My Twisted Mind

Just for fun I thought I'd post one of my note pages. This is actually the one from only the last day or so. As I work, these pages become more and more dense. I don't know why they all end up looking like this, though. But they do.

I have to assume that the pages become swirls of overlapping notes so that my brain can think more clearly. Yeah, that sounds pretty good. Right? Does anyone else write notes like this, or is it all just me? (Oh, god. It's all going to be me, isn't it? You all write nice neat notes in clear handwriting that anyone could easily decipher. I'm the crazy person with the spirals of words and catchphrases that only I can understand.)

XXX,
Alison

P.S. I have put up a poll for the Word Ring Winner. I hope this works. Slip over to Trollop Salon to vote for your favorite word.

P.P.S. I am laughing so hard. I just realized that if you turn your head just so, you can read the note "Here I Go Again On My Own," which is a song I included in my chapter on masturbation. And which I've been assured will make everyone who reads the book think I am a total geek.

I Am Done. Oh, my God. I Am Done.

No, really. I am done. I have just finished Never Have the Same Sex Twice, and in a moment, I will turn in the manuscript. This has been one of the more difficult projects for me. No, I don't tend to have Writer's Block. But I do sometimes have, um, Editor's Waffle. I mean, for the longest time, I wasn't exactly sure what I wanted this book to be. I am not an expert guide writer, like Violet Blue, and although I've done my share of journalistic writing, I am also not a sex expert, like Tristan Taormino.

So what the hell did I think I was doing writing a guide?

Well, I wanted to write a guide about fucking. Not the tab A into slot B type of guide, with diagrams and slides and students sleeping on their desks. But the basic concept of fucking in a relationship. Of keeping the fucking as hot as when you, well, first fucked.

Because it was hot when we first fucked. Out in that park in Berkeley. With my torn stockings and ripped black sweater. Brutal and hot. Dangerous and just a tiny bit scary how much I wanted him. And it was hot when we fucked yesterday, when he pulled open the button on the top of my favorite pair of Lucky brand jeans and said, "You think flashing me a bit of those pink panties is going to get you what you want?" Brutal and hot. Dangerous and just a tiny bit scary.

But how can you package all of that into a book? Well, my goal was to give tips and suggestions for how to hold onto the heat, because I believe that every powerful relationship starts with that heat.

What made me waffle was that I didn’t want to write a dry guide. I wanted to write a wet guide. Or a hard guide. A rock-hard, throbbing, can’t wait to slip it in you, excuse me, while I take a deep breath guide. Simply put, I wanted to write a guide that would turn people on while reading the pages. So I’ve illustrated my concepts with excerpts from my all-time favorite erotic stories. And I’ve got favorites. Since I was twenty-three, I’ve been making a living editing anthologies. 45 books later, I’ve read thousands of erotic short stories. Snippets from nearly 100 of the hottest ones ever have made it into this book, along with 17 full-length feature stories.

And now? I'm done. Truly.
Who's ready to pop the champagne?

XXX,
Alison

riven with need

"Do you ever have days where you just feel riven with need?"

That's what Stephen Elliott wrote to ask me a few days ago. And as with most emails I receive from Mr. Elliott, I had to consult my dictionary. (What is it about this man that makes me feel so giggly, girly, not-quite-smart enough to converse?) Anyway, forget my more-than-decent SAT scores in English, back I went to the dictionary to learn:

riv·en

• rent or split apart.
• split radially, as a log.

I don't need to confess that I read the email incorrectly the first time as "driven" with need, do I? (Ah, hell. Just did.)

His note landed right on top of my deadlines, so I read the words, felt them flow through me like good poetry, and returned to Never Have the Same Sex Twice, already in progress. But as with so much of what Mr. Elliott writes, the words lingered. And lingered. I found myself rolling them on my tongue, saying the words as I drove: "Riven. Rent or split apart. Split radially." (Don't make me confess that I looked up "radially," too. Or that I first read the word as "radically.")

I think this may be the sexiest way I've ever thought about the yearning, those previously unnamed desires, the build up, the champagne bottle with a loose cork, under pressure, desperation, heat-seeking urges that overpower me so often. It's easy to say that I'm kinky, or twisted, or dark, or hungry.

But from now on, I think I'll simply say that I'm riven. With need.

Now you. Do you ever feel that way? Do you feel that way all the time? Can you think of one particular instance when the desires got too strong. When the love-is-the-drug, grit-your-teeth throb made you act rather than think. Made you crawl across the floor begging, or stood up tall as an arrow demanding. Tell me. I want to know.

XXX,
Alison

P.S. Did I answer the question, Mr. Elliott?

Good News Saturday

To counter my rejection rant, I thought I'd post "Good News Saturday." ("Good News Saturday" has sort of a Hoops & YoYo ring to it, doesn't it?) Anyway, here is my good news: First look up and admire the ABC review in AVN. I say "my" but really—the review belongs to the authors, especially Saskia Walker who was mentioned by name! Ooh, when we get to V, we can spell AVN. That will be cool! (I know the link takes you to a different AVN page. I could not find the one above—I believe that is only in the print version. Thanks to Barbara for scanning and sending my way!)

My other good news? A lovely review of I is for Indecent from The Porn Librarian at Hot Movies for Her. I want to be a porn librarian when I grow up! Here is a little snippet:

With tales of public urination, an affair with a priest, an encounter with a hustler the narrator knew as a boy, and playing dead; you’re likely to find stories that excite and offend you.

You can't ask for more than that, can you?

Now, I showed you mine, so you show me yours. What good thing happened to you this week? Doesn't have to be publishing news, but it can. Did you find something you lost? Pass a test? Have an anniversary? Did you clean the catbox and get laid? (Yes, I'm talking to you, Kiki.) What's your good news for Saturday? Don't be bashful. Tell the world.

XXX,
Alison

infamously intelligent, classy, and dirty as hell

Oooh, did you hear that noise? That was me squealing with delight! Look at this lush review of my blog from the delicious Jane's Guide!

Trollop with a Laptop
This is the blog of the well known erotica author Alison Tyler. Lippy Imp has three nice reviews of her work in the Erotica Anthologies section of our website, and we obviously like her a lot around here. Her work is infamously intelligent, classy, and dirty as hell...which is just the way I like it! Her blog is a nice mixture of the same elements, with a good portion of authenticity thrown in. Reading through her entries I learned a lot about her creative process, as well as some of the emotional stuff that can come along with being in this line of work. I empathized deeply as I read about some of the crummy feelings that can come up when you are treated like a sideshow freak by people because you work in the adult industry. You can love your work a lot, but it still stings when people treat you like the bearded lady. I'm right there with ya sister! Luckily, the fun times make up for it. Alison currently has a "panty parade" going on over at the website right now, so people are sending her pictures of themselves in their underpants. It is really cute. I noticed Violet Blue made a contribution, so you shouldn't miss that. An informative, creative, sexy, and authentic blog by a really talented young woman. - Vamp
Date Reviewed: 2008-06-26
Cost: Free Advertising Content: Low
Category Listings: Blogs / Journals - Sex

XXX,
Alison

a little kink with your coffee

I love when friends become my own personal ETSY shoppers! (How lazy does that make me?) EllaRegina sent me a few links this morning. My favorite is this one. The other two links made me spew my coffee.

Damn.

XXX,
Alison

Failure, Reject, Loser

I'm so jealous that you actually got a rejection letter from H.R.
—KM

I'm nearly peeing myself laughing that someone would be jealous of a rejection letter!

When I first started looking for work, I thought I wanted to be a casting agent. Then I wrangled an internship on a Billy Crystal movie, got in trouble for the way I dressed, the people I talked to, and the postcard wall in front of my desk. But those weren't the reasons why I gave up that dream. I despised the part of the job—well, most of the job—the lion's share of the job, which was telling people no.

Say it with me: No, no, no, no, no.

An example? My boss saw 500 actors for one part. 499 were told No. At least one was happy, you say. Well, that part was filmed, and then cut. So 500/500 people were disappointed. Obviously, in order to be an actor, you need armor. I know a few actors, and I'm ever so impressed with the way that they deal with the Nos.

Say it loud and say it proud: No, no, no, no, no.

As a writer, you get a lot of nos, too. (Or I do.) The first time I subbed to the Herotica series (I think Herotica 3), my manuscript was sent back to me with the word NO on it in black pen. Just NO. I used to collect the Nos in one big pink folder. I recycled them several years ago. I don't keep nos anymore. Not even Henry Rollins'.

But that doesn't mean I don't get them. This year, I was axed from several collections. I was also subbed in as a last-minute replacement and then cut again as a last-minute reject. Nos don't ever get easier. And I don't have any fixes for getting them. Or honestly for giving them.

For Frenzy, I received hundreds of submissions. I had 60 slots. You do the math. Originally, I was going to take three stories per writer, but I decided I wanted to include more writers in the book. The final line-up features 51 writers. Still, I had to give a bundle of Nos. The difference from this job and casting? I get to say Yes a lot, too.

Sometimes, when I send a No, I receive a "Why didn't my story work for you?" letter. "What's wrong with it/me?" (I got hit with a slew of those with Frenzy, when the writers were actually in the book. I just hadn't been able to send the acceptances out fast enough.)

Still, "What's wrong with my story?" is a difficult question to answer. (That is, assuming you didn't have hot goat sex in your submission.) For Open for Business, five brilliant stories were axed because I hadn't understood the guidelines for my own book! I thought the theme was sex at work, so I included a few very unusual work settings. Cleis wantes sex at the office, so some of my favorite writers didn't make the final cut.

There are so many reasons why a story won't be chosen. But here's the thing (and I may have said this before): every editor is different. Thank fucking god, or we'd all be putting out the same book. What doesn't float my boat, may make Violet Blue very happy. What doesn't work for Rachel Kramer Bussel may fly with Tristan Taormino. (Remember my Sleeping with the Editor post?) My story Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John was written as a submission for Cleansheets' Sex and Spirituality contest. (Okay, so it touches the concept of spirituality with the tip of its pinky toe. But that's about as spiritual as I get. You know, fucking the apostles.) Anyway, this failure, reject, loser wound up in Best Women's Erotica, was featured as a fiction piece on Clean Sheets, and has just been accepted in a new collection.

The most important thing? Whether you like your story. Does it work for you? Then I think you've succeeded.

Take all Nos with a grain of salt.
Even mine.

XXX,
Alison

Star of My Dirty Dreams

The winner of Dirty Girls for commenting on my Dirty Dreams post is KM for the following: I dreamed I was the tall blonde Viennese whore described by Henry Rollins in "Black Coffee Blues." I was the "hot icy sex merchant machine" in red shiny vinyl and mile-high lace-up stripper boots. It was cold out, but I wasn't. I didn't need sleep or food or love. Just cock and cash. Between tricks I stood up against the side of an ancient brick building and stared ahead, expressionless, hard -- all business. "Since I saw her, she has probably sucked ten kilometers of cock, gained an incredible insight into the frailties and insecurities of the average male...You brave, beautiful sex beast. This third cup is for you." That was a good dirty dream.

I pitched a novel to Henry Rollins once. It was set at a club, and the main character was a bouncer who spanked the customers before letting them in. HR wrote me a sweet rejection letter, with a line about "all those sore bottoms." I'll have to dig it up somewhere.

XXX,
Alison

P.S. The pillow is from DonkeyWolf and is called Dirty Pillow to Enhance Your Dirty Dreams.

P.P.S. KM, please email your address to: msalisontyler at yahoo dot com, so I can send you your book!

Angell's Panties

Angell says: Alright, I finally got up the guts to do it. I'm sending you my favourite pairs.

These are my 'empowering' panties, because I do feel like Supergirl when I put them on. They are the first g-strings I've ever owned, and I'll always remember the day I bought them as the day I found out that big is beautiful, and sexy too.

See, there is a power in panties. I first wrote about my lucky lingerie back in college. The teacher read my essay to the class, while I slid down in my chair. The paper was on collections in general, and I think I kicked my piece off with panties. I have to say, I got an A.

XXX,
Alison

Sharing the Wealth

Recently, a friend gave me a gorgeous bracelet. For no reason at all. As I admired the charming jewels on my wrist, I had to ask, “Why?”

“I’m divesting myself of items I don’t wear,” she said. And then I went home and looked up "divesting." (Sometimes I feel as if I’m still studying for the SATs.)

Divesting:

To strip, as of clothes
To deprive, as of rights or property
To free of, rid

I called up Dori. She chose definition number three, explaining, “I’m a bit of a packrat, and I end up with beautiful clothes and jewelry that I never wear. Every so often, I like to share the wealth.”

My former boss was like that, too. I was often the thrilled recipient of her divesting. I wound up dressing in outfits I could never afford. Wearing shoes that cost more than my monthly salary.

As enjoyable as it is to be on the receiving end, I divest as well from time to time. I find things in my closet or jewelry box that I think would be perfect for someone else. Sending care packages filled with odds ‘n ends is one of my favorite hobbies. I don’t know why. But I have been doing this forever. I mean, since high school, at least.

Out of curiosity, I wanted to ask if other people like to divest, too. What have you given? What have you gotten?

XXX,
Alison

P.S. The point of the picture? I'm divesting the skirt that the Devil is standing on. I hope Sommer likes it!

underwire for girlie style

This is from Tessa. I think her note reads like a poem. You know, Ode to a Bra:

I think bras can definitely enhance their content.
I was wondering about other girls' preferences. As to myself, lately I've been enjoying variations.
Thin straps which go around the neck, like a bikini for a bit of an innocent touch.
Back lace hooking to the panties, garter style for an exotic look.
Front hook. Side hook. Hidden hook. A certain challenge to the visitor.
Straps that can be changed for unconventional days.
Pushups for estatuesque looks, underwire for girlie style.
And the final touch: cleavage cut. A daring cut, a lethal weapon.
What else?

Cheers,
Tessa

XXX,
Alison

P.S. Coco Corral was demolished by the flu. She'll be back in a few days to check out the suggestions on the word coins.

...and best of all is the matching thong

Yes, June is birthday month chez moi. Don't you love when you get the perfect present? What's funny is that this magnet was given to me by someone who has no knowledge of my panty parade! Beneath the magnet? The galleys for Hurts So Good, which arrived today. This is where I am: Proof galleys for HSG. Proof galleys for Frenzy. Finish Never. Pass out.

Well not really. That's just what it feels like at the moment. More panties, please.

XXX,
Alison

The Knickers of Barga

Thanks ever so to Isabel Kerr for forwarding the link to the wonderful Mutande (Knickers) of Barga. Isabel says: Here's a very sweet take on the Panty Parade by one of my favorite artists, Keane.

On the link, click the words Mutande of Barga below the trio of knickers to see a beautiful panty parade! Frank Viviano, long-time international correspondent for the SF Chronicle, said: "What you notice, before anything else, is that the subject of Keane's brush have an unlikely beauty. They are banners aflutter in the shifting Garfagnana winds, their allegiances announced in the language of high art: colour, fore, composition, kinetic tension."

I couldn't agree more. I wish we'd studied art like this when I was an Art History Major at UCLA.

XXX,
Alison

C's Purple Panties

C says: Well, Ms. Alison Tyler, you sent out a call for panties, so I decided to comply. Here are my favorite pair of purple panties. I look forward to seeing all the posts!

The full photo is gorgeous, but I had to crop slightly.
Any more panty pics?

XXX,
Alison

Man Panties!

Edward says: I submit my panties photo. Man panties, in fact. Thanks,
Edward

Any more "man panties"?

XXX,
Alison

P.S. Kristina Wright sent me a link to a panty lawsuit. Those thongs can be dangerous!

Heidi's Panties

So this is a first. This isn't a picture of a lingerie drawer, or a snapshot of a pair of favorite panties from a female's POV. This is a pair that was left behind. Michael Hemmingson says:

Found these...there are a couple others around here, dunno where, thought they were all together, will have to keep looking. Heidi used to live upstairs from me. Not anymore.

Heidi, wherever you are, you have great taste in lingerie!

XXX,
Alison

Rachel's Panties

Okay, I don't actually have a picture yet of Rachel Kramer Bussel's panties. (She's promised to find me one.) But look, just look:



She's up on a Post-It Note! (And it's one of the Post-Its I sent him! I'm going to send these next.

God, these make me happy.

XXX,
Alison

Hurts So Good

So, right now I am working on four books. I know that my myspace page says six. But I mean, I am working on four that are all in different stages of completion right in front of me. On my desk. In reality, I'm probably working on 17—but some are so far in the future, I don't have to spend time on them right now.

The first of the four is Open for Business. Yesterday, I paid all of the authors and sent back their copies of the contracts. The second is Hurts So Good. Here is the kick-ass line-up:

The Sound of One Hand Clapping Nikki Magennis
Sting Jessica Lennox
No Substitute for Experience James Walton Langolf
Panty Lines Sommer Marsden
Lucky N. T. Morley
Testing the Water Teresa Noelle Roberts
Never a Rookie Craig J. Sorensen
Provocation Jay Lawrence
I Promise to Do My Best Teresa Joseph
Party Manners Morgan Aine
Trophy Buckle Rakelle Valencia
Toying with Lily Mike Kimera
Turnaround A. D. R. Forte
Flick Chicks Allison Wonderland
Equilibrium Anna Black
First Time Since Xan West
Omega to Alpha Diana St. John
Crossed Rachel Kramer Bussel
My Mainstream Girlfriend Stephen Elliott
Rock Paper Scissors Shanna Germain
All in the Wrist Alison Tyler

(Excuse the lack of links. I will fill them in shortly.)

I'm really pleased. I believe, if I can do simple math, that this collection contains nine writers I've never worked with before. They are not novice writers by any means. (One was a Rauxa prize runner-up. Seriously.) But they're new to me!

Third up is Flash Fucking, which is now called Frenzy. (I'm waiting to see if I have permission to blog about the reason for the name change. If I do, I'll tell you all. I swear. If not, then you'll have to let your imagination run wild.) For Frenzy, I'm still contacting the 51 writers in the book with approval and contracts. I've been working on Frenzy (I'm just saying that name a lot to get used to it) since this time last year. Some people don't seem to understand how slow I am. I'm very, very slow. I put out a call last spring for this book, received 900 submissions, read them forever, shuffled the 60 stories around for a few months, turned in the book, and just received Cleis approval on Monday. Sometimes, I will get "What's up?" emails six weeks after a call closes, and I always feel this sense of panic. I may be a "one-woman industry," as Jean Roberta called me. But I'm an extremely slow one.

Finally, there's Never. That is: Never Have the Same Sex Twice. I should be done (knock wood, throw fucking salt) by end of June.

I think that's everything. Oh, wait. No it's not. You have to, I mean, you just absolutely must, go to Naked Chicks on Post-It Notes.

He said he was running low on post-its, so I sent him some. Colored ones. Because you know me. I tend to only touch on a theme. I mean, I sent post-its, but they weren't yellow rectangles, they were orange, green, and purple squares. And he used them! I'm beside myself. I would buy every single last one and paper my walls if I could!

I know I'm probably forgetting a million things I meant to say, but coffee is calling, so I must pick up.

XXX,
Alison

I Gotta Get This Off My Chest!!

So here they are. I told you about these "Gotta Get This Off My Chest" coins only yesterday, and then I received an email that said:

hey hon -

so it took me all day, and i'm not psyched about the thumb prints in some of the photos...i'll try to clean that up in a bit but

!!!!!

I truly think these are fantastic. Coco is also working on another set. She said: then i wanted to offer a pack of "pick up" coins...also five tongue in cheek or cliche phrases...can you help? i have these:

hey baby
what's your sign
voulez vous

...? two more

My personal favorite won't fit ("Naughty boy, go to my room.")

But she said: sure, please take suggestions from the field! if i use one, or more, i'll send a pack hot off the presses.
xoxox
coco

I know I have a lot of contests in the air right now, so I will try to wind some down in a bit—finish off the Dirty Dreams, I think and give away that Dirty Girls book. But I'll keep the Word Ring contest open through the end of the month, and announce the winner at start of July.

XXX,
Alison

XXX-mas in July

I couldn't figure out why Naughty or Nice had suddenly jumped in the rankings, and then someone reminded me: Christmas in July.

Okay, I still don't really understand. What does Christmas in July actually mean? Do people throw holiday parties? Drink Mistletoe Martinis? Wear candy cane stockings? In any case, I'm pleased. Especially because the current Amazon ranking is 6,666.
I guess I really am a devil woman.

XXX,
Alison

fuck you/fuck off

I found this image on LovingAnvil's flickr site. I thought at first it was a ring—a ring I had to have, of course. But she said:

No, it's a part of this group of five coins i made with the intent of offering them for sale. the "i gotta get this off my chest" pack includes, in escalating order:

i'm rubber, you're glue
sticks and stones
go to hell
eat shit
fuck you/fuck off (i can't decide)

Oh, my god. I love that. She said:

i gave the first set to my friend who needs to tell a lot of people in her life to fuck off and she totally loves them, carries them everywhere. so i need to pick it up again and get them out into the world...

Isn't that delicious? Something to have with you to remind you that you don't have to take shit from people. I think that's swell.

I've got a whole post in my head that I need to write, but I also have sixteen other things to do first. Like pay authors for Open for Business. So I'll be back in a bit.

While I'm shuffling papers, slip on over to my interview with Coco and tell me what word ring you'd wear on your finger today? I know which word I would. And I know which finger, too.

XXX,
Alison

P.S. More panty pictures will parade by shortly. Not to worry!

Open Up

Ready for the work week? No, me neither. But I am ready to brag about my latest collection of extremely erotic stories: Open for Business, which features stories Lisette Ashton, Xavier Acton, Donna George Storey, Sommer Marsden, Elizabeth Young, CB Potts, Shelly Jansen, Maxim Jakubowski, Jolene Hui, T.C. Calligari, Marie Sudac, Rachel Kramer Bussel, Jeremy Edwards, Kristina Wright, Savannah Stephens Smith, Tulsa Brown, Mike Kimera, Saskia Walker, Marilyn Jaye Lewis, N.T. Morley, and Nikki Magennis.

I tried something clever—at least, I think it's clever. My goal was to take readers through a whole work week, starting with Monday Morning and ending with a commute. In between are trysts and romps in offices, on desks, over three martini lunches, and more. As the back cover says: Filled with "furtive trysts, voyeurism, and spanking—these 22 steamy stories give new meaning to mixing business with pleasure."

What I like best? The font on the cover is Courier! I'm such a geek for a good font.

XXX,
Alison

P.S. If you're a writer in the collection, and I don't have a link for you, please drop me a note at msalisontyler at yahoo dot com.
P.P.S. Don't you think Geek would be a great ring word?

Stephen Elliott's Lingerie Drawer

Over on my Trollop Salon, MommyDee said her phrase of the moment is "Big Girl Panties—as in, Put on Your Big Girl Panties and Deal with It." And I'm trying to step into mine right now. But I thought the phrase was also perfect for this picture of the dreamy Stephen Elliott's knicker collection. In my opinion, life doesn't get much cooler than having Mr. Elliott send you snaps of his leopard-print camisole and tap panties. Or is it a tanga? A boy brief? (Hmmm, if a boy wears a brief that a girl would call a "boy brief," does the term change to "girl brief"?)

I am also all envious of the scarlet bedspread. Sheets should be red, in my opinion. I know we had a whole discussion on proper sheet colors during my slow unveiling of Kristina Lloyd. But personally? I love a good red sheet.

This picture also reminds me that Tessa asked me to repost the following story. This one's for you, T.

Whose Panties?

Marco is a musician and a model. He has long, straight black hair and dark blue eyes that always remind me of the color “cornflower blue” in a crayon box. He’s sinewy rather than slender, with corded muscles on his arms, a strong back, and a flat stomach that the Baywatch dudes would kill for.

We met near the Santa Monica pier. I was on my morning run, and he was taking his surfboard off the roof of his car. I had just panted up a hill, and was cruising toward my slowdown when I saw the bumper stickers all over his car: 106 Ghouls. One of my friends had dated a member of that band, and I stopped to ask if he knew the members.

He nodded, smiling at me until I asked the next appropriate question: “Are you one of them?”

It turned out that he was the one who had dated my friend, years before, when both were new to the Hollywood rock-and-roll scene. I’d been piqued by her stories about him, her tales of his sexual prowess. Now, with him standing directly in front of me and giving me such an evil smirk, I felt drawn to find out for myself. I made the first move, inviting him over for breakfast when he finished surfing. I pointed out my apartment building, gave him the number, and jogged off, feeling his eyes on me as I sprinted to the corner.

I’d gotten cleaned up by the time he arrived, and he, still in his wet suit, asked if he could shower while I finished getting breakfast ready. I heard him singing over the sound of the water, recognized his voice from tapes I’d heard at Kimberly’s house. He sings for a hard rock band, but he can conjure a soothing, lullaby sound when he wants to. I could tell he was serenading me, and I wondered what he would wear when he got out of the shower. Would he put his wet suit back on? Or wear a towel?

Images of the man showering were alive in my head as I poured orange juice into glasses to make mimosas. He strode into my living room suddenly, surprising me. That’s what Kimmie had said about him, that he was always full of surprises. He wasn’t wearing a towel. He wasn’t wearing his wet suit. He wasn’t wearing the robe from the back of the bathroom door.

He was wearing my black lace panties and a pair of my stockings. Both had been hanging up in the shower. I didn’t know what to say or do. I’d known, from Kimberly, that he was wild. It’s what had attracted me to him. I’ve spent too many nights being bored by lovers in bed. Marco was definitely not boring....

“I hope you don’t mind,” he said, moving toward me, that evil-seductive grin still on his face.

I shook my head. “No, knock yourself out.” I wondered what he would do next, and I realized I was wet wondering.

“I couldn’t resist,” he said, sitting on the edge of my couch and staring at me. My apartment is small, with the dining room and living room together, separated only by the sofa. My hand was still on the forgotten orange juice container, my entire body frozen in place.

I watched as he ran his fingertips along one of the stockings. His legs looked good, sexy. His body was very pale against the black silk. I took a step toward him, thinking that I wanted to take the place of his hands, I wanted to run my fingertips along his legs.

“There’s something erotic...” he started to say, looking at his reflection in the mirrored panels around my fireplace, “something so sexy about lingerie.”

I got up my nerve to walk all the way to his side, and once there I settled myself next to him on the couch. His cock was positively protruding against the silk panties, and I could see the full outline of it pressing to be free. I reached out and stroked him lightly through the silky material, and he leaned back against the couch and sighed.

This whole encounter shocked me. I couldn’t believe how turned on I was at seeing this man in my underwear. I was dying to kiss him through the silk, to run my tongue along the seam at the back of the stockings, to kiss his cock and balls and ass through the panties. Rather than analyze these desires, I acted on them, having Marco spread out on the rug and then setting myself free to do what I wanted. I started with his toes, licking them through the silk stockings. Then I carefully moved up his legs.

My stockings were the garterless kind that stay on by themselves. Marco has legs that many women would be jealous of, and he looked so fucking hot in the lingerie that I couldn’t control myself. I bit at him through the silk, not caring about any runs I might make. When I made my way up to his cock, the head of it was poking out of the waistband.

“Naughty boy,” I said, mouthing the tip of his tool before moving back, knowing exactly what I wanted to do next. “Get over my lap.” I sat up on the sofa and let Marco drape his body over my knees. His cock pressed against my thighs and I could feel more of the sticky precome on the head of it. I ran my hand over his silk-clad ass and then spanked him, thrilled by the feeling of power and pleasure and pain. My hand stung from the blows, but I didn’t go too hard, just enough to make him squirm and rub his cock against me.

I slipped the panties down to see his reddened ass and then I pushed him off my lap, back onto the rug, and started kissing him, parting his cheeks and diving my tongue into his asshole. I was ravenous, crazed, and I fucked him like that until he rolled over and grabbed me, standing and pushing me over the sofa, thrusting his cock into me from behind.

It was divine, feeling the stiffness of him inside me and the silkiness of his stocking-clad legs against my naked thighs. It was unreal, the way I came, the way I shuddered and screamed his name. I caught a glimpse of us, of our reflection, in the mirror around my fireplace, and we looked transported, unearthly.

After coming, we collapsed together on the sofa. I leaned my head against his chest and confessed to knowing about him, knowing that he liked things in the extreme. Confessed my curiosity. He smiled that devil smile and stroked my hair away from my eyes. Then he kissed me and cradled my head in his hands and said, “I was curious about you, too.” And I suddenly knew that Kimmie had told him about my track-record, and that maybe, just maybe, he’d parked on top of that hill on purpose.

Because, I’ve heard it said, that in L.A., there simply are no coincidences.

XXX,
Alison

P.S. Ring me. Please. Tell me what word you'd put on a ring at my Trollop Salon. What would I put on one for Stephen Elliott, I wonder. I know that Jon Carroll called him an extremely handsome polymath, but I think I'd choose something more like "siren" or "heartbreaker" or "tart."

The Ugly Girl

Something happened to me this week that made me feel like the naive, homely girl invited to a bring-the-ugliest-date-you-can-find party. It's funny, because things like this happen to me occasionally—and I'm surprised every single time. I mean, I feel as if I hit a wall—running head on at top speed.

A few years ago, I had a cool new friend. At least, I thought I did. Kayla was a few years older, sported short, spiky blonde hair. A belly button ring. Owned her own store that sold high-heeled shoes and flowers. A shoe and flower store—pretty effing neat. Right? One weekend, she invited me to a slumber party at her house, and I was all excited. Until I overheard her talking about me to someone else and realized that I had been invited as the entertainment: the freak girl who wrote porn.

At that moment, the bearded lady had nothing on me.

Years before that, I came home from a weekend away to find all of my novels spread out on the coffee table. Pages were bent over. Some phrases were underlined in red. A mutual friend told me that my roommate had invited people over, that they'd taken turns reading passages of my books aloud and cracking up.

You know that feeling when the bottom of your stomach drops to your knees...
When you find swallowing difficult...
When your head spins...

I fucking hate that feeling. And I've been doing my best for the past few days to be very chill. But I'm flailing a bit. I'm not feeling sorry for myself and I'm not licking my wounds—just trying to get my head around the situation and figure out what to do next.

So if I seem not myself, that's because I've been standing in front of a mirror, looking at my reflection and realizing it's time to take off the shiny pink party dress and put my ripped jeans and favorite tee-shirt back on.

XXX,
Alison

P.S. Hmmm. There's another word I wouldn't mind on a ring. Ripped. And what about Shredable? Post a word you like on my interview with the talented Coco Corral for a chance to win your own word ring!

Every Word

I'm talking to Coco Corral at Trollop Salon about sugar skulls, tattoos, and massive, um, anvils. Stop by to read the interview and enter the contest to win one of her wonderful word rings by contributing your own favorite word.

XXX,
Alison

The One-of-a-Kind Coco Corral

Slip slide your way over to Trollop Salon to read my interview with the fascinating Coco Corral! I'd sort of like to be her when I grow up.

XXX,
Alison

She Wore Lipstick On Her Collar

Lipstick On Her Collar came out this spring. I am incredibly proud of this collection. I think the editors—Sacchi Green & Rakelle Valencia—did a beautiful job.

To my delight, other people are agreeing with me. Sacchi forwarded me three stellar reviews. I'm not allowed to excerpt from them at the moment, so I thought I'd just put in the links:

Our Chart: The Official Social Network of the L Word

Fantasy Bookspot

Madame Butterfly

For the rest of the month, if you buy the book on Amazon, drop me a note at msalisontyler at yahoo dot com and I will send you a free lipstick! (Oh, I just realized that's a little sexist. And if you're a man who doesn't wear lipstick, I'll send you a free chapstick, how's that?)

XXX,
Alison

The Death of My Favorite Pants

I wrote about my uniform last night. (Was it only last night?) Generally speaking, I wear jeans or cords and a tee every day. My favorite pale blue cords have slowly been fading away. But they fit so well, I didn't mind. They're the perfect size 2, hit right at the ankle, look great with boots or clogs.

Today, I had them on with a blue and purple t-shirt. Out and about to do errands, never noticing that there was a rip along the zipper line. Well, he noticed when I came home. And there is this unspoken rule in our house (or maybe it's not unspoken): when my clothes spring leaks—when the fishnets rip, when the t-shirts start to fray—they become fair game. In a word: shredable. (Okay, apparently that is not a word. I looked it up. But it ought to be a word, and the definition would be "Ready or able to be shredded.")

Oh, my poor blue cords.
I will mourn for you.

XXX,
Alison

Flashlight

My favorite Parliament song (and I have a slew of favorites) is Flashlight. I don't know why. But I like flashlights. I wrote a story in Bondage on a Budget called "Pervert" that features a flashlight. I'm the type of person who will impulse buy those mini-flashlights you see at hardware stores. (Love hardware stores, by the way. Which is one reason I fell hard for the amazing Mathilde Madden story "Pervertable" in B is for Bondage.)

When I was in sixth grade, a million years ago, I was in Taming of the Shrew. The teacher would stand at the back of the gymnasium and shine a flashlight when anyone forgot a line. I'm not exactly sure why or how she came up with this method. But I remember on opening night, standing up on stage dressed as Grumio, Petruchio's man servant, and thinking, "Wow, someone forgot a line."

That someone was, of course, me.

This is my lead to the realization—just now—that when Sommer Marsden, in her blog yesterday, mentioned having news to share that was good but not ready for public consumption, she was probably talking about news from me. And I went ahead and commented, saying that I didn't know about her news, but that her jeans looked fine to me. Although I was happy for her, it didn't occur to me that, um, the flashlight was aimed in my direction.

Let's all sing with Parliament for a moment:

Flashlight (flashlight)
Day light (day light)
Spot light (spot light)
Red light (red light!)

Okay, so good news: Open for Business is shipping to authors right now. I mean, as we speak. Official release date was originally June 28th, I think, but has been upped to today! So yes, the book is out. (Violet Blue announced the release the other day on her blog. I have not yet seen the book, but I've heard this collection looks gorgeous.)

I will post the cover and full line-up shortly, along with another bit of good news.

XXX,
Alison

P.S. My other top Parliament songs? The Goose that Laid the Golden Egg and All Your Goodies Are Gone, which has some of my favorite lyrics of all time: "Shame, shame on me, for thinking that I could possibly be, the exclusive one of your choice, in this world infested with boys..."

Inspiring the Lurkers

Essin' Em says: I have to admit that I've been more of a lurker, but I've been inspired to submit some. Even if you don't wind up using them, I'll definitely be reading your blog a lot more often :)

(the one with the mattel is from a costume party where I went as a troll. I don't have that permanently :)

I'll right, so I love delurking lurkers. You know? One of my most favorite activities. And, of course, I had to put up the Mattel one, because that made me laugh out loud. I'm not sure what she meant. A troll doll? I used to love to play with those, so that's what I have in my head. One with the flame of pink hair. And she's got a clever name, no? Essin' Em I love that!

XXX,
Alison

P.S. I couldn't make the link work to her blog. Sorry!
P.P.S. No, wait: here it is!

The Dish Ran Away

EllaRegina said: I'd like to see the spoon that dish ran away with.

Which reminds me of my two favorite t-shirts. I am a sucker for a good t-shirt. My standard uniform (hasn't changed much since I was 14) is beat-in jeans and a t-shirt. I do the skirts and the fishnets, too, yes. But to sit cross-legged at the computer and write, I'm in *looking down to check* holey Lucky-brand jeans and a Junk Food tee. And that's what I'm in almost every day.

My favorite tees have been worn to death. (Oh, my god. Funny story. A writer dropped me a note about a piece she wanted to pitch to me. She said "I'd love to write a story about a woman who makes a man do certain things...causes his demise....." So I wrote back and said, "No snuff sex, please, I'm not really into sex and death," and she wrote: "Eh? death!!!!????????? I was thinking more of a man relinquishing control to a woman...giving himself up to her....having her drive him mad....I guess demise could mean death." Okay, maybe that was just funny to me.)

Back to my tees—I know where I've worn them, which concerts they've been to, which clubs, which readings. This is why I adored Camilla's comment about her thong: "A tribute to my favorite VS thong. She deserved her own photo shoot."

I should have a tribute to tees. Maybe that will be next. My most beloved ones have been retired. (The one from the Man Ray exhibit in L.A. The one that says ZED, the name of the first glossy magazine I wrote for. The one with the cherries.) And I'm rambling again. I know that. But I've had a rambling sort of day. (Am I the only one who has just mentally segued into an old Steve Martin routine? "I'm a ramblin' guy, ramblin' round, I'm a ramblin'. R-A-M-B-L-I-N. Ramblin.")

Oh, for fuck's sake, I should unplug now. Right? Right.

XXX,
Alison

I'm a Dish

Oh, my god. I'm, like, totally famous. There's a plate naimed after me. Check out this fierce new dish from Trixie Delicious! (Her tagline is "Vandalized Vintage." How cool is that?) I used a plate by TD previously on my post An Erudite Starfucker.

Then out of the blue, I got this note:

Hello from New Zealand. I'm a long time reader of your books and your blog is a daily read for me. I was blown away last month when I found a FUCKER plate painted by my wife, Trixie Delicious, featured in your blog entry Erudite Starfucker. I noticed she'd never used the word Trollop, so here's one for you.

How awesome is that? My new dream is to have a dinner party and serve a meal entirely on her word plates!

But today, I'm doubly famous. Violet Blue interviewed me for her SFGATE column. I'm surprised by the haters who comment, but thrilled to be part of her piece.

Oh, and remember, I'm running two contests right now. I'm asking you to contribute your Dirty Dreams for a chance to win a copy of RKB's Dirty Girls. And I'm giving away some choice panty-covered porn to one lucky lad or lady who sends me panty pics (either pics of you in your panties, or of your naked panties all by themselves).

XXX,
Alison

Too Late for Panties?

Camilla's tagline was: Too Late for Panties?

And in her email, she wrote: My friend told me I should send this in ... I'm not sure if you are still accepting photos. I love the ones on your site! This is what I have to say about my panties: A tribute to my favorite VS thong. She deserved her own photo shoot.

I couldn't agree more. That is one fine thong, and although I've never really thought about whether or not my panties were male or female before, I'll say that your thong is most definitely a girl.

XXX,
Alison

Bedding Down

Rachel just posted the drop-dead gorgeous cover for Bedding Down: A Collection of Winter Erotica. I'm thrilled to be a part of this collection of novellas. I'd never written one before, and I have to say, I am much more of a novel/short story writer. The in-between word count confounded me. I know it sounds strange to say that I find writing an 80,000 word novel easier than an 8,000 word novella, but in some ways, I do. You have more time to play around in a novel, get to know the characters, follow them through their lives. Short stories are totally different, as well. I layer them. (I don't know if other people write this way, but I frame out a story, then go back and fill in the missing pieces, layer by layer.) Anyway, I'm drunk-ish and rambling, and I am proud to be part of Bedding Down.

My story is called "It's Not the Weather," and I think I pushed the limits a little bit, as this is a winter-themed anthology, and my novella (mostly) takes place in sunny California. That's me. Touching a theme with the tip of my pinkie finger. I took a risk because I like when authors take risks. Like Chris Bridges' hysterical story in Luscious. The anal sex is what's going to happen next.

Seriously, am having a difficult time following one thought to the next. I had all of these little bits of news I wanted to post, and now—poof!—instead, I am licking the salt off my rim and uploading a tiny piece of cover art. Oh, and I hate to beg (um, yeah, right), but won't you please send me more of your dreams—I'm working on a Dirty Dreams chapter for my Never book, and your inspiration is crucial!

XXX,
Alison

sans panties

All right. So now you're all getting fancy. The image of Kiki in her ultra-chic nightie is in the reflection of this picture. Damn. Nearly all the sexy pics of me are Polaroids.

okay - i have no panty pictures - but i have this. while all the writers of porn are apparently fabulously svelte and stunning, i'm definitely full figured...so maybe you can see me in my very sexy nightgown. it was part of a very very sexy night away made extra exciting as it was in the middle of the week. the nightgown was purchased specifically to make me feel extra sexy with my full figured body - it was perfect. what you cannot see is that it is lace on top and diaphanous all over the rest of it - and it flows beautifully. it was fun to open the door to the hotel and greet my husband in just that - sans panties. i was greatly rewarded.

i was surprised to see myself in the picture when i downloaded it onto the computer.

*blush*
kiki

Oh, I do love when people use the word diaphanous!

XXX,
Alison

P.S. Please keep posting your dirty dreams!

The Divine Miss Blue

Oh, you're all so clever, aren't you? Yes, those panties, and knees, and vibrant tattoos belong to Miss Violet Blue. And if you want to see the rest of her panty parade, check out her full set on flickr! You should know, this set includes cupcakes, ruffled knickers, and a semi-shag cream carpet. You've been warned.

More parading panties shortly...

XXX,
Alison

Panties Around Her Knees

There is something infinitely sexy to me about, well, everything in this picture. The panties halfway down. The shiny shiny peep-toed shoes. The way her feet are pointed in a wee bit. The tiles in the background, the tattoos creeping up her calf. (It's not just me, is it?) Do you want to guess who this luscious lady is? Will post a pic in a bit revealing another clue.

When the panty request was made to this vixen she said: "OMG, is to too late for this? I hope not! You can use anything! God, you don't even need to ask."

Listen to that. I don't even need to ask. That may be the sexiest part by far.

XXX,
Alison

P.S. Please keep sharing your dirty dreams here!

D Is for Dirty

Wound up with an extra copy of Dirty Girls, so thought I'd do an ultra-short contest. Tell me your dirtiest dream—the one that always makes you blush when you think back. You don't have to share much—who did you dream about? Where were you? What were you wearing? Tease me, please!

XXX,
Alison

The Trollop Collection

EG is the second person to send me this link to ETSY shop Electric Bluebird. Lady Raven was the first, and I bought the slip. I adore the write-up: This is the second in my Trollop Collection. I hand-dyed this vintage half-slip a hawt hawt red. Then, I wrote a litany of euphamisms for trollop like chippy, lady of the evening, tart, etc. around the bottom.

I love my slip and have worn the piece several times—as slip and as a skirt. Will put up pics shortly. EG also sent me this link to this fabulous Geelizzie pendant.



Wow, pretty soon I'll have an army of ETSY personal shoppers! You all know my taste. The pendant reminds me of this crazy thing that happened after my first novel was published. I'd given a copy to my roommate, who gave a copy to his friend. And over drinks at El Coyote, this friend leaned over and whispered to me, "I licked slowly around her asshole." (You know, I may be misquoting. But the sentence was very similar to that.)

I went instantly pink.

My eyes were huge.

I mean, what the fuck, right? We were sitting in the bar in El Coyote, late afternoon sun illuminating the circles in the stained glass windows, margaritas illuminating our mood. And now this man, someone I'd never met before, was leaning in and talking dirty to me. Why?

"You wrote that," he said, "and I can't stop thinking about the scene."

Somehow, I don't think events like this happen to authors like Anne Tyler. But maybe I'm wrong.

XXX,
Alison

I have a secret...

Now you see them:


Now you don't:


XXX,
Alison

The Hottest Butch I Know

Sinclair says: Alison—Clearly, I'm a briefs kind of guy ... easier to pack in 'em. Amazing how intimate it is to share your undies, I hadn't really thought about it until actually taking a photo.

;) ss

full of fetish-loving freaks

I must admit, F is for Fetish is one of my favorite collections, so I'm ultra pleased when other people not only like it, but get it. Here is the rest of the UK Forum review:

In Shanna Germain's Knuckling Under, it's the common or garden gnarly man's knuckle that gets the girl going, and a trip to the bicycle mechanic incites all manner of interesting possibilities. In Jeremy Edwards' Slightly Ajar, waterworks are the theme, as a naughty wife indulges in taunting her husband by peeing with the door ajar, which quickly becomes an all-consuming fetish for the pair.

Then there's the wonderfully original Boot Camp by Kristina Lloyd, where an entire correctional facility full of fetish-loving freaks houses a young lady with such an overwhelming obsession for shiny shoes that she relishes spending her days on all fours shining soldiers' boots until she can see her own reflection.

But Nikki Magennis' Hair Trigger has to be my favourite, where our heroine escapes her cheating lover by cutting off her glorious tresses on to his shackled naked torso in revenge. Be it feet, shoes, hands, hair, or bicycles, whatever shakes your fetish, this book is bound to get you in the mood.

XXX,
Alison

P.S. More panties coming soon...

Inspiring Naughtiness

Ah, the naughtiness you inspire! I kept deleting pictures, chastising the photographer who I happen to be married to that it was supposed to be about the panties, not my ass or any other part of me. Guess how well that went...after the photo shoot. I can't believe I did it. Or am doing it. But I've been a rather lusty voyeur all week, smiling little smiles at work while checking your blog on my phone to catch the new picts up. And then the lure of exhibitionism set in. Probably the pole one...the other one I can't figure out how to use my photo program to edit out the glare...and really, it's almost more about the gloves than the panties in that one. I'd hate to bend the rules just to feel and look sexy. Believe me?

I almost couldn't bear to send, though. I was afraid Sommer would realize that the carpets aren't exactly as pristine as she had been fantasizing.

Yeah. That's right. We're all looking at your carpets.

XXX,
Alison

Our First Commando

Okay, so that's not entirely true. Dakota Rebel commando'd us awhile back. (Hmmm. Is "commando" even a verb? Okay, off topic, but this reminds me of one of my favorite cartoons ever, Get Fuzzy, specifically the one mentioned here, where Bucky says, "You can wordify anything if you just verb it.")

But seriously. Is this photo not totally hot?

Anonymous model explains Sorry to say, I haven't got much in the knicker department to show off. Commando suits most of the ranch workings. When I break horses or ride my working gelding, I use compression shorts, wranglers and chinks—none of which would probably be sexy (although the compression shorts are Lycra, or possibly the chinks as cheek chillers—but not utilitarian in this manner).

Um, I don't know what the fuck she just said, but I'm pretty damn turned on. Wanna guess who she is? I'll reveal later on.

XXX,
Alison

F is for Fabulous Review

This deliriously sexy best-selling UK Erotic Author served up the latest copy of UK Forum, which features a review of F Is for Fetish. The type of review that editors live for. Here, let me share the opening:

Of the entire alphabetised collection of gorgeously saucy short stories published by Cleis Press, I had a feeling the letter F would be the most infectious, not to mention culturally specific to Forum readers, and I wasn't wrong. You might consider your niche fetish to be particularly unique, or even a little bit obscure, but you ain't seen nothing yet. In F Is for Fetish, once again Alison Tyler wows us with some wonderful tales, ranging from the hilarious to the downright bizarre, which will no doubt get your fetish juices flowing.

Want more?

XXX,
Alison

The OMs Have It

Yes, you all guessed right. The picture was of Sommer's beautiful bum. But it was the OMs that gave her away. Not the thong. Right?

XXX,
Alison

I'm feeling brave today.

That's what she said. The hot girl in the thong. "I'm feeling brave today." God, isn't it amazing what a pair of panties can do to a person? I'm not sure if she wants you to guess who she is or not. But she added this postscript:

p.s. will change my mind on this v. fast so I hope you are fast. if you want to use it. see, am changing mind already. may not attach. hyperventilating. oh and this was for husb. as joke. sexy joke but joke. breathe. breathe...

No one will know is me. Om.... No one will know is me... Om....OM>>>>OM>>>>OM>>>>not working...

XXXX,
Alison

And the booty goes to...

I mean the bum belongs to... (drum roll, please) Kristina Wright! She said: I now have an ego bigger than my ass. :) Thanks for inspiring me. Can't wait to see if anyone guessed right (other than Sommer, who knows my hair...)

XXX,
Alison

P.S. Tune in tomorrow to see whose ass is next on the line.

"Girls with More Booty"

Oh Alison, you do inspire naughtiness! I have never been inclined to post pictures of myself in my undies. I still can't quite believe I'm doing it.

What motivated me to participate in your panty-fest: I blogged yesterday about selling a story to XCite's Satisfy Me anthology and the girl on the cover is wearing hot pink rhumba panties. I headed over to Yandy.com to see if they had something similar (and take advantage of the discount you garnered for us, despite the fact I hadn't participated) and was dismayed to see that their rhumba panties only go up to a 38 inch hip (120-140 lbs.) While they have some "plus size" lingerie (gag me with that term), they are woefully lacking in panty selections for girls with more booty. So, representing the size 12 and up crowd, I have attached a picture of me in my purple lace panties.

I will never run for president now.

Who's that girl? I will post all answers at the end of the day—same as I did for Shanna Germain's fabulous thong picture.

XXX,
Alison

P.S. "Baby Got Back" was her tagline in the email. I like the way her red hair looks with the plummy panties.

The One in a Thong

Oh, my. I am in love. How fucking cool is this?

XXX,
Alison

And the panties go to...

The panty parade absolutely thrilled me—and made me want to hire Donna George Storey to come to my house and organize my drawers! I'm not sure I'm done. I mean, I would love to see more panties in my in box. But I've got a new idea swirling in my mind right now. (Get your cameras ready.) So I'll finish this round with the winners of Zane's Purple Panties collection. The two copies will go to Allison Wonderland (who spelled the word panties with her panties!) and Sera who nearly made me pee myself with her desire to protect her pussies' privacy. (And I swore I'd never put cats up on my blog.)

Please send your mailing info to msalisontyler at yahoo dot com.

But remember, anyone can use the code alisontyler at Yandy to receive 10% off! (I know I sound like a spokesmodel. I swear to god I'm not! Although Yandy is sending me a pair of free panties! I will put up a pic when I get them.)

Okay, new contest shortly.

XXX,
Alison

P.S. I was really surprised at how many people would not send me panty pics. Because here is my latest game. If someone makes a request of me, I make a request back. In one day last week, I received seven press releases from writers I sort of know, all who wanted me to post info for them. I wrote back to each one to say, "Sure. No problem. Just send me your panties."

Is that so rude? You tell me.

Barry Eisler, who was promoing his new movie, wrote me back to say, "LOL! Thanks for the thought, Alison, and no worries. I'll look forward to perusing the panties issue... :)” But most people didn’t respond at all.

Who knows what I’ll ask for next. Pics of their fridges. Or medicine chests. Or sex toys. I will never get over being a snoop. Beware.

Who said you could wear those panties?

"We’re going to be late," I tell him as I step into the kitchen.

"Who said you could look like that?"

That’s his response. Not "Let’s go." Not "Here’s your coat." But: "Who said you could look like that?"

I glance down—black Blondie t-shirt—her image on the front, One Way or Another on the back, sheer black cardigan—12 years old, this cardigan. Went to Paris, this cardigan. Triple-strand necklace of faux pearls and shiny obsidian beads. Favorite skirt. Black and white with ruffles. Black kick-ass boots with chrome hardware. He hasn’t seen the stockings yet. Or the panties.

"Who said?" he asks one more time, voice low.

Who said I could? I don’t know. I did. I guess. I mean, I thought I did.

"Lift your skirt."

I lift my skirt.

"Oh, baby," he says. "Who said you could wear fishnets?"

My cheeks are flushed. We’re late already. Supposed to be at a dinner party. An anniversary party for long-time friends. If he does what I think he’s going to do, starts what I think he’s going to start, we’re going to be even later.

"Higher."

I lift my skirt higher.

"Who said you could wear those panties?"

"These panties?"

I’m wearing red lace boy shorts. Beautiful panties I wear only on special occasions.

He steps closer to me, puts one hand on the front of the knickers and whispers, “Who said you could be wet like that?”

I suck in my breath, look at him, think of the effort I put into getting dressed, know what I’m going to look like by the time we’re through—cheeks flushed fuchsia, stockings ripped, red Russet Moon lipstick smeared. Only seconds have passed, but I feel as if not my whole life, but our whole evening, has run through my head. The conversations we’ll have at the dinner party, me with my panties either drenched or gone, my heart still racing from the thrill of our five-minute fuck.

Because this is his favorite time to play. When there is no time.

Is it kismet that I’m writing this chapter for my Never Have the Same Sex Twice book. A chapter called “I Don’t Have Time For Sex” Sex. Did he peer over my shoulder and see my TOC? Or was he in my head when I got dressed, knowing that if he got a peek of the fishnets, a glimpse of the red lace panties, there was no way we’d be able to arrive at the party before the main course. And perhaps not before dessert.

"Who said you could make me this hard?" he asks, and I grin and step out of my panties, thinking that we’ll come up with excuses along the way.

XXX,
Alison