F-U-C-K Y-O-U

Ooooh, look! They had these at the grocery store. I couldn't resist. The same gummi letters I found online before, but now here they are. In my hot little hands. Or, actually spread out on one of my plates. I can spell names... and eat them. I can eat Jo, slurping up the J, circling her hot little O. I can devour Sommer, lapping at the S, humming on the Ms. What I can't do at the moment is find the cable that runs from my computer to the digital camera—so unfortunately you can't see what fun I'm having with dirty words. But I'll bet you can imagine.

The package I opened is missing an all-important Y, so instead of writing F-U-C-K Y-O-U, I spelled out F-U-C-K M-E, before, well, eating myself.

I am in heaven.

Not counting the open package that I'm alphabetically working my way through, I have three packages of Gummi Alphabet Letters to send out. I was trying to be clever and come up with some sort of word contest, but my brain is on autopilot today. So let's try this. Tell me a word or two that you like, and why, and I'll send out some candy in the morning.

XXX,
Alison

P.S. I'll start. I like the word Jezebel. Of course, you knew that already. But I like the look and sound of the word nearly as much as the meaning: a wicked, shameless woman.

J Is for "Just What I Needed"

No, not a strong hard man to bend me over and fuck the living daylights out of me. I've already got that, thank you very much.

But I needed a bit of good news in the mail (to counter the insanity that is currently living and breathing in my inbox). Nikki Magennis to the rescue: "Maybe you've already seen this review, just up at ERWA, but thought I'd send the link in case—very chuffed!"

I'm chuffed, too:

As with all Alison Tyler’s anthologies the quality of writing is constantly superb. The blend of styles and approaches tackles the overriding theme of jealousy from every possible erotic angle. If you enjoy your summer reading serious, sexy and smouldering—J is for Jealousy will satisfy every enviable need you’re likely to have this year.

You can read the whole review here.

XXX,
Alison

P.S. Do not forget to spy on the new sliver of Kristina up for viewing here!

An unexpected invitation

When I was in my early 20s, I was asked to join a book group of established women in town—an artist, an architect, a writer, a copy editor, an accountant, a gallery owner. The women were all older than I was, and (I have to say this) extremely aggressive.

What I didn’t know when I joined was that the group was more of a cocktail club than book club and that nobody every agreed on anything except “Another Kettle One Martini.” But once I figured out that arguing was more than acceptable, it was expected, I felt fine nominating my favorite oddball books for discussion: Geek Love, Sexing the Cherry, Story of the Eye. You should have heard the talk for that last one. I can remember one of the women glaring at me as she banged the book on the table.

So you’ll imagine that I accepted the following invitation with some trepidation—you see, a few weeks ago a group of seven women asked me to be the guest at their book group. They’d decided to read Tiffany Twisted, and they tracked me down via MySpace and asked if I would attend their meeting—via speaker phone.

In my head, I remembered Kate hissing about how much she despised Bataille’s classic, and I thought, Oh, holy fuck. What if they are all upset about having spent the $12 bucks on Tiffany? What if they want to tell me what I got wrong?

Insert sweet sigh of relief.

Apparently, other people’s book groups are not quite so dysfunctional as mine was. These women actually liked my novel, and they had questions about my motivation for writing Tiffany, where I’d gotten my ideas, how much “research” went into the sex scenes.

There was giggling and champagne (on their end), and blushing and tequila (on mine), and I felt as if I’d been asked to join a a grown-up slumber party. More enjoyable than I could have imagined—although truly nerve wracking for me all day yesterday.

I woke to an email asking if I’ll “join” again in a few months. They’re going to read Melt With You! I’m thrilled.

Now, where is my XXX-reading book club? Oh, yes, it’s over at Trollop Salon, where I’ve just posted a final excerpt from Kristina Lloyd. Stop by to see!

XXX,
Alison

Dream Socks

I'm not much of a "when life gives you lemons," type of person. I mean, I'll take limes instead, please, and add the salt and tequila. But I've been in a bit of a strange head space the past few days. And I can't be the only one—based on my overflowing inbox.

So with the limes cut and the tequila poured, I'm out scanning Sock Dreams. Because is there anything a new pair of industrial net stockings can't fix?

XXX,
AT

One good fuck deserves another

I'm not procrastinating or anything. (Oh, damn. Is that my nose growing?) But I've been reading different blogs over the past few days, and this piece on the word fuck caught my eye. Reminded me of this other post on the word fuck.

(Really, I wasn't googling FUCK. I swear!)

XXX,
Alison

You're such a strange girl

Melt With You just received a 4.5 star review! I'll put in the info as soon as the review goes live. I am so relieved when I read a review that makes one of my novels sound coherent. My stories are always clear to me—but I don't always have the faith that they will make sense to other people.

I'm partial to Melt for a slew of reasons. One is because my heroine is a bit older than previous ones I've written—she's 38. And I like her moxie. When she finds herself in an inexplicable situation—back in time 20 years—she doesn't wait for some buff hero to rescue her. She saves herself. Also, I had a delicious time writing about Rocky Horror and the movie theater, which I called The Majestic in the book, but which was The Varsity in real life.

Too many important moments took place for me at the Varsity. Now, when I visit home and see the Borders in the shell of this once brilliant theater, I have that ache in the pit of my stomach. I talked to a friend recently about seeing The Crying Game there, and she said, "God, I'm so glad they finally demolished that dirty old place."

I was stunned.

How can two people both have the exact opposite recollections of the same location? She's pleased there is a nice, bright, super-clean Borders in town. I walk through the bookstore, and see the faded blue velvet seats, that heavy velvet curtain, the sconces, the balcony. Breathe in deep to smell the popcorn and sticky spilled soda.

I'm a sap, I guess. Sentimental. Silly.

My heroine in Melt isn't sure what's happened to her. While trying to determine what's happened to her, she ends up fucking a young checker at the record store:

The Cure followed her wherever she went, didn’t they. Lyrics for every occasion. Her heart lifted as one of her favorites poured from the speakers, “The Perfect Girl.”

The boy reached for her, as Robert Smith sang: “You're such a strange girl, I think you come from another world…” and she found herself unable to think for a moment. Lost in the way the boy’s hands felt on her. Tentative at first. Then more powerful as she responded with such ease to his touch. This was intense, the way he held her, the way he kissed her, starting with her fingertips, then flipping her palm face up and kissing slowly to her wrist. She trembled. She’d always had extremely sensitive wrists. How had the boy known that?

Was she really going to do this? Act on a fantasy? Well why not?

In her entire life, she’d never had a dream in which she’d actually been allowed to sleep with the man. She’d always woken up at the last minute, or watched as a friend walked off with the man of her fantasies. This would definitely be one way to prove whether she was sleeping or not, wouldn’t it? If she didn’t wake up at the crucial moment, or if Violet didn’t suddenly appear to abscond with the handsome lad, then she could be sure she wasn’t asleep.

Leaning back against the window, she looked at him, seeing his serpentine green-streaked hair. Certain still that she were dreaming. Then he said, “I have to tell you something,” and she thought: Here it comes. He’s going to confess that he would rather fuck Violet. Or my mom. And then Chelsea will pop out of the back of the van wearing Mickey Mouse Ears, and I’ll wake up naked and late for my Spanish Final.

But he said, “When you walked through that door, I got hard immediately.”

She squirmed in the seat, surprised by his words. More than surprised, she was instantly turned on.

“And then when you met my eyes, I thought I was going to come right there, behind the cash register. You know? There’s something in the way you looked at me that just floored me. I could have punched the keys on the register with my cock, I was so hard.”

Could she have dreamed dialogue like that? She didn’t think so. His words were too raw sounding to be something she’d created. She felt this constant inner conversation distracting her, her conscience wondering whether this world was real or not. And she wished she could turn down the volume. Then he reached for her hand once more and pressed her palm against the crotch of his jeans, and when Dori cradled the heft there, she was the one to groan.

“You see?” he asked, and she nodded and thought nothing had ever felt as real as his cock straining against the front of his jeans.

“And I felt,” the boy continued, “felt as if I knew you. But we haven’t met before, have we?”

What an odd conversation to have with her hand on a man’s cock.

Dori shook her head. Shook her head as she bent forward and undid the shiny copper buttons of his fly. He settled back against his seat now, watching her. She was infinitely aware of every sensation. The sound of the cars pulling in and out of the parking lot around them. The sulfur-yellow lamps throughout the lot. The smell of the van, a combination of spicy cinnamon from Big Red gum—she could see the bright red paper wrappers and silver foil remnants scattered around the floor—and cigarette smoke—there were butts spilling out of the ashtray, many of them adorned with a dark scarlet lipstick. She could smell the rubber of the battered black floor mats, see glittering bits of sand and tiny pebbles stuck into the grooves.

And then she saw his cock. Hard and naked and ready for her. She had her fist around the length, jacked him once, softly, to get a feel for what he liked, before bringing her mouth to the head. His skin was silky, so sweet in her palm.

So real.

Dori closed her eyes for a moment, savoring the taste of his skin. Like summer time. Like memories that had been fading up on the top shelf of her closet. She was blowing a boy in his van, and fuck, she had to be dreaming. A dream. A dream. A dream. She could tell herself that over and over, as the warmth of his flesh met her mouth, as the scent of his body took her over. His black jeans were scratchy against her face. When she used her fingertips to push his black t-shirt up, she saw the muscles on his flat stomach, saw the turquoise tail end of a tattoo disappearing around the side of his waist. What was the full image? A scorpion?

The minute details seemed to take over her mind. As she sucked him, she stared at a tear on the side of the driver’s seat. A ragged rip in the tan fabric where she could see a bit of foam beneath, foam the color of fresh egg yolk.

Who saw details like that in their dreams? Hers were generally hazy. She’d remember snippets. Friends appearing and then disappearing. A rock star she liked showing signs of interest, before fading away. She couldn’t remember ever having a dream this intense. One that felt this true.

The boy grabbed the back of her hair, twining his fingers in the glossy strands, and she heard him sigh, heard him swallow hard. He liked what she was doing to him. That made her even wetter than she had been so far. She turned in the seat to get more comfortable, snaking one hand between her own legs to feel her arousal through her panties. Oh, yes. Very wet.

“Don’t stop,” the boy said, his voice shaking. “Please don’t stop—“

He didn’t continue the sentence, and she realized that was because he didn’t know her name. But she didn’t care. She continued in her mission, bobbing her head on his shaft, taking more and more in with each thrust.

“Oh, god,” he said next. “Baby, that is so fucking good.”

She’d always loved it when a man called her “baby.” So maybe this was a dream after all. She was adding in the elements that always turned her on the most. Had she ever had a wet dream before? Had she ever had an X-rated dream that made her come? Because now he was pulling her off him, helping her to sit up once more, slipping her dress up and her panties aside. He ran his fingertips over her pussy, and she sucked in her breath at the sensation, at the way he touched her. She thought he would go fast, thought he would want to rip her knickers down and drive inside of her, but he didn’t.

He seemed shocked by her Brazilian. She didn’t usually go for such a complete wax job, but she’d been hoping on hooking up with Rowan, and Violet had egged her on to go for a clean sweep. Luke hadn’t been surprised in the least to find her totally bare. So many women followed this trend that the look had become standard. But this boy was mesmerized. Had he never seen a girl completely shaved? Had there been Brazilians in the 80s?

No, she thought not. When had she first heard of this type of thorough wax job? Her brow furrowed for a moment, while she tried to remember, and then once more, she had to stop thinking as lust took over.

“Do you have something?” the boy asked, “I don’t. I mean, I wasn’t expecting…” and she blinked for a moment, not understanding the query, then reached into the side of her purse. Thanks to Violet, she did. She handed over the foil pocket, watched him stare at the square for a moment before expertly open the packet, and then waited. “Never seen one like this,” he said, and she realized Violet had given her one of those new-fangled condoms. A type created for a woman’s pleasure, a style that didn’t even exist in the 80s, as if “women’s pleasure” hadn’t been an important part of condom sales.

“They’re new,” she said immediately, “only available in New York, I think.”

The boy slid the condom on easily while she kicked off her panties, then positioned her just right, so that she was astride him, and she gripped onto the headrest behind him, and worked her body up and down. She knew that people would be able to see them through the windows, but she didn’t care. That fact made the act even more exciting.

She’d be the one on display now, she thought. Not Gael and Bette. She was the one in the window. Up and down she went, riding on him, doing all the work. He sat back and gazed at her, then ran one hand along the hollow of her throat, and she bit down on her bottom lip and groaned.

Fuck, it felt good. So good. Too good.

When she came, she knew—she knew for a fact—that this was no dream.

XXX,
Alison

Sex on the balcony?

Do you have those moments when your mouth outruns your brain? When you can hear yourself saying something out loud that you never, ever meant to say. Well, I seem to be having a week’s worth—and it’s only Monday! Today was terrifically long, and I missed my deadline to write about the Dirty Girls reading that took place tonight in San Francisco—or at least, is currently taking place. (If you missed the reading, don’t forget to buy the book! And if you buy the book—and like it—don't forget to slip Rachel a review on Amazon.)

I’m tired of ranting and ready for group sex out on the balcony.

Any takers?

XXX,
Alison

P.S. Winner of Velvet Heat is Jo, but I really ought to send her the Michael Madsen book.

Outrageously Obscene

Yesterday, Saskia Walker said: Long live genre fiction! I'm a storyteller, and my aspiration is simply to entertain a reader or two. And Kristina Wright said: I have had long discussions about this in academic circles. I'm still trying to make sense out of the ridiculous idea that writing about sex as a positive experience means you end up being labeled as a "sex writer," but writing about sex as a destructive force means you get the label "literary writer."

And I felt myself break into this huge grin. Because I've had this post half-written for over a month, and now feels like the perfect time to unwrap the cord and plug it in. Truly, this post has been half-written since I was in high school and forced to read a series of classics so god damn depressing I decided our English professor must truly have hated teenagers. When I would bring my noir fiction in to read during break, this professor would hold up the books as examples of true trash. (He seems very much like the academic Saskia lived with. He sneered and guffawed and refused to even consider that a crime detective book could be a classic.)

I am a rebel by nature. Tell me I have to wear a dress, and I will show up in tattered jeans. Tell me what to read, and I will slide my book between your covers and shoot you the virtual finger.

Still, my post scares me. Because I know there are people who love the books I am about to mention. And my goal is not to put down other people's favorites, but to explain, somehow, where I'm coming from. And yet, I'm ready. I'm standing here. Proud and naked and letting you know that....

Oh, my fucking god, I despised Billy Budd. I didn’t like Heart of Darkness any better. And I would have beat on Edith Wharton with a stick to demonstrate how much I hated Ethan Frome had she not been dead already.

Of Mice and Men? Shoot me now.

I don’t need stories to have a happy ending. I’m a fan of Hubert Selby Jr., JD Salinger, and Joyce Carol Oates. I like a few by Hemmingway and several by Fitzgerald. But my Top Ten (I mean 12), list looks like this:

The Dain Curse
The Continental Op
The Long Goodbye
The Last Kiss
The Thin Man
The Maltese Falcon
The Godfather
The Switch
The Lone Pilgrim
The Snapper
The Big Sleep
The Commitments

(Apparently, I like books that start with “The.”)

My college English professor elevated depressing, morose, everyone-fucking-dies-in-them stories as the ones to be revered. Why can you not like books filled with joy? Or novels that examine the human condition in a way other than killing off innocents or the mentally unbalanced? Why is Steinbeck “literary” and Chandler “not”?

I have a similar problem with the term "literary erotica," because the phrase is thrown out so randomly. What makes one story literary and another one porn? The use of the word cunt? Or cock? If you spell "cum" c-o-m-e is it literary? (Oh, god, "Coming and Cumming" by Susan St. Aubin. One of the best sex stories ever.)

Seems to me like just another way to put people down. Along the same lines as: "What I like is erotica. What you like is filth." According to who? Based on what standards?

I have a knee-jerk reaction to disliking this type of distinction. Feels affected and highbrow to me, which is why I tend to say that I write smut. But come on—nobody seems to know what “literary erotica” even means. In this article about a play that sold for $88,300, the headline says, “Rare piece of literary erotica auctioned in London.” The body of the article calls the work “the best known piece of English pornography,” describing it as “outrageously obscene in its sexual and scatological references, language and content."

Can the same work be both? One or the other? Or is the play "literary" just because it’s old? In which case we’ll all be literary in a few hundred years. (Actually, according to this article on erotica in Australian libraries: The works of the Earl of Rochester, Boccaccio and Pauline Reage are now widely available. What was once considered obscene has now seemingly become acceptable by its historicism.)

I suppose I don’t strive for the term because I’ve never enjoyed reading the types of books other people call "literary." I prefer to be down here with the riffraff, curled up in the corner of the bar, reading The Continental Op and drinking whiskey.

XXX,
Alison

P.S. I am open for disagreement. Tell me what I missed in Heart of Darkness, and I will listen. (The horror! The horror!) But if you make me read that one again, I swear, you'll have to choose two from my list to read yourself.

Defensive "Sex Writer" Responds

Oh, my god. I am nearly speechless. Except, of course. I'm not. (When am I ever actually speechless?) But I find this article so offensive. This is a feature about a new book called "Playing," and in the piece, the journalist describes the writer, saying: Eight months pregnant, Abrams wore a demure wrap dress and thick-knit sweater and donned a soft brown bob, looking nothing like the writer of a bondage-spiked book.

What the fuck is the writer of a bondage-spiked book supposed to look like? Here are some of the writers I know who have at least dabbled in bondage writing: Sommer, Kristina, Rachel, Shanna, Nikki. Saskia. Which one looks like a writer of a bondage book? (Oh, well, I suppose Saskia does. Dirty thing.)

Would this sentence be in the piece if Abrams were the writer of crime fiction? Or romance? Or gardening? Are writers supposed to go out in costume now so that they can sell the genre they write for? I mean, what's implied is that we bondage-spiked book writers always go around in head-to-toe latex. (Except for Sommer, because she'd die from an allergy...we'll have to put her in leather.) Is it the soft brown bob that makes Abrams look "nothing like the writer of a bondage-spiked book"? Or her thick-knit sweater? Or the fact that she's pregnant? Or the demure wrap dress?

The journlalist goes on to say: "Sex writer and blogger Susie Bright, who has edited several anthologies of erotica..." I'm not sure, but *several* to me indicates a few. A quick scan on Amazon (or Susie's own blog) shows that she started editing with the Herotica series and moved through 15 years of Best American. More than *several* in my mind. Why wouldn't the writer say, "Susie Bright, who has edited twenty anthologies of erotica"? Or "Susie Bright, one of the pioneers of literary erotic collections..."?

Finally, I'm flat out puzzled by these statements:

The problems of language may be why the divide between literary sex and erotica is so stark -- beautiful or intellectual language may not be titillating language, and if climax is the goal, even the best writers' words can't compete with an amateur's quivering camera. Sex scenes have foiled many an experienced novelist; one London literary journal even hands out Razzie-type awards for worst-written sex (past winners include Tom Wolfe and Norman Mailer, posthumously).

All that can make erotica writers sound defensive. "Americans don't like their sex and their art mixed together," said D.L. King, editor of the review site EroticaRevealed.com and a writer of BDSM fiction (it encompasses bondage, discipline, dominance, submission, sadism and masochism). "Erotica writers are still treated like the bottom of the barrel."

And so Abrams was worried that, as a first-time novelist, she'd be seen as a "sex writer," with the reader's lone gratification as her primary purpose. She tried to strike a balance, she said, by focusing on Josie's complexities and avoiding pornographic cue words of the four-letter kind, aiming to "give pleasure in a couple ways" -- literary and sensual.

I keep rereading to figure this out. What does it mean "the divide between literary sex and erotica is so stark"? What is the difference between literary sex and erotica? Good erotica is literary. Right? And I feel as if the journalist is trying to head off angry "sex writers" by saying: "All that can make erotica writers sound defensive."

Well, yeah. You've basically just said that erotica can't be beautiful or intellectual. That good writers are easily trumped by amateurs in the world of smut. I don't believe a journalist would make these statements about any other genre. Nobody would claim that Stephen King couldn't compete with an amateur horror writer, or that Sue Grafton couldn't hold her own against a novice crime writer.

This is why "sex writers" get defensive.

Any opinions?
Other than the advice to settle down with a shot of tequila?

XXX,
Alison

P.S. Rachel discussed this article here.
P.P.S. Fabulous fetish art is by Nancy Farmer. The frisky little dollies have their own website!

Sticky Dreams

The type that cling. So that even as I brew the first pot of coffee, my thoughts are still with him. His arms around me, body to my body. You'd think with all of the sex books I write and edit, my dreams would turn to different subjects entirely. You know, like politics. Or greenhouse gasses. But no. Often, I continue whatever story I'm working on once my head meets the pillow. Plots take unexpected directions. Characters revamp themselves.

Last night. Out on the front balcony. Fucking with that brutal intensity. The type of fuck to leave bruises on my hip bones, scratches down my arms and back. Pain I don't remember receiving. The soft skin on my wrists is chafed from the cuffs. I have a bite mark on the back of my neck—no ponytails for me for awhile.

Unexpected gentleness of dropping wisteria flowers. At night, the scent is magical. Being fucked in a fairy tale world with the headlights spearing the darkness. The rumble of faraway traffic. The black chiffon of the sky with the rhinestone-studded stars. And me, cuffed to the railing, assaulted from behind.

The dream clings. Sticks to my fingers as I type, as I look down at my wrists. As I know: it was no dream.

XXX,
Alison

P.S. This is my favorite poem. Sir Thomas Wyatt's "They Flee from Me that Sometime Did Me Seek." I twirl the words on my tongue at the most inappropriate moments. My talisman. My rosary. Do you have poems like that? Do you want to share? I'll give away a copy of our erotic poetry collection, Velvet Heat, to one commenter.

Come drink with me...

Drunken posting for me means posting without writing in Word first. Without spell checking. Without revising. In other words, posting without a safety net. As if writing were something dangerous like walking a tightrope. But drinking and writing can be a bit sketchy. I mean, what if I were to share secrets in an unguarded moment. What if I were to let my silver-streaked hair down and call someone a bitch? Or take my clothes off and dig out the digital camera? (I have this fantasy of posing for a nude shot covered in my ABC books. And then what? Somehow peeling one cover off at a time, revealing more and more of the picture with each post.)

I am drinking A to Z Wine.
Can you believe that? Is this not the most perfect vineyard for me?

XXX,
Alison

P.S. Do not tell me it's only 4:32. I know it's only 4:32. But it's 5:30 somewhere. Right?

Dotting My Ts and Crossing my Eyes

I turned in another manuscript yesterday—second one this month. Pop the champagne and let loose the white doves. Except I am pushing forward now on a third. My world generally looks like this: turn in book A, move to book B (already in progress), return to A for queries or edits, continue with B. Stop everything to read galleys for A. Start collecting stories for book D. Try to finish B and begin C.

Stop. Rinse. Repeat.

This month, I turned in Hurts So Good and Flash Fucking. Flash was one of the more difficult collections I’ve compiled. To start with, I received nearly 900 submissions. But once I’d whittled the selections down to a solid 60, then the puzzling part really began. I mean, the part where I puzzle the book together.

Can’t put a long story next to another long. Or a short to a short. Girl to girl. Boy to boy. Can’t let hardcore and hardcore butt heads, or have two vanillas in a row. I don’t generally choose too many second-person stories (I think I have five or six out of sixty). But I never want two yous together.

So I shuffle and shuffle—long, short, medium, BDSM, vanilla, boy, girl, spanking, you.

Then there are the themes. For some reason, for this book I received a plethora of stories about food: chocolate, ice cream, dinner parties, licorice. Those delicious pieces needed to be spread like icing out over the whole manuscript. I also received more than my average share of stories about Boston. (Go figure.) Every once in awhile, I can get clever. A story in which someone is afraid of being pulled over can nestle next to one about someone who lusts for a cop. A story about a dieter can whet the appetite for a piece written about cock as if the delicacy were lobster. But in general, when I run duplicate themes, I move them to opposite parts of the book.

Big themes this time: water, hotels, spanking, phone sex, showers, cheating, pain, text messaging, longing, oceans, lust, security guards, lightning, older women/younger men, Brighton.

Titles are another problem. Two stories this time used the word Hands in the title, and at one point, I had them next to each other. So I split them up. With Flash, I also had two pieces called "Bedtime Story." These stories felt like bookends for the collection, and I asked one writer to rename hers to "Once Upon a Time." Now, they open and close the book.

I like to think that when I finish a project, I can move the story out of the filing cabinet of my head. Focus my attention on the next collection. But I am always second guessing myself. Always reworking the line-up. Should that piece about tattoos have gone before the one about the auto mechanic? Would the one about catching a lover watching porn have done better in the middle than at the end?

This is one of the reasons I’m always leaping to the next collection—so I can try to pry my mind off the last project. Right now, I am waiting on approval of stories before sending out contracts, and I’m working on my nonfiction guide—Never Have the Same Sex Twice.

But today I may pop the champagne and watch doves fly.

XXX,
Alison

P.S. Continuing on with Kristina Lloyd month—and in celebration of the lovely review from Alt.com—I’ve put up an excerpt from her fabulous F Is for Fetish story, Boot Camp.

Fierce Fetish Review

This is by T.R. Moss on Alt.com:

I began to lust for each fetish soon after opening Alison Tyler’s recent book F is for Fetish. A bike mechanic’s smudged, strong hands, golden showers from a goddess in a clawfoot bathtub, and decadently soiled maribou slippers—each of these quickly drew me in. Thomas Roche’s wild, messy goth queer girls in “Switchblade” and Rachel Kramer Bussel’s dreamy, smolderingly hot “Fishnet Queen” featuring a regal and sensual Old Hollywood glamorous domme are among the highlights in this anthology of startlingly original and hot stories featuring a wide variety of fetishes. It doesn’t hurt that discovering and luxuriating in a fetish leads to extremely hot sex in these stories.

Each story in this collection features a distinct moment where the plot falls away and the story is devoted to its fetish object, specifying its particular hotness and how it makes the narrator feel—one young man tastes his Mistress’s toes through her musky fishnets with adoration and lust; a hungry boot slut inhales the whiff of acrid boot polish melting in the hot sun as she kneels to polish a series of military boots. The stories were very hot for that very intensity, that rareness. It wasn’t all hardcore sex in this anthology (though there was plenty of that, too.)...

XXX,
Alison

such a good cheat

There is something in the air. When the weather’s bitter like this. Gray sky. Wisteria blossoms hanging down. Is it spring or it it still winter? A cool chill runs down my spine even if I have on a sweater, and something strange happens to me. To my moods. I’m weather dependent, but that doesn’t mean I dislike this sort of melancholy fog. I accept the situation. I deal.

Yet my mind plays tricks on me when this type of mood swirls around. Yesterday, standing in the kitchen in front of my painted cabinets, I realized that I’m older than Kelly was when I was fucking him—my 19 to his 34. I don’t know why that thought occurred to me. Where the realization came from. But when I was a teen, I remember thinking that he was older in such a delicious way, and now I’m older than his old.

Standing there, white porcelain coffee cup in hand, I vanished once more. Gone to that place (not where the goblins go) but where the majority of my memories live. That deep sex place. Gone, thinking how much I fucking loved cheating.

I don’t have anything to say in my defense to that. I mean other than:

George and Martha.
Sad sad sad.

I was such a good cheat. I reveled in the shame and the sadness. I swallowed whole the lust and the drive. I couldn’t stop myself—even if that is such a pathetic was to describe a desire to be properly fucked. I couldn’t turn away.

Get a dildo.
Get a little bit of self control.
Get a handle on yourself, girl.

But Kelly had dark magical powers over me. The way he watched me walk. The way he sidled up to me, his sweet voice in my ear. He always knew just what to say.

I am the opposite of Zen, I’ve said. I don’t live in the here and now. I live in the there and then. In a way. But really, I layer the two together—here, there, then, now—until I move through life as if peeling through layers of cellophane. An old memory visible beneath the translucent sheen of the new.

Standing there, facing the cabinet, Kelly with his hand under my skirt, fingers pressing into my pussy, a flick of his thumb on my clit, his breath in my ear.

If I turned around quick, would he still have been there?

XXX,
Alison

P.S. Winners of the luxury soaps are mp, mehreen, and dakota rebel. Addresses please? msalisontyler at yahoo dot com.

Getting Dirty with Alison & Shanna

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

XXX,
Alison & Shanna

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

Drunk dialing

Okay, I'm not actually drunk dialing. I am drunk posting. And I'm not totally drunk. Not yet. But I am well on my way. I've been editing a manuscript now for the past few days. I need 220 solid pages. I started with 369. Fuck me. I don't brag about being good at math, but how did I wind up with 1.5 books! Luckily, a lot has been in the formatting, and now I'm down to hunting for widows and orphans (words and short phrases that roll over to an extra line).

But my eyes are blurring, and my head is spinning, and wine is calling.

Are you?

XXX,
AT

Are you dirty?

Good. Because tomorrow, in honor of the release of Dirty Girls, Shanna Germain and I are going to be delving into all things dirty on our blogs. And for a giveaway? Well, I went a little sudsy and spent more than $50 on soaps. So between tonight and tomorrow morning, see just how dirty you can get. And until then? Here's a snippet from one of my dirtier stories—this one was originally in His: 30 Erotic Stories. (Actually, I just looked and I posted this piece before. Nearly a year ago. So it's a re-run.)

Too Dirty To Clean

I’m not supposed to be calling you.

Maybe that’s why I’m so damn wet. The concept of doing things I’m not supposed to turns me on. Crazy, but I didn’t learn that simple, sinful fact until I met you. I lived my whole life up to this point believing that being good had its own rewards. I shook my head in dismay as I watched friends wander down the back alleys of life, and I judged them internally, smugly pleased with myself and how well I went about my own business with no soap opera dramas.

Now, I know better. From you, I’ve learned that bad girls truly do have all the fun. Which is fine, because I’ve crossed the line. I’m as bad as I can possibly imagine. This evening, my panties are sticky and clinging to me, and I am extremely aware of that dangerous heat and wetness at my center, and knowing that I will get no relief. Not tonight, anyway.

Because I’m really not supposed to be calling you. I’m supposed to be on my way to the corner grocery store, to pick up something I forgot today when I did the rest of the week’s shopping. That was the excuse I gave, anyway. Lame though it may sound, it was all I could come up with through the hazy, horny fog of my X-rated thoughts. Need tomato paste for the sauce. It won’t taste as good without. So be right back, honey. But “right back” isn’t supposed to include a stop at a graffiti-tagged pay phone around the corner, where I slide in a silvery quarter, dial your number from memory, and tell you how much I miss you.

And how much I miss your cock.

“Say that again,” you prompt.

“Cock,” I repeat automatically. “I miss your cock—”

“Tell me more. What do you miss the most.”

“I miss bending over, parting my thighs, and taking it.”

“Taking what—”

“Your cock,” I say again, and I hear the low chuckle caught at the back of my throat as some sane part of my inner critique witnesses me having this unbelievable conversation. I manage to shock myself with the words that come automatically to my lips when you and I are on the phone. Or in bed together. Or outdoors at some semi-secluded spot where we think we’re safe. Where we think we’re hidden—even though there is no real privacy in Los Angeles. Someone can always see you. That doesn’t stop me from talking dirty. Because with you, I’m vulgar and I say things I wouldn’t say in my other life. My real life. Where people think I’m good and kind and sweet and honest. With you, I say things that are darker, that cut closer to the bone. More importantly, I say things that are true. There’s no need for false niceties, for faux conversational chatter. We don’t have the inclination, and we don’t have the time to fuck around. When we’re together, we only have the time to fuck.

“Where are you?” you ask me now, and I know that you can hear the annoying traffic sounds of Beverly and La Brea, and I’m certain that you can picture exactly where I am, and how it must feel to be where I am—in both the mental and physical locations of where I am.

“You know—” I say.

“Tell me,” the sadist in you insists. “Tell me, bad girl. Where are you?”

“Pay phone.”

“Which pay phone.”

“Down the street from our house.”

“Our,” you repeat caustically, just to drive that point home. It’s not ours as in yours and mine, it’s ours as in mine and his. “Don’t want to chance the number on your cell phone?”

I don’t answer. I don’t have to. Yet I understand perfectly well what you are doing. You want me to revel in it—the lies and the cheating, the sneaking out to make a simple phone call. If I’m going to do this, then you’re making me do the wrong of it right. Every guilty moment. Every stolen embrace. You have nothing to lose, so you can play all the mental mind-fucking games you want. I have everything to lose, on some far distant level, but at times like this, I’m amazed to find that I don’t care. I’d trade it all in at this moment to be with you, but when I say that, you pounce, already ready for me.

“Then why don’t you call me from your place?” you tease, “or have me over for dinner?” and I imagine you in your bed, naked, one hand pumping your cock. You’ve told me before that you can come just to the sound of my voice. I don’t have to talk dirty. I don’t have to do anything except say words—any words—and your cock throbs. I could make you come by reading the telephone book aloud, by reading dictionary definitions, by reciting poetry in Latin. We have that kind of connection. The right one to have with the wrong guy. Or with the right guy, at the wrong time.

And you are the right guy. You are the one guy, the only guy, who has ever made me feel sexy in my own skin. Sexy when I walk across the room naked. Sexy when I push myself off of your sweaty body and look around the floor for my discarded clothes. I get wet when I think about you. I squirm in my jeans, and I feel the arousal start. Just by picturing your eyes when you look at me, when you don’t have to tell me what you want, when I just know. Or the way you grab onto my hair when we fuck. Your fist wrapped around my ponytail, pulling hard. Hurting me. Making me arch my back and lift my chin, making me stare in the mirror over your bed and see myself. See what a cheat looks like. What a slut and a tramp and—

“How long have you got?” you ask.

“Not long enough to come over.”

“But long enough to get me off—”

I’ve come while astride your cock. Pushing up to gain leverage and then sliding right back down to the base. That had never happened to me before—coming while fucking without any help. Without the added assistance of my hand or my partner’s hand on my slippery clit, teasing and stroking. I thought I must be in love with you in order for that to have happened. But you saw what I was thinking and you just grinned at me and shook your head. We have that connection.
That white-hot fucking connection. When I see you, I just want to take off my clothes and bend over. Or lie down. Or straddle you. I want to suck you off, or spread my legs and let you lick in sweet circles around my clit. I want to pump my hand up and down your cock, jacking you off.

All I want to do is fuck you.

But it’s not so simple. I don’t know why or how I got to this point. This grown-up place where I’m supposed to do the right thing. What I know is that it’s not easy. I never thought I’d be crossing the line that I’ve crossed with you. I never thought I’d relate to all those clever songs: The Dark End of the Street. Slip Away. Christ, even Hurts So Good. They’re all about you and me. About what I want to do with you and what you’re going to do with me.

“What are you wearing?” you ask next, and I look down, blushing at my lack of self-awareness, to see that I have no idea. I’m only thinking about you, and what you’d do to me if I could steal away tonight for long enough to let you. You’d be on me before I even shut your apartment door. You’d shred my clothes off me, push me up against the white plaster of your living room wall, and you’d fuck me so that I could feel it. Shaking me from the inside out. I’d grip into your skin, use my mouth to search for purchase on the strong ridge of your shoulder, bite you and mark you since you can’t leave marks on me. I’d cry out loudly when I came. So loud and fiercely that it would sound as if I was in pain. Pleasure/pain. That’s what it is.

I don’t have it with him. He wouldn’t pull my hair. He wouldn’t slap my face or pinch my nipples until I cried out from that sharp spark of pain. He wouldn’t put me over his lap and spank me, or push hard on my shoulders to make me kneel before him so that I could suck him off. Even if I asked, he wouldn’t do those things to me. Instead, he’d get a disgusted look on his face and ask me where I could ever have come up with such a seedy idea. The same look I won from him when I suggested we check into a cheap motel sometime for a night of tawdry sex. The same expression I received when I asked him to fuck my ass. “Please,” I begged. “I want to know what that’s like.”

The hypocritical thing is that it’s not as if the thought itself troubles him. I know he’s done it before. Early on, he told me when we were at that share-everything point in our relationship. You show me yours and I’ll show you mine. So I know full well that he ass-fucked some gorgeous girl in New York. Long time ago, sure, but he’s done it. Yet he won’t do it with me. There are things you just don’t do with the girl you’re going to marry. According to him, that is. According to his beliefs, there are ways you don’t play with the mother of your future children. So he won’t do those things with me.

You will.

You don’t have any preconceived notions of who I’m supposed to be. Or why I shouldn’t behave in a particular way. If I were to come to your house tonight, sneak away for longer than expected, you’d make me tremble simply by eyeing my body. By gazing at me with your jaw set, as if you were trying to decide which part to devour first. Which part to tie up, or spank, or fuck. Which part to bend over, or kiss, or shoot your come on. But you’d choose after a moment’s contemplation, and whatever you chose would make us both climax. Because you know me. You know me so fucking well that I don’t even have to think when we’re together. I just put myself in your hands and let you guide us.

So I’m well aware of the fact that when we were finished, for the first time, at least, you’d take me to the shower and scrub the sin away, and then you’d press me up against the cool black tiles and fuck it right back in me.

Because deep down inside, we both know what he doesn’t know: that I’m way too dirty to clean.

XXX,
Alison

P.S. This is not my story from Dirty Girls. Just seemed appropriate for the theme.

Tease Me

So he did it to me again. Stephen Elliott. Otherwise known as
Tease Extraordinaire. He sent me a mini itinerary of his weekend, and I’d have to go to Paris or Brazil or, you know, Mars, in order to compete.

Which is why I’m begging him to write me the 24-hours with Stephen Elliott interview for my Trollop Salon. I’m such a voyeur. Beyond that, you know, I’m a snoop. I always want to know more. Let me peek into your waistband to see the label on your boxers. Let me open up the inside zipper of your purse to see what match boxes, lipsticks, and anonymous phone numbers you hide there.

His email this time was not for public consumption—he knows me already. Knows that I would have wanted to share little snippets with you. The ones that made me the wettest. But now I’m having the most difficult time getting anything done, because I’m living vicariously in his world.

What a thrilling place to be.

XXX,
Alison

P.S. Where do you take your mental vacations?

Growing a Penis

In my fever last week, I dreamed I had a penis.

I didn’t have a cock, strange as that sounds. I had a penis. As part of the plot of my dream (yeah, it's always important for your dreams to have coherent plots), I was taking medication, and I called the doctor to ask if this was some sort of side effect. The harried doctor said that yes, some people had the unfortunate side effect of growing a penis, and that if I wanted to, I could book a removal procedure.

How bizarre, I thought, that nobody had mentioned this effect to me. I even checked the pill bottle to see if "penis" was one of the possible side effects. Nope.

I decided not to book a removal procedure until after I had a chance to try out my new toy. But the funniest part was that I realized, while I was sliding into jeans that didn’t fit properly, that I’d now have a chance to do actual research on what life with a penis was like. Perfect for a sequel to Tiffany Twisted. My dream was quite similar to the description in my book:


Tiffany looked down at her body again, naked, still half-aroused. Curiously, she put one hand between her legs, softly touching herself, and instantaneously she felt that part of Kurt’s body spring forward, almost as if it were expecting her to stroke its powerful length. Almost as if it knew she would.

Down boy, she thought, remembering waking up next to Kurt in the morning. He was always ready for a dawn lovemaking session, no matter how early the hour, no matter how late they’d gone to bed the previous evening. “You want to?” was his standard morning greeting. Now, she knew exactly what it felt like to have something so insistent between her legs.

Without thinking, she made a firm fist around Kurt’s erection. The corresponding pleasure felt like a low, powerful hum that ran throughout her entire body. Was this thing ever sensitive! She continued her explorations cautiously, moving her hand along the delicate skin, up the shaft to the bulbous head, learning as she went. Of course, she knew what she liked in bed, and up until now she’d thought she knew what Kurt liked. Over their four years together, she’d had her way with this part of Kurt’s anatomy many times, and he’d always seemed pleased by any attention she gave him. But the experience of being on the inside of his body made things totally different. It was as if a little voice in her head was pushing her forward, telling her exactly what to do next.

Rather quickly she discovered that the slightest bit of pressure went a long way on the road to pleasure. When she squeezed her fist even a tiny bit tighter, she had to lean back against Kurt’s pillows, overpowered by the sensations that ran through her. In this more comfortable pose, she continued caressing herself with more determination. She did all of this without any advanced planning. Kurt’s body seemed to demand the treatment she was giving it; who was she to deny what it so obviously craved?

As her heart began to race faster, she started to pick up the speed with her fist, holding on a tighter, giving herself little intermittent squeezes. Here was something Kurt had tried to explain to her in the past, telling her that she didn’t have to be afraid of his cock, or of touching him with more force as their encounters progressed. But he’d never been able to describe how it felt—not that she’d quizzed him that often. Fleetingly, she wondered why she hadn’t. Wouldn’t he have been charmed by her natural curiosity as to what pleasure felt like from a male point of view?

The excitement continued to build rapidly as she cruised her hand up and down the shaft of his cock. Oh, yes, she thought. That was right. That was unbelievable. Her hand seemed to know exactly what to do, and she could feel this body urging her onward. Don’t stop, that voice told her. Don’t stop—

Her fingers tightened, her palm slid up and down, faster, faster. She thought of making love to Kurt. She thought of kissing him, of having him kiss her. She thought of the time that they’d had sex in the back of his truck, out by the Marina, the cool air rushing over their bodies, the sound of the surf lapping at the shore. He had spread a blanket beneath them, taking her on the roughness of the fabric, pressing so hard on her that she could feel the cool metal of the truck bed beneath—

Climaxing happened unexpectedly. Tiffany cried out as the wetness met her fingertips, and her entire body was wracked with spasms. She could feel the blissful waves of release work through her, and she felt contentment immediately replace that sensation of impending pleasure.

Oh, god, that was good.

For several seconds, she lay there in a state of post-orgasmic delirium, breathing hard, feeling giddy with what she’d just done. Not so bad for a girl, she thought to herself, mildly puffed up with pride. Who’d have thought she’d be able to master the controls of this body so quickly? Sure, she’d been with a few different guys, but this was different. This was learning to give a hand job from the inside out.

I don’t know why I had that dream—or what the dream meant. But I do know that my days of writing body-switching porn are far from over. You can have too much fun slip-sliding into someone else’s body. I swear.

Now, slip-slide over to Trollop Salon for a saucy selection from Kristina Lloyd. And remember to comment on her interview for a chance to win a plethora of prizes.

XXX,
Alison

I'd stop the world

Look what I found today—a super cool ad in Romantic Times!

XXX,
AT

What haven’t you done?

I’m meeting up for lunch with a fellow writer. And he made a joke about stopping at a nearby shooting range before hooking up with me. A follow-up email clarified that I wasn’t expected to join him at the range, just at the café.

But I have been shooting before—and I’m actually pretty good.

When I worked as a personal assistant for Naomi, the romance writer, she went to a range with Byron for research for one of her books. No worries, right? She did research all the time. If she was writing about a fancy meal, she’d eat at The Ivy. If she was writing about a couture dress, she’d buy one. Byron often assisted her in her research, driving her to Malibu if a scene took place by the crashing ocean waves, squiring her to a red carpet event if she needed to own that star-studded experience.

But this occasion was different somehow. I read the scene afterwards alone in the office one evening. The characters fell in lust on the range, the hero with his strong arms around the heroine, showing her how to (wait for it) hold his gun. Afterwards, the duo went outside and came as close to fucking as fade-to-black romance novels from the 90s ever did.

My hands shook as I read the scene. The heat between the two fictional people crisped the edges of the page, and I could easily imagine Byron with his arms around Naomi’s tiny waist, steadying her, his mouth on her neck, his fingers on her skin.

Just research, Byron said, and I tried to figure out what he meant.

Had they gone shooting only? Or had they reenacted each step of the scene so that she could write the piece believably afterwards?

Naomi took her research seriously. In fact, as far as I could tell, she spent more time researching than actually writing. When she wrote about using a sex toy, she bought one. When she wrote about an extra-marital affair, she had one. I still don’t know what went on with her and Byron—doesn’t matter at this point as that was an Ice Age ago—but I do always cringe a bit when I see her books on the shelf. (My J Is for Jealousy—I could never do C for Compersion.)

I’m not nearly as driven to research as Naomi. If a scene works for me, I can see the situation in my mind. And when I’ve built believable characters, they take the wheel away from me. They tell me that fuck no, they wouldn’t drive a Prius. Or god forbid they wouldn’t wear that red plaid dress. Naomi had to live the part before she put pen to paper. I have to feel the energy, but I don’t have to rent a Magnum.

That said, I also don’t write a lot about things I don’t know. I mean, I’ve rarely written from the POV of a doctor, or a horse breaker, or a repo man. My characters tend to be factions of myself or slivers of people I’ve met. But I think the most important trait a writer can have is to be an observer. A sponge. Someone who can suck in the situations swirling around them, remembering colors, scents, and attitudes for later use.

Of course, I'm not anti-research. I totally understand the need to delve into difficult subject matters for more inspiration and information. I'm just saying I don't need to experience every ounce of what I write in order to make a scene fly.

Now, I’m asking you: What haven’t you done?

XXX,
Alison

P.S. Once Byron returned from taking Naomi shooting, I insisted he take me. I wasn’t writing fiction at the time. I hadn’t made the commitment to being a real writer beyond working on the newspaper. But I wanted to own the experience, as well. Byron thought he would easily crush me, but I surprised him. Turns out, I’m actually a natural. With no prior experience, I managed to outshoot him. My shooting range ID card still gives me a little shiver of pleasure.

P.P.S. Winner of the four naughty books is Heidi. Email your mailing information to msalisontyler at yahoo dot com!

You Like Me

Hey, I'm doing that silly happy dance that writers do when we get good reviews! Melt With You now has three positive reviews on Amazon. Ta very much!

XXX,
Alison

an erudite starfucker

As usual, I have six different subjects I’d like to tackle. I’m always pre-writing blog posts in my head. But then Jo goes and calls me an “erudite starfucker,” and after looking up the word erudite, I decide to tell my story about how I met Eddie Izzard (hmmm, I wonder how many times I can work that phrase into this post).

Not to brag, or anything. But because what happened after I met Eddie Izzard (that’s two) is why I have such a knee-jerk reaction to not messing with interviewees.

About a decade ago, I wrote a spoof of a popular dating guide. My publisher at Masquerade came up with the idea and asked me to write the thing as fast as I could. We pubbed the book under two names, just like the original guide, but I wrote the whole book myself. The spoof won a lot of publicity—I did international radio interviews!—and then I was invited on Judith Regan’s now defunct-TV show. I’d only seen her interview one person before: Anne Rice. And yes, Ms. Regan was extremely nice to Rice.

The real guide that I was spoofing, called “The Rules,” offered stellar dating advice including wear lipstick when jogging, don’t accept a date for Saturday after Wednesday, don’t tell your therapist you are practicing The Rules, always wear bright colors and v-necks, and this (my favorite) in order to create mystery “always be coming or going.”

My guide included the advice to not wear panties on a first date. The best part about my guide (if I say so myself) was that I wrote it in the exact style of the idiots who wrote the original. Filled with all of their “Needless to say, blah blah blah” jargon. Here's the back cover copy:

The Other Rules are simple. And sexy. They’re about gratification. Having the kind of fun you want now! Why spend the rest of your life wondering if maybe just maybe you should have sown a few more wild oats while you had the chance? Forget sitting home alone on Saturday night because a man doesn’t call you by Wednesday. What’s to keep you from calling him? Paging him? Stopping by his apartment? Greeting him wearing nothing but high heels and your leopard-print raincoat? Nothing! Play hard to get and you might get what you deserve. Why not get what you want, instead?

The guide I wrote was clearly a spoof to anyone who has an ounce of intelligence. Unfortunately, Ms. Regan treated the book as if it were an actual guide. I had no idea what I was in for when I walked onto the set. I didn’t even really know who Judith Regan was. My fault for not doing my research! All I knew is that I was on a show with Ms. Regan and Eddie Izzard, and I got all dolled up in a red velvet suit with my hair done and my lipstick in place, and Ms. Regan bared her teeth at me and acted as if my rules were golden. “What’s this?” she snarled, “You say not to date a married man?”

“Right,” I told her, smiling winningly. “Don’t date one married man. Date three...”

There I sat, grinning like a fool, not realizing she was about to eviscerate me because she, herself, had been cheated on, and demanding to know how could I be so callous.

So I was spinning, because she didn’t get that the book was a joke as she went onto…

“And in your wardrobe ABCs you have N is for Nipple Clamps? Why on earth would anyone want something like that? That’s perverse and kinky…”

She absolutely attacked the book, but not because she didn’t think it was funny. Because she thought it was real. I was in this red velvet suit (which Eddie Izzard, back stage, had complimented me on), and I was trying fruitlessly to find a funny bone in a woman who believed nipple clamps were revolting.

Hands down. One of the worst experiences of my life.

What was lucky for me is that Eddie Izzard was such a fabulous interview, that my spot was cut and they ran with a double-spot for him. Thank fucking god. Because I was a mess.

And this, I have to say, is why when we were running interviews on Lust Bites, I always wanted the situation to be pleasant for the guests. It’s a nightmare to be on the offensive when you think you’ve been invited round for tea. If I’d been asked to go on Crossfire, that would have been a different story. But on an interview show to promo a book? To be set up and attacked? I still find my hands shaking when I remember—feel the heat rising in my cheeks. What part of funny don’t you understand, I want to ask Ms. Regan, who went on to actually follow my advice, and date a married man herself.

Good for her.

I’m feeling better by the way. I think I may go out and get erudite starfucker tattooed on my ass.

XXX,
Alison

P.S. Just for fun, I'll give away a set of Naughty Stories to a commenter today. And if you own any of these books (and like them), please shoot me off a review on Amazon!

At The Makeout Room

Have dragged myself out of bed for a moment to post about an amazing event tomorrow night. If you live in the city—god, has anyone else seen Eddie Izzard's stand-up on how Northern Californians refer to San Francisco as "The City"?—make sure you check this out!

Announcing: The April 19 Progressive Reading

When: Saturday, April 19, 7pm at The Makeout Room- 3225 22nd Street, San Francisco, (415) 647 2888
Price: $10 - $20 sliding scale
Advance Tickets: Paypal to 'tribe AT stephenelliott.com'<