Getting Dirty with Alison & Shanna

Alison says: D is for Dirty. That's good enough for me. Well, it's actually good enough for Rachel Kramer Bussell and the 26 other writers in her fab new collection from Seal Press called Dirty Girls. "Dirty" is actually one of my favorite words. (Originally, I wanted to call my collection of anal sex stories Dirty—ultimately, we went with Luscious.)

But I've been thinking for the past few days—what makes being dirty so appealing? What is it about getting dirty that turns me on?

I have to think my rebellious nature plays a big part in wanting to be dirty. I look innocent on the surface—so I counter my appearance with a filthy mouth, with dirty thoughts, with impure desires. Because music and writing meld in my world, I have a soundtrack to accompany the word "dirty," which is Bowie's Rebel, Rebel:

You've torn your dress. Your face is a mess.

That's the epitome of dirty to me. Torn clothes. Smudged cheeks. A voracious sexual appetite. (That part is implied by the throbbing bass line.)

What I love most about the concept of dirty—truly, what I like about theme-writing in general—is how differently authors tackle the same topic. What's dirty to me, may be Ivory Soap pure to someone else. So I wanted to talk to Shanna about what dirty means to her.

Shanna says: I'm along those same lines--I look clean. Wholesome. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. Pale skin. Sweet smile. If I was taller and had big boobs, I'd be considered sexual, I think. But as it is, I just look...sweet. Innocent. People want to corrupt me all the time. They apologize if they swear or say something even slightly sexy. They think I'm oh so clean.

I'm not. I've got a dirty, dirty mind. All the time.

And I like that dichotomy of me, like I'm a shined silver box full of well-guarded secrets. Pristine on the outside, filthy on the inside.

I also grew up in the feminist era, an era that said I could take my sexuality in both hands and run with it. Which was great. I'm grateful to that, really. But there's something also about being given permission to do that, something about making sex so clean and pure and allowed, that somehow lessens my sexual pleasure. It's a fine line, I think.

Tell me what a dirty girl I am...and, oh, I'll melt in your arms. No, that's not true. I'll melt first and then we'll fuck. Hard. Rough. Dirty. Or: Soft. Sweet. Still dirty.

"Until It's Gone" is one of the few stories that I've ever written that was based on a real person in my life. An ex, even. He was the first man who didn't do that, "aw, you're so sweet, I want to bring you home to my mom and then, later, try and corrupt you," bit.

This man saw me--I mean, fucking saw me. Before I'd seen me, even. He was the first man who tied me up. The first man who spanked me. The first one who used his belt around my throat. He opened something in me--maybe it was the box of dirty secrets that I mentioned before. There are days I still dream of him, of the things he did to me, for me. This story was, in some ways, a tribute to that, I think. A belated thank you.

For an excerpt from "Until It's Gone," slide over to Shanna Germain's blog.

Now, tell us. What does dirty mean to you?

XXX,
Alison & Shanna

P.S. Oh, you lucky commenters! I went all bubbly and bought the most unbelievable soap yesterday! Comment for a chance to win!