Confessions of a Bad Girl

The clock is ticking. My heart's beating faster. I have a few major projects with major deadlines. And each day I promise myself I will sit down and organize my schedule. But honestly? I'm a pretty disorganized person. The closer the deadlines approach, the more I want to fuck off. Or if not fuck off, then work on something else. (The project is always greener on the other side of the deadline.)

Like today. Today, the sky is striped pink. The air is cool and clear. Do I want to edit the words waiting on my screen? No. I want to get in the car, play Pink Floyd as loud as I possibly can, and drive two hours to a friend's house. And once there, I want to curl my feet up under myself, sip coffee from her perfect pink mugs, and gossip about the way her new beau likes to fuck.

He's good, she's told me. He knew to pull her hair without her having to ask. He knew to make her beg without her having to, well, beg. He hasn't spanked her yet, she says, but he will. She's sure. He'll get the hint when she wears the new ruffled panties she's bought for their date. Tonight.

I'm as excited for her as if I'm expecting a spanking myself.
How can that be?

Oh, yes. That's right. Because I'm a voyeur. And I want to know everybody's secrets. So I have already written the scene in my head, as if she allowed me to sit in her closet and listen. To hear every word as she undresses for him, as she bats her eyelashes and brats her attitude. I have already imagined him spanking her over his lap, and over the bed. Have pictured him making her place her palms flat on the wall, and visualized him telling her to hold onto her ankles. I can hear the sounds, feel the sting.

The panties are black, with three rows of ruffles. They're cute as all hell, but he needs to take them down.

How the fuck am I supposed to get any work done when all I want to do is think of someone getting spanked? Hmmm. Maybe I need to imagine me getting spanked in order to focus on the job at hand. On second thought, that won't possibly help. Then I'll be nervous and antsy and shopping for ruffled panties online.

So what will I do instead? Buckle down and get to work. And ask you all to confess to me—what do you do when you're supposed to be working? What forms of procrastination overtake you, and how the hell do you get past them? I'll give away something swell. A few copies of my Bad Girl collection.

XXX,
Alison

Fuck, American-Style

You can tell a lot about a society by its wildest dreams and darkest fantasies. Sex for America's two dozen short stories suggest we are one sick nation.

The hottest—and healthiest—tale is Alison Tyler's "Measure A, B, or Me?" A civic-minded husband has been neglecting his less fervent wife, but a little role-playing relieves their frustration. While it's a touch formulaic, there's nothing wrong with sticking to a routine that works.

—M.J. Fine, Philadelphia City Paper

Oh, god, I'm laughing. Because my story is lighthearted, yes, and healthy, I suppose. But it's not as if I wrote a picnic-in-the-park piece. My story features anal-sex over the breakfast table, with a little nod to Last Tango. I was really at a loss when this call for submissions came round, because I'm not the most politically active person. So I took my own angle. Here's an excerpt:

Cautiously, James slid a hand under my body and touched my pussy. “You’re wet,” he said. “Does talking about politics turn you on?”

“You know it,” I told him, stifling a giggle. Even after he slid inside of me, he wouldn’t stop taunting me, “So in your little fantasy, the wife says, ‘Vote for Measure A, and I’ll let you fuck me’?”

“That sounds silly when you say it.”

“It’s beyond silly,” James insisted. He continued to drive inside of me, working a little faster now. “They’re not having a conversation like this at all. If anything, they’re having some huge four-star fight because she’s voting one way and he’s insisting on voting the other. In fact, I’ll bet he’s saying, ‘If you vote for Measure A, I’m going to have to give you a spanking.’”

That caught me off-guard, and for a moment I actually considered switching over to the dark side. But I still didn’t want to give in. “Well, what if she says, ‘You can do that thing you want to do’?”

“What thing?”

“You know what thing,” I said coyly. “The thing you always want to, and the thing I hardly ever say yes to.”

James was silent, but I knew he understood what I meant. “You’ll let me do that if I vote for Measure A?”

“She’s thinking about it.”

“She?” he asked softly, “Or you?”

“I’m already voting for Measure A.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yes,” I said. She’s thinking about it, and I’m thinking about it—“

That was all James needed to hear.

XXX,
Alison

P.S. The winner of Rachel's Yes, Ma'am and Yes, Sir is SwitchDiva. Please send your mailing address to msalisontyler at yahoo dot com. Also, I believe I'm caught up on sending out all prizes up to now. If you are waiting for something from me, do let me know!

Don't Make Me Spank You

I almost gave it to you, didn’t I? The vision was right there on the tip of my tongue, on the ball of my pen, on the seat of my pants. Can’t tell you why I had that attitude raging through me yesterday. That in-your-face, don’t-fuck-with-me attitude. Even after all these years, I don’t know where the feeling comes from, but when I’m in that place, I play music too loud. Drink too much coffee. Swear more than usual. Wear darker lipstick. Buy tequila. And salt. And limes.

I’m never going to grow up, am I?

Because along with the attitude comes that desire, that hum in my head that will only be quieted when I’m quieted. Will only be stilled when I’m stilled. How? Sometimes, I need so much. Cuffs, or a leather belt, or a black-and-blue paddle.



Other times, a stroke of a thumb against a silver buckle is all that it takes.

Yesterday, I was close. You could hear me breathing, couldn’t you? You could feel me thinking about whether I was going to duck behind my shades, or pull them off and stand in the bright sunlight, naked.

I was so close, almost to the point of saying the words. You know the headspace I’m in. You know what I’m craving. No, I’m not wearing the little school girl skirt. I don’t have pigtails. I’m not a brat you’re going to make stand in the corner.

That’s not the girl I see right now when I look in the mirror.

But the craving doesn’t seem to die with age. The desires don’t change, don’t disappear, don’t evaporate. I’ve been waiting. I’ve been wondering. I thought, perhaps, that when I reached a certain point, I’d switch.

Hasn’t happened yet.

So I put on my armor, the sleek black pants from Paris. My favorite pair of shoes. The fitted shirt. The leather cuffs. I play Night in My Veins and Dreamboat 730 and Six Hours.

And I wait for the feel of his hand on my wrist as he gives me that dark half smile and leads me up the stairs.

XXX,
Alison

P.S. Comment for a chance to win a copy of Rachel's new collections! And if you like them, don't forget to drop her an Amazon review!

I used to be a good girl

I used to really want people to see me a certain way. I wanted to project a specific kind of image. And then I woke up.

No seriously. I am not the bad girl you want to spank. The one who is smoking in the boys’ room. The one who wears the nipple-baring top. I’m the good girl who simply needs a little tune-up. The one who on every other day has on matching bra and panties. Who brushes her teeth and washes off all traces of make-up before bed. Revels in that good squeaky clean scent.

I mean, I used to be.
That’s the type of girl I was.

But I’ve changed. The Catholic school girl skirt still fits me, sure, but the look no longer suits me. I’m morphing. Transforming. There’s this anger here again. I don’t know why. And I don’t really care.

But I do know this: I’m not the sweet thing at the moment. The one you feel a little bit bad about having to punish. I’m the tough girl, with the leather cuffs on, who’s got her chin up in defiance. I’m ready and I’m not looking down, looking back, looking away.

See? I’m the girl who needs it. I’m the girl who’s pushing all the boundaries. I’m the one who’s going to get on your last nerve, the one who’s going to blow my last chance.

My gaze is locked, my body’s set.

I used to be a good girl.
But that was a long fucking time ago.

XXX,
Alison

P.S. Necklace is from Junk to Funk.

I ♥ Sommer

Quick! Slip-slide your way over to Sommer's blog and tell her about your most sleep-deprived moment. You have a chance to win your own copy of I Is for Indecent. I've been trying to think about my worst mistake done due to lack of sleep. But I actually function on little sleep quite a lot. It's why I ♥ Coffee nearly as much as I ♥ Sommer.

Lack of sleep usually makes for creative spelling on my part. And I think I swear a lot more when I'm tired. What the fuck's up with that?

XXX,
AT

Fuck Alison Tyler

For no reason at all (okay, champagne was involved), last night I Googled my name plus the word "fuck." (Come on. Tell me you've never done anything like this before.)

Surprisingly, there were a few hits. (Did I mention I just finished a huge deadline and am giddy beyond belief?) I came up with several of my stories online, including All McQueen's Men, Sailor Boy, and Flashlight—one of my favorites.

But I also found this vintage article by Kate Doyle called "Venus On Line and Other Reasons Why Alison Tyler Fills Me With the Desire to Go Out and Do Wrong," a mention in this review of Violet Blue's Ultimate Guide to Sexual Fantasy, and this.

Sure, I suppose I could find more productive ways to spend my time.
But why?

XXX,
Alison

P.S. Art is from Sweetheart Sinner Creations.

How do you spell sex...

Don't forget Cleis' Erotic Alphabet Contest:

Who says word games can’t be sexy? The alluring covers of the Erotic Alphabet series cry out for special arrangement on the bookshelf. Show us what you can do! Use the covers of the Erotic Alphabet books to spell words — erotic, sexy, romantic or funny. The most creative entry wins all twelve books in the series published to date.

To qualify, send photos of your word by Friday, February 29, 2008 to this email address: cleis (at) cleispress (dot) com and use “Erotic Alphabet Contest” as your subject line. Yes, you can use a letter more than once, AND of course you can use photoshop.

This is the series so far:
A is for Amour
B is for Bondage
C is for Co-eds
D is for Dress-Up
E is for Exotic
F is for Fetish
G is for Games
H is for Hardcore
I is for Indecent
J is for Jealousy
K is for Kinky
L is for Leather

XXX,
Alison

P.S. I have to say, this contest reminds me of my Latin class in high school. There was a Senior named Eric who could write the most amazing stories in Latin. He created soap opera plots that would have our professor blushing. I could barely conjugate a single verb, so I was crazy in awe of his talent. I'm sure there are people who could pen whole paragraphs with these 12 letters. People like Jeremy.

Learned Your Lesson?

There are lessons you’re supposed to have learned by the time you’re my age. I know that. And there are lessons that some people never learn. Not ever. But I was lucky. I found my first Dom when I was in school. I had a taste of the sort of pleasure that makes my world stop spinning. A swallow of the type of pain that steadies me. Right when I was begging to have my boundaries set, right when I was wondering if there was anyone in the whole fucking world like me, I found him.

Or, more accurately, he found me.

Things are different now. I don’t mean to sound world-weary. But things are so different. When I was in high school, I snuck into an arthouse theater to see a second-run showing of 9 ½ Weeks. That was my first inkling that kink existed in the real world. Up until then, I was pretty sure I was a freak. The magazines I’d gotten my hands on simply solidified that feeling. They were European porn mags, and there was something intensely dirty about them. Something that made you feel dirty when you read them.

Not that dirty is bad.

But when I looked at the girls in my high school, when I heard them in the bathroom, or at dances, talking about who they crushed on, I felt as if I was from another planet. Felt as if they were speaking a foreign language.

“Did you see Nick? Didn’t he look cute?”
“Oh, god. Nick. Heather’s so lucky.”

I’d think: Nick? Nick is a puff ball. Nick is a pansy. Nick is a pretty boy. Nicky could never take off his belt, and…

And then I’d think, Jesus. What would they do if I joined in? I’d stand next to them, looking at my reflection in the mirror, adding a bit more of that Sea Lily gloss. What would they do if I said, “Fuck Nick. Let’s talk about the shop teacher. He looks as if he would wield a mean paddle—“

As a teen, I read in Our Bodies, Our Selves about one woman’s spanking fantasy—she said that when she first started jilling off, she imagined being spanked. Then, "of course," that fantasy progressed to being kissed, being touched, until finally she reached the proper place where she could imagine herself fucking.

I waited impatiently for my fantasies to change. I expected at any moment to come to thoughts of kissing and petting and making love. But the change never happened. The graduation to the next level didn’t occur.

I know I’m wired kinky. I know what I want is different from what mainstream America wants. This is why I don’t write romance novels. This is why I don’t believe in the Happily Ever Afters you see in romantic comedies—except for the one in Secretary. But there is a lesson I learned early on. One I might not have understood if I hadn't met Brock.

For every person, there’s a match. For every lock, there’s a key. If you have a fantasy, chances are there’s someone out there who is just dying to fulfill your needs. To turn your lock. To open your door.

XXX,
AT

P.S. Art is from the divine Carol Lee Designs.

My reputation...

Look. I cared. I can't go back and change things now. I cared what would happen if I took off my clothes, if I bared my soul, and everyone pointed and laughed. So instead, I let my hair grow long in front of my eyes, so I could peek out without committing to being seen. And I wore simple clothes. A uniform, I'd say. Pegged blue jeans. Man's style button-up oxford. Armful of ID bracelets with names of boys I'd never met. I hid. A lot. Ducked out of classes early. Lost hours walking short distances. I don't know where I went. I don't know where my head was.

All I know is that I cared what people thought about me.

Until I met Brock. Then none of that mattered. That's the best thing I can say now. He pushed my glossy black hair out of my face. He undid my shirt one tiny button at a time. He peeled off my clothes and let me stand there, entirely naked before him. And he didn't laugh. Jesus. Laughing was the last thing on his mind.

Brock saw through the tough girl exterior. He saw beneath the kohl-outlined eyes, the mistrustful glances. He didn't even have to ask. He just took.

Even now, every time I get undressed, there's a part of me that feels him watching.

XXX,
AT

Very superstitious

Have I said this before? I'm extremely superstitious. My favorite expression is "Knock Wood, Throw Salt," and I do both regularly. (In fact, I throw salt not only when I spill the tiny white grains, but whenever I tip the shaker.) That's just one of my little character traits. One of those things that I can't remember how I started, but I cannot seem to stop.

So while I had an extremely productive meeting yesterday, I won't reveal all of my new projects until I hammer out dates and sign on the X. I will say this, though. I'm fucking thrilled. The new books on the menu look delicious, and I can't wait to get started.

I'm not the only one I know who won't walk under a ladder. Or who only picks up pennies when they're right-side up.

Recently, I ran into another superstitious writer. Donna said she doesn't ever tell people that she's in anthology until she's holding the book in her hands. I told her that I was the exact same way—for the most part, I try not to crow about being in a collection until the book is printed and on my shelf. I've been cut so many times.

She was sweetly disbelieving. "You? Get rejected?"

And I just laughed and laughed. My stories get cut all the time. I don't tend to discuss rejections in the brilliant way that Dayle and Shanna do. They both openly share just what being a writer is all about: the champagne-happy acceptances, and the mailbox filled with pink slips. But in this past year I was cut from a handful of anthologies, dropped from a magazine, and rejected for a sequel to a book I edited for Plume. I really wanted to be in one of those collections, too. I mean, really. And when I see the cover, I have that J is for Jealousy feeling towards all of the writers in the book.

Why am I telling you this? Because I do know that reading about other writers' ups and downs can be helpful. Why don't I normally share? Because I don't like to dwell on the rejections any longer. I used to have a file folder filled with my reject letters. At some point, I recycled the whole package. But I want to be clear. I never believe I am going to be in a book. I don't, as Sommer likes to say, "Buy my own hype." Books come together for a variety of reasons. The stories all have to agree with one another. The length has to work. The different styles must behave. I know all about weaving a book together, and I understand why my stories sometimes don't make the grade. (Like the time I forgot to put sex in.)

That doesn't mean I like rejections any more than the next writer.
I just knock wood and throw salt... and move onto the next project.

XXX,
Alison

P.S. This amazing ring is from Loving Anvil.

“Power is the ultimate aphrodisiac”

Read a brilliant article about Sex for America. And, oooh just look! There are pictures of Mistress Morgana, Charlie Anders, and Stephen Elliott.

I haven't gone to any of the readings. Because, as I said, I'm shy. But I like mentally putting together the sort of outfit I might wear. You know, like these boots. And perhaps an Uncle Sam outfit.

Hmmm. I had no idea there were costumes this patriotically kinky!

Off to get ready for a 10:30 meeting. Wish me luck.

XXX,
Alison

P.S. I'm pretty serious about the boots. You know, for at-home wear.

Don’t be so fucking afraid.

I am on a bench a mile from my home, and Brock has his hand in my long dark hair. His fist tightens, pulling on my ponytail, drawing my head back so that he can kiss me. I feel as if I have stopped breathing, as if I will never be able to breathe again. The traffic passes by us quickly, in a never-ending stream—the park is at an intersection of two major roads. Brock doesn’t kiss me. I think he will. I am rocking almost imperceptibly, back and forth, waiting for his mouth on mine. His hand hurts my hair, pulling harder. My neck arches. He leans forward and bites my lip. Hard. I’ve never been wet like this. I don’t even know what this is.

Oh, it hurts.

It’s 3:54 a.m., and I am back in time once more. How does this happen to me? I don’t know why, on a rainy morning, when there are 17 projects I need to finish, when my desk looks as if it has completely given up on me: papers, files, galleys, receipts, pens, tape, stamps, scissors tossed together like a collage…why the hell do I find myself in high school, with a 27-year-old man on a bench in the suburbs as the pale purple twilight comes?

Fuck me. I don’t know.

I don’t know how Brock found me in the movie theater—triple feature of Mad Max movies on New Year’s Day. I don’t know how he took one look at me two rows back and saw what I’d been wanting. What I’d been waiting for.

But I do know that my first kiss—my first real kiss—is what drives me still. And I can perch on the edge of that bench, and I can look at that girl with the long dark hair and the faded jeans, the skimpy t-shirt over bare skin. I can see the line of her neck, watch the hot pulse beat in her throat. Turquoise kohl pencil rims her tightly shut eyes and her favorite slippery lip gloss with the blue iridescence has been obliterated.

Look at her.
She’s trembling.

I want to move forward on the bench. I want to get right up next to her and whisper: Don’t be so fucking afraid. Accept it. This is you.

His mouth burns me. He doesn’t kiss me. This isn’t a romance novel. There are no happy endings. He bites my lip so hard that even now, a million years later, I find myself running my tongue over the plumped skin to see if the ridge marks from his teeth are still there.

And yeah. They are.

XXX,
Alison

P.S. I had so many things I planned to write today. For instance, Rachel and I won a lovely review for Hide & Seek from FORUM UK. So why am I listening to my ipod and staring outside at the rain?
P.P.S. Art is called Human Torch and is by Dadadreams Curious Collage Creations.

Talk German to Me

Earlier this year, Shanna wrote a luscious Lustbite piece about her love of accents. Although I've been with French lovers and a boy from Bath, the best accent in my repertoire is that Massachusetts' growl. (Is this why I liked The Departed so much?)

Still, I do understand the appeal. The strange otherness. The difference from ourselves. This is why I adore receiving foreign translations of books! I mean, check these out:



If they could speak, I'd be a puddle at their feet.

XXX.
Alison

P.S. I have a few others that Photobucket will deny for content. (They always take down the cover for Luscious.) And I have this:


I swear, I had no idea which book this was until I looked on Amazon.

Sex and Death

“I want to write a novel,” the producer told me over coffee at the Maple Drive café.

I should have run away then. He didn’t actually want to write a novel. He wanted me to write a novel for him. But by paying me $2,000, he would own the book—and in his mind, me—for the month I spent writing the paranormal thriller.

Ron was a producer in L.A who had a lot of money and a slew of crazy screenplay ideas, but no talent to write them or filter to decide which ones were good and which were god-awful. So he hired UCLA students for $5,000 a pop. He heard through a friend that I was writing novels, and added me to his stable.

We would have meetings every few days, in which he would entirely scrap the previous plot—and all of my work—and conjure something fresh. By the end, the thriller had included all of the following: a serial killer, a Salem witch trial, plenty of twisted sex, several unruly demons, an unsuccessful exorcism, a beautiful seer, various soul-possessions, time travel, flying furniture, and seedy run-down motels. The final novel contains a little bit of all the plots. Tim Gunn would proclaim the piece "Patchwork," I believe.

Why did I take a ghostwriting job?

Because it wasn’t my first. And I thought I knew what I was doing.

My first job ghostwriting paid so well I bought a car. Well, it was a used car—1965 Mustang, $3,000. All bow down to me. That was my first car.

My ____ was to ______ Mad-Lib-like ______ for an Educational software company called _____. I was still in high school, and as you can imagine I was ________ thrilled.

By the time I finished writing for Ron, I had learned my lesson. Do not ghostwrite. Not even about ghosts. Because the producer was intense—our meetings often involved him demonstrating physically what he wanted to happen: “And then the sofa will fly up in the air, and then land way over here,” he’d say, sprinting from one end of his mammoth office to the other.

Worse, though, was that since he paid me the money, he believed I was on call 24/7. He could dial me up at any time of the night, with a brand-new idea. He could stop by at odd hours, insist on emergency meetings. And I was too young to stand up for myself.

Since then, I’ve ghostwritten for a few people on a wide variety of subjects—from bouncing balls to Parisian walking tours. Just recently, I fell into my final ghostwriting job. One that I thought I could do in my sleep, but which turned out to stress all of my abilities.

I swear. Wait for it:
I’m giving up the ghost.

***

Now, a short-short. This is for Tessa—you'll recognize the scene, I know.

More Than Rain
Alison Tyler

“Over here,” Patrick said, backing me around a corner and up against one of the stone walls. The sky was overcast, a perfect backdrop of velvety gray over all the marble and statues.

Being with Patrick made the Père-Lachaise Cemetery romantic in that ultra gothic way that only comes from mixing sex and death. Patrick started to kiss me, his hands working under my shirt, his mouth to my neck. I could feel my heart beating faster, feel that dizziness come over me, that almost overpowering passion I had for my man.

Then Patrick switched our positions so that my back was against the chilled stone, starting to slowly undo the buttons on my black tuxedo blouse. Letting the cool air kiss my skin. And just as he parted the shirt, the first drops of rain began to hit. I looked up at the sky, surprised by the storm, and then back at Patrick, who seemed to have no interest in the weather at all, focused on my body, his hands roaming over me, touching me.

I closed my eyes as he bent to kiss my breasts, pulling down the black lace demi-cup bra, and then moving down, lower, his fingers on the button fly of my black jeans.

We were getting wetter by the second, drenched, and I could feel the water in my eyes, the droplets along my cheekbones, running down my face. Patrick worked my jeans open, then spun me once more, so that I was faced away from him. I was ready for him. Ready for the moment he pulled my jeans and panties down together, the second when he parted his own slacks and thrust inside of me.

I was facing the wall, but if I turned my head, I could see the curve of the stone path we’d been on, see the trees and the benches and the array of markers. The rain came down harder, and Patrick just kept fucking me, his hand sliding down my flat stomach to rest between my legs, his fingers tapping out a random rhythm over my clit, wanting me to find that place with him.

I felt the thrill of being outside, with the potential of getting caught at any second. But all of the tourists seemed to have run for cover with the start of the rain. And nobody was nearby. No one at all.

When Patrick started to work me harder, I knew he was close, and I lowered my head and bit into my lower lip. Patrick’s body behind me, shielded me. Patrick’s strong hands, stroked me, touched me. And then his voice, “Come on, baby. Come for me…” urged me on as his breath grew faster, as my own heart began to race.

We might as well have been fucking in a swimming pool. We were drenched, and a shiver ran through me from the chill, my whole body shaking. Patrick brought one hand up and grabbed hold of the back of my hair, tilting my head back so that he could kiss me. With his other hand still wedged between my legs, strumming my clit, he brought me off. So that I was coming hard, shuddering with the power of the pleasure, lost in the craziness of being in a place where anyone could see us—but everyone nearby was dead.

He came seconds after, slamming into me, my hands flat on the wall to hold myself steady, his voice husky and dark as he found his own limits and drove through.

Dressing again was far more difficult than undressing. Our clothes were waterlogged. Patrick only had to fix his slacks, zip his fly, but my jeans were heavy with the rain, and stubborn. I managed to get them back up, to rebutton my shirt, and then traipsed with Patrick to the exit, nodding to the guard who seemed to know exactly what we’d been up to.

He didn’t seem to care any more than the people he was guarding. All of those souls, sleeping under the steady sound of rain.

XXX,
Alison

P.S. This amazing print is called Spectre in the Cemetery and is by EmeraldAngel.
P.P.S. Slip over to our Sex and Candy blog to read a delicious article by the ever-lovely Donna George Storey.

Open for Business

I have been up for hours. And it's only 4:50 on a Sunday morning. What the fuck, right? By the end of today, I will be a zombie. And then I will write hot zombie sex. No, wait. That's not my style. What will I do with myself? Hmmm. drink too much coffee and hang out with friends—knocking off two of my resolutions at once!

Also, I'll be tweaking my Open for Business manuscript. I had the pleasure yesterday of writing to the authors. I love being able to tell people that they are IN. That is, by far, the best part of the business. That, and seeing the books on display in a window, which happened to me last week!

Sandwiched between the sexy covers are:

That Monday Morning Feeling by Lisette Ashton
This Call May be Monitored by Xavier Acton
Sex, Lies, and Library Books by Donna George Storey
Taking Care of Business by Sommer Marsden
How to Fuck Your Boss by Elizabeth Young
Headhunter by CB Potts
Late for Work by Shelly Jansen
In the Empire of Lust by Maxim Jakubowski
Casual Friday by Jolene Hui
Strict Management by T.C. Calligari
Lunch Meeting by Marie Sudac
Secretary’s Day by Rachel Kramer Bussel
One Cubicle Over by Jeremy Edwards
Perks of the Job by Kristina Wright
Lonely at the Top by Savannah Stephens Smith
On the 37th Floor by Tulsa Brown
Have a Nice Day by Mike Kimera
Page 10 of the Employee Handbook by Alison Tyler
TGIF by Saskia Walker
After Hours by Marilyn Jaye Lewis
Memorandum by N.T. Morley
Rat Race by Nikki Magennis

There may be a few additional stories in the line-up before all of the dust settles. My goal was to recreate the work week, in a pleasure-meets-business sort of way—beginning and ending with a commute piece. I'm in love with both the titles of the stories, and the stories themselves!

Now, back to brew another pot.

XXX,
Alison

P.S. Hey,Jeremy and t'Sade—follow up with your mailing addresses to msalisontyler at yahoo dot com. I'll send you each a copy of Stephen Elliott's fabulous Sex for America!

the steamy work of Alison Tyler

Thanks, Rachel, for this link from The Library Journal:

Sex for America: Politically Inspired Erotica. Perennial: HarperCollins. Feb. 2008. c.288p. ed. by Stephen Elliott. illus. ISBN 978-0-06-135121-1. pap. $13.95. LIT

Verdict: According to Elliott, erotica should be "a good literary story with something to say about the world"; this entertaining and thought-provoking collection of sexy, graphic tales embodies that standard. Patrons who appreciate both erotica and political satire will snap it up.

Background: In this provocative anthology, risqué stories by known literary figures like Jerry Stahl, Anthony Swofford, and James Frey go back to back with the steamy work of Alison Tyler and Tsaurah Litzky, popular authors of contemporary erotica. A lascivious gun-shop encounter with Dick Cheney, a sneak attack that leaves no doubt of a Dutchman’s opinion of U.S. foreign policy, and a bleeding-heart liberal in the clutches of a conservative dominatrix are among the many memorable moments. Editor Elliott, no stranger to either erotica or political discourse, has authored six books, including My Girlfriend Comes to the City and Beats Me Up and Looking Forward to It, a memoir about the 2004 U.S. presidential race.—Jeanne Bogino, Learning Resources Ctr., Southern Vernon Coll., Hancock, MA

All I can say is this. Oh my fucking god. I'm going "back to back" with superstars in this collection, and have been called "a popular author of contemporary erotica." I'm really beside myself that Stephen Elliott liked my little story, and that so far (aside from one idiot on Amazon) the reviews have been amazing.

The book got a Page Six mention, a plug by Violet Blue, and a sizzling write-up in the Chicago Sun-Times.

God, I'm so proud.

XXX,
Alison

P.S. I've bought a few copies to give away, but I couldn't decide what to have you share to win. I don't want to get involved in straw polls or anything. So how about this... where did you have your best-ever sex. America? Abroad? Or in an abroad-like America, such as Jeremy Edwards' Paris-like Cleveland in "Le Petite Dejeuner," his story in A is for Amour.

Lost...

Some days I am so totally fucking lost. I’ve lost my way, my keys, my train of thought. Yesterday, for nearly all of the day, I lost my internet connection. So I could not pipe in and respond to comments on the interview with Barbara Pizio at The Trollop Salon.

But I tend to find more than I lose. (Aside from a darling little ring my dad gave me that I lost in college. I still uselessly look for the little gold band with the amethyst, even though more than a dozen years have passed.) What have I found? Hundred dollar bills—twice. And I used to go to a Laundromat on Melrose where I found $20 three different times. I’ve probably found all of the sunglasses you’ve lost—three different pairs of Ray-Bans. One pair of Vuarnets.

How about you? Let’s play.
What have you lost? What have you found?

XXX,
Alison

P.S. I’ll keep the conversation on Trollop Salon rolling through the weekend and announce the winner on Monday—along with my next guest.

P.P.S. Art is from Gee Lizzie. I want so many of her necklaces! The sulking one is another favorite.

B is for Barbara

Today at the Trollop Salon, I have Barbara Pizio, Executive Editor of Penthouse Variations. Barbara has worked at Variations for 16 years, and has been the Executive Editor for the past seven.

Please stop by to say hello!

XXX,
Alison

P.S. Winner of four little naughty books is Dakota Rebel. Drop me an email at msalisontyler at yahoo dot com to claim your prize:

O is for Obsession

I’m going to confess. Again. To another one of my many little character quirks. The one that explains why I’m beside myself that Barbara Pizio (Executive Editor at Penthouse Variations) is at The Trollop Salon.

You see, I love letters. Not email, but mail. And not only getting, but giving. I’m a gifter in general (I read Tom Chiarella's article on gifting in Esquire, and then I sent him a gift), but even better to me than wrapping up a present for a friend, or peeling off a sweater for a stranger (yes, I have done that), is gathering an assortment of odd-ball items and shipping them off in a pastel-colored box.

What do I like to get in return? Postcards. I put up pretty postcards on my walls. I always have. Every office I’ve ever worked in has had a wall that looks like the one here. I assure myself this time will be different. I’ll have one special picture—framed. And that will be it. I’ll be Zen. And simple.

But I’m not.

The wall climbs, turns a corner, takes over the ceiling, spreads into a hallway. Necklaces join the postcards, along with magazine clippings.

My current wall holds postcards from Kristina and Saskia and an album cover from Sommer. A necklace from Emily and a picture of a Tracey Emin purse. Pictures of men I like: Keith Carradine, Jim Morison, Elvis, Bowie, random punk rockers.

But it doesn’t have the following letter:



We received this for our first Naughty Stories collection. This is a filthy little book, featuring 27 stories from authors including M. Christian, Marilyn Jaye Lewis, and Thomas S. Roche. The pretty pink covers contain hardcore fucking from back to front. This is why I find the notes so charming:

Reason D: pages 44-46, 51/52, contain graphic depiction of women engaging in homosexual activity page 87/88 contains men engaging in homosexual activity.

Those were the only obscene parts?
I don’t think so.

But these were the passages that banned the book in Texas—or at least at this specific Texas institution. My favorite part about receiving this particular bit of mail? Imagining the prison employee who read the book to determine whether or not the anthology was obscene.

Decide for yourself. I’ll send out (in a pretty pastel box!) a set of the Naughty Stories books to one of today’s commenter. So why don't you tell me about your favorite obsession—or best mail ever?

XXX,
Alison

Fight for It

Years ago, I was at a business dinner with my mother. Another guest at the table—a woman who sold manipulatives (little plastic cubes used for counting)—asked my mother what she did.

“I’m a publisher.”

“But what is that? You don’t write the books yourself do you?” This was said in a snarky undertone.

“No, I don’t write the books.” My mother is a difficult person to rile.

“Then you run a printing shop?”

I stared at the woman. I was young. Maybe 16. But I didn’t understand why this woman was confused. She didn’t pour plastic into little square-shaped molds, did she? She ran a company, just like my mom ran a company.

Still, when you say you’re a publisher, people often ask where your press is, as if you might stand at the side of a monster printing machine, cranking out each book by hand. (Now, when people ask me this question, I like to say, “It’s in the back. I’ve got some naked men out there who do the heavy work for me. Kristina Lloyd is the foreman.”)

My mother’s desk was almost entirely empty, and it was simple: A blonde-butcher block set atop two black cabinets. She had a phone, a calendar, and a fax machine. Almost all of the work she did was in her head. She consistently used a tight circle of writers, artists, and typesetters. There were exacto knives and rubber cement bottles in our cabinets. Galley time meant stress.

My desk is always messy. File folders, manuscripts, books. Everywhere books. Galley time still means stress.

If I won the lottery tomorrow, I’d still be a publisher. I adore working with writers, artists, words in general. I’d do this job for free. Maybe this is why I like to give away books. I don’t know. What I do know is that you have to love the business. And when you’re small, you have to fight for it. (Just look at the AMS/PGW Bankruptcy situation last year.)

Publishing is changing now. You don’t need the rubber cement. Or the knives. But you know what? It’s always good to have a crew of naked men out in the back, cranking away at the machine. Right, Kristina?

XXX,
Alison

P.S. The Art is called "Fight for It." You can see three different angles on Dazeychic's ETSY shop: Studio Mela.

Spin Cycle

I’m a dervish. Maybe this is how I get so much done in such a short span of time. I spin. There is not a single Namaste bone in my body. I am the opposite of OM. I move from one project to the next, without taking a breath. By now, I’ve mastered multi-tasking to the level where I really don’t know how to do one thing at a time.

Spinning. I swear. It’s not just a job, it’s an adventure.

I’ve been like this for years. Moving fast means you don’t have to stop and think. Always being in motion means never being at rest. I don’t crave chaos—I crave full speed ahead. All the time.

But there’s a problem that goes along with spinning. When you move so quickly, you can make mistakes. Offend someone with an email. Say the wrong thing to a buddy. Or if you don’t actually do those things, you can worry that you have. See? You might be moving fast, but sometimes you’re only moving fast in one place. A human top, spiraling round and round and round.

I’ve got a few friends who can put out a hand and stop me. They know the words to say. They know when to lead me away from the computer, or away from the telephone, making little sh-sh noises, as if to calm a spooked animal.

A spinner.

Yes, that’s me in a nutshell.
Or put me in a nut house.
Whichever you’d like.

But the thing that really stops me, the one thing that holds me in place is simple. It’s being anchored. With handcuffs or leather thongs. With a single command or a warning look. A solitary stroke of a finger under my chin or a thumb along the outline of a silver belt buckle. Being bound means that I can’t go somewhere else. I can’t be six places at once. And it’s more than that, of course.

Deeper than that. Darker than that.

Pain clears my head. The sex I like, the rough, rock-hard, take-no-prisoner type of sex is the one thing that makes me stop. That makes me still. I’m not put in my place—I’ve found my place. A top, tipped over, not moving at all.

XXX,
Alison

P.S. Spin Cycle is from backbone. Her art is so cool!

P.P.S. Random Number Generator plucked Isabel Kerr—but I'm also going to send a set to Raven. Because damn. That was hot.

P.P.P.S. Of course, spinning can be positive. I swear. Look at this excerpt from Machine Wash Hot by Thomas Roche, which appeared in His:

The spin cycle is six minutes long. That’s always long enough for one, but sometimes not quite enough for two. Once I managed three, though. Washable wool.

I’ve gotten into the fetish of it; it turns me on to load the washer and then slowly strip my clothes off, leaving on just a bra and panties, then stuff the clothes in the cylinder and close the lid. I start the water and lean against the machine, waiting.

When I first began, I would fantasize, but I don’t even need to do that any more. I get turned on just smelling laundry soap. Just walking into the garage excites me. The scent of clean clothes inspires a warm afterglow, and the clink of quarters arouses me just on general principle. Sometimes I walk past a laundromat and I have to go home and change my underwear. The one time the power was out at home, I did try to do my laundry in a laundromat. Now that was a disaster. I leaned against the washing machine as it fired into the spin cycle. I put my face against the metal as it vibrated, like a lover I couldn’t touch. I sighed softly, languishing as the single mothers and college students looked at me like I was a maniac.

But at home, I climb on top and lean back against the machine, feeling the faint shiver as the cylinder fills with water. I feel it start to agitate, working back and forth in a rapturous kind of foreplay.

Then, when I feel the spin cycle start, I let out a little moan.

I lean back or hunker forward. I’ve gotten very limber; I can drape my knees over the side so I can press my pussy down hard against the machine. But that’s not even necessary; the vibrations can travel through my tailbone and into me if I lean back, gently pinching my nipples as the rhythm mounts.

The machine pulses and shudders, fucking me with its cadenced motion. It goes faster, faster as the sensations build in me.

And somewhere there, in the midst of the spin cycle, I come.

S is for Spanking

Well, it will be. Of course. What else could S be for? (Don’t all shout out s-words, now: S is for Sultry. S is for Sexy. S is for Succulent. S is for Stranger. S is for Smut Girl. S is for Shanna. I mean, what else could S be for in my little world?) So I’m reading my S-submissions right now…and thinking about spanking in general. One of the secrets that I was going to share yesterday was that I was spanked by a stranger.

We had dinner first.

But I mean I met someone online once who seemed to be my perfect spanking match. He was a bartender-slash-musician in Hollywood. (In L.A., you generally date slashes. Actually, my best friend dated Slash—but I’m not sure if that’s something to brag about.)

Varian and I played around online for weeks. Then we talked on the phone. His deep rumble of a voice tugged at me. He sent me his demo tape (I just typed in "demon" tape by accident. Freudian Slip?), and I would go to sleep with my headphones on, listening to that baritone and imagining dirty things he might tell me to do.

I knew what he looked like. I’d seen his band play before we ever hooked up. His picture was in ads in the LA Weekly, a leather-clad Lothario leaning on a vintage convertible. Finally, in a fever, we met for sushi—and then he took me behind the restaurant, bent me over his knee, lifted my skirt, and spanked me through my black pantyhose. I was wearing all black—skirt, vest, blazer, patent leather Mary Janes. I think I told myself that we were only meeting—to see if we might ht it off. That’s why I had on the pantyhose instead of garters. That was my version of a chastity belt.

Failed, totally.

He’d spanked me online. I already knew what his hand on my ass would feel like. At least, I did virtually. Why did we think we could handle dinner first?

I had my hair done Bettie Page style, dyed blue-black with that mentholated sheen. Bangs to peek out from. I looked like someone on a job interview for a secretarial spot at a law firm. My whole outfit was from Ann Taylor. He was rock-a-billy all the way: wife beater t-shirt, black jeans, leather jacket, creeping vines of tattoos up and down his arms.

He liked my nylons, ripped a hole in them during dinner so he could touch me through my panties under the table. I don’t think I ate a bite, although I know I drank the hot sake and burned my tongue.

The restaurant was on Beverly Blvd. near La Cienega. High-end restaurant. We were out of place. His style, my nerves, the fact that he had his hands in my panties before the first plate of sushi arrived.

I still have his demo tape in a drawer somewhere.

XXX,
Alison

Liar, Liar

Friday, I'm in love. I mean, Friday got away from me. I started off the week promising to introduce you to IJKL, and then give away free books at the end. Well, the introductions went smoothly, and then I fell asleep at the wheel. Or on my desk. Or in a hammock gently swaying by the tropical ocean breezes. (I told Shanna yesterday that I was planning on taking a virtual vacation. I so rarely take literal ones. The hammock might be all in my mind. But the breezes are so sweet, I can practically smell the Tropicana oil.)

Anyway, mea culpa (oh, you can almost spell that with my darling ABC covers). I will give away books this Monday. And all you have to do to win is hit me with your best shot. No, that’s not right. Not unless you’re Pat Benatar. All you have to do is tell me a secret. A really good secret. I don’t want anything depressing or demoralizing. I want something that will turn me on, or make me laugh. Something you might share with a stranger in a bar, but not necessarily your best friend.

Should I start? Do I have any secrets left?
Of course, I do. My treasure box is still three quarters full.

So here’s one of mine. Are you ready? I lost my virginity more than once. More, in fact, than twice. I don’t know why, but I played the part of the shy ingénue so fucking well. You want to put that where? (Oh, damn, you’re laughing at me, aren’t you?) I’ve never been with two guys before… I open my mouth like this?

And I did certain risqué acts for the very first time…with three different lovers. Each one believed he was the first. Is that bad? Is that wrong?

I told you early on that I’m a liar.
Do you have a problem with that?

Now…you. Share a secret. I’ll choose a winner on Monday for the IJKL books. And knowing me, I might choose two. Or three. Just like my very first time. And my very second, too.

XXX,
Alison

P.S. Please be sure to stop by The Trollop Salon. My latest guest is an expert at turning people on. I wonder what secrets she might share. Go on and say hello!
P.P.S. Gorgeous necklace is by Red Sesame.

L is for Leather

Look, I’m just glad I found what works for me. Some people like PVC. Others dream of rubber. For me, it’s leather. Oh, Jesus. Leather. I even like the way the word sounds—like lather, but better. My tongue caresses the letters, the way my hands stroke the actual substance. And I’m not the only one who finds seduction in the scent, the touch, the way it feels when you zip yourself up tight in a nice, full-length coat, and… what was I saying?

Oh, yes. Leather. Lots of stories about leather, by these dedicated writers:

Sunday Service by Kate Pearce
Skin Flick Sex by Radclyffe
How He Likes Me by Sommer Marsden
Venus In Uniform by Thomas Roche
Clean Up On Aisle Ten by Sheri Gilmore
Little Black Dress by Madeline Moore
Dangerous Comfort by Shane Allison
Tempted by Michelle Houston
Other Bonds Than Leather by Mike Kimera
Truman Capote Was Wrong by Lisette Ashton
Those Boots by Jude Mason
Love Is Long by Tsaurah Litzky
Hide by Alison Tyler

I’ll let Lisette Ashton take over here, with an excerpt from “Truman Capote was Wrong”:

Knowing it was time for her to take the coat, she lifted it from his arms. Another shiver went through her. The leather was as warm as living flesh.

As her fingers made contact with its malleable surface she knew the coat would be the fulfillment of every fantasy she had ever harbored. Savoring the moment, not allowing any distraction to intrude, she brought the collar to her nostrils and inhaled the sultry and distinctive perfume. There was no way to describe the scent because nothing else in the world smelled like leather. The closest thing that came to mind was the feral fragrance of animal passions. The musk from her wet and needy pussy was vaguely reminiscent. But even that inimitable bouquet was not as evocative as the hide she held.

Oh, yes, the smell. The scent of leather is enough to make me stop talking, stop listening, stop breathing for a moment. But then, after the scent, there is the sound. Kate Pearce, in “Sunday Service,” perfectly describes that erotic noise:

Leather made a very particular sound when it connected with her skin. It reminded her of an open-handed slap or the rigid length of a wooden school ruler applied to her knuckles.

“Ten strokes to get you wet and five extra because of the flirting.”

She didn’t argue, lying as she was, over his lap, her long brown hair pooling on the straw-covered barn floor, her naked breasts pressed against the fringe of his leather chaps.

And after the scent, and the sound, there is the feel. The glorious, pure sensation of skin against hide. Tsaurah Litzky knows all about that heavenly touch:

He turns me over and starts to slowly rub his gloved hands, his leather hands all over my body. The feeling of the rough leather at my waist, on my rib cage, inside my thighs is intensely pleasurable. He reaches down and grabs my nipples with his leather fingers, pulling at them at first gently but then more roughly, rolling them between his fingers in a way that sends ripples of desire out into every corner of my body.

Luscious, I say. And like a closet filled with the best leather jackets in the world, every single story in this collection fits just right.

XXX,
Alison

P.S. Hey, this is so totally cool—Cleis' Erotic Alphabet Contest got a nod on Galleycat. Scroll down to It's Like Scrabble, Only With Cheesecake.

Crushing

My first writer crush was William Kennedy. I wanted to go to college in Albany, I swear, to take classes from him. Albany. Crazy. Right? I mean, I'm such a California girl. One day of rain, and I'm miserable. Can you imagine me wintering in Albany? I actually met him on my 19th birthday in London, and I have a signed book to prove it. Legs is my favorite. If you haven’t read it, do.

Over the years, I’ve harbored a slew of writer crushes: Daniel Odier who, under the pen name Delacorte, wrote Diva (and Luna, Nana, Lola, Vida, Alba...), Roddy Doyle (The Snapper remains one of my all-time favorite books). Dashiell Hammett. Raymond Chandler. Nick Hornby.

The funny part is that I didn’t really identify the sensations as being akin to a crush. I didn’t understand how one could just go gaga over someone else’s words. That sounds lame. Jesus. (I've been, um, drinking. Can you tell?) But I mean, here