes. Clearly, I live in a nostalgic corner bar, where quarters are lined up in front of me, and everyone in the place knows I'm about to play Zeppelin.

Green's Dictionary of Slang (in three volumes) sells for $428. I don't know why I think it would be so cool to have this set on my shelf. But my dirty mouth and I both yearn for this.

So I'm looking—I've got books, a phone, music machines, shoes, perfume. What am I missing? Bling, right? Aside from the engagement ring my great-grandfather made for my grandmother, I don't wear diamonds. I am a rhinestone girl to my sparkly little core. So here is the bargain of the list. For under $10, you can snag rhinestone studs that look (to my untrained eye) as good as the real deal. And, hey, you can pretty much buy everything else on the list (plus a car, and maybe a condo) if you don't go for the $125,000 pair.

Now, what's on your wish list? Your secret santa wants to know...


December 09, 2015

Love at first sight?

They hated each other. Love at first sight? Not with these two. There was an instant competition. A battle of the wits, then of wills, and finally of fists. Jan didn't know how it started even. Who threw the first punch. It was like they'd always been fighting or about to fight. Now here they were, in the alley behind Vernon's, pounding into each other with the ferocity of animals.

There was skin on skin, the heat of their breath, the sound of their blood.

And Jan realized he wanted something else. He was backed against the bricks. His mouth was bleeding.

But his cock was hard.


December 08, 2015

David's Vinyl

If you're waiting for my next book club suggestion (or suggestions, so we can choose democratically), know that I'm still making my lists. (And, yes, checking them thrice.) Tuesdays do still feel like Chaucer to me, so I'm a bit at loose ends here. (When I prefer—as you know—to be all tied up.)

So I thought I'd use this Tuesday to show off the first photo I've received so far in my collections series. I tossed out the theme of my books and your obsessions. (I mean, collections.) And this is David's vinyl with two of my (nearly vintage) titles dancing in front.

And holy fuck. I am in awe and in love.

I have used "twisted" in titles at least three times: Tiffany Twisted, Tied Up & Twisted, and just plain Twisted. This must say something about my twisted mind.

The word appears in 915 of my stories. (Oh, man. I am so going to need a new word!)

Please send your pictures with my titles to msalisontyler at yahoo dot com. (You must be 18 or over to submit to me. And other boring words here.)

In other David & musical news, I dreamed I met David Bowie the other night. I was so elated. I have been a fan for more years than you can count on fingers and toes unless you include other people's fingers and toes. (And so yes, I've described a strange orgy.) I  used to wear random rhinestone pins on a football-style jacket as a visual representation (somehow) of Diamond Dogs. But when I got close to Bowie—and I was thinking, "Oh, my god. It's Bowie! It's really Bowie!"—it turned out to be an impersonator.

Seriously. My subconscious dream-psyche saw fit to hire a Bowie impersonator. Without a doubt, I have the strangest dreams.


December 07, 2015

Trollop with a Question #86

I had the funniest, who's-on-first type of conversation with my mother the other day. She was telling me how much she adored this book she'd read. And I was nodding, thinking I knew the title she was talking about. I hadn't read the book in years, but some of the imagery was still bright in my mind. She'd chosen the title for her book group, she said. I was impressed. I remembered the novel as being quite dark, different from the film.

"There's a film?" she asked.

"Um. Yeah. By Hitchcock."

And then she stared at me as if I'd lost my mind. So. Back up. I was thinking: Strangers on a Train. Book by Patricia Highsmith. Movie by Hitchcock. My mom was talking about The Stranger on a Train. And then things got stranger still. Because I told her Oh, yes, I'd heard about that. But nope. I hadn't. I was thinking The Girl on the Train. When in reality, this is the title she was referring to: Stranger on a Train: Daydreaming and Smoking Around America with Interruptions, a book I've never heard of before.

Which leads us (in a round-about way) to my Monday question. Is there a book that you not only love, yourself, but that you really want other people to appreciate? That you're somehow invested in, emotionally? Because my parents both fell hard for this one. My mom wants her book group to love it, and now insists I read it. (Which I will. Toot de suite, mom. I promise.)

I've talked about my feelings for Wrecking Crew, a memoir that delighted me. I'm going to ponder today a list of other titles, ones I am happy when I learn that my friends appreciated, as well.

And you?


December 06, 2015

Whatever you choose... be happy.

I've been thrift-shopping for decades. Used. Re-usedRecycled. Repurposed. These are the words that turn me on. Junking was all about thrift store shopping. New clothes rarely find their way into my closet. I search out items with a feeling of history, a backstory I can make up. Aside from that, I don't want to look like everybody else.

What I appreciate most about thrift-store shopping is the treasure hunt. The seeking for the ultimate *insert what you desire here.* Okay, that may be a lie. I also love the feeling of who knows what you'll find. Not looking for anything particular. Those are the best times. So what I found yesterday—my faith in humanity restored—well, that was totally unexpected.

See, I've discovered that there's a camaraderie to second-hand shopping. I slipped on a jacket I was unsure of, and in a flash, four women were offering their opinions. (One's opinion was that the jacket would look better on her... ha. She was right.)

But this is the part I wanted to share. A shopper could not decide about a pair of heels. They were probably the priciest items in the store. I don't know the brand, but trust me when I say these were high-end, glossy, midnight blue, peep-toe, fuck-the-hell-out-of-me-tonight pumps. She put them on. She took them off. She put them back on and walked around the store. She talked to one of the owners about the outfit she planned to wear. The party she was going to attend.

There was visible hemming and hawing.

The pumps, may I say, looked brilliant even with the jeans she had on. But I cottoned on to the fact that she was going somewhere special, and she wanted to look like a goddess. Like Marilyn Monroe meets Aphrodite.

Ultimately, the owner did this. She packaged up the shoes and put them in a bag. She gave them to the woman and she said, "If you don't wear them, please bring them back on Monday when we open. If you do decide to wear them, call and pay over the phone, or come in to pay."

The shopper was awestruck. "Are you serious? When do I call? When should I pay? Should I call you tonight...?" All sorts of questions. The owner smiled. "Don't worry about this. Take them home. Try them on with your dress. If they're yours..." she shrugged, "you'll know."

I was eavesdropping, like you do in small second-hand stores, and I caught the entire interaction. And this is my favorite part. As the shopper was leaving, the owner said, "Whatever you choose to wear tonight, have a lovely evening." A pause, a beat. "And be happy."

The things you find when you're second-hand shopping. Never what you expect. Always a pleasure. A treasure.


P.S. These are not the shoes the woman bought. These are my very own gorgeous, cobalt, zippered, fuck-the-hell-out-of-me-tonight pumps.

December 05, 2015

"Cheap Soft Porn"

Several years ago, two readers mistakenly bought one of my short fetish stories because the title was similar to a crime novel. (My story came first by about six years.) I've done things like this. I watched a film called Betty (I think) when a friend recommended Betty Blue. I caught my error and rented the correct film later. (And I recall enjoying both.)

In this case, rather than simply return the ebook and go on their merry way, both customers left one-star reviews.

In their reviews, the readers admitted they intended to buy the other book—the one on book club lists, the one written by a different author with a different name, the one that didn't say "erotic content," kinky, fetish, etc. (You can hear me losing my mind here because on the Amazon page, it actually states: "The story deals not only with rubber as a fetish, but with exhibitionism, voyeurism, and most important: longing.")

One reader simply wrote: NOT THE BOOK I WAS EXPECTING (over and over). The other explained that s/he had bought the title in error, and then complained that the story was short (not even a book!) and called my happy little kink story "cheap soft porn."

I stumbled on the reviews a while ago. (Years, maybe.) And every so often, I land on the thought in my mental travels. Sometimes I imagine walking into the wrong store—say, a shoe store—and being indignant because the place doesn't sell fish. ("I came in here wanting fresh salmon! How dare you sell shoes?") Then there's this bafflement I always feel when someone buys an item that states "24 pages, short story, 2775 words" and then bewails about the length. This mini skirt? It's not a maxi! These shorts are not pants! This shot of whiskey is *not* the whole bottle.


But this morning, I woke with an unexpected brainwave. Yes, yes, I have too many projects begun and not enough projects ended. I am writing on Figment every night and my cougar novel every day. I'm letting several sultry anthologies sizzle on all of my bunsen burners. But I started a new book today called Cheap Soft Porn.

And I'm ecstatic.

Lemons into lemonade?
No. A slap into a tickle.

That's far more my speed.


December 04, 2015

I Don't Want To, And You Can't Make Me.

I've spent almost my entire life doing what other people wanted me to do—with notable exceptions. I didn't marry the man everyone said I should marry. I didn't stay at the school everyone said I should stay at.

But generally, I'm a peace keeper, a team player, a good-time girl, a Jill of all trades, an olive-branch hander, a white-flag waver. I don't rock the boat. I won't shake the tree. I never spill the milk. I rattle nobody's cage.

I've been cajoled, badgered, bullied, bamboozled. (Love that word.) I take full responsibility. I thought that's what you were supposed to do. Be easy going. Be a yes man. Be a do-be not a don't-be.

This year, I've been working to make a difference. Small changes, perhaps, but notable to me:

I have broken bad habits. (Well, I'm working on breaking bad habits.)
I have tried to find my arc. (Look at me in the tree.)
I've searched for the positive (and fairies fucking in batteries).

And I've failed at all of that and broken down in public. (Like you do.)

But here's something I've been mulling over, kicking around, toying with... There are things you don't have to do if you don't want to. No, really. Look at your schedule. Check your lists. (Check them twice, if you want. 'Tis the season.) There are emails you don't have to answer. Phone calls you don't have to return. Groups you can not join. Boards you don't have to serve on. Cupcakes you don't have to bake. (If you're like me. And not a baker.) There are movies you don't have to watch, articles you don't have to read. Parties you don't have to attend.

I mean, that has to be a plus in the sea of negatives regarding aging.

Now, I'm not suggesting you should live in a cave with no human interaction. I'm simply saying this:

Do you want to fill-in-the-blank? No? Then don't. 

In the past, I have been slammed into deadlines I knew were bad for me. I have been coerced into jobs I had no desire to do. Guilted into situations that felt unending and unrelenting.

Sure, there are things we can't get away from. (Taxes always comes up.) But I've jettisoned so much extra fluff, so many expectations weighing on me that were placed there by others, I am ending this year much lighter than when I started.

Surprisingly, I am becoming very good at not doing what I don't want to. You can no longer drag me by my wrist to an event I have no desire to attend. But the thing is, if you took me by the wrist into somewhere I wanted to go, I am there. I am yours. I am more than 1000% present. If we stood against the wall and watched the writhing bodies in the room, breathed in the heat and musk and raw scent of human sexuality, then, baby, I won't leave until they turn the lights on.

And I might not even leave then.

Because here's the unexpected and lovely flip side of not doing what you don't want to. You have so much more time to do what you want to do. Whether you spend yours at an orgy, or elsewhere, that's entirely up to you. (I want pictures.)