December 31, 2012

In case you're wondering...

...this is what we'll be toasting with tonight. Yes, I'm a lucky girl. I was given a bottle by a long-time friend who knows that I appreciate beauty, clarity, and, um, good fucking tequila.

For fun, here's a little snip of my New Year's themed story "Never Alone" from 69.


Everyone jumped. You’ve seen that happen. A balloon pops, and people put their hands to their ears as if a bomb has been dropped. A random woman will invariably shriek, “I hate that noise!” And someone, someone like me, will get wet.

I didn’t start off lusting after balloons. I didn’t know that the stretchy plastic would arouse me, that walking into party stores would become foreplay, that the squeaky sound of a man running a firm palm over a fully inflated balloon would turn me on.

Fetishes don’t always come when you call. Sometimes they simply arrive.

Mine showed up at a New Year’s bash—the room was filled with balloons, Mylar helium ones tied to every chair, windowsill, and banister. Unbeknownst to most of the guests, myself included, hundreds more inflated colorful orbs were caught fast in nets overhead.

The balloons meant nothing to me then. They were pretty. Yes. But many things are pretty, and I don’t feel the need to fuck them. I milled aimlessly through this party, an event I’d been invited to, but hadn’t much wanted to attend. I’d ticked the Yes box on the RSVP card simply because I didn’t feel like being alone—in fact, that was my solitary New Year’s resolution—not to strut through the following year as a single. I hadn’t realized that going stag to a New Year’s party would make me feel even more like singing “All By Myself” than I had back in my apartment. That is, until I saw Josh, the out-of-work actor who lives upstairs from me. He was manning one of the bars, and when I saw his friendly face, I practically tripped over myself to get to his station.

“You look beautiful,” he said as I snagged my third glass of bubbly.

“You, too.” He’d never seen me in a dress. I’d never seen him out of Levis and a T. There we were—he in a suit, me in silver spangles—and we had that cosmic kind of connection that happens more often on New Year’s than most people would care to admit.

“Why are you here?” he asked as he refilled my glass.

I could have said anything. I could have said I was a college friend of the hostess—which was the truth. Or that I wanted to break in my fancy party dress that had thus far only been paraded in my bedroom for my own enjoyment—also the truth. But I said the biggest truth of all, “I didn’t want to be alone.”

At the stroke of midnight, he pulled me down behind the bar and kissed me. The balloons fell on cue—all those colorful, rubbery balloons—in cobalt and emerald, turquoise and silver. We were doused in them, drowning in them, and Josh pressed his ear to my mouth and said, “I could fuck you on a bed of balloons. When you moved, one might pop—you wouldn’t know.”

A shiver ran through me.

“Would you like that? Your naked body surrounded by these…” he gripped a scarlet balloon and brushed the top against my cheek. I could smell that powder-rubber scent. Why did the smell make me want to come?


To read the rest of the story, you only need to buy the book, which costs six bucks and some change. That's less than ten cents a story for a luscious line-up like this.

Wishing you and yours a happy and a healthy one. I'll be lifting my glass to you.


P.S. Special for today and tomorrow only — if you buy 69 and drop me a note at msalisontyler at yahoo dot com with your snail mail address, I will send you a copy of With This Ring, I Thee Bed in paperback. Free smut for the New Year. What's hotter than that?

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