I asked Robbie Jenkins (wordsmith extraordinaire) if she could make me a pendant featuring the words "ass clown" or the word "assclown." It was going to be a gift for a very good friend. (In my research, I learned that while "asshat" had recently been added to the American Heritage Dictionary, "assclown" had not.)
Why I love Robbie Jenkins... she came back to me with the following list of "ass" words she could pendant-ize for me:
ass
assabout
assasin(womens breast)
ass-backwards
ass-belly
ass-bite
assbone
ass boy
ass-breaker
ass-bucket
ass-burglar
ass-buster
ass-busting
ass-chewing
ass-deep
ass- deep- to- a- tall -moose
assed
assed-out
ass-end-backwards
ass-end-of-nowhere
ass-end-to
assface
ass-fault
ass-frontwards
assfuck
assfucking
assgasket
ass-grabbing
ass-hammer
ass-hat
ass-head
ass-headed
ass-/hip-knee-/high to a tall indian
asshole
asshole ground
asshole buddy
asshole-deep
assholingest
ass-hound
ass-kick
ass-kicker
ass-kicking
ass kiss
ass-kisser
ass-lick
ass-licker
assload
ass 0ff
ass 0n backwards
ass pack
ass-poots
ass peddler
ass ripper
ass-scratchert
ass-side-about
ass-sucker
ass-tickler
ass-whipper
ass-whipped
astard-ba
I don't know why, but this list tickled me six ways to Sunday. Truly loved "ass on backwards," but I would be happy to wear about 11 of these (if I knew what they meant).
For more ass play, please visit Kristina Lloyd's Annual Anal Erotica page. There, I spelled that right, right?
5.0 out of 5 stars Yoga is Sexy, January 8, 2012
By Rachel Kramer Bussel "Cupcakes Take the Cake ...
Yoga turns very sexy in this novella by Alison Tyler, which captures the longing of a seven year itch that hasn't been scratched and has left the narrator aching with desire. She's gone along with her partner Andrew's belief that getting it on will be a "waste of chi," even to the point that he doesn't want her masturbating, but when Cormac walks into her yoga class, she can't help but respond. The writing is witty and hot and sizzling with all those years of built-up frustration. Whether you've read Alison Tyler before or not (and whether you do yoga or not), check out this novella. It delivers on its promise and the sex is so scorching you could almost think it was worth the seven-year wait.
I can't tell you how much I appreciate the write-up. This story was a long time coming — both in the penning of the piece and in the publication. Ta very much, RKB. You made my day!
I have about sixteen things I need to spill right now (like the dream in which a musician I know held me down to a polished wooden table and dyed the shock of silver hair over my forehead a deep, perfect emerald green). But because I promised myself this would be a year of writing contests, I want to be sure to toss out the new topic. (I promise to come back later and fill you in on the line-up for my next Harlequin book and the call for submissions for the next Cleis collection.)
If you're so inclined, please pen me a story of 500 words (max) that fits a Valentine's Day theme. I'm craving sultry, sexy, sublime stories that follow all my standard rules (characters must be over 18, and you must be over 18, too — no non-con, no animals, no kissing cousins or other family relations). Sub your story to me at msalisontyler at yahoo dot com by February 4th. (That's two weeks from today.) We'll run the poll until Valentine's Day. The winner will receive a killer "conversation heart" necklace.
Here is the cover for my next novella, due out (I think) in April from Harlequin Spice. I have some killer news from Harlequin regarding my third collection — but I need to wait for the final-final approval of a few stories before I go wide. Wait, is it go long? Before I spill. There you go. What else? I have calls for submissions banging on my brain to be let out. And I am going to post a new writing contest this week, also.
But right now, I simply want to gaze at my new cover and stroke the computer screen with the tips of my fingers. Isn't that what everyone does with a glossy new ebook cover?
One of my goals for the New Year is to run writing contests each month. And look out. We're starting with a bang! Here are the fucking 500-word stories (or 500-word fucking stories) to kickstart 2012. I'm posting the pieces anonymously—writers can reveal themselves after the poll ends.
*****
Entry #1: Harsh Response
"I always loved you."
As soon as the words slipped out of my mouth, I knew it was the wrong thing to blurt out. I didn't intended to say it quite so loud or actually say it at all. It was in my thoughts, but in a lunch about Dave's latest breakup, it definitely wasn't the right thing to say. I watched with growing fear as his lips compressed into a thin line.
"Ever since high school, I wanted to fuck you." No, that didn't help. I clamped a hand over my mouth before any other secrets slipped out. Not that had we many, we've been commiserating about poor lovers and ruined relationships for thirty years.
He stood up, his dark eyes focused on me. There was a surge of heat that coursed through my body, gathering along my nipples, clitoris, and lips as he took a step through me.
I stood up and backed away but he kept coming. I didn't know if he was going to hurt me or kiss me, but then I backed into the kitchen door. I flailed for the handle but missed. I looked up as he grabbed the front of my shirt with both hands and banged me tight against the door.
"What-"
His mouth caught mine, trapping the word in my throat. His lips--I dreamed of them for years--kissed me and I felt my knees turning to jelly. Dave yanked his arms apart and I shuddered as my blouse buttons were torn off. His hands followed the cool air and he shoved my bra aside to maul my breasts.
I let out a whimper, caught against the door and his body.
Dave reached behind, but instead of fumbling, he just tore the bra clasp apart and yanked it off my body. It left four red brands on my skin. He grabbed the front of my skirt and jerked me from the door.
My bare feet skittered against the tile floor. I couldn't control my balance as he shoved me into the table and bent me over it. My nipples crushed the sugar cookies but thankfully the coffee splattered across the floor.
His hands yanked up my skirt until he could jam two fingers into my cleft. By the time his fingers tore aside my thong, I was hot and slick. He grabbed my hair, wrapping it twice around his free hand, before he pulled hard. He entered with a frantic desperation, driving his cock
into me. I could feel my thong adding to the friction and pulling out a few short hairs. He bottomed out and his zipper ground into the sensitive flash.
A crack filled the air when he smacked my ass. I cried out and he did it again. His cock drove deeper as he spanked me again. I clenched around him as I came.
He yanked on my hair and I had to arch my back. I felt his panting breath tickle my ear as he chuckled, "Me too."
*****
Entry #2: Helpless
He was a wicked, twisted man, and he had her twisted around his little finger. She always had the option of saying no.
She never could.
He knew that.
Music was her release, and he capitalized on that. Fucked her in time to the beat of her favorite songs, but telling her not to come until he said so. The slow songs weren’t much easier than the fast ones.
More insidious was the special vibrator that moved and buzzed in time to the music playing through her headphones. Oh, he’d tortured her for a long time with that one.
Unsurprisingly, he wanted more. Wanted to push her farther. And she let him.
She had tickets to her favorite metal band—front and center. Of course she’d dress the part, leather and lace. Nobody would think twice about a collar buckled around her neck.
Except he’d found a new one for her. One with nipple clamps attached. Two chains dangled from the front of the collar, down into her low-cut shirt. Would people know? He assured her, his voice low and threatening, that they would. They’d know just what a slut she was.
And if they didn’t, he’d flip up the back of her skirt and show them the stripes where the cane had crashed down, barely redder than the most recent spanking had blushed her round cheeks.
She was surprised when he said she could wear a thong. She shouldn’t have been. She shouldn’t have seen it as a concession or a gift.
Because before she slipped them up her legs, he pressed a hand against her back, bending her over the bed, her ass in the air. She moaned, afraid and yet craving another assault on her ass.
The fear and arousal had made her wet. His fingers determined that quickly, and he stroked her clit until she was moaning in frustrated arousal.
She almost came when he stuffed the bullet vibrator up into her. She caught herself just in time.
She almost lost it again when she realized what he was going to do. By then it was too late.
They were at the show. The music pounded, and the clamps pulled and pinched as she danced. Her nipples nearly drilled through her top—was it obvious to the band? Probably. She flushed with embarrassment and delight.
He toyed with the remote, playing with the settings. Ratcheting her need to come higher and higher without letting her pitch over the edge. Growling in her ear between songs, describing in exquisite, horrifying detail how she’d be forced to orgasm publicly in front of the entire audience, in front of the band.
She wanted to tell him no.
The music, the humiliation, and the desperate need all screamed yes.
As she pitched over the edge, he promised her there was still more to come….
*****
Entry #3: Summer Rain
“Wet enough for you?” Lyla asked, watching the raindrops wind their way down Theresa's muscular arms as she paddled. The sky had been a clear and cloudless blue when they set out that morning, but by mid-afternoon it was as grey as the old woolen army blanket Lyla was now pulling over her head as a makeshift raincoat. The Summer rain didn’t mess around. Once it started it came down hard.
“I hate to say I told you so, but, well, I told you so. It always rains here on New Year's Eve. It's like a rule or something,” Lyla continued. “Honestly we might as well be swimming!”
“Are you asking me to throw you overboard? Because I will!” Theresa turned so Lyla could see her mascara streaked face. The firm set of her mouth said she was only half joking.
“No,” Lyla squeaked.
“Well then shut up and keep an eye out for a good spot on the bank to rest. We can shelter under the canoe.”
In a few minutes time they were doing just that. Lyla nestled into the crook of Theresa's arm as the rain hammered a tattoo on the hull of the canoe drowning out the calls of the birds and the sound of the river. Theresa slid a hand down to the fly of Lyla's jeans and expertly popped the button open. Going on texture alone she moved her fingers past soft lace and feathery hair until she reached the warm slit hidden there. She began the lazy rhythmic stroking that usually had her young Australian lover purring like a cat.
Suddenly, Lyla giggled.
“Is something funny?” Theresa asked.
“Sorry, I was just thinking of something from Monty Python.”
“At a time like this! What was it?”
“Oh, just that what we're doing is like your American beer.” Lyla loved ribbing Theresa about her country, but this was odd timing even for her.
“What?” Theresa's voice took on a warning tone.
“It's fucking close to water!” Lyla giggled again heedless of the consequences.
“Fucking? I'll give you fucking!”
Theresa rolled on top of Lyla and tugged down her jeans. Pinning the slender blonde's hands above her head with just one of her own strong hands she kissed her roughly. As her tongue pushed its way into her lover's mouth she reached down with her free hand and resumed her exploration of Lyra's cunt. She slipped first one, then two fingers rapidly in and out reaching for the familiar rough spot in the velvety wetness. She pulled away from Lyra's mouth and the blonde gasped “Lube! Backpack. Front pocket.”
Moments later, Lyra gasped at the cold wetness as Theresa's fingers drove back into her, three this time, then four. Finally Theresa pushed and felt her whole fist slide in. Lyra rocked against her hand as she pumped in and out, filling her completely.
Afterwards, as Lyla lay there gasping, Theresa smiled. “Yeah. That's wet enough.”
****
Entry #4: Gentle Souls
Lily manages the small local, adoption guaranteed, animal shelter. She’s married, moody, and a mystery to her co-workers. Her husband, an economist, is in Stockholm. Tuesday he makes a presentation at The Riksbank. Tonight, New Years Eve, Lily scheduled herself for the evening shift.
After midnight, she sits on the floor of the run occupied by Ranger, an elderly hound who no one seems to want. The concrete is warmed by radiate floor heating. She feeds him, by hand, a mix of dog food and Milkbones, his favorite.
The kennel is quiet. She has turned off the main kennel lights, but she has yet to turn off the Bach, Brahms, Schubert mixed-CD that she knows is calming to the dogs.
She hears someone clicking the five-digit passcode to the kennel. It’s Will, the shelter’s veterinarian, a retired academic, tall, slim, and sixty. They’ve known each other for four years.
“I’m over here.”
He sits, knees up, next to her and feeds Ranger. “I came because at midnight on New Years Eve the dogs can talk.”
“You missed it! We had a great conversation. I read them Creeley’s ‘I Know a Man,’ from by PhD dissertation. They all said they love you Will, especially Ranger. I love you Will!
“I love you Lily!”
As they leave the kennel, in the cold and snow, and under the tangerine-orange colored mercury-vapor lamp, they kiss. She feels his big hands cupping her ass.
Will’s bedroom overlooks Lake Michigan. In candlelight, he orders, “Take off your clothes.” She indulges in one perk, luxurious underwear. She slowly, seductively slides the waist of her jeans over Argentovivo panties, pulls off her shirt, and turns slowly.
“Bend over.” She does. He smacks her ass.
“Ohgod again. Again!”
Two outwardly gentle souls, shy among others, thrash against each other. She pounds her fists on his shoulders and pushes him roughly down on the bed. He gets up and throws her onto the bed.
She gets to her hands and knees. Her pussy is wet. From behind, he slides her panties aside. Their thrusts are powerful, the sounds crescendo. The room smells of sex.
With her hands and knees, now she pins him on his back, his harderectcock pointing towards Betelgeuse. She straddles him. They make eye-contact. As she rides his cock, she hisses “Deeper! Faster! Harder! Lily’s small breasts bounce wildly.
He lowers her to the bed and slides between her legs. The urgency is dissipating. She feels her clit slipping between his wet lips. She knows she is close to coming, and when his finger slips into her ass, she comes, violently, followed by prolonged breathless waves slow to subside.
They spoon. “I need you.” She fingers her pussy. She will come again tonight and she will make Will come. She savors Will’s huge hands stroking her back. She wonders if the roller-coaster experience of their fucking, violent—tender—urgent—sensuous, mimics the up-and-down passions of their shared work at the shelter. She closes her eyes.
*****
Entry #5: Cherry Red
Fuck.
Leni wasn’t sure if she said it out loud, or only thought it, when her back slammed into the wall and the air rushed out of her lungs. Three fingers, quickly becoming four, pressed into her almost without preamble.
She’d known the tattooed bartender would be a firecracker, but still hadn’t been prepared for this. Once the dam had broken after an evening of dancing around each other, once they finally began to touch, they’d unleashed something beyond of both of their control.
Leni didn’t even know her name. The bartender had told her, but it had been loud and Leni hadn’t caught what she’d said. She couldn’t ask now.
The bartender’s hair was so black it shone green in the light, like a beetle, and was cut with choppy bangs that framed her face. It was one of the first things Leni had noticed about her when she’d walked into the bar, that and her bright red fuck-me lipstick.
The lipstick that was being smeared into the skin of Leni’s throat as the bartender sucked and bit at her, as if to eat her alive. She found an especially sensitive spot beneath the bolt of her jaw and Leni moaned, a deep, resonating sound that filled the small space they were in. The bartender took that for the encouragement it was and pressed her narrow frame closer to Leni’s body, leaving barely enough room for her hand to work between them.
She slid her fingers in and out of Leni’s body more forcefully, jarring her with each thrust, and making her go weak in the knees when her thumb finally found Leni’s swollen clit and began to rub. Leni threw her arms around the other woman, hoping for little more than to hold on for the ride.
“So fucking hot,” the bartender whispered into her ear when she took a break from trying to devour Leni’s neck.
“Uughh,” Leni responded inelegantly, her whole body beginning to convulse as she was overwhelmed with waves of sensation. Leni dug her fingers into the bartender’s back, her thin white tank providing little protection against Leni’s nails. But Leni was far beyond caring about leaving marks. This woman was taking her apart from the inside out, finding all her buttons on the first try. No one had ever been confidant enough to be this rough with her, Leni was hooked and knew other lovers were going to fall short by comparison.
As Leni’s contractions subsided the bartender pulled her hand free and wiped it against her own jeans. Leni followed the bartender back into public area and watched as she took her station once again and immediately started making Leni another whiskey sour. She dropped a cherry into the drink and handed it to Leni, her fingers still glistening. Leni pulled the cherry out of the drink and popped it in her mouth, it tasted like her.
*****
I'm going to leave the poll up for two weeks to give everyone time to read and vote. (So that means the poll will run until the wee hours of January 17th, if I've programmed this thing right.)
Now take a deep breath, prepare your pointer finger, and vote!
Thank you to Saskia Walker who pointed out that A Taste of Chi is now available for sale! (Her own new release is Going Down, also out from Harlequin Spice.)
If you decide to taste my chi, please drop me a note and let me know what you think!
XXX,
Alison
P.S. I know I promised y'all a poll. I am waiting on a query to one author, but if I don't hear back, I'll make one of those executive decisions I've heard so much about and pull the trigger myself.
Yes, I've got a new poll and fresh stories to put up, which I will do tomorrow. I promise. For today, I thought I'd simply wish everyone a dreamy 2012. I'm knocking wood (and throwing salt) that this year will bring... you fill in the blank. Are you hopeful? Are you giddy? Does the end of one year and the start of a new one give you great joy? Or is today simply another day in your world—albeit one begun on a new calendar and with a potential hangover?
For me, 2012 is definitely going to be interesting, because I have nine (I think I counted that right) new projects to deliver. More on these to come shortly.
How about you? Fuck resolutions. Do you have any plans and schemes... or hopes and dreams?
XXX,
Alison
P.S. I wear my Knock Wood, Throw Salt rings nearly every day. When I'm not wearing these beauties, I tend to wear three different word rings, also by Loving Anvil. She's the best!
Love this shirt. Love when Tate wears a similar shirt on American Horror Story. Love American Horror Story. Excuse me while I obsess. I don't generally become addicted to TV shows. Yes, there have been a few main ones in the past. Rome, oh, Rome. The Sopranos. But I tend to lose interest and forget I'm addicted.
American Horror Story wasn't like that. Two close friends told me to watch the show, which is funny because I don't like being scared anymore. I did the whole "scare me" thing back in the day. You know my m.o. I don't seek out the dark or depressing. But this show captivated me from the start. God, it's so fucking pretty. Yes, the scenes are dark—I mean, like, physically dark. But everything is so carefully placed. The rooms remind me of hyper-polished short stories. Not even a punctuation mark out of place.
I've watched the whole season one time, and now I want to go back through and watch AHS more carefully. I remember viewing Twin Peaks with a group of friends, analyzing and dissecting after each episode (over cherry pie and coffee, if memory serves). AHS brings out the same desire in me. Although I take my AHS with tequila rather than coffee.
In cool news of the week, several of my anthologies are now available as audiobooks. My first Harlequin collection has been on Audible for quite some time, and now Frenzy, Got a Minute, Best Bondage Erotica, and Afternoon Delight are also up for aural appreciation.
I went poking around on the Audible site and saw that Alison's Wonderland has received 70+ ratings by listeners, but only one review. The review cracked me up:
SMUT"
Short stories that consisted of porn and smut. I love a good steamy and erotic book, but this book lacks both. Do not waste your credit unless you are bored watching porn and world rather listen to it.
Even after all these years, I am still shocked when someone finds Harlequin too porny. Yes, I live in a smut-filled bubble. But really? Alison's Wonderland? Porn and smut? I wish the reviewer would have ticked off the titles s/he does find appealing. What's steamy to someone like this? The back of a cereal box?
Truly, I love that "smut" is all caps in the review. Like a warning sign. SMUT. Heh. If you've listened to any of these anthologies, please drop me a note. I'd love to hear what you think!
What is it about laser-cut acrylic that makes me wet? As you can see, I'm on a fuck theme. Fuck necklaces, that is. This is just a little (fucking) reminder that I have a writing contest up and running. Rules and regs are right here!
Oh, I love these! Especially, all together like this. How could you *not* feel calm if you were wearing 10 "keep calm" necklaces?
I kept calm yesterday by hitting one of my all-time favorite bars with one of my all-time favorite friends. Drinking in daytime is such a naughty pleasure. The 3 p.m. shot of tequila hit more than the spot. I've written about the bar in so many different stories and novels—beginning, I think, with Rumors nearly a decade ago all the way up to this year's "Plucked" from Smart Ass:
She’s at the bar that night. We’re all at the bar. Small-town living means that your choices are narrowed to two—stay home or go to The Local. Sandy’s at the corner—his corner. Nobody would dare to sit on Sandy’s stool, even when he’s not in the bar. That’s how things are out here. What’s yours is yours. At least, until you lose your turn. The woman steps inside and scans the room quickly. I can see her assessing the situation. Battered floor that matches the scuffed bar that matches the ripped-up stools. An old jukebox—not vintage, mind you, nor refurbished retro—just fucking old.
From the large, luscious picture window, we could see people scurrying around to do their last-minute holiday shopping. But we were calm as could be as we sipped sublimely and watched the restless natives.
Hope you find a spot of calm in your merry-merry madness!
Sometimes I discover reviews of books that seem to be translated from other languages. (Not the books, the reviews.) Or from English to another language and then back to English. But this is more baffling. A mention of Kiss My Ass appears on a blog post called: "The help of the Covering letter Can Fatal your Search of Work."
Snort.
You know what your potential new boss searches in the employee? You know, position demands what specific skills? You know, how quickly your statement can be lowered in stuff without repentance ; Kiss My Ass Annual Anal Erotica Alison Tyler, Jax Baynard, Kristina Lloyd, Sommer Marsden, Sophia Valenti?
You the covering letter should be allocated for you to be noticed and for you, to make it by the first reduction. Zakanchivanie the first reduction is considerable step to were employed in the company of your dreams.
It's a bizarre little site that offers links to illegal downloads. (I've inserted my own links instead.) And I don't understand why or how our book got mentioned there. Putting the hows aside, this is my favorite part of the piece:
Reception of the help of the covering letter is one of few areas which can matter between creation of the first reduction, and reception of your statement has inserted stuff. Spend you search of work with impression of professionalism and make your following work big.
I kind of like "has inserted stuff" almost as much as "can be lowered in stuff without repentance." Maybe the word "stuff" as a placeholder simply cracks me up. At least, *they* spelled Anal and Annual correctly! Sheeesh.
I saw these shoes on a website a few days ago, and now they are following me all over the internet. Popping up here and there in the sidebars when I least expect to see them. Unfortunately, the site where I found them is totally out of my size—so I am being stalked by shoes I can't even buy!
Why am I gazing longingly at shoes?
Because today I received a hostile email from a distributor who was seriously unhappy because they could not order one of our books. I mean, one copy of one of our books. This is why we closed the warehouse, people. But hello—I remembered that this same company had sent us a draconian letter several months ago that we were required to sign and send back. This was one of those surreal letters you get from time to time. We were asked to agree to settle a disputed claim without any admission of liability on the part of either party.
That's nice, right? I love guilt-free exchanges.
But see, I had no idea what the disputed claim was. There was no hint of what the dispute was in the note. Even more charming, there was no place to return the statement—no email, fax, or mail address on the letter. Since the letter had been forwarded to us by our warehouse, I went to the warehouse for answers. Apparently, they had lost the email address from whence it came. (Wow, I've never actually typed those words all together before. I feel so Dickensian.)
This was my verbatim discussion with our warehouse contact:
I have no idea what this is. What disagreement did we have with Ernie and Bert? (I've made a difficult to spot substitution for the company's actual name.)
Back from our warehouse:
Good morning Alison,
I don't know either. Are you selling to Ernie and Bert? I have you listed as a full service account. We wouldn't have contacted Ernie and Bert.
Let me know if you need anything.
So clearly, that was going nowhere fast.
But what I loved best about the "Mutual Settlement and Release" was the fact that I was required to "execute and deliver this full and mutual release of any and all claims" on or before 12/31/10.
I received the paper in August. 2011.
There was a whole lot of other legal-eze in the letter. And I believe the letter came from the fact that I had simply stopped fulfilling their orders. This mega-company would order single copies of our books and then return the same copies six months later. We would receive $6.73 from them after about 120 days, which would not cover shipping and handling on our end or the restocking when they returned the books. They would then ask for the $6.73 in credit.
Which is why I'm looking at shoes.
No, really. I am not above saying this. What calms me down more than any meditation (or medication) is to scan the internet for things I like. Lipsticks, boots, glossy patent leather anything. That is the way I Om.
Now off to see if I can find those shoes in a UK5! Wish me luck. But don't send me any mutual agreement settlement statements. I might have to buy the 20-eyelet Docs.
I am so fucking embarrassed. Thank god for Kristina Lloyd, who noticed what my eyes missed. Can you believe I wrote Anual Annal Erotica instead of Annual Anal Erotica?
Hopefully, the new book will be reader-ready shortly. Until then, damn are my cheeks red.
I've done some audio work years ago, and I fully contemplate how difficult a job being a reader is. (Especially, for a novice like me.) I just spied this review for one of the books I worked on: "A good erotic story wrecked by what appears to be overacting menopausal chain-smoking readers."
At least, that one was tempered by this one, "Dramatisation is what sets this work apart from other erotica. Listen to sexual conversations between lovers. Sexy as hell. I had never tried a dramatisation before -- only the unabridged stories -- but dramatisation gives the stories a freshness and thrilling immediacy. I want more!"
I don't plan ever to be on that side of a studio again—my nerves were too nervy—but I am beyond thrilled that some of my books are now being translated to this format. Now readers—I mean, listeners—will have a whole new way to enjoy the collections!
Yay! It is. Finally. And do you know what? I am all fucking set to give a prize away. Why? Because I haven't for a really long time. I've been distracted for oh, I don't know, the past six months. That's not to say I haven't gotten my other work done. But I've had the pressure of the warehouse and the financials on my shoulders, as well.
And now? Not.
Both warehouses are closed. The forms are in the mail. And I am free to focus on nine (count them, nine) new titles. But before I get started, I wanted to toss out a quick challenge. If you:
• are so inclined
• are 18 or over
• know not to write about animals, family members, those under the age of consent, or those unwilling to consent
... then please consider entering my new contest.
Write me up to 500 words of fabulous, fierce, full-on fucking. If I receive more than one entry, we'll have a poll. Winner will walk home with this necklace (above) — and possibly a slot in a new collection I'm putting together for Cleis (more on that shortly).
I'm always open to same-sex stories, to BDSM, to spanking (oh, yes), to fantasy, to people who love each other, to people who just met, to threesomes, to foursomes, to many moresomes. But if you have a question, go ahead and shoot me an email.
What do you say? Send your submissions directly to me at msalisontyler at yahoo dot com. Include your pen name and a note that says you are over 18. I'll post the subs anonymously and we'll go from there. Deadline is... New Year's Eve.
So Sam is on daily medication. Forever. I'm not sure if you know how long forever is. I'm hoping forever is a long fucking time. Anyway, we've had trouble every month for several years with the refills of this prescription. It is a mandatory medication to keep him alive. These aren't pain pills. They aren't happy drugs. But every month, the pharmacy says there are no refills left. This month's meds were supposed to be available yesterday.
I go in this a.m., and the checker takes Sam's name and date of birth and tells me there are no prescriptions in the queue for him.
"I ordered the prescription on Monday," I say.
"Is this a new prescription?"
"No, a refill."
"From a new doctor?"
"No, same doctor."
"Nothing in the system," she says cheerfully.
"I talked with *you* on Monday," I tell her. "*You* told me there were no refills, and I had Sam call *you*. *You* said the doctor had to call to confirm, and the doctor confirmed. Because we've had so much trouble in the past, the doctor wrote a prescription for a year's worth."
It takes a lot for me not to say fucking at least 16 times in that little speech.
"Nope. We have no record of any prescription," she says, a twinkle in her eye.
I actually feel myself starting to tear up. In line. At the pharmacy. Nothing good can come of this. I honestly don't know what to do.
"But I talked with you," I say again, as if that might help.
"I'm sorry that I don't remember having that conversation," she says. (Holy fuck, right? I talked to her. Sam talked to her. The doc talked to her. I know she deals with many different customers, but there were multiple discussions here.)
Suddenly, her co-worker says, "Oh, wait. I think I have a fax about Sam. The pills will be ready in 20 minutes."
So I fuck around in the cosmetics section for 20 minutes. When I get back, the line is huge. And everyone in line seems to be waiting for their next dose of hallucinogenic drugs. The woman in front of me is calming a dog that doesn't exist. I get to the front of the line, with the same checker, and go through the same story. Sam's name. His date of birth. All the sort of info that couldn't possibly have changed in the twenty minutes I've spent trying lipsticks on the back of my hand.
"We don't have enough to fill the whole scrip," she says, "Do you need a partial?"
"Yup," I say, through gritted teeth. "I need a partial."
"Twenty minutes," she says.
I spend twenty minutes fucking around in the liquor section. What a happy place to be at 10:30 on a Thursday. When I come back to the counter, the lady gives me—I shit you not—four pills in a bottle. This is a partial. 4 now. 361 some other day. I would like to be able to use this concept in other ways. I'll pay a partial on my gas bill. Four bucks now, 100 some other day.
"The rest will be ready tomorrow," she says.
"Great."
"I mean Saturday," she says.
"Fine."
"Between four and six p.m."
I sigh. There's a two-hour window for me to pick up the rest of the motherfucking pills? Apparently so. But we have an engagement on Saturday evening. Luckily, we have those four fucking pills to get Sam through to Sunday.
I have no moral to this story. I have no happy ending, aside from a nice bottle of Scotch and six new lipsticks. But I have to say, WTF? Right? What the fuckety fuck.
Everyone I know has some version of anxiety or stress disorder. No, really. I'm not paranoid at all. Heh. It's as if all my friends hit forty and went a little loony. And I'm good with it. But I've been noticing that everyone has their own push-button anxieties. That makes sense, right? What trips one friend's freak wire blows over another without even a ripple.
One of my buddies can't stand driving over bridges. Another will panic if caught in a traffic jam. (I found that out when I was caught in a traffic jam with her. Not pretty, Dave. Not pretty.) With me, well, I have too many to really quantify. But a main one is filling in forms. It's not that I drool and writhe on the floor. The thing is that I worry — I worry I've filled in something incorrectly, that I've irrevocably fucked something up.
Hate forms. I fucking hate them. Did I mention? Hate forms. That is why I was in such the celebratory mode last night. Because what I finished was six-months of online data entry followed by meticulous form filling.
We used to pay a company $2700 to do what I did—plus an additional $650 a month to do what I wasn't doing every month. When you have a loss in the tens of thousands (hemorrhaging warehouse expenses is, um, expensive) you can no longer pay other people to be meticulous.
But now the lunacy is over. Ha. You don't believe that for a second, do you? I mean, pushed momentarily to the side. I have cleared the slate, and I'm almost ready to post new calls for submissions. I'm not saying I won't be the raving lunatic you know and love — but I am saying I won't be filling in wee little boxes for awhile.
XXX,
Alison
P.S. Oh, don't you love these raving lunatic earrings? Lunatic is actually one of my all-time favorite words thanks to Pink Floyd. That and "batshit."(Okay, maybe the second is two words. But they go so well together.)
