An Alphabetical Extravaganza

Alana tagged me.
Bitch, I thought, but in a good way.
Can you believe that hot spanky babe tagged me?
Damn.
Eight facts to share, rules to post, other people to tag.
For fuck’s sake, what am I going to write about?
Grumble, grumble.
Hell, I might as well tell you the rules:

• We have to post these rules before we give you the facts.
• Players start with eight random facts/habits about themselves.
• People who are tagged need to write their own blog about their eight things and post these rules.
• At the end of your blog, you need to choose eight people to get tagged and list their names.
• Don't forget to leave them a comment telling them they're tagged, and to read your blog.

I don’t know what to write—so I better take a breath and jump in!
Just fourteen when I got my first electric razor (for leg shaving), I immediately zipped off the hair on my, um, hoo ha.
Knock wood, throw salt is my favorite expression because I’m extremely superstitious—I throw salt when I use it, no only when I spill it.
Luscious Demi Moore once said about me, “There goes another wanna-be starlet.”
My first two paychecks for smut stories were $500 each—I thought I was going to be rich right away.
Now what?
Oh, yes, "Four on the Floor" is absolutely, totally, 100% true, down to the dogs who’d had their voice boxes removed.
People often comment about my rings because I always wear one on the middle finger of my right hand—without a ring on this finger, I feel naked.
Quite opposite of what you might think, when I was a masseuse, lesbians hit on me far more than my male clients.
Randy me—I’ve shared a bed with two of the authors in my books—one male, one female.
So, there’s eight facts that you might not have known.
Twiddling my thumbs while thinking of eight more people to name.
Um…
Very well, then, I think I’ll just tag some Lust Biters.
Who knows—they might play along.
X-ing out Kristina Lloyd and Shanna who were already tagged by Alana; Portia who was tagged by someone else; and Olivia, Mathilde, and Deanna who don’t have blogs; I’m going with: Nikki, Madelynne, Madeline, Kate, Teresa, Dayle, Gwen, and Janine. And just to be a pain in her arse, I'll tag Kristina again—maybe if two people hit her, she'll fold and play along (but I won't hold my breath).
You all don’t have to do anything alphabetically—I just like the ABCs.
Zounds—I’m done.

XXX,
Alison

Bitter Truth

I am drinking super strong coffee...

The air is chilly and silver-gray outside, and I feel somehow that I’m getting closer to the real story here. Do you have that feeling, as well? Or is it just me? (Kristina will undoubtedly say it’s just me.)

But you all know the way I work by now. You know that the closer I get to the center, the more likely I am to tango off on another tangent. And that tangent, this time, is Claudine. Claudine, who had fisted Alex before dinner, pumped his cock without letting him come, as if her hand on his flesh were a mere appetizer. (And, oh, what a sexy appetizer.) Claudine, who was feeding me now as if I were her pet, or her lover, or as if she knew that my favorite poem on earth is They Flee from Me that Sometime Did Me Seek by Sir Thomas Wyatt…

I have seem them gentle, tame and meek,
That now are wild and do not remember
That sometime they put themself in danger
To take bread at my hand; and now they range,
Busily seeking with a continual change.

Claudine would not only know that poem, she’d have been able to recite it both in English and French.

But she didn’t need to speak poetry. Because simply the way she moved was poetry. The way she made sure that we both had eaten before taking us into the guest house. Showing us the room where she painted. The place where we’d sleep.

If we ever got to sleep.

Paintbrushes in cans in a row. Skylights in the ceiling to let in true light in the day. The moon at night. I almost scanned a picture to show you. I might do that still. But I ought to be able to paint the picture with words, right?

I ought to be able to tell you that Claudine spread a dropcloth on the studio floor. A freshly washed one—a crisp and white background, with a Jackson Pollack spray of colors that could never be washed clean.

I should be able to describe the way she spoke to me, in her husky French accent. The way she said that she and Jack had been known to share in the past. “To share.”

I need to be able to explain how I felt, backing away from her, backing into Alex, who held me, as if my two dinner mates were now playing good cop/bad cop. Alex gripping onto my arams, holding me steady as Claudine approached.

I said, “Jack.” I know I did.
And Claudine said, “Jack’s not here.”

I understood that. I wasn’t that drunk.
I said, “Wait. What about Jack?”
And Claudine said, “Jack gave you to me.”

I shook my head. That wasn’t right. He hadn’t given me to anyone. He’d sent me to her, but I was still his.

Wasn’t I?

And Alex reached into his pocket, pulling out a tape recorder of his own. He handed over the little device and then he and Claudine went into the tiny kitchen alcove while I listened to Jack croon softly to me from hours—and miles—away.

How had Jack known?

How had he known the way the dinner would play out, with his ex-wife feeding the two of us as if we lived in her personal petting zoo? How had he known that our little trio would wind up in the art studio together, with Claudine stalking toward me as if she not only wanted to peel off my clothing, but strip off my skin, my shell, to see what I looked like inside.

How had Jack known to say:

“You’re on your own, Kid. You do what you want. I’m giving you a free pass…”

Not telling me to take the right fork or the left fork in the road. Not giving me a clue as to what he truly wanted. Letting me make the decision for myself. A test. I knew this was a test.

“Do what you want,” he said.

What did I want?

I wanted to see what Alex and Claudine were up to. I walked into the kitchen and saw his shirt was off, saw a jar of fresh honey open on the counter. Claudine had a paintbrush in her hand, and she was slowly painting the honey over Alex’s chest.

She painted a line across his chest, and then bent her head and licked the honey away. Alex had his head back, eyes closed, basking in the way the tickling sensation of the brush felt on his naked skin. Reveling in the way her warm tongue felt on him after.

How do I know how the brush felt?
How do I know about her lips?

I’ve teased out this scene over and over. The concept of being painted. Well, I’ve been painted. With honey. In an artist’s studio. Painted with that sticky, amber substance. Decorated and designed, and then fucked. So sweetly. As sweet as the honey…

Let me tell you all about it.

Tomorrow.

XXX,
Alison

Where did it go to my youth,
Where did it fade away to?
Who was it told the truth, the bitter truth,
The truth we didn't want to know?
—Marianne Faithfull

P.S. I have received two stellar reviews of "Got a Minute?” on Amazon. If you like this book—or any of my books—please take the time to drop me a review. You have no idea how excited these reviews make me, or how much a good review or two can help boost sales.