Mammoth Book

I'm so chuffed (did I say that right, Kristina?) to be included in The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 7. I've been in a few of the earlier collections, and I'm always honored. This time, I'm alongside a constellation of stellar writers. Ta very much, Maxim.

Deliciously daring, fresh and arousing, here is the very finest in erotic writing from the year of 2006-07. This year's sizzling volume of The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica offers an addictive menu of sex from all around the world. Over 45 new stories provide explicit sexual drama in all its forms, from established masters and newer tallents including Tara Alton, Thomas S. Roche, Florence Dugas, J.D. Munro, and O'Neil De Noux. The stories include:

Alison Tyler: 'Don't Look Back'
Saskia Walker: 'Watching Lois Perform'
Holly Philips: 'Virgin of the Sands'
Gwen Masters: 'In the middle of Nowhere'
Barry Baldwin: 'Boys and Girls Come Out to Play'

I must say that the current and former Lust Biters are well-represented with stories from Kristina Lloyd, Nikki Magennis, Alana Noel Voth, Shanna Germain, Gwen Masters, Sophie Mouette and honorary Lust Biter Jeremy Edwards.

XXX,
Alison

P.S. My links are off. I don't think this edition is up on Amazon yet.

*Bounce, Bounce, Bounce*

Wow! I'm thrilled to have gotten word that I'm part of the line-up for Rachel's newest collection! My story's about #17, but I used to be #12.

rub·ber1 [ruhb-er]
–noun
1. Also called India rubber, natural rubber, gum elastic, caoutchouc. a highly elastic solid substance, light cream or dark amber in color, polymerized by the drying and coagulation of the latex or milky juice of rubber trees and plants, esp. Hevea and Ficus species.
2. a material made by chemically treating and toughening this substance, valued for its elasticity, nonconduction of electricity, shock absorption, and resistance to moisture, used in the manufacture of erasers, electrical insulation, elastic bands, crepe soles, toys, water hoses, tires, and many other products.
3. any of various similar substances and materials made synthetically. Compare synthetic rubber.
4. rubber band.
5. an eraser of this material, for erasing pencil marks, ink marks, etc.
6. Informal. a rubber tire or a set of rubber tires.
7. a low overshoe of this material.
8. an instrument or tool used for rubbing, polishing, scraping, etc.
9. a person who rubs something, as to smooth or polish it.
10. cutter (def. 7).
11. British. a dishcloth.
12. a person who gives massages; masseur or masseuse.
13. swipe (def. 6).
14. Baseball. an oblong piece of white rubber or other material embedded in the mound at the point from which the pitcher delivers the ball.
15. a coarse file.
16. Slang. a condom.
–verb (used without object)
17. Informal. to rubberneck.
–adjective
18. made of, containing, or coated with rubber: a rubber bath mat.
19. pertaining to or producing rubber: a rubber plantation.

XXX,
Alison

P.S. Does anyone want to guess who sent me the Devil Bear? I've been allowed to reveal.

D is for Deadline

Because oh my fucking god it is January 28th and Open for Business is due on February 1st! So what am I doing? I'm spending my time posing this adorable "D is for Devil" bear that some naughty writer sent me yesterday. Feel free to drop me "Rah! Rah! You can do it!" comments. Or send me other plush toys for my new bear to fuck. I mean play with. And don't forget to slipslide your way to Trollop Salon. I'm featuring jewelry by Emily all week, and her fabulous interview on Friday!

XXX,
Alison

P.S. Naughty writer, may I out you? Or do you wish to remain shrouded in mystery?

Got a Minute?

Remember when I said writers were fragile? Well, we are. I swear. Got a Minute received a 2-star review on Amazon that has put me in the corner, defensive, fighting. I’m biased, obviously, because I think the 60 stories in this book are fucking hot. But I did my best to read the review carefully:

The stories in this book spend a lot of time focusing on what happened before and after the sex and very little time on the sex itself. There is little detail, for instance some stories simply say "they had sex". How is that supposed to be a turn on? There needs to be more detail and excitement.

I went back through the manuscript to see what B. Evans meant. I couldn’t remember a time where any writer wrote “they had sex.” The stories in the book are 1,500 words max, and most get right to the point. Over and over again, I found luscious examples.

Second paragraph from Shanna Germain’s story, Squeaky Clean:
Flash back to last night: his hands, lubed, wrapped around the head, coming slowly down the shaft, preparing it for you. You can’t remember wanting anything more, anything other than the quivering false-cock inside you, your lover’s hands bringing it slowly, softly to the edge of your thigh, against your lips, forcing the tip inside as you arch your hips, moan, ask for it, please, yes, please. But he makes you wait, makes you beg before he slides it in, the rubber slipping deeper and deeper, whirring its quiet circles of pleasure inside you, filling you.

Opening of Nick Santa Rosa’s His First:
Her lips slip down my shaft one last time, her long brown hair obscuring my view, but I feel the heat of her mouth envelop me. She has a way of taking me all the way into her throat and holding me there while I come, tongue massaging my cock, coaxing me to my limits.

Opening of Teresa Noelle Roberts’ French Postcards:
Jack drew the line at shaving his legs. Isabelle countered with black velvet stockings that belonged in a racy postcard from the 1890s, back when the pictures were all pale skin and voluptuous curves. Jack was pale enough, but he didn’t have curves, even dressed in a black lace dress so short that his garter belt peeked out, high heels, and the velvet stockings. He was a tall, lanky young man transformed by costume and makeup into a willowy siren, neither boy nor girl. A wide black leather collar disguised his Adam’s apple and lace-cuffed gloves softened his bony wrists, but hints of five o’clock shadow deliberately peeked through the makeup that Isabelle had applied. She left his long hair wild and curly.

First paragraph of Xan West’s, The Test:
I’m pulled by my collar to the bathroom. You grab the hair at the back of my neck and push me to my knees. Your hand snakes over to lock the door. Now comes the test. You pull your cock out of your leathers, stroking it and looking down at me. My future, my pleasure, the fulfillment of desires long held hangs in the balance. Will I pass? Can I suck your cock well enough to convince you to take on a novice?

Opening of Truck Stop Quickie by Rakelle Valencia:
A sharp but not unpleasant pain brought her senses into acute focus. Teeth bit her flesh at the crook between neck and shoulder. She knew her skin would brighten red under the nipping and suckling insistence. Her body shuddered, involuntarily pulling at her wrists. The hand around them tightened.

From Saskia Walker's Hungry for Love (which I think Kristina Lloyd would like an awful lot—an alley, Kristina! An alley!):
Outside the restaurant, you turn into a dark alleyway and snatch me against you, kissing me hot and hard, your tongue thrusting into my mouth, your hand under my skirt, backing me against the wall. You groan and murmur admonishments when you feel my wetness, your fingers delving into my black lace panties to explore me. God, that’s good.

Hauling your hand out, you taste me and then tell me to turn around and lean up against the wall. When I do, you nudge my legs further apart with one powerful knee. I shudder, my legs weak with desire. You tell me how dirty I am.

From Tenille Brown's As She Was Told:
Stephanie did as she was told. She lay there flat on her back, her eyes to the ceiling, knees up and thighs spread. Her fingers…

Her fingers drummed on the dingy floral bedspread. Those very fingers were supposed to be resting on her cunt, preparing to find their way inside right about now, but she hadn’t worked up to that yet.

I could keep going, you know? The authors in this collection are amazing. Sure, there are different levels of detail in the stories, because some are ultra short, and some max out the 1,500 words. A few stories are artsy. Some are rock hard from start to finish. But honestly, I have no idea what this reviewer is banging on about.

So if you’ve got a minute, and if you liked the book, please take the time to give me a sweet write-up.

XXX,
AT

Sex for America

Pinch me. Or spank me. Do something to wake me up. Because I must be dreaming. I mean, I can't believe I am in this amazing collection! Not only am I in the book (and I know this is purely coincidence), but my name is practically kissing Stephen Elliott's on the cover. (Or maybe I'm just blowing his "I.") Here's the write-up: Sex for America takes us to the intersection of our desires and our political beliefs. These provocative stories by some of today's best writers, including Anthony Swofford, Jerry Stahl, Rick Moody, and Jonathan Ames, will inspire new discussions of sexual freedom and fascination. A surprising encounter between a lesbian and a young man shipping off to war, a liberal Hill staffer falling for the wife of a Republican senator, and Dick Cheney's duck hunt accident as jilted lover's revenge. See your government—and your most recent sex partners—as you've never seen them before.

Pre-order the book on Amazon (the official release is January 29th). My story is called "Measure A, B, or Me?"

XXX,
Alison

Porn in the mail…

…arrived all wrapped up in a smiley-face envelope, which is something I would do! (Any writer who’s ever received payment from me knows that I like to use Disney checks to pay for short sexy stories.) The cover is divine—an appropriate word because I can’t wait to dive in. The write-up is equally riveting: Whether you like it rough and surly, smooth and sultry, or quick and raw, you’ll find it in Best Gay Erotica 2008. Here are 20 of the hottest and best-written man-on-man sex stories to appear in print this year. In “Underground Operator,” two men on a nearly empty subway platform indulge in forceful, anonymous sex that lets them momentarily forget the stifling summer heat. “Donuts to Demons” finds a self-described “rock'n'roll artfag” searching for a lover “as patient and gifted and generous as he advertised on craigslist.”

Thanks, Alana!

XXX,
Alison

P.S. If I’m in and out for a bit, we’re having major storms. Power clicked off for hours yesterday. Think of me at my desk, editing smut the old-fashioned way. By candle light.
P.P.S. And also...don't forget to visit Trollop Salon. You know I'm going to be giving away one of Emily's glittery creations at the end, don't you?

Bitches Rule

Ha! I started the week by being called "a little brat" and ended with this: "You're one of the nicest bitches I know! It's a real talent you have there." I'm kind of loving that. I haven't been called too many names in my life. (At least, not to my face.) But when I left my ex, he did call me a "fucking cunt." (I know I've said that before, but the memory lingers.)

I loved the show-and-tell session yesterday. I'm glad I'm not the only one who's shy, and I'll try to learn from those of you who are brave and bold.

Now, I want to play again. Worst thing you've been called? What were the circumstances? Will you share? I'll bribe you. I'll give you candy. In fact, I'll give you Sex & Candy, the latest book from Pretty Things Press.
XXX,
Alison

P.S. Keith is the winner of the trio of books. Please email your address to msalisontyler at yahoo dot com!
P.P.S. Be sure to check out Trollop Salon. Emily's artwork is devilish!

I’m so shy.

I’ve started typing that so many times before and then deleted those three little letters, because why broadcast a weakness? And who’s going to believe me, anyway? I’ve taken off all my clothes in this dark little corner of the net. My collection of 30 erotic stories is called Exposed. Rachel and I have put our heads together on two racy titles—Hide & Seek and Caught Looking.

Shake that 8 Ball—all evidence points to the fact that I’m at least 50% exhibitionist.

But sex and life are so different. At least for me.

Where public speaking is concerned, I am an ultra shy person. (I even have to get drunk to do a podcast.) And so far this year, I’ve been invited to speak at four events. Up until now, I’ve always gone with the fortune cookie concept: “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” Hmmm. I think I’m over that now. I’m going to embrace being shy. In fact, I’m going to revel in this character trait. You won’t see me at any upcoming readings. At least, not up on stage.

I’ll be in the corner, or up against the wall, watching.

XXX,
Alison

P.S. Are you shy? Are you one of those brave, bold beauties (or brutes) who kills on stage? Share for a chance to win a trifecta of porn—Hide & Seek, Caught Looking, and Exposed.

Sweetly kinky

Oooh, good news in the mail. Or in the email, in this case. Rachel Kramer Bussel sent me the link to this lovely review of Naughty Stories from A to Z, Volume 4. (This site is hardcore, so NSFW.)

Go check it out. And then pop over to Trollop Salon for my introduction to Emily from Faster Than You. I’m going to go broke buying her jewelry. I swear.

XXX,
Alison

P.S. It's only quarter to seven, and I've already been called a little brat! Gotta love that.

Fragile

It is not the critic who counts, not the man who points out how the strong man stumbled, or where the doer of deeds could have done better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood, who strives valiantly, who errs and comes short again and again, who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions, and spends himself in a worthy cause, who at best knows achievement and who at the worst if he fails at least fails while daring greatly so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who know neither victory nor defeat.—THEODORE ROOSEVELT

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about writers and criticism. And here is what I’ve decided:

We don’t like it.

Writers save the good reviews, but we believe the bad ones. Doesn’t matter how Zen we are when it comes to other people’s bad reviews. Ours are different. Ours matter.

One of my friends received a semi-slam this year. She’s a professional, multi-published author, and she’s one of my all-time favorite writers. Yet the review stung. Did she buck up and decide to work harder in the future? Did she feel all grateful that someone had taken the time to point out her weaknesses? No. She hid in a hole for a week, licking her wounds.

I know writers who have sulked for days over a bad Amazon review. Oh, they’re amateurs, you think. Well, look at this. This is from Anne Rice, who cannot be confused with an amateur. Here is an excerpt of the 1200-word piece she wrote in response to several Amazon reviews:

Now, if it doesn't appeal to you, fine. You don't enjoy it? Read somebody else. But your stupid arrogant assumptions about me and what I am doing are slander. And you have used this site as if it were a public urinal to publish falsehood and lies.

Does she sound appreciative of feedback?
Um. Not so much.

Of course, you can be like Kristina Lloyd or Janine Ashbless, two kick-ass writers who have received odd feedback, and turned the review into a compliment… Become the art house slut that Kristina is. Revel in being called Janine “practically snuff” Ashbless.

But that’s not always easy to do. Under the blanket of the term "honesty," some people will say cutting, hurtful things. “I’m just being honest,” they crow.

Honestly? I think that sort of “honesty” is overrated.

Years ago, I received a scathing review for Venus Online. The review tickled my publisher to no end—yes, he was a bit of a sadist—and he sent the piece gleefully to me, with his favorite lines highlighted in gold. The critic was not into the S/M aspect of life, so I’d lost him from the start. He said he was missing out on his TV viewing time. The review was actually extremely funny—well, it would have been if he’d been reviewing someone else’s book.

But here’s the thing, 15 novels later, I’m like the Energizer Sex Bunny. I’m still going. The negative critiques, when they come, can sting. But the best revenge? Publishing the next book, or story, or post, and the next one, and the one after that.

Keep on writing.
I swear, that’s the best revenge.

XXX,
Alison

Relax, have a cigar, make yourself at home.
Hell is full of high court judges, failed saints.
We’ve got cardinals, archbishops, barristers,
Certified accountants, music critics.
They’re all here.
—Sting

P.S. This perfect charm comes from the ETSY store Feel the Vertigo.

The Dream Clings

I don’t know why, but I’ve been having dark, dirty dreams about someone I know. Someone I see every day. Truly, I’m a bit out of my head about this. Because now when I see him, my cheeks turn what I’m hoping is cotton-candy pink but what I’m guessing is more candy-apple red.

This man reads like one of my better character descriptions. Older than I am. Silver-tipped dark hair. Well-worn hands, creases near his dark green eyes. Tall, lean body. Hard all over. He drives a vintage truck that fits him, the way the fast sports cars fit the boys I dated in college.

I know better than to think he can read my fantasies. And yet, I look at him, and I’m back in the dream. On the bed. He traces his middle finger down the face of my panties, touches me right at the center, burns me at my core.

And I’m lost.

I wake up and make coffee. I take a run, then a shower. The dream covers me, so thin the fibers are nearly transparent. But when I stand in the bathroom and look at my reflection, I see him.

The dream clings.

XXX,
Alison

P.S. I am in love with the art of John Clark. I want to paper my office with his prints.

So I'm cheating...

I'm no longer on Lust Bites, but I'm playing their game today. Pop over and see—for anyone as nosy as I am, this is heaven. The Lusties have posted pics of their workspaces. In a mix-and-match game, readers are challenged to guess which author slaves and toils at each desk. I don't actually care who works where. I simply am in love with the view.

I agree with one of the commenters on LB who said, "But what's wrong with the rest of you? Don't you have 'stuff'? A writer should have lots of 'stuff' as part of the rich tapestry of their lives..."

I chose an isolated view of my workspace, definitely. But this is a picture that is indicative of my style. Everywhere I've lived, I've had a wall filled with postcards and clippings. There's always been at least one angel, and there's always been Elvis.

XXX,
Alison

P.S. Do any of you want to share pictures of where you work? If you put pics on your blog, let me know, and I will link.

What the FCUK?

Right? Enough of you have written to say, in one form or another, “What the fuck?”

From demanding: What happened to France, you Jack and Alex? I want the rest of your story please!!! More, More, More!!!

To curious: Give it to me straight. Are your stories really gone for good? Enquiring minds want to know.

To sympathetic: Sorry to hear about your blog.

Years ago, I heard an actor use this excuse for being late to a theater rehearsal: “I’m sorry, I got busy.” The director replied coolly, “We’re all busy.”

I try never to use that excuse myself. But I painted myself into a corner. And it’s a corner filled with deadlines. So I’m trying to tread for a little to catch my breath. You undoubtedly don’t want the laundry list of what I’m working on. (Not unless the laundry includes ruffled panties, bought in Paris, worn low on the hips….) But here is a panoramic view of my desk:

Open for Business is spread out on the table, a few pages fluttering to the floor.

60 Flash Fucking stories jostle for position.

Pretty packages filled with Sex & Candy sit waiting to be stamped and sent.

102 submissions for Hurts So Good claw each other in the holding tank.

That’s not to say I haven’t gotten anything done. This past week, I sent payments out to all I, J, K, L authors. (Books will ship separately from Cleis.) Lipstick on Her Collar is at the printer. (Blue lines will arrive any day.) And Kara at Cleis just interviewed me for a Cleis Spotlight feature. I’ll let you know when the interview goes live.

Still, I hear you saying, “Why not slip back to France for a moment or two?” Clearly, I don’t work all the time. I post on my Got Naughty blog. I, um, Google myself.

Here’s where I shrug and say, I just need a bit to catch my breath. And I’m hoping you’ll allow me to slip up a few little sultry stories on the blog, reveal an interview or two, and take a few steps out of my corner before Jack puts me right back into it.

XXX,
Alison

P.S. Lovely Chandler Burr, when apologizing for stopping late to the Trollop Salon, said, “I was underwater.” That’s my favorite phrase when I’ve got deadlines, too. Don’t forget to post a comment for a chance to win Cumming or FCUK for Men or Women.

Perfume Slut

Shouldn't I have more perfume-drenched porn? You've seen how much of a perfume slut I am. Curious, I've been searching through my vast files (I say "vast," but really mean "wildly disorganized"), coming up with little bits and pieces, tiny segments dedicated to scent. But not what I would expect. Here is an early piece I wrote, which delves more than most into this ever-so-important sense.

Amore

I was eighteen when I went to Italy with my parents. It wasn’t altogether a dreamlike trip for the three of us. We ended up getting on each other’s nerves. They were still in the “we can make you do whatever we want” mode and I was in the “why don't you just fuck off” mode. In the end, we spent a lot of time apart.

I met a raven-haired Italian waitress at the cafe near our hotel. All I knew how to say in Italian was “La Fenicci,” which was the name of the hotel, “grazzi” (thank you), “prego” (please), and "San Marco" (the square in Venice). The only English word the waitress knew was “Levi’s,” which she pronounced, “Leveees.” But she smiled at me in a very seductive way, and somehow we made do with our lack of verbal skills. Made do on the bed in my hotel room, her black dress on the dresser, my “Leveees” and T-shirt in a heap on the floor. We sat in the bed, stripped completely, her legs over mine. She had long, dark, straight hair, and she tilted her head way back to let me get at her neck, and her hair tickled my fingers, which were holding onto her back.

I loved her smell. She wore a musky perfume, but she also smelled like the cafe where she worked. Her skin had the flavor of the coffee that she served, and a bit of the spices that they put in the pasta sauce, and some of the wine, as well. She tasted dark and rich, but I didn’t get down to her split until I spent a good, long time drinking all of the scent and flavor from the skin of her neck, and arms, and belly.

When she lay back on my bed, her hair spread around her head like a blanket, and I would start at the tips of it, running my fingers through it. Her eyes were the brown of the coffee she served, and she’d close them so that I could kiss her eyelids. She had a strong nose, which I traced over and over again with my fingers, and she had a slight cleft in her chin which I believed would make her a movie star if she came to America with me.

By the time I made my way down to her breasts, she’d be breathing hard, but it wouldn’t make me work any faster. I spent time on her nipples, because they deserved my time. I kissed and licked them, held them between my lips and sucked them to make them stand out. They were small, but her breasts were also small, so they suited her.

I worked my way down her ribs, not missing one, to her belly. She wasn’t self-conscious of her body the way American girls sometimes are. She seemed pleased with the amount of lust and energy I bestowed on each part of her. But each part of her deserved it. Every inch of her was divine.

I lapped at her with the flat of my tongue, parting her lips at the same time and tickling her between them. She responded delightfully, grabbing at me, pulling me down, demanding (I could understand the tone if not the words) that I satisfy her. I would do nothing less. I would make her come slowly, specifically treating her to the many ways my tongue could bring her pleasure. I taunted her with nips to her nether lips between caressing circles of my tongue. I sucked gently, flicking my tongue to tap her clit, rap on it, until she could take no more. Her taste was as pleasing as the perfume of her skin. It was my desire, my duty, to make her come as many times as I could.

We pleasured each other in many positions, turning topsy-turvy on my bed, head-to-tail, bucking against each other like animals. We stole into the square late at night and made love against the base of one of the ancient statues, kissing and fondling in the moonlight.

And, when it was time to part, when, sad though it was, we had to say goodbye in the only way we could, I made love to her a final time, memorizing the lines of her lovely neck. Remembering her scent for eternity. I promised to come back and she promised to visit... at least, I think we did.

Grazzi, prego, and San Marco don’t get you very far in long goodbyes.

XXX,
Alison

P.S. My new series of letter books will be out soon. You can pre-order them now, if you're so inclined. They're truly luscious:

Sailor Boy

I was looking for a perfume-themed piece to go with my Trollop Salon interview with Chandler Burr. How odd. I can't immediately find one. But I did stumble across Sailor Boy, which originally appeared in Bondage on a Budget. Check it out—let me know what you think! (Can't remember if I posted that story here before or not.)

XXX,
Alison

P.S. I'm playing games right now. The amazing necklace above is by Emily at Faster Than You. She will be my next interview at the Trollop Salon!

I’ll tell you a secret.

I am all about scents. Easily wooed by new fragrances, I become almost drugged when I find a new scent I crave. I own far too many perfumes—Gucci Rush, FCUK for Her, and, um, a few of those Gautier ones. This is why I was thrilled to interview Mr. Chandler Burr, the New York Times perfume critic and author of the new book: The Perfect Scent.

Please stop by Trollop Salon to read the full interview and comment for a chance to win a bottle of Cumming and one bottle of FCUK for Men or Women (depending on who wins).

XXX,
Alison

I'm Such a Bad Girl

Why do I never tire of saying that?

One of my early collections, Bad Girl, has made the leap across the pond. (Did I say that correctly, Kristina?) Clever Xcite Books has given me a spanking new cover and a sweet write-up: Alison Tyler is a shy girl with a truly dirty mind—as is clearly evidenced by the sexy stories in this "best of" anthology. From hard and rocking to short and sweet, these sizzling stories will take you where you need to go...even if you never knew you needed to go there before." (Okay, maybe I wrote that myself.)

So if you are one of my readers who prefers tea to coffee, who says "ta" instead of "thank you," and who knows how to line up in a queue, please cheque me out.

XXX,
Alison

P.S. Don't you think my cover goes nicely with the one for Rachel Kramer Bussel's latest non-fic sex writing anthology?

Cumming?

I've been trying to figure out what to give away with my Chandler Burr interview. I don't want to give away The Perfect Scent, because I want people to go out and buy the book!

Last night, I came up with the best idea (I mean, I think it is, I was drinking wine, so you'll have to tell me). I'm going to give away one bottle of Cumming and one bottle of FCUK for Men or Women (depending on who wins). I've never smelled Cumming (god that was way too much fun to say), but I wear FCUK for Her quite often. I hope these scents don't offend Mr. Burr's sensibilities.

Be sure to visit Trollop Salon on Tuesday and post a comment for a chance to win!

XXX,
Alison

P.S. Man, that was fun to write. I'm really still a teenager at heart. When I was in high school, I was waiting for my friend Sally to go somewhere with me. And she kept saying, "Just a sec, just a sec." Finally, I called out (loudly) down the hall to her, "Sally, no more secs until you come." People tease me about that. Still.

Alison Tyler Goes Back to School

You know I'm a drop-out. I'm pretty open about my (oh my god, so fucking miserable) University experiences. All of them. So you'll be thrilled to hear that I'm going back to school. At least, my words are. Two different college professors (so far!) have used my ten reasons why I didn’t choose your story for my book! I'm beside myself. Truly.

XXX,
Alison

P.S. Art is from the amazing John Clark again.

It's all Madonna fault

Because I read that she spends $10,000 a month on water (specially blessed Kabbalah water), which reminded me of the time I worked for a movie star. For a day. And I wrote this, one of my favorite stories, about the experience.

Heat

This is what she said: “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t wear diaphanous clothing around my husband.” And yes, I heard her. And yes, I understood both the cool, clear message and the icy tone of her voice. But the thing is, it was hot. Not just the weather—104 degrees in the shade, if you can believe it—but the way he looked at me. Let me tell you, it was so fucking hot, I almost melted under the intensity of his gaze.

He wanted me, and I wanted him, and it was summer. You know all about summer, right? Summer lovers, having a blast. Summer romance. Summer, summer, summer. Besides that, I was nineteen. What do you know about when you’re nineteen? Nothing but the heat.

They had a giant lagoon-style pool, and whisper-quiet air conditioning, and chilled Evian in the fridge, which I was supposed to pour into tall glasses over shaved ice (made of Evian, as well), and serve with a twist of lemon in the morning and a twist of lime in the evening. They had a Spanish-style mansion high up in the hills, and drivers, and help—not just me, but a whole swarm of help. A lady who did their laundry. A man who detailed their cars. A cook for day and a cook for night.

I had a beat-up hand-me-down car that functioned mostly on my ability to pray really hard. I had a plug-in fan that did nothing but stir the heat around my Hollywood apartment. I had diaphanous clothing, which I wore to my best advantage, and had been wearing long before I landed the job as personal assistant to the actress and her director-husband.

What I didn’t have was an agenda. I wasn’t that smooth yet.

But I was hot.

Physically. Mentally. Diaphanously.

I didn’t wear the sundress to annoy the wife. I wore it because it was 104 degrees in the shade and the only thing less constricting to wear would have been nothing. This is what I said in my defence. But I didn’t say it to her, I said it to him when he walked into the kitchen to remind me about the Evian over Evian rule. Evian ice. I’d never even considered making ice cubes from bottled water, but then I never bought bottled water even for drinking. The expense was too much for my minuscule budget, while water from the faucet was free. Yet here, in the Hollywood Hills, the actress sprayed her face with Evian. She washed her hair with it. She had a fixation on twists. Lime for morning. Lemon for night. No, wait! It was the other way around. I had to check my notes. I’d only been a personal assistant for a week.

“Lime,” the husband said kindly, his warm dark brown eyes on my own. “Lime in the evening, and the sun is already setting.”

I sighed and did my best to fish the curl of lemon out of the glass using one of their oddly shaped artistic forks.

“She’ll taste the flavor in the water,” he said. “She’ll know there was lemon first. You’ll have to start again.”

“But what should I do with this?” I asked, holding up the glass. I couldn’t imagine pouring bottled water down the drain. The concept was far too wasteful to consider.

“What do you want to do with it?”

His words made me smile, and I felt again how diaphanous my dress was. God, I liked the word, liked the way she’d used it in the sentence. “In the future, please do not wear diaphanous clothing around my husband.” As if the husband had no control over himself whatsoever. As if the sight of me in a slinky dress would drive him directly out of her world and into my arms. As if diaphanous were a four-letter word.

Yes, the dress was intensely sheer, but I had a slip on beneath. Yes, the slip was exactly the same color as my skin, and that’s what made the dress seem so racy, but you could see much worse if you went down their twisting roads and into the sweltering heat of Hollywood. You could see tube tops and short shorts and acres of naked skin.

But there was more to her snide remark than the fact that my dress was thin and sexy. Her air conditioning had raised my nipples, tenting the gauzy fabric. The heat of the day had given my skin a permanent attractive flush not available at any cosmetic counter. Everything about the wife was cool and hard. Everything about me was hot and ready.

“So?” the husband asked...

“Truth?” I asked.

He leaned against the steel fridge and waited.

“I’d like to pour it over me,” I paused, shocked myself at what I’d said. To counter the image, I added. “But that’s such a waste.” Then I bit my lip, because the woman bathed in the stuff, herself.

He seemed to read my thoughts, because he laughed softly and said, “Does seem like a waste, doesn’t it? But when you have everything then you have to work to create your luxuries. Making your chef purchase case-loads of Evian for drinking and Evian for bathing is just such a luxury.”

I looked around then, wondering why he would feel so free to talk when his wife was somewhere in the house. Somewhere waiting for her water. He shrugged. “She’s on the veranda, getting a pedicure.” While he spoke, he walked closer until he was standing right next to me. That smile still on his face, he gently took the glass from my hand. I knew what was going to happen a second before it did. He slowly titled the glass so that the water ran over my collarbones, down the front of my dress, drenching me and making the sheer fabric completely translucent—or is that just another way to say “diaphanous”?

I didn’t stop him. There was the heat, you know. And the fact that I was nineteen. And the fact that I knew I wouldn’t be coming back again. Not after the comment about my clothing. And there was the air conditioning blowing a satisfying chill through me, and the way his hands came around my waist, and the whisper of his lips on my neck as he said, “You live in Hollywood, don’t you?”

And I saw us together, him at my place in the old 50s building with the wrought iron railing and five-floors of stairs. With the crown molding and the tap water and the endless unescapable heat. He poured a fresh glass of Evian and he motioned for me to tilt my head back. I closed my eyes as he let the water fall over my hair and my face, and I felt my own wetness meeting the wetness of the bottled water. Which was more pure? Which was more of a luxury?

Without bothering to refill the glass, he reached for the bottle, and poured the remaining contents all over me, showering me in front and behind with the precious water. I sighed and shivered, knowing that this was inevitable: losing my job, fucking up the water order, making out with the husband.

He kissed me there in the kitchen, kissed me dangerously, letting me stand there in my wet clothes, right in the center of a puddle on their expensively tiled floor. He was rough with me through the transparent fabric of my dress, his hands doing all those magical things that older lovers always seem to know how to do—pinching my nipples, squeezing my waist, slapping my ass so that the sound made a wet clapping echo in the large room. He kissed me even harder, and then bit my bottom lip and I sighed and squirmed at the sudden spark of pain. I knew just what it would be like when we fucked, and I knew we weren’t going to fuck here. Not in the kitchen. Not so close to the Evian.

“Leave me your address for your final paycheck,” he said.

I gazed at him, waiting for an explanation.

“I’m sorry, but you have to understand that we just couldn’t possibly keep someone on staff who can’t tell the difference between lime and lemon.”

I smiled and nodded, then wrote my address down for him on a pad by the phone. Slowly, as if moving through water, I got my purse, stepping over the puddle on the floor, still feeling the slick wetness of his lips on mine.

I headed outside to my old car, knowing that he’d come to visit me that night, knowing that diaphanous had nothing to do with it. That the actress could cool her house and chill her Evian, but she couldn’t stop the heat.

XXX,
Alison

P.S. Art today is by John Clark. I'm in awe.
P.P.S. The story appears in Exposed.

Naughty Alison Tyler

That's what Ashley Lister called me! In his review of Best Women's Erotica 2008, he said: Naughty Alison Tyler reveals that religion can be a truly satisfying experience when her protagonist meets Matthew, Mark, Luke and John.

See? I really am naughty.

I also realized, after posting yesterday's blog, that from now on if you type in "Alison Tyler" + "goat," you'll probably get my blog. That wasn't actually my intention. I swear.

XXX,
Alison

P.S. Don't forget to stop by Trollop Salon for little teasers of my interview with Chandler Burr.

If you don't have anything nice to say...

I have read and responded to all of the submissions for Flash Fucking. The book is far from complete, because now I have to put the stories in order. But that's the fun part.

Now, you know that my goal is to keep my blog positive. Yes. Definitely. Always. I don't want to be snarky. (Well, sure I do.) But after reading through more than 600 submissions, I would like to say the following.

Here are ten reasons why I didn’t choose your story for my book:

1) Your file wouldn’t open. I ask people to paste subs into the emails, but I will take the time to open Word files when I receive them. I have no idea why, but several people sent me Excel files.

2) You paid no attention whatsoever to the word count in my guidelines. I received several 6,000 word to 8,000 word submissions. My call was for fewer than 1,500 words.

3) You sent me a story where characters were bleeding from their eyes. (What is it about not-too dark that some people don’t get?)

4) You sent me a story in which people made love in a violent rainstorm or in a the steamy surroundings of an orchid hot house. I received more than 20 of these. Go figure.

5) You fucked your mother. (What is it about no-incest that some people don’t get?)

6) You talked in detail about the diamond-like glitter of precum on a lover’s cock. This is like Olivia Knight’s ode to dust motes: Every novelist, at some point in their career, and often at some point in every book, will describe the dust – the golden motes dancing in a shaft of sunshine, glittering in the late afternoon stillness, spiralling like a stream of cosmic particles, twirling their infinitesmal and tiny brilliances, or what you will. It’s been done.

7) You used one or all of the following terms: spooge, choate, jizm, man-meat, liver-like, or bulbous purple mushroom head…

8) You forgot to put sex in the story. I’ve done this myself. Recently. Sometimes a story gets away from a writer, and wham—you find yourself at the end, with two or more unsatisfied lovers and an unused condom. Maybe the story will work in a different forum. But not for me.

9) There was a goat in your story. (What is it about no-animals that some people don’t get?)

10) None of the above. Your story was perfect. From word A to word Z. You’re a better writer than I am, Charlie Brown. But the piece simply wasn’t my type of story. This happens. You’ll read the finished book and think, Man, my work is way better. But here's the thing—I’m working on a balance. I want hetero, lesbian, gay, solo, orgy, BDSM, spanking, vanilla, oral, anal, silly, sweet, and yes even slightly dark. And for some reason, your piece simply might not have agreed with the others in the book.

Number 10 accounts for the majority of the rejections. Great story, stellar writing, just didn't work for me. Those are the most difficult ones to reject, because no editor wants to say "No" to good writing.

The good news? I'm working with a huge amount of new names. At least, new to me. I'll do a tally, but I think at least half of the writers in the book are people I've never published before. I think that's really exciting.

Now, back to Open for Business, already in progress.

XXX,
Alison

B is for Blowfish

If I have my calendar right (and you know me and calendars), I'm going to be on Blowfish radio today. I'm super excited! Blowfish is a lovely supporter of my books.

XXX,
Alison

kink on the cheap

I seem to have hit the sweet spot for delicious reviews lately. Check out this 5-star review by Curvaceous Dee featured on Playful Bent.

This was my favorite part: But the stories! The stories are great - there wasn't a one that I didn't enjoy, and some that I particularly enjoyed. Olive Oil: Too Many Chefs; Dental Floss: Good Hygiene Habits; Chopsticks: A Cane Alternative; Ace Bandage: Wrapping it up in Public and Gloves: Like-Minded Couple Seeks Same all brought me gasping to orgasm - and gave me more than a few ideas that I want to have tried on me :)

I wrote Bondage on a Budget originally for Masquerade Books. Richard Kasak took the idea on a pitch. Over lunch. Gruff, yet oddly paternal, Richard was my second extremely fierce editor. (First was Barney Rosset at Blue Moon.) I was in my early twenties when I met him, and I'll let you know that he scared the daylights out of me. He was the type of guy to call me up and say, "Hey, I'm ripping you off. I just wanted you to know." Or, "Here's a book we could make money on. Can you write the thing in two weeks?" He taught me worlds about publishing, and he gave me the freedom to try out many different styles. I edited my first anthology for him. And he was the publisher who told my man to spank me when I fucked up.

I'm still working my way through the subs for Flash Fucking. I'm down to 28. Do you miss my dashboard confessional style here? I do.

XXX,
Alison

Bad Kitty

This is akin to what happens when Superman and Batman combine their effort...

I've decided to be Cat Woman instead.

XXX,
Alison

playing a game of hide and seek

Hide & Seek received a vibrant review at Erotic Readers Association. Here is a snippet:

There are many reasons to adore this anthology. First and foremost it comes from those clever people at Cleis Press. Cleis are renowned for producing top quality anthologies from talented writers and respected editors. Hide and Seek is no exception. Secondly, this book has been edited by Alison Tyler and Rachel Kramer Bussel. Regular readers of my reviews will know that I worship at the altars of Alison Tyler and Rachel Kramer Bussel.

Having an anthology where their talents are combined is the sort of innovative genius that should change worlds, or at least make worshipping easier. This is akin to what happens when Superman and Batman combine their effort...

I'm feeling all glowy right now.

XXX,
AT

P.S. Am I Superman or Batman?

The Prize in the Cracker Jacks

I'm thrilled that a little crew of you are interested in reading Wrecking Crew! Writing can be so lonely, and many of my friends are scattered across the globe. I thought this would be a cool way to bring people together. I'd be interested in discussing movies, music, and more at my Trollop Salon. (Or should I say sex, spanking, and sordid situations?)

XXX,
AT

P.S. Curious Creature said, "While we're all continuing to wait for the dust to settle, reading a book might be a good distraction." There are a few in the sidebar I'd like to recommend.
P.P.S. Cracker Jack bracelet is from Blonde Heroine. I just bought this little sparkling goody as a giveaway for the Wrecking Crew interview. I don't want to give the book away (I've already given away four copies), because I want you to buy John's book.
P.P.P.S. I'm down to 79 subs to read for Flash Fucking. If you want to read a sexy snippet while you're waiting, check out Kristina Lloyd's last post on Lust Bites. The girl's got chops.

Happy Birthday Blog

If your birthday is in January, don't forget to flit over to my Happy Birthday Blog to enter a drawing for Happy Birthday Erotica. I'll be giving away a copy every month! Just post a comment here.

XXX,
Alison

P.S. I'm still knee deep in short-shorts. But I had to feature these thigh-highs. Oh, my. The write-up says: Demand attention in these sexy thigh-high boots. But I'd never want to wear them out of the house.

Who's Got Short-Shorts?

I'm thigh-high in short-shorts right now. Reading submissions that date back to June. (Thank you for your patience, you sweet authors!) I'm blown away by so many of these succulent submissions. I wish I had more than 60 slots available. I guess I'll have to schedule another sequel!

XXX,
Alison

Buy Me Some Peanuts...

John Albert, who wrote one of my recent favorite books, has agreed to be interviewed for my new Trollop Salon.

So here is my question. Would any of you be interested in creating a little online book group? I mean, reading Wrecking Crew before John comes on (in March) and being ready with any questions? I'm not trying to step into Oprah's shoes, or anything, but I have bought this book for several friends, and I really think it rocks.

What do you say?

XXX,
Alison

While You’re Waiting…

If you’re jonesing for a good sound spanking—and who among us isn’t?—check out Rachel Kramer Bussel’s two red-cheeked collections:



You don’t even have to take my word for the fact that these books are flaming hot. Read this stellar review of NSS 2 at Erotica Revealed. (Scroll down to review #3.) Here’s an excerpt:

Given that there are 30 stories in this volume, there is most certainly something for every spankophilic taste, need, desire, lust, and peculiar enthusiasm.

Spankophilic. I like that.

XXX,
AT

P.S. I have an undercover story in each of the collections. I mean, I wrote a piece for each one under different pen names. I can't remember the reason right now. But Tessa and Mouse both nailed me on one of them.

I never know what I’m doing.