November 21, 2014

"...uber sexpot writing machine..."

You knew that would be my pull-quote, didn't you? I am so honored, humbled, flattered, and grateful(ed) to be part of Molly Moore's illustrious 20 of 2014 Sex Blogger List. I feel a sudden need to pop the champagne...or make a t-shirt!

Ms. Moore said I was one of the 'most prolific bloggers' in the write-up and I really appreciate the nod. A week ago, I decided to take a few days off writing. This was one of the more entertaining experiences I've had recently. Because I wrote like a motherfucker. I wrote rants, articles, future blog posts, letters to friends, notes for novels, outlines for stories.

What was I thinking?

I don't know how not to write at this point. The words start to leak onto unexpected places if I don't put my fingers to the keyboard. My arm was covered in ball-point. I had notes everywhere in the house. My favorite was on Sam's list of items to buy at a sporting good store. The list in his handwriting states: waders, boots, vest.

Scribbled in my indecipherable writing below: Next Door Sex. (An idea for something.)

Now, I would also like to say, Molly Moore is one of my favorite people on the interwebs. I have always been far more word than picture oriented. (It's why I love Penthouse Variations. All those lovely words.) I'm into font. I worship letters. I make kerning jokes with my geeky friends.

Pictures have never moved me the way words do. Riendo was the first photographer to show me what I was missing. Then Molly virtually took me by the hand and demonstrated how erotic, honest, creative, playful, exquisite, exciting, and sexy-as-hell the world of sensual photography could be.

You're asking yourself how I didn't know this?

I'm wired differently, I guess. I like to read write-ups on x-rated videos far more than I enjoy watching the movies. My brain uses the words to make the pictures in my head.

But Molly and the participants in her Sinful Sundays sparked something new in me. I can see the sex appeal. You know this is true when I tell you this: some of the photos—especially the ones by Molly, herself—make me want to write stories to match the pictures. They're inspiring. And that's something special to me.

So thank you, Molly, for what you said about me, but even more importantly, for what you do.


November 20, 2014

On Fire

I fell hard for these matchbox "books" as soon as I saw them. Some of my favorite titles are here. I have probably read The Godfather more than any other novel. I loved Catch-22. I immediately wanted matchbox books of *my* books. (Wouldn't that be the coolest swag ever?) Even better, the name of the ETSY store is Matchmakers. Swoon.

A few months ago, I came up a concept for a contest in which people created crafts that would fit in matchboxes. Look! Matchmakers beat me to the punch. And remember last year when I created a series of holiday gift guides for different dollar amounts? These are making me think I should compile new lists this December. Especially, because you can buy individual matchboxes like the one for Lolita on the left.

Speaking of things that are on fire (points, please, for a slightly clever segue before six a.m.)... Violet Blue's new Filthy Housewives collection is all lit up with glittering reviews:

"These wife-centered fantasies are a literary feast for the senses."

"Each story introduces the reader to a new couple engaging their sexuality in order to give life to their horny imaginings."

"Pretty filthy. Hot."

"Such a fun and kinky book..."

"Seven sizzling stories in this volume offer a smorgasbord of fantasies and kink that will satiate any appetite."

I'm not sure if Filthy Housewives could handle being on a matchbox. I think the boxes might spontaneously combust!


P.S. I'm working on a poetry post and a typo post right now. Apparently my brain crossed the wires and I started working on a pottery post.

November 19, 2014

Moving Forward

Several times during my career I have lost friends because of what I write.

Once upon a time, I was close with a woman who became a Born Again. We were best friends, the tightest you can imagine. Like sisters. We owned Los Angeles. I can shut my eyes now and be in a deep burgundy leather booth at the Rainbow at her side.

When she joined her church, she couldn't be my friend anymore because I pen porn. I was crushed.

Six years ago, give or take, I excitedly told a new friend that I had landed a book deal with Harlequin. Up until that point, the woman knew I was a writer, but she hadn't ever asked me what I wrote. (People are funny that way.) Her response was shocking.

After that, I made a mental promise that I wouldn't allow myself to get into a similar situation. Which means I don't have a lot of friends. Sure, I have many friendly acquaintances, but not a lot of friends.

I would never have thought that I would lose friends within the erotic writing community for what I do. However,  I recently learned that a gaggle of fellow erotica writers I know have strong negative feelings towards the magazine I work for. 

I've been trying to figure out my response for days. And I think I've finally come to an understanding. I swear that I would fight for your right to think what you think, believe what you believe, and say what you want to say.

Freedom of speech is a beautiful thing.

But you can't insult what I do and expect me to nod and smile and agree with the assessment. As much as you're allowed to have your opinion—I'm allowed to respectfully disagree.

And to move forward with fewer "friends" once more. 


November 18, 2014

Two-Fer Tuesday Part Two: Dante Davidson

For the second portion of today's "two-fer," I'm pleased to post an excerpt from Dante Davidson's smoking hot "Eggshell, Ecru, and Linen" featured in Violet Blue's new star-studded collection Filthy Housewives. (Note for those keeping score: I have devoured the entire collection and am humbled to have the kick-off story in the book.)

Here is a snippet from the collection which as Dante's trademark style painted all over it:

I held my tongue barely, and watched as the trio of men began to work over my wife. They seemed to require greater access, too, because in only a few minutes, they unbound her and positioned her on her hands and knees. She was ass toward the camera now, so I couldn’t see her face. I was a little sad about that, but not too sad. With Sheila in this position, I was able to watch her ass redden as Troy delivered a bum-blistering spanking with Sheila’s favorite paddle. Sheila would have cried out. I know the sounds she makes when I punish her sweet peach-split of an ass. But she couldn’t. Not blowing the dark-haired painter like that. Roger had gotten in front of her and was gripping onto her short birch-blonde hair and helping her find the rhythm he desired. I heard her gag a little around the girth of his cock, and I unzipped my own slacks and got a hand around my Johnson.
            “Look how she arches her back for the next spank,” the tattooed stud observed. “She’s such a little pain slut.”
            “Why don’t you put it in her ass, then?” asked Matthew.
            “After I spank her a little more. See, she gave me this…” the blond was holding something I recognized intimately: a paint chip. I bit down on a laugh. Sheila had given her punisher a stiff card that featured five different shades of red. I could see that one of the hues was circled. The painter spanked Sheila a few more times and then held the paint chip against her ass.
            “Perfect,” he said, and Sheila moaned in agreement.
            “Lube, dude?” the dark-haired man offered the blond.
            “Wait… wait,” said Matthew. To my delight, he was a wiseass. He grabbed a new brush, the type used for fine detailing, and he lubed up the bristles. While the surfer held open Sheila’s asscheeks, Matthew started to paint lube all around her anus. Oh, God. My precome was leaking out of my dick now. Who would have thought to use a brush like that? Sheila was mewling around the dark-haired painter’s cock. She was moaning and sighing but never letting go of the dick in her mouth. At least, not until the next painter wanted his turn. The men tussled for a second, vying for position…
            “I’m taking her ass,” said the blond. “I need to be in this hole.” He started to finger her asshole as he spoke, and I just bet that Sheila was on the cusp of her first climax. She can come from having her anus stimulated. And now with her choice of cocks in front of her, she must have felt transported.
            “Back and forth,” the blond told her. “You suck Roger and then Matthew. See which one you can get off first.” He wanted her to take the cocks in turn, but Sheila seemed to have another idea. She motioned for the men to move together as she tried to get two cockheads in her mouth at once. My greedy girl…

Reviewers have spoken: "I love the way Violet Blue puts an anthology together." "Literary porn at its finest." " erotic feast for the senses..."

So pleased to be promoting this collection from Digita Publications. Be on the lookout for more exciting, erotic, and affordable books from Digita in the future!


Two-Fer Tuesday—Dante Davidson

I've decided to roll out these Two-Fers on the Tuesdays I'm around in the morning and evening. And it looks as if I'm here. (I just pinched myself—and yes, I am actually here. I'm not a figment. Nor fictitious.)

Today's "Two-Fer" author is Dante Davidson, with whom I have worked closely over the years. (Hey, did I use "whom" right?) We first co-wrote together back in the 90s when we were hired to pen "Secrets for Great Sex After 50" (if memory serves. (I think if you added our ages together at the time we barely made 47.)

The first story is one of my all-time favorites:

5 a.m. Walk of Shame
By Dante Davidson
            When Gennifer walked down the street toward Max, he couldn’t help but notice that she was wearing the exact same outfit she’d had on the night before. Generally speaking, he was not the type of guy to pay such specific attention to what a woman was wearing, but this was a noticeable creation. Through the plate glass windows of the café, he spied her dark wine-colored satin corset fastened over a white peasant blouse and a short, flirty black-and-red velvet skirt. Her black fishnets were ripped and her boots had high, spiky heels. This was not your average coffee bar attire, nor was it your average 5 a.m. attire.           
            Not unless you were doing the Walk of Shame.
            He started to laugh under his breath as she entered the shop. Gennifer didn’t even look his way. With her head held high, she strode behind the counter—heels click-clacking on the tiled floor—and tied one of the little white aprons around her slender waist. 5 a.m. is early to most people, but to a coffee shop crew, Gennifer was actually a half hour late. Max had covered for her, starting the various jobs that she did by his side on a daily basis.
            Without a word, she began the normal prep routine, turning on machines, checking supplies. He noted when she bent down to look in one of the low mini refrigerators, that her skirt was torn in the back. Three sterling safety pins held the fabric together, gleaming under the lights.
            He blinked, knowing exactly what it would take to rip the fabric like that. He could imagine tearing the skirt, shredding the back along the seam. He could almost hear the sound of the fabric giving way, a small shriek of submission from both the skirt and the girl wearing the skirt.
            His cock twitched.
            Gennifer turned around suddenly, catching him staring, obviously lost in his filthy thoughts. Her ivy-green eyes narrowed, and he felt himself blush. Without a word, she stood and moved past him, and when she did, she made sure her hip brushed his growing erection. Holy fuck. He had to suck in his breath to avoid moaning.
            “Some night, huh?” Max managed to choke out as she moved past.
            “Straight out of an x-rated movie,” she said, flicking on the various devices that would soon fill the shop with the aroma of rich, dark coffee.
            He looked at her face. She still had remnants of the previous night’s makeup. Her eyes were lined with kohl, her lids smudged with a plum-colored shadow rich with glittery pigment. Her lips were stained dark berry red. When she bent forward over the cash register, he saw a spot where she’d been kissed hard enough to leave a bruise, deep in her cleavage. That sent him once more into fantasyland, spiraling into visions of climbing on top of her, tearing her shirt open, biting and kissing her small, ripe breasts.
            His cock was a throbbing demanding being at this point. The shop wasn’t even open for business and he couldn’t wait to get off—in two ways. Gennifer moved by him once more, and this time she actually let her fingertips graze the outline of his hard-on through his jeans, but she did so in a casual, accidental manner. He could almost hear her taunting voice in his head.
            This time, Max did groan and press back against the counter. He couldn’t help himself.
            “You getting an eyeful?” she asked, and her voice was so raw with sexual need that Max considered fucking her right there, against the coffee canisters. “You want to see everything?” She started unlacing the corset top, but Max had the wherewithal to stop her, grabbing her wrist and pulling her to the unisex bathroom. He flipped on the fluorescent light and turned the lock.
            There were a lot of things he wanted to say to her, but he couldn’t call her a cock tease, because Gennifer was already hitching her skirt to her waist and bending over the porcelain sink. Max sighed when he saw she didn’t have any panties on. He had the presence of mind to think that she’d actually gone knickerless with her skirt torn like that—and wondered if anyone else had spied her pink. He slid one hand between her legs and found that she was dripping wet. Was she already wet from their encounter or still wet from the night before? He didn’t care. He tore open the front of his jeans and thrust his cock against her naked skin, not in her, not yet, just on her. So he could feel her heat.
            Gennifer had the corset off and was working on the blouse.
            “I can’t believe you actually went through with it,” Max said as he finally slid his cock inside her.
            “A dare is a dare,” she smiled mischievously at him in the bathroom mirror.
            He remembered the previous night as if in Polaroid images, still frames frozen in time. Over tequila shots, he and Gennifer had discussed the customers they served on a daily basis—the ones who came to get their regular dull coffee to go with their regular dull lives, and the ones who seemed like they might have a little kink in them. The Walk of Shamers, Gennifer called them. Those were the patrons she liked best, enjoying spinning stories about what their night-befores might have been.
            “That Flo,” Gennifer said, “she always looks as if her man has been keeping her up all night long.” Flo was a hall of famer, walk of shamer. Sometimes Max had a difficult time meeting her eyes when he served her, she was so obviously recently fucked.
            He and Gennifer had talked their way through the various customers. The couple had been mildly tipsy, drinking on the floor in her living room, teasing each other in a light manner until he'd said, “You’re one to talk, you know. You get fucked six ways to Sunday each night. You simply polish up nice and pretty in the a.m.”
            “I don’t always have to,” she’d taunted. “I can be as sloppy as your favorite walk of shamer.” This was a girl named Megan who came in several times a week looking obviously mussed. Gennifer said that Megan would be lost if she didn’t have at least one visible hickey.
            “Oh, really? What would it take?”
            “What do you have to give?”
            She’d actually gotten up and nudged him with her bare foot, playing rougher until he’d stood up with her.
            “No,” she’d told him. “Wait here.”
            She’d sprinted down the hallway, and he’d heard her rumbling around in her bedroom. He’d drained the last of his glass of tequila, imagining what she might be doing out of sight from him. When she’d returned, she was dressed in a whole new outfit, having discarded her standard t-shirt and cut-offs in favor of what he could only describe as Mardi Gras on acid—a red-and-black slutty creation that made his cock immediately hard.
            Something about the clothes had changed her attitude as well. Gennifer had play-punched his shoulder, then gone on her tiptoes to ruffle his shaggy blond hair.
            “What do you want?” he’d asked, gripping her wrists to stop her.
            “I don’t want just a 'slept in’ look,” she’d told him. “As if I missed the alarm clock and had to rush. Anyone can have bedhead. I want to look like I’ve been really fucked. Good and proper.”
            “Don’t I do that every night?”
            He knew he did. She’d never complained before. He’d taken her in the shower, on the sofa, outside on the balcony. He’d spread her pale pussy lips and eaten her out for hours, had sixty-nined with her until she’d creamed against his lips in the sweetest way. But he’d never played the way she pushed him next.
            “I want you to fuck me so people will know,” she’d said, pulling away from him and running to her bedroom. So people would know. How was he supposed to do that? The question in his head, he’d chased her, sprinting down the hall, reaching for her at the doorway, his hands on her skirt. She’d pulled, and he’d torn the fabric, not fully, not demolishing the short skirt. But torn. The sound of the fabric rending had startled him, and he’d stopped still, his heart racing.
            “Max,” she’d said. “Don’t worry so much.” And she’d put his hand back on the skirt, and shown him what she wanted. “Tear it.”
            He’d carried her to the bed, tossed her on the mattress, and gripped the skirt in both hands. The tiny tear had given way to the gaping rip that she’d done her best to pin together this morning. Safety pins couldn’t hide what he’d done. What she’d wanted him to do.
            The thoughts of the previous evening made him harder than ever. He parted her legs and slid his cock in her hole. She lowered her chin and closed her eyes. He watched her expression change in the mirror.
            Everything had happened in a rush. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t recall his hands working over her fishnets, creating those gaping, naughty holes. He’d demolished her shirt, pulling buttons off the bottom in his haste to remove the blouse, had nipped and bitten at her skin hard enough to leave the bruises she wore proudly today. They’d done it like beasts, hungry and loud, in a way they’d never fucked before. When he’d come on her ass, even his semen had felt hotter than usual.
            And then, surprising him, she’d pushed him out of her bedroom, out of her apartment. “I’ll see you in the morning,” she’d told him, kissing his lips, lips that felt battered. “Get some sleep.”
            Some was the operative word. He hadn’t gotten home until after 2. Getting to work on time had taken Herculean strength.
            And that had led them to this point, with him fucking her against the sink in the bathroom of the café where they both worked. He’d never seen a sexier Walk of Shamer, and he told her so.
            “I can’t take all the credit,” she whispered as he nailed her. “You did the work on the skirt.” He thought of how he’d torn it off her the night before. He’d never thought she’d have worn the thing again, especially to work.
            She pulled off of him, surprising him, and went on her knees on the bathroom floor. He sucked in his breath as she sucked in his cock, licking the head and then working her mouth up and down the length. She was drinking her own juices off his rod, and he was in a state of bliss watching her. What had gotten into his girlfriend? He couldn’t imagine—but he relished every second.
            “Remember how you shredded my hose?” she taunted, taking a breath. He did. He’d used his fingers to tear gaping holes in the stockings, considering the fishnets dead on arrival. She’d infused them with life, for at least one more day. Still, he was shocked that she’d taken the dare to this level.
            She stood and then pushed herself up on the edge of the sink. “Finish them off, baby. Tear them to shreds.”
            He ripped the stockings just like she’d asked, and then he plunged into her again. She wrapped her thighs tight around his waist, and he knew he would come like that, with their bodies sealed so tightly together. He watched in the mirror as he hoisted her in his arms, palming her naked ass cheeks as he bounced her.
            “Next time, I want you to tie me down with my stockings,” she said, and he knew her words were going to make him come. “You’ll rip every bit of my clothes off me, and you’ll use the shreds to tie me in place.”
            “Yes, “ he said, his voice reduced to a harsh whisper. “Yes, yes, whatever you want.”
            He came hard inside of her and he felt her body responding, his orgasm tripping her own climax. He could hear the noises of the machines in the café, and he knew he had to go back to work, that customers would be coming before too long. “Are you really going to wear that all day?” he asked, watching as she did her best to resurrect her attire. Without the corset, she looked more refined. If she didn’t turn around, the customers wouldn’t know the skirt was so worked over. “I never would have thought you’d go through with this.”
            “You ought to know me better than that, Max,” she said.
            He tilted her chin upward and kissed her lips. “I do now,” he told her with a smile.
            “You think you do,” she countered. “But you have no idea what I’m going to dare you to do tomorrow.”

Dante Davidson’s short stories have appeared in Bondage, Naughty Stories from A to Z, Best Bondage Erotica, The Merry XXXmas Book of Erotica, Luscious, and Sweet Life. With Alison Tyler, he is the co-author of Bondage on a Budget and Secrets for Great Sex After 50.


I just realized I had a little unfinished business to deal with, as well. The winner of A.M. Hartnett's Halloween prize package is Sand. (Please drop me a note at msalisontyler at yahoo dot com.)

I'm about to post the answers to That's What She Said.

And please stop by this afternoon for an excerpt from Dante's latest work featured in Violet Blue's Filthy Housewives.


November 17, 2014

Trollop with a Question #31

I'm percolating a post about why poetry is important. I'm the daughter of a poet and a prolific author. My father taught me how to write, how to write fast, how to not be afraid of words on a page.

My mother taught me how to love sentences. Individual words. Syllables even.

While I'm preparing the piece, please answer my latest question:

What is your favorite poem?

You can even say why if the answer's not too personal.

If you answered last week's question—and if you'd like me to send you a prize—slide into my box at msalisontyler at yahoo dot com.


P.S. I shouldn't have been surprised to find exactly what I was looking for from Loving Anvil. These stacking rings create a haiku!

November 16, 2014

How dare I? How dare you?

I have been writing professionally for decades. And guess what? This type of interchange gets old:

Possible future employer: We would like you to write for free.
Writer: Fine.

Possible future employer: We would like you to jump through every flaming deadline hoop we throw at you.
Writer: Okay.

Possible future employer: We would like to own your work forever.
Writer: Sounds good.

Possible future employer: Here is a completely unreasonable contract we want you to sign.
Writer: Well, I have some changes I'd like to politely make.

Possible future employer: HOW DARE YOU?

Seriously. Some similar version of this has happened to me over and over again. When I was first starting out, an editor accepted a story of mine for an anthology. Then she announced to the writers that she hadn't been paid enough by the publisher to pay us for the stories. I thought, okay. Fine. I'll go with it for the credit. Then she sent a draconian contract stating she could do whatever she wanted with the story. Now, if there had been payment, maybe I'd have agreed. But as it stood, I balked.

And she responded: How dare you? You're lucky you even received a contract.

Ultimately, she made the contractual edits I requested—which basically said she could have the story for the book, but she couldn't do anything else with it. Reasonable, yes? Worth the drama? No.

A few years ago, I was working with another writer on a project. We jumped through every flaming hoop. Give us more. Faster. Explain. Pitch. Revise. When we received the contract, there was wording included that allowed the publisher to fire us, hire shiny new writers, and bill us to pay the replacements.

We said no.


We walked. Possible future employers, I've learned, are surprised when you walk. But I have worn out my shoes walking away from miserable contracts.

Recently, I wrote a few articles for a website for free. Retroactively, I was asked to sign a contract. The contract stated that the site owned my articles. I thought, okay. Fine. I wasn't going to do anything else with them. The contract stated that the site could edit, publish, advertise, and alter my pieces.

After "alter," I added: "with author's approval."

And I received a "how dare you" type of email back. Seriously? You said my work has become your property. Which is pretty unfair. How dare *you* have a problem with my minor change?

The editor said "alter" really meant "excerpt" for Instagram, Twitter, etc.

I'm a writer, man. "Excerpt" is different from "alter."

Love does not alter when it alteration finds
Nor bends with the remover to remove

Insert "excerpt" and see how the poem flows.

I wrote back—yes, seething—and I said. No. I withdraw my approval.

Twice in the past year, I've subbed pieces to journalists who were asking writers for assistance. And I've had my words stolen. Both times the journalists used what I wrote in their leads. One gave me credit for a different portion of the article and one did not.

I'm done. I'm fucking done.

I take full responsibility for allowing things to go this far. But I will not write for free anymore. I will not write without a contract I understand. I will not treat my skill with less honor than it deserves. I consider myself a worker of words. Sometimes I feel as if I deal with more shit than plumbers. But if I were a plumber, I wouldn't take a job for no money. (And I wouldn't let someone tell me that "alter" means "excerpt.")

This post has been brewing for more than six months. I'm putting it up now to add to the "self-publishing" versus "real" writing conversation. Authors are often treated like second-class citizens. (That's nothing new. Remember The Player?) Self-publishing allows writers to put out the work they want, to design covers they adore, and to treat themselves with the respect they deserve.

Of course, there are fabulous, dreamy publishers, too. (Post brewing on this topic, as well.) But self-publshing is an option that did not exist in this manner even a few years ago. There will always be writers. But I'm not so sure that there will always be publishers. (You should have seen how confident our printer was several years ago, pounding his hand on the table as he said e-books were a fleeting whim.) I feel as if writers should pay attention to the opportunities as we enter this new era of publishing.

Let's see what gets altered in the future.


November 15, 2014

What Makes You a "Real" Writer?

I don't watch many reality shows. (I can't take the stress.) But I occasionally dip into Project Runway because I believe fashion is art. And I'm always baffled when the designers discuss "real" women in an insulting way. I understand they're accustomed to dressing models. But "real" women just strikes me as such an odd term—as opposed to faux women?—especially because many designers appear unhappy with the concept. "Real" in this case is often negative.

A "real" writer, on the other hand, is something writers—faux writers?— are supposed to aspire to. I've heard that you're not a "real" writer unless you're published. You're not a "real" writer unless you've written a novel. "Real" in this case is a positive.

I read a whole string of advice from a published author the other day who was attacking self-published writers. Who basically said: If you are self-published and consider yourself an author, here's how to behave... Articles like this are all over the internet. (Some people want there to be a difference between "authors" and "book writers.") The pieces often make statements along the lines of: "You're not a doctor if you pick up a stethoscope. You're not a singer if you only sing in the shower. You're not a writer if you put up a self-published novel on Amazon."

I don't buy the doctor analogy. There's a difference between artistic fields and scientific fields. No, you don't want to go to an orthopedic surgeon who simply bought a kit. But I read that Van Gogh only sold one painting during his lifetime. Does that mean he wasn't a painter?

In fact, "self-published" now has this bizarre negative stench. But what if you say "indie"? What if you say "boutique"? There's a difference between watching a blockbuster movie and watching an indie film. And indies have this lovely intellectual glow to them. Ooooh, let's watch an indie. 'Zines had the same feel back in the 90s. Fuck mainstream, let's read a 'zine. (The 'zine writers I knew definitely considered themselves writers.) Now that anyone can self-publish a book, there's this whole—No, no, no. Those people aren't writers. They've only written a handful of stories, only a few books. (Some of the best and brightest writers were not extremely prolific. Harper Lee? Salinger?)

This week, I read an article stating that in order to be considered a professional author you had to be able to make your living from writing alone. I'm sorry. But wasn't Melville a clerk? Many writers have had to support themselves with other jobs. Jesus.

What infuriates me is that we now have the ability to even the playing field. Fabulous writers are able to publish their books themselves. Snagging a publishing deal with an advance that allows you to support yourself while you work is not going to happen for most writers. No, not all self-published books are going to be worth your time. But neither are the ones from the big publishing houses! That is what kills me. Simply because a publisher gave a writer a nod, doesn't make the words any better than those from an indie writer. (Stay tuned, because I will rant about publishers later.)

I have spent my career as an editor supporting writers. I want to work with people who value words. Who stay up late to write because they have two other jobs. Who read voraciously. Who devour sentences. Who repeat their favorite lines in random conversation. I don't give a fuck who published you previously—or even if you've been rejected by 100 other editors. (Wasn't J.K. Rowling rejected by 12 publishing houses?) I want to work with people who worship words.

My favorite definition of a writer appeared in Nickel and Dimed by Barbara Ehrenreich. (Just so you know, I've read this book more than 20 times.)

Years ago, when I married my second husband, he proudly told his uncle, who was a valet parker at the time, that I was a writer. The uncle's response, "Who isn't?" 

I love that. She continues:

Everyone literate "writes," and some of the low-wage workers I have known or met through this project write journals and poems—even, in one case, a lengthy science fiction novel.

You're a writer if you write. In fact, you're a real writer, no quotation marks required.


P.S. I think I've covered this topic in bits before. I named myself a word-worker here.
P.P.S. On the topic of Project Runway, would the contestants be "real" fashion designers? They seem to think so. But most don't have their own fashion houses.

November 14, 2014

"I take shop."

So the Guardian posted the "Bad Sex Award" contestants for 2014. I'm not linking because the site keeps crashing my laptop. But you can go look if you want.

When I read the passages, I could only think of one thing. The Breakfast Club. Specifically this scene in The Breakfast Club:

Bender: Why'd you think it would be easy?
Brian: Have you seen some of the dopes that take shop?
Bender: I take shop. You must be a fuckin' idiot!
Brian: I'm a fuckin' idiot because I can't make a lamp?
Bender: No, you're a genius because you can't make a lamp.
Brian: What do you know about Trigonometry?
Bender: I couldn't care less about Trigonometry.
Brian: Bender, did you know that without Trigonometry there'd be no engineering?
Bender: Without lamps, there'd be no light.

Why is that scene playing in my head? Because I believe many people consider erotic writing to be the equivalent of "shop" in the literary world. Any idiot could do it, right? Except, not. Writing scenes that are truly sexy can be incredibly difficult. I have edited close to 100 anthologies, and I have read thousands of short stories. The ones that grab you, that pin you down, the make your heart race—those are special.

Off the top of my head, I'm thinking:

She Looked Good in Ribbons by Sommer Marsden
Boot Camp by Kristina Lloyd
Foundation Stone by Jax Baynard
Selling Point by Carl Kennedy
Death Rock by Thomas Roche
Chloe's Confession by Sophia Valenti
Hook Trap by Sara Taylor Woods
Body Work by Cora Zane
Lucifer and Venus by Nikki Magennis
Fool's Gold by Shanna Germain

These are drop-dead gorgeous stories. The words linger. The images resonate.

However, reviewers often claim to be surprised by the quality of erotica. Many reviews by people unfamiliar with the genre read as insults wrapped in compliments. "It didn't suck. Isn't that amazing?"

That said—I do find the "Bad Sex Awards" a little mean-spirited. These are tiny paragraphs lifted out of context. And when I think "out-of-context," I think about this.

But I have decided when people ask me what I do from now on, I'll tell them that I take shop.


November 13, 2014

That's What She Said...

I have no idea where this idea came from. I think maybe I was inspired by the "write a novel in a month" contest—which is a writer challenge. So I thought hey—let's do a reader challenge. I've put up something before where I asked you all (y'all?) to guess which author wrote which excerpt. (That was based on a lovely review from the stellar Cheyenne Blue.) 

But I wanted to post a few saucy snippets and see if you can guess whether these pieces were written by men or women. (Not whether the stories are from the POV of a male or female—but whether a man or woman wrote each one.) On your marks, get set...

I’m reading an article in a women’s magazine about how to give the perfect blow job, how to satisfy a man utterly. The photograph accompanying the story is a man’s chest and stomach, a woman licking her way down his body with her mouth open wide. A faint treasure trail runs down between his six-pack abs. I read the description of how you should go down on your man, and I picture the pretty girl in the ad doing it to this incredible guy, to the cock that resides, quickly hardening, south of those perfect abs. Then I picture me doing that to you. My nipples stiffen in my business suit, pressing uncomfortably against my blouse, restrained by my lacy bra. I can feel an involuntary clench between my legs, and I know I’m getting wet.—Aisle Seat

I’m already hard, your smell, the tequila and the sight of your gorgeous body barely clad in white lace making me anything but my usual reserved self. I lean forward and slip my hands into your robe, closing my palms over your breasts.
            Your nipples are hard, and it’s not at all cold in here.
            As the robe comes open, I see that you’re nude underneath it. Your naked body looks gorgeous, familiar, exciting. I want it so bad it hurts. I kiss you, tasting you even over the salt and citrus and agave. Our tongues meet and you lean forward into me as my hands caress your tits. You’re breathing hard, scared or turned on or both. My thumbs press your nipples and you moan softly, wriggling deeper into my grasp. I bend forward and lick each nipple, feeling you shiver with each stroke of my tongue.
            “Want more tequila?” you ask, nervously.—Body Shots

When I started, I’d use a pillow, draped over the corner. I’d wear tight jeans and a thong, and spread my legs around it. Now I don’t even bother with the pillow. I just perch atop the machine. Usually, I do it sitting on top with my legs dangling over the side. Other times I get up close and personal, spreading around the corner. My favorite pants to wear when I’m doing that are my heavyweight, all-cotton sweats. But jeans work just fine, especially tight ones. Loading evenly is extra important if I’m going to go that route, though—in that position, a sudden, unexpected ka-thump could put me out of commission for weeks.
            The spin cycle is six minutes long. That’s always long enough for one, but sometimes not quite enough for two. Once I  managed three, though. Washable wool.
            I’ve gotten into the fetish of it; it turns me on to load the washer and then slowly strip my clothes off, leaving on just a bra and panties, then stuff the clothes in the cylinder and close the lid. I start the water and lean against the machine, waiting.
            When I first began, I would fantasize, but I don’t even need to do that any more. I get turned on just smelling laundry soap. Just walking into the garage excites me. The scent of clean clothes inspires a warm afterglow, and the clink of quarters arouses me just on general principle. Sometimes I walk past a laundromat and I have to go home and change my underwear. The one time the power was out at home, I did try to do my laundry in a laundromat. Now that was a disaster. I leaned against the washing machine as it fired into the spin cycle. I put my face against the metal as it vibrated, like a lover I couldn’t touch. I sighed softly, languishing as the single mothers and college students looked at me like I was a maniac.
            But at home, I climb on top and lean back against the machine, feeling the faint shiver as the cylinder fills with water. I feel it start to agitate, working back and forth in a rapturous kind of foreplay.
            Then, when I feel the spin cycle start, I let out a little moan.
            I lean back or hunker forward. I’ve gotten very limber; I can drape my knees over the side so I can press my pussy down hard against the machine. But that’s not even necessary; the vibrations can travel through my tailbone and into me if I lean back, gently pinching my nipples as the rhythm mounts.
            The machine pulses and shudders, fucking me with its cadenced motion. It goes faster, faster as the sensations build in me.
            And somewhere there, in the midst of the spin cycle, I come.—Machine Wash Hot

I understand—or, rather, I think I understand—why you asked me here, dressed up in an Armani suit and carrying a roll of hundred-dollar bills, to the lobby of the city’s best hotel at 10:00 on a Tuesday night. A late dinner in the hotel restaurant, perhaps—which has been getting rave reviews lately from the local papers—and then a booty call in a hotel suite. The idea intrigues me, though I might have been just as happy to meet you in your apartment, where of late I’ve had the best sex of my life. Thinking about that, I can feel my cock stirring in my pants, already, before you even take the barstool next to me.
            “This seat taken?” you ask, once you’re situated comfortably.—The Rules of the Game

God, the poor girl. Look at her, embarrassed to be standing there now, with her hard-on and her harness. She wants to cover up. She moves from side to side. She would feel so much happier if you’d include her, if you would talk to her, give her something to do. Let her participate in any way. You could tell her to kiss the boy, the back of his neck, his shoulders. You could tell her to perch on the edge of your chair and kiss you.

But why? Why would you do that? It’s so much more fun to watch her tremble. To watch her worry. The blowjob isn’t the only thing making your cock so hard.

A wicked idea occurs to you, one that almost makes you laugh. You close your eyes, you move forward a little, getting into a slightly more comfortable position, and you sigh, like this is the best bj you’ve ever fucking gotten. The best in your life. And you know that she’s standing there, that she’s drinking in every second of this. That she’s aching inside—wanting to show you how good she can make you feel, and sick at the thought that she’s second best in your world.

God, his mouth is fine. Put your hand out. Stroke his soft hair. Let him know… let him know with one touch how sweet he is.

Then open your eyes. See her fear and her anger and her jealousy warring with her. See her start to shake, the fear winning out.

Good. That’s just the way you like her.
—Breaking the Girl

If you want to play along, post your guesses in the comments. Male or Female for each of the excerpts.


P.S. Actually, the more I think about this, the more I think I've done something like this before. Deja Vu all over again, you know?

Answer Key: All right, so you all knew I was trying to be tricky, didn't you? The first four excerpts were all by Thomas Roche from stories that appear in the books His and Hers. The final one was by me and will appear in book #5 of my series of novels. My point—which I occasionally have—is that writers often can successfully write from different points of view. 

November 12, 2014

Violet Beautiful

Gorgeous, glittery disco ball courtesy of my favorite artist, Riendo. Honestly, I see a picture like this, and I want to write the perfect story to match the image. At the moment, I am simply staring in awe. But I thought this would be an ideal photograph to post with my brand-new giveaway.

I am so excited to have ten copies of Violet Blue's latest collection Filthy Housewives. To receive a copy, you simply need to write a review for Amazon. Hit me with your snail mail address at msalisontyler at yahoo dot com if you'd like a PDF.

The book is very exciting to me. An absolutely unusual collection from one of the top editors in the industry. I love everything about this one. The cover. The font. The layout. The little clever additions throughout. I can't wait to hear what readers think!


P.S. Tomorrow, I will post the winner to A.M. Hartnett's Halloween extravaganza. And I'll try to do a round-up and an update.

November 11, 2014

You can't judge a book by its cover...

Snapshot by the ridiculously talented Riendo
Well, yes. I know it's Tuesday. And I know I created Two-Fer Tuesdays—but I'm going to be out and about today, so I won't be able to double-post. (I think that sounds so filthy.) Instead, I wanted to put up this photo by Riendo, soon to be a new cover for Pretty Things Press.

I have to say, one of the reasons I'm so excited about publishing my own collections is being able to work with someone as talented as she is. I'm not a cover designer, and I've been told on multiple occasions that books won't sell without people on the covers. But honestly, I am at a place where if even one reader likes what I'm doing, I'll be satisfied. I cannot wait to use this picture. Gorgeous, gritty, palm trees, chrome. It's art. Flat out.

Of course, you can't judge a book by its cover—but I'm hoping that my interiors will live up to the sexy exteriors created by the remarkable Riendo.


November 10, 2014

Trollop with a Question #30

Listening to my parents tell their one favorite joke is far funnier than the joke itself. Which gave me the idea for today's question:

What is your favorite punch line?

That's it. Not the joke. But the punch line.

The one that my folks adore is: "You're probably right, but what's time to a pig?"

If you answered last week's question, please drop me your snail mail address to msalisontyler at yahoo dot com so I can gift you. And if you have a moment, slip over to Violet Blue's site to check out her fabulous new collection, Filthy Housewives.

Back tomorrow with a new "Two-Fer Tuesday." I'm working really hard this week to pay attention to what day it is!


November 08, 2014

Pleased to meet you...

For those of you just joining, I thought I'd do a quick greeting.


No, wait. A little more than that.

I recently received a fab review for my first Black Lace novel—Learning to Love It. (I wrote this book so long ago—1996, if memory serves—I honestly can't remember the whole plot. There was something about the Frankfurt book fair in it because I brainstormed the idea while showing at the fair.) The reviewer said: "I wish Tyler would write more novels."

And I thought—I did! Or, even, I do! I do write more novels.

But I decided I should give a little background to readers who don't know me that well. I've been working in the erotic field (that sounds like I'm plowing words, doesn't it?) for two decades—more or less. Well, more, actually. My publishers (I'm so possessive) have included Masquerade Books, Black Lace, Plume, Harlequin, Cleis, Go Deeper Press. There are more—but I'm drawing a blank. Plus, companies keep getting sold, which means that while I used to write for Virgin, I now write for Random House. I've proudly penned pieces for fabulous editors including Violet Blue, Thomas Roche, Sommer Marsden, Stephen Elliott, and Zane.

I have a background in publishing, and I run my own boutique house called Pretty Things Press. The goal when I started this company in 2002 was to bring out books that were beautiful on the outside and kinky on the inside.

My first magazine article was published when I was still in school. Since then, my words have appeared in Playgirl, Penthouse, Penthouse Variations, Cosmopolitan, Women's Health, and more. I write under more than one name.

I stand up for smut. I wave the flag for porn. I'm all about people getting what they want in stories—and I have written gay, straight, lesbian, menage, gang bang, solo, kink, vanilla, fetish, BDSM... basically, I try to cover all my bases. Or my fantasies. Or my realities.

My latest trio of novels were Dark Secret Love, The Delicious Torment, and Wrapped Around Your Finger. I'm currently at work on book #4 of this series. Stay tuned. It's a ride.

If anal is your thing, you'll be happy to get acquainted with my annual anal erotica series: Kiss My Ass, Bad Ass, Smart Ass, and Happily Ever Anal. (I never spell "annual" right on the first try.)

I believe I've published more authors than any other erotic editor. But I haven't done the actual math. (Because—hey, it's math.) To date, I've edited more than 75 anthologies containing more than 1,000 stories. I'm an equal opportunity employer. Which means that I've worked with writers who I don't necessarily get along with. But I'm loyal to my filthy little core.

I love giving away prizes. If you stick around, undoubtedly I will try to send you something in the mail. It will probably include Pop Rocks and Fortune Fish.

Insomnia has my name tattooed on her skin. I get by on coffee. Bios are hard.