Trollop with a Laptop

Who Wears Short Shorts?

2012-01-31T06:35:00.000-08:00

Actually, the question is who *writes* short shorts? Because I have a brand-new call to share. If you are so inclined, please consider submitting a story (or three) to my new anthology. Yes, believe it or not, I am about to edit my seventh (holy fuck, seventh!) compendium of short shorts.

Here are the deets:

1) I'm looking for original stories between 750 and 1,500 words. (Yes, I will accept a few shorter pieces. No, I won't accept any longer pieces. So don't ask. Really.)

2) Tease me, please me, but don't spook me or oog me. This means, no incest, underage, or animals. (And especially no incestuous, underage animals.)

3) Your characters can be as gay, straight, bi, or curious as you want them to be. I like a range of flavors in all my endeavors. (Except in coffee. I take that black.)

4) Fetishes are fabulous—and I love lots of them: spanking, D/s, BDSM, shoes, stockings, marabou fluff, cross dressing, oral, anal, group, phone sex, bubble wrap—and that was only last night. If you aren't sure if your theme will tickle my fancy, drop me a note and I'll discuss the situation with you. (And yes, I do like tickling.)

5) Deadline: April 1. Submit up to three stories per author. Paste them into an email and send to msalisontyler at yahoo dot com. Include a brief bio, as well.

6) Payment: $40 per story, due upon publication. You keep the rights — Cleis only wants the non-exclusive right to use your story in this collection (in all forms, audio, e-book, print, etc.).

7) What'd I forget? I can't remember. Can you?

XXX,
Alison

Better Bondage Erotica — Last Call

2012-01-29T06:34:00.000-08:00

The deadline is ticking away for my latest call for submissions. Just in case you missed it, I thought I'd post once more. And if bondage is not your thing, don't worry. I have a new call for subs that I'll be tossing out shortly. Shortly is a hint. Heh.

I'm ready. I'm willing. I'm waiting. I want better bondage stories. The ones that peel back the very skin of your average bondage story and delve deep into the BDSM soul. Send me the stories that hurt. The ones that turn the volume way up. The glossy type that lace to the knees. (I don't like 14 eyelet, btw. I like 20.) Give me chrome. Give me hardware. Cuff me down and force me sit in my chair to soak up every last word on the page.

My standard no-nos apply: no incest, no animals, no underage. Aside from that, I don't want gore. I don't want non-con. And I don't want bleak. If you've read my books, you know my style. If you haven't—hey man, why haven't you read my books?

Word count: 3000-5000 (but I'm a flexible little sprite—if you wow me with a shorter one, or draw me in with a longer one, I'll take it).

Deadline: February 1, 2012
Payment: $75 (for non-exclusive rights)
Publisher: Cleis Press

Questions: msalisontyler at yahoo dot com—and that's where you should send your piece, too.

Directions: Paste your sub into the body of your email. If I want it as a different format, I'll get back to you. Promise.

Bio: Shoot me one that is 50-100 words. Include your favorite form of bondage in your bio, please.

If you subbed previously for this collection, don't worry. I still have your story. If you've sold the piece elsewhere but want to send me something new, go for it. Just let me know.

XXX,
Alison

"Simply Excellent"

2012-01-28T05:19:00.000-08:00

I always strive to be the kind of person who doesn't give a fuck. (I strive, but I fail. Oh, how I fail.) I know how I ought to behave. If you get a bad review, you shake off the slime (along with the feeling that you're a sucky writer) and move on. If you get a good review, you pat yourself on the (insert some body part that you like) and return to your work in progress. I've made the mistake of engaging with reviewers in the past, and I don't go down that (good, bad, or ugly) road too often.

Still, when I won a 1-star review of Blushers that said:

none of the stories were hot or sexy i felt none of the characterrs had a connection. dont waste your money.

I felt bad. Even if the reviewer couldn't spell "characterrs" or, you know, "dont."

That's why this new review perked up my (insert some body part that you like).

5.0 out of 5 stars Simply Excellent, January 23, 2012
By Jade Cary "Romance" (Los Angeles)

Alison Tyler's BLUSHERS is a small but terrific series of spanking stories that will please anyone who is a fan of this genre, and those who might be new to it. Every story was alive with charm and style, every nuance in the personalities of the characters were spot on, and the stories were believable and engaging. There is something for everyone here: girl on girl, threesomes, master/sub, boss/subordinate...none of which, in and of themselves, appeals to me necessarily, but it all worked beautifully here. Alison is an excellent writer, which means she could write a story about walking across the street and it would be a hit. Her characters are real, her dialogue is believable, and the relationships between the characters are as close to real, emotional experiences as anything I have ever read. I highly recommend Alison Tyler and Blushers.

Jade Cary
Author, The Point of it All

Now, I'm fully planning to write a short story about walking across the street. I even have an image to go with the piece. Stay tuned.

XXX,
Alison

P.S. I'm buying this necklace from running with scissors. How effing cool can you get?

Ass Clown

2012-01-23T07:18:00.000-08:00

I asked Robbie Jenkins (wordsmith extraordinaire) if she could make me a pendant featuring the words "ass clown" or the word "assclown." It was going to be a gift for a very good friend. (In my research, I learned that while "asshat" had recently been added to the American Heritage Dictionary, "assclown" had not.)

Why I love Robbie Jenkins... she came back to me with the following list of "ass" words she could pendant-ize for me:

ass
assabout
assasin(womens breast)
ass-backwards
ass-belly
ass-bite
assbone
ass boy
ass-breaker
ass-bucket
ass-burglar
ass-buster
ass-busting
ass-chewing
ass-deep
ass- deep- to- a- tall -moose
assed
assed-out
ass-end-backwards
ass-end-of-nowhere
ass-end-to
assface
ass-fault
ass-frontwards
assfuck
assfucking
assgasket
ass-grabbing
ass-hammer
ass-hat
ass-head
ass-headed
ass-/hip-knee-/high to a tall indian
asshole
asshole ground
asshole buddy
asshole-deep
assholingest
ass-hound
ass-kick
ass-kicker
ass-kicking
ass kiss
ass-kisser
ass-lick
ass-licker
assload
ass 0ff
ass 0n backwards
ass pack
ass-poots
ass peddler
ass ripper
ass-scratchert
ass-side-about
ass-sucker
ass-tickler
ass-whipper
ass-whipped
astard-ba

I don't know why, but this list tickled me six ways to Sunday. Truly loved "ass on backwards," but I would be happy to wear about 11 of these (if I knew what they meant).

For more ass play, please visit Kristina Lloyd's Annual Anal Erotica page. There, I spelled that right, right?

XXX,
Alison

"witty and hot and sizzling"

2012-01-22T07:04:00.000-08:00

A few weeks ago, Rachel Kramer Bussel reviewed my new Harlequin novella, A Taste of Chi. Her write-up is here on Tumblr, and her Amazon review is below:

5.0 out of 5 stars Yoga is Sexy, January 8, 2012
By Rachel Kramer Bussel "Cupcakes Take the Cake ...

Yoga turns very sexy in this novella by Alison Tyler, which captures the longing of a seven year itch that hasn't been scratched and has left the narrator aching with desire. She's gone along with her partner Andrew's belief that getting it on will be a "waste of chi," even to the point that he doesn't want her masturbating, but when Cormac walks into her yoga class, she can't help but respond. The writing is witty and hot and sizzling with all those years of built-up frustration. Whether you've read Alison Tyler before or not (and whether you do yoga or not), check out this novella. It delivers on its promise and the sex is so scorching you could almost think it was worth the seven-year wait.

I can't tell you how much I appreciate the write-up. This story was a long time coming — both in the penning of the piece and in the publication. Ta very much, RKB. You made my day!

XXX,
Alison

Be Mine • Kiss Me • Love You

2012-01-21T07:54:00.000-08:00

I have about sixteen things I need to spill right now (like the dream in which a musician I know held me down to a polished wooden table and dyed the shock of silver hair over my forehead a deep, perfect emerald green). But because I promised myself this would be a year of writing contests, I want to be sure to toss out the new topic. (I promise to come back later and fill you in on the line-up for my next Harlequin book and the call for submissions for the next Cleis collection.)

If you're so inclined, please pen me a story of 500 words (max) that fits a Valentine's Day theme. I'm craving sultry, sexy, sublime stories that follow all my standard rules (characters must be over 18, and you must be over 18, too — no non-con, no animals, no kissing cousins or other family relations). Sub your story to me at msalisontyler at yahoo dot com by February 4th. (That's two weeks from today.) We'll run the poll until Valentine's Day. The winner will receive a killer "conversation heart" necklace.

So much tastier than those chalk-y candy hearts!

XXX,
Alison

Cuffing Kate

2012-01-18T06:51:00.000-08:00

Here is the cover for my next novella, due out (I think) in April from Harlequin Spice. I have some killer news from Harlequin regarding my third collection — but I need to wait for the final-final approval of a few stories before I go wide. Wait, is it go long? Before I spill. There you go. What else? I have calls for submissions banging on my brain to be let out. And I am going to post a new writing contest this week, also.

But right now, I simply want to gaze at my new cover and stroke the computer screen with the tips of my fingers. Isn't that what everyone does with a glossy new ebook cover?

XXX,
Alison

We have a fucking winner!

2012-01-17T05:06:00.000-08:00

We have a winner! Here are the results:

Harsh Response
Cherry Red
Helpless
Gentle Souls
Summer Rain

Every single one of the stories received multiple votes — which I always love to see.

If the anonymous authors would like to comment and claim their fame, I will put in links to your blogs or websites.

New contest (plus just some general new newses) to come soon!

XXX,
Alison

Five New Fucking Stories

2012-01-03T07:14:00.000-08:00

One of my goals for the New Year is to run writing contests each month. And look out. We're starting with a bang! Here are the fucking 500-word stories (or 500-word fucking stories) to kickstart 2012. I'm posting the pieces anonymously—writers can reveal themselves after the poll ends.

*****

Entry #1: Harsh Response

"I always loved you."

As soon as the words slipped out of my mouth, I knew it was the wrong thing to blurt out. I didn't intended to say it quite so loud or actually say it at all. It was in my thoughts, but in a lunch about Dave's latest breakup, it definitely wasn't the right thing to say. I watched with growing fear as his lips compressed into a thin line.

"Ever since high school, I wanted to fuck you." No, that didn't help. I clamped a hand over my mouth before any other secrets slipped out. Not that had we many, we've been commiserating about poor lovers and ruined relationships for thirty years.

He stood up, his dark eyes focused on me. There was a surge of heat that coursed through my body, gathering along my nipples, clitoris, and lips as he took a step through me.

I stood up and backed away but he kept coming. I didn't know if he was going to hurt me or kiss me, but then I backed into the kitchen door. I flailed for the handle but missed. I looked up as he grabbed the front of my shirt with both hands and banged me tight against the door.

"What-"

His mouth caught mine, trapping the word in my throat. His lips--I dreamed of them for years--kissed me and I felt my knees turning to jelly. Dave yanked his arms apart and I shuddered as my blouse buttons were torn off. His hands followed the cool air and he shoved my bra aside to maul my breasts.

I let out a whimper, caught against the door and his body.

Dave reached behind, but instead of fumbling, he just tore the bra clasp apart and yanked it off my body. It left four red brands on my skin. He grabbed the front of my skirt and jerked me from the door.

My bare feet skittered against the tile floor. I couldn't control my balance as he shoved me into the table and bent me over it. My nipples crushed the sugar cookies but thankfully the coffee splattered across the floor.

His hands yanked up my skirt until he could jam two fingers into my cleft. By the time his fingers tore aside my thong, I was hot and slick. He grabbed my hair, wrapping it twice around his free hand, before he pulled hard. He entered with a frantic desperation, driving his cock
into me. I could feel my thong adding to the friction and pulling out a few short hairs. He bottomed out and his zipper ground into the sensitive flash.

A crack filled the air when he smacked my ass. I cried out and he did it again. His cock drove deeper as he spanked me again. I clenched around him as I came.

He yanked on my hair and I had to arch my back. I felt his panting breath tickle my ear as he chuckled, "Me too."

*****

Entry #2: Helpless

He was a wicked, twisted man, and he had her twisted around his little finger. She always had the option of saying no.

She never could.

He knew that.

Music was her release, and he capitalized on that. Fucked her in time to the beat of her favorite songs, but telling her not to come until he said so. The slow songs weren’t much easier than the fast ones.

More insidious was the special vibrator that moved and buzzed in time to the music playing through her headphones. Oh, he’d tortured her for a long time with that one.

Unsurprisingly, he wanted more. Wanted to push her farther. And she let him.

She had tickets to her favorite metal band—front and center. Of course she’d dress the part, leather and lace. Nobody would think twice about a collar buckled around her neck.

Except he’d found a new one for her. One with nipple clamps attached. Two chains dangled from the front of the collar, down into her low-cut shirt. Would people know? He assured her, his voice low and threatening, that they would. They’d know just what a slut she was.

And if they didn’t, he’d flip up the back of her skirt and show them the stripes where the cane had crashed down, barely redder than the most recent spanking had blushed her round cheeks.

She was surprised when he said she could wear a thong. She shouldn’t have been. She shouldn’t have seen it as a concession or a gift.

Because before she slipped them up her legs, he pressed a hand against her back, bending her over the bed, her ass in the air. She moaned, afraid and yet craving another assault on her ass.

The fear and arousal had made her wet. His fingers determined that quickly, and he stroked her clit until she was moaning in frustrated arousal.

She almost came when he stuffed the bullet vibrator up into her. She caught herself just in time.

She almost lost it again when she realized what he was going to do. By then it was too late.

They were at the show. The music pounded, and the clamps pulled and pinched as she danced. Her nipples nearly drilled through her top—was it obvious to the band? Probably. She flushed with embarrassment and delight.

He toyed with the remote, playing with the settings. Ratcheting her need to come higher and higher without letting her pitch over the edge. Growling in her ear between songs, describing in exquisite, horrifying detail how she’d be forced to orgasm publicly in front of the entire audience, in front of the band.

She wanted to tell him no.

The music, the humiliation, and the desperate need all screamed yes.

As she pitched over the edge, he promised her there was still more to come….

*****

Entry #3: Summer Rain

“Wet enough for you?” Lyla asked, watching the raindrops wind their way down Theresa's muscular arms as she paddled. The sky had been a clear and cloudless blue when they set out that morning, but by mid-afternoon it was as grey as the old woolen army blanket Lyla was now pulling over her head as a makeshift raincoat. The Summer rain didn’t mess around. Once it started it came down hard.

“I hate to say I told you so, but, well, I told you so. It always rains here on New Year's Eve. It's like a rule or something,” Lyla continued. “Honestly we might as well be swimming!”

“Are you asking me to throw you overboard? Because I will!” Theresa turned so Lyla could see her mascara streaked face. The firm set of her mouth said she was only half joking.

“No,” Lyla squeaked.

“Well then shut up and keep an eye out for a good spot on the bank to rest. We can shelter under the canoe.”

In a few minutes time they were doing just that. Lyla nestled into the crook of Theresa's arm as the rain hammered a tattoo on the hull of the canoe drowning out the calls of the birds and the sound of the river. Theresa slid a hand down to the fly of Lyla's jeans and expertly popped the button open. Going on texture alone she moved her fingers past soft lace and feathery hair until she reached the warm slit hidden there. She began the lazy rhythmic stroking that usually had her young Australian lover purring like a cat.

Suddenly, Lyla giggled.

“Is something funny?” Theresa asked.

“Sorry, I was just thinking of something from Monty Python.”

“At a time like this! What was it?”

“Oh, just that what we're doing is like your American beer.” Lyla loved ribbing Theresa about her country, but this was odd timing even for her.

“What?” Theresa's voice took on a warning tone.

“It's fucking close to water!” Lyla giggled again heedless of the consequences.

“Fucking? I'll give you fucking!”

Theresa rolled on top of Lyla and tugged down her jeans. Pinning the slender blonde's hands above her head with just one of her own strong hands she kissed her roughly. As her tongue pushed its way into her lover's mouth she reached down with her free hand and resumed her exploration of Lyra's cunt. She slipped first one, then two fingers rapidly in and out reaching for the familiar rough spot in the velvety wetness. She pulled away from Lyra's mouth and the blonde gasped “Lube! Backpack. Front pocket.”

Moments later, Lyra gasped at the cold wetness as Theresa's fingers drove back into her, three this time, then four. Finally Theresa pushed and felt her whole fist slide in. Lyra rocked against her hand as she pumped in and out, filling her completely.

Afterwards, as Lyla lay there gasping, Theresa smiled. “Yeah. That's wet enough.”

****

Entry #4: Gentle Souls

Lily manages the small local, adoption guaranteed, animal shelter. She’s married, moody, and a mystery to her co-workers. Her husband, an economist, is in Stockholm. Tuesday he makes a presentation at The Riksbank. Tonight, New Years Eve, Lily scheduled herself for the evening shift.

After midnight, she sits on the floor of the run occupied by Ranger, an elderly hound who no one seems to want. The concrete is warmed by radiate floor heating. She feeds him, by hand, a mix of dog food and Milkbones, his favorite.

The kennel is quiet. She has turned off the main kennel lights, but she has yet to turn off the Bach, Brahms, Schubert mixed-CD that she knows is calming to the dogs.

She hears someone clicking the five-digit passcode to the kennel. It’s Will, the shelter’s veterinarian, a retired academic, tall, slim, and sixty. They’ve known each other for four years.

“I’m over here.”

He sits, knees up, next to her and feeds Ranger. “I came because at midnight on New Years Eve the dogs can talk.”

“You missed it! We had a great conversation. I read them Creeley’s ‘I Know a Man,’ from by PhD dissertation. They all said they love you Will, especially Ranger. I love you Will!
“I love you Lily!”

As they leave the kennel, in the cold and snow, and under the tangerine-orange colored mercury-vapor lamp, they kiss. She feels his big hands cupping her ass.

Will’s bedroom overlooks Lake Michigan. In candlelight, he orders, “Take off your clothes.” She indulges in one perk, luxurious underwear. She slowly, seductively slides the waist of her jeans over Argentovivo panties, pulls off her shirt, and turns slowly.

“Bend over.” She does. He smacks her ass.
“Ohgod again. Again!”

Two outwardly gentle souls, shy among others, thrash against each other. She pounds her fists on his shoulders and pushes him roughly down on the bed. He gets up and throws her onto the bed.

She gets to her hands and knees. Her pussy is wet. From behind, he slides her panties aside. Their thrusts are powerful, the sounds crescendo. The room smells of sex.

With her hands and knees, now she pins him on his back, his harderectcock pointing towards Betelgeuse. She straddles him. They make eye-contact. As she rides his cock, she hisses “Deeper! Faster! Harder! Lily’s small breasts bounce wildly.

He lowers her to the bed and slides between her legs. The urgency is dissipating. She feels her clit slipping between his wet lips. She knows she is close to coming, and when his finger slips into her ass, she comes, violently, followed by prolonged breathless waves slow to subside.

They spoon. “I need you.” She fingers her pussy. She will come again tonight and she will make Will come. She savors Will’s huge hands stroking her back. She wonders if the roller-coaster experience of their fucking, violent—tender—urgent—sensuous, mimics the up-and-down passions of their shared work at the shelter. She closes her eyes.

*****

Entry #5: Cherry Red

Fuck.

Leni wasn’t sure if she said it out loud, or only thought it, when her back slammed into the wall and the air rushed out of her lungs. Three fingers, quickly becoming four, pressed into her almost without preamble.

She’d known the tattooed bartender would be a firecracker, but still hadn’t been prepared for this. Once the dam had broken after an evening of dancing around each other, once they finally began to touch, they’d unleashed something beyond of both of their control.

Leni didn’t even know her name. The bartender had told her, but it had been loud and Leni hadn’t caught what she’d said. She couldn’t ask now.

The bartender’s hair was so black it shone green in the light, like a beetle, and was cut with choppy bangs that framed her face. It was one of the first things Leni had noticed about her when she’d walked into the bar, that and her bright red fuck-me lipstick.

The lipstick that was being smeared into the skin of Leni’s throat as the bartender sucked and bit at her, as if to eat her alive. She found an especially sensitive spot beneath the bolt of her jaw and Leni moaned, a deep, resonating sound that filled the small space they were in. The bartender took that for the encouragement it was and pressed her narrow frame closer to Leni’s body, leaving barely enough room for her hand to work between them.

She slid her fingers in and out of Leni’s body more forcefully, jarring her with each thrust, and making her go weak in the knees when her thumb finally found Leni’s swollen clit and began to rub. Leni threw her arms around the other woman, hoping for little more than to hold on for the ride.

“So fucking hot,” the bartender whispered into her ear when she took a break from trying to devour Leni’s neck.

“Uughh,” Leni responded inelegantly, her whole body beginning to convulse as she was overwhelmed with waves of sensation. Leni dug her fingers into the bartender’s back, her thin white tank providing little protection against Leni’s nails. But Leni was far beyond caring about leaving marks. This woman was taking her apart from the inside out, finding all her buttons on the first try. No one had ever been confidant enough to be this rough with her, Leni was hooked and knew other lovers were going to fall short by comparison.

As Leni’s contractions subsided the bartender pulled her hand free and wiped it against her own jeans. Leni followed the bartender back into public area and watched as she took her station once again and immediately started making Leni another whiskey sour. She dropped a cherry into the drink and handed it to Leni, her fingers still glistening. Leni pulled the cherry out of the drink and popped it in her mouth, it tasted like her.

*****

I'm going to leave the poll up for two weeks to give everyone time to read and vote. (So that means the poll will run until the wee hours of January 17th, if I've programmed this thing right.)

Now take a deep breath, prepare your pointer finger, and vote!

XXX,
Alison

Go on... Taste My Chi

2012-01-02T19:45:00.000-08:00

Thank you to Saskia Walker who pointed out that A Taste of Chi is now available for sale! (Her own new release is Going Down, also out from Harlequin Spice.)

If you decide to taste my chi, please drop me a note and let me know what you think!

XXX,
Alison

P.S. I know I promised y'all a poll. I am waiting on a query to one author, but if I don't hear back, I'll make one of those executive decisions I've heard so much about and pull the trigger myself.

Knock Wood for the New Year!

2012-01-01T07:47:00.000-08:00

Yes, I've got a new poll and fresh stories to put up, which I will do tomorrow. I promise. For today, I thought I'd simply wish everyone a dreamy 2012. I'm knocking wood (and throwing salt) that this year will bring... you fill in the blank. Are you hopeful? Are you giddy? Does the end of one year and the start of a new one give you great joy? Or is today simply another day in your world—albeit one begun on a new calendar and with a potential hangover?

For me, 2012 is definitely going to be interesting, because I have nine (I think I counted that right) new projects to deliver. More on these to come shortly.

How about you? Fuck resolutions. Do you have any plans and schemes... or hopes and dreams?

XXX,
Alison

P.S. I wear my Knock Wood, Throw Salt rings nearly every day. When I'm not wearing these beauties, I tend to wear three different word rings, also by Loving Anvil. She's the best!

Normal People Scare Me

2011-12-31T08:35:00.000-08:00

Love this shirt. Love when Tate wears a similar shirt on American Horror Story. Love American Horror Story. Excuse me while I obsess. I don't generally become addicted to TV shows. Yes, there have been a few main ones in the past. Rome, oh, Rome. The Sopranos. But I tend to lose interest and forget I'm addicted.

American Horror Story wasn't like that. Two close friends told me to watch the show, which is funny because I don't like being scared anymore. I did the whole "scare me" thing back in the day. You know my m.o. I don't seek out the dark or depressing. But this show captivated me from the start. God, it's so fucking pretty. Yes, the scenes are dark—I mean, like, physically dark. But everything is so carefully placed. The rooms remind me of hyper-polished short stories. Not even a punctuation mark out of place.

I've watched the whole season one time, and now I want to go back through and watch AHS more carefully. I remember viewing Twin Peaks with a group of friends, analyzing and dissecting after each episode (over cherry pie and coffee, if memory serves). AHS brings out the same desire in me. Although I take my AHS with tequila rather than coffee.

How about you? Addicted, aloof, or other?

XXX,
Alison

"SMUT"

2011-12-30T06:40:00.000-08:00

In cool news of the week, several of my anthologies are now available as audiobooks. My first Harlequin collection has been on Audible for quite some time, and now Frenzy, Got a Minute, Best Bondage Erotica, and Afternoon Delight are also up for aural appreciation.

I went poking around on the Audible site and saw that Alison's Wonderland has received 70+ ratings by listeners, but only one review. The review cracked me up:

SMUT"
Short stories that consisted of porn and smut. I love a good steamy and erotic book, but this book lacks both. Do not waste your credit unless you are bored watching porn and world rather listen to it.

Even after all these years, I am still shocked when someone finds Harlequin too porny. Yes, I live in a smut-filled bubble. But really? Alison's Wonderland? Porn and smut? I wish the reviewer would have ticked off the titles s/he does find appealing. What's steamy to someone like this? The back of a cereal box?

Truly, I love that "smut" is all caps in the review. Like a warning sign. SMUT. Heh. If you've listened to any of these anthologies, please drop me a note. I'd love to hear what you think!

XXX,
Alison

Fuck...

2011-12-28T07:41:00.000-08:00

What is it about laser-cut acrylic that makes me wet? As you can see, I'm on a fuck theme. Fuck necklaces, that is. This is just a little (fucking) reminder that I have a writing contest up and running. Rules and regs are right here!

XXX,
Alison

Keep Calm and Have a Merry Christmas!

2011-12-24T07:19:00.000-08:00

Oh, I love these! Especially, all together like this. How could you *not* feel calm if you were wearing 10 "keep calm" necklaces?

I kept calm yesterday by hitting one of my all-time favorite bars with one of my all-time favorite friends. Drinking in daytime is such a naughty pleasure. The 3 p.m. shot of tequila hit more than the spot. I've written about the bar in so many different stories and novels—beginning, I think, with Rumors nearly a decade ago all the way up to this year's "Plucked" from Smart Ass:

She’s at the bar that night. We’re all at the bar. Small-town living means that your choices are narrowed to two—stay home or go to The Local. Sandy’s at the corner—his corner. Nobody would dare to sit on Sandy’s stool, even when he’s not in the bar. That’s how things are out here. What’s yours is yours. At least, until you lose your turn. The woman steps inside and scans the room quickly. I can see her assessing the situation. Battered floor that matches the scuffed bar that matches the ripped-up stools. An old jukebox—not vintage, mind you, nor refurbished retro—just fucking old.

From the large, luscious picture window, we could see people scurrying around to do their last-minute holiday shopping. But we were calm as could be as we sipped sublimely and watched the restless natives.

Hope you find a spot of calm in your merry-merry madness!

XXX,
Alison

"without repentance"

2011-12-23T06:39:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I discover reviews of books that seem to be translated from other languages. (Not the books, the reviews.) Or from English to another language and then back to English. But this is more baffling. A mention of Kiss My Ass appears on a blog post called: "The help of the Covering letter Can Fatal your Search of Work."

Snort.

You know what your potential new boss searches in the employee? You know, position demands what specific skills? You know, how quickly your statement can be lowered in stuff without repentance ; Kiss My Ass Annual Anal Erotica Alison Tyler, Jax Baynard, Kristina Lloyd, Sommer Marsden, Sophia Valenti?

You the covering letter should be allocated for you to be noticed and for you, to make it by the first reduction. Zakanchivanie the first reduction is considerable step to were employed in the company of your dreams.

It's a bizarre little site that offers links to illegal downloads. (I've inserted my own links instead.) And I don't understand why or how our book got mentioned there. Putting the hows aside, this is my favorite part of the piece:

Reception of the help of the covering letter is one of few areas which can matter between creation of the first reduction, and reception of your statement has inserted stuff. Spend you search of work with impression of professionalism and make your following work big.

I kind of like "has inserted stuff" almost as much as "can be lowered in stuff without repentance." Maybe the word "stuff" as a placeholder simply cracks me up. At least, *they* spelled Anal and Annual correctly! Sheeesh.

XXX,
Alison

P.S. Do *you* need this pendant? I know *I* need this pendant!

The life and times of a publisher

2011-12-22T07:16:00.000-08:00

I saw these shoes on a website a few days ago, and now they are following me all over the internet. Popping up here and there in the sidebars when I least expect to see them. Unfortunately, the site where I found them is totally out of my size—so I am being stalked by shoes I can't even buy!

Why am I gazing longingly at shoes?

Because today I received a hostile email from a distributor who was seriously unhappy because they could not order one of our books. I mean, one copy of one of our books. This is why we closed the warehouse, people. But hello—I remembered that this same company had sent us a draconian letter several months ago that we were required to sign and send back. This was one of those surreal letters you get from time to time. We were asked to agree to settle a disputed claim without any admission of liability on the part of either party.

That's nice, right? I love guilt-free exchanges.

But see, I had no idea what the disputed claim was. There was no hint of what the dispute was in the note. Even more charming, there was no place to return the statement—no email, fax, or mail address on the letter. Since the letter had been forwarded to us by our warehouse, I went to the warehouse for answers. Apparently, they had lost the email address from whence it came. (Wow, I've never actually typed those words all together before. I feel so Dickensian.)

This was my verbatim discussion with our warehouse contact:

I have no idea what this is. What disagreement did we have with Ernie and Bert? (I've made a difficult to spot substitution for the company's actual name.)

Back from our warehouse:

Good morning Alison,

I don't know either. Are you selling to Ernie and Bert? I have you listed as a full service account. We wouldn't have contacted Ernie and Bert.

Let me know if you need anything.

So clearly, that was going nowhere fast.

But what I loved best about the "Mutual Settlement and Release" was the fact that I was required to "execute and deliver this full and mutual release of any and all claims" on or before 12/31/10.

I received the paper in August. 2011.

There was a whole lot of other legal-eze in the letter. And I believe the letter came from the fact that I had simply stopped fulfilling their orders. This mega-company would order single copies of our books and then return the same copies six months later. We would receive $6.73 from them after about 120 days, which would not cover shipping and handling on our end or the restocking when they returned the books. They would then ask for the $6.73 in credit.

Which is why I'm looking at shoes.

No, really. I am not above saying this. What calms me down more than any meditation (or medication) is to scan the internet for things I like. Lipsticks, boots, glossy patent leather anything. That is the way I Om.

Now off to see if I can find those shoes in a UK5! Wish me luck. But don't send me any mutual agreement settlement statements. I might have to buy the 20-eyelet Docs.

XXX,
Alison

Boy, are my cheeks red...

2011-12-21T10:51:00.000-08:00

I am so fucking embarrassed. Thank god for Kristina Lloyd, who noticed what my eyes missed. Can you believe I wrote Anual Annal Erotica instead of Annual Anal Erotica?

Hopefully, the new book will be reader-ready shortly. Until then, damn are my cheeks red.

XXX,
Alison

Dear Santa...

2011-12-20T13:26:00.000-08:00

I'd like these for Christmas. But I can't lie and say I've been good. Can I say I've been so bad I'm good?

XXX,
Alison

Listen here...

2011-12-19T07:02:00.000-08:00

Afternoon Delight is now an unabridged audiobook!

I've done some audio work years ago, and I fully contemplate how difficult a job being a reader is. (Especially, for a novice like me.) I just spied this review for one of the books I worked on: "A good erotic story wrecked by what appears to be overacting menopausal chain-smoking readers."

At least, that one was tempered by this one, "Dramatisation is what sets this work apart from other erotica. Listen to sexual conversations between lovers. Sexy as hell. I had never tried a dramatisation before -- only the unabridged stories -- but dramatisation gives the stories a freshness and thrilling immediacy. I want more!"

I don't plan ever to be on that side of a studio again—my nerves were too nervy—but I am beyond thrilled that some of my books are now being translated to this format. Now readers—I mean, listeners—will have a whole new way to enjoy the collections!

XXX,
Alison

Finally Fucking Friday...

2011-12-16T07:25:00.000-08:00

Yay! It is. Finally. And do you know what? I am all fucking set to give a prize away. Why? Because I haven't for a really long time. I've been distracted for oh, I don't know, the past six months. That's not to say I haven't gotten my other work done. But I've had the pressure of the warehouse and the financials on my shoulders, as well.

And now? Not.

Both warehouses are closed. The forms are in the mail. And I am free to focus on nine (count them, nine) new titles. But before I get started, I wanted to toss out a quick challenge. If you:

• are so inclined
• are 18 or over
• know not to write about animals, family members, those under the age of consent, or those unwilling to consent

... then please consider entering my new contest.

Write me up to 500 words of fabulous, fierce, full-on fucking. If I receive more than one entry, we'll have a poll. Winner will walk home with this necklace (above) — and possibly a slot in a new collection I'm putting together for Cleis (more on that shortly).

I'm always open to same-sex stories, to BDSM, to spanking (oh, yes), to fantasy, to people who love each other, to people who just met, to threesomes, to foursomes, to many moresomes. But if you have a question, go ahead and shoot me an email.

What do you say? Send your submissions directly to me at msalisontyler at yahoo dot com. Include your pen name and a note that says you are over 18. I'll post the subs anonymously and we'll go from there. Deadline is... New Year's Eve.

Ready... Set... Fuck!

XXX,
Alison

What the...

2011-12-15T13:02:00.000-08:00

So Sam is on daily medication. Forever. I'm not sure if you know how long forever is. I'm hoping forever is a long fucking time. Anyway, we've had trouble every month for several years with the refills of this prescription. It is a mandatory medication to keep him alive. These aren't pain pills. They aren't happy drugs. But every month, the pharmacy says there are no refills left. This month's meds were supposed to be available yesterday.

I go in this a.m., and the checker takes Sam's name and date of birth and tells me there are no prescriptions in the queue for him.

"I ordered the prescription on Monday," I say.

"Is this a new prescription?"

"No, a refill."

"From a new doctor?"

"No, same doctor."

"Nothing in the system," she says cheerfully.

"I talked with *you* on Monday," I tell her. "*You* told me there were no refills, and I had Sam call *you*. *You* said the doctor had to call to confirm, and the doctor confirmed. Because we've had so much trouble in the past, the doctor wrote a prescription for a year's worth."

It takes a lot for me not to say fucking at least 16 times in that little speech.

"Nope. We have no record of any prescription," she says, a twinkle in her eye.

I actually feel myself starting to tear up. In line. At the pharmacy. Nothing good can come of this. I honestly don't know what to do.

"But I talked with you," I say again, as if that might help.

"I'm sorry that I don't remember having that conversation," she says. (Holy fuck, right? I talked to her. Sam talked to her. The doc talked to her. I know she deals with many different customers, but there were multiple discussions here.)

Suddenly, her co-worker says, "Oh, wait. I think I have a fax about Sam. The pills will be ready in 20 minutes."

So I fuck around in the cosmetics section for 20 minutes. When I get back, the line is huge. And everyone in line seems to be waiting for their next dose of hallucinogenic drugs. The woman in front of me is calming a dog that doesn't exist. I get to the front of the line, with the same checker, and go through the same story. Sam's name. His date of birth. All the sort of info that couldn't possibly have changed in the twenty minutes I've spent trying lipsticks on the back of my hand.

"We don't have enough to fill the whole scrip," she says, "Do you need a partial?"

"Yup," I say, through gritted teeth. "I need a partial."

"Twenty minutes," she says.

I spend twenty minutes fucking around in the liquor section. What a happy place to be at 10:30 on a Thursday. When I come back to the counter, the lady gives me—I shit you not—four pills in a bottle. This is a partial. 4 now. 361 some other day. I would like to be able to use this concept in other ways. I'll pay a partial on my gas bill. Four bucks now, 100 some other day.

"The rest will be ready tomorrow," she says.

"Great."

"I mean Saturday," she says.

"Fine."

"Between four and six p.m."

I sigh. There's a two-hour window for me to pick up the rest of the motherfucking pills? Apparently so. But we have an engagement on Saturday evening. Luckily, we have those four fucking pills to get Sam through to Sunday.

I have no moral to this story. I have no happy ending, aside from a nice bottle of Scotch and six new lipsticks. But I have to say, WTF? Right? What the fuckety fuck.

XXX,
Alison

Raving Lunatic

2011-12-14T07:10:00.000-08:00

Everyone I know has some version of anxiety or stress disorder. No, really. I'm not paranoid at all. Heh. It's as if all my friends hit forty and went a little loony. And I'm good with it. But I've been noticing that everyone has their own push-button anxieties. That makes sense, right? What trips one friend's freak wire blows over another without even a ripple.

One of my buddies can't stand driving over bridges. Another will panic if caught in a traffic jam. (I found that out when I was caught in a traffic jam with her. Not pretty, Dave. Not pretty.) With me, well, I have too many to really quantify. But a main one is filling in forms. It's not that I drool and writhe on the floor. The thing is that I worry — I worry I've filled in something incorrectly, that I've irrevocably fucked something up.

Hate forms. I fucking hate them. Did I mention? Hate forms. That is why I was in such the celebratory mode last night. Because what I finished was six-months of online data entry followed by meticulous form filling.

We used to pay a company $2700 to do what I did—plus an additional $650 a month to do what I wasn't doing every month. When you have a loss in the tens of thousands (hemorrhaging warehouse expenses is, um, expensive) you can no longer pay other people to be meticulous.

But now the lunacy is over. Ha. You don't believe that for a second, do you? I mean, pushed momentarily to the side. I have cleared the slate, and I'm almost ready to post new calls for submissions. I'm not saying I won't be the raving lunatic you know and love — but I am saying I won't be filling in wee little boxes for awhile.

XXX,
Alison

P.S. Oh, don't you love these raving lunatic earrings? Lunatic is actually one of my all-time favorite words thanks to Pink Floyd. That and "batshit."(Okay, maybe the second is two words. But they go so well together.)

Stick a Fork in Me...

2011-12-13T20:49:00.000-08:00

I'm done. I'm so done. I'm super fucking done! I've been working on our company's pitiful financials for the 2010/2011 fiscal year since, oh, June, and boy are my arms tired. I mean, I am done! I've signed the forms. I've made the copies. Tomorrow, I bring the envelope to the post office and kiss them goodbye.

Tonight, I drink.

You have no idea how difficult this was for me. For very wee amounts of money, I had to enter numbers into Quickbooks under all sorts of accounts. This is because we had (until last month) two warehouses. So even though the numbers ended up in the negative, I still had to keep careful track of each and every pathetic entry.

Yes, I will have one more round of forms (due in January) and final ones that will include the warehouse info next June. But for now, say it with me: I'm done!

XXX,
Alison

A New Twist on Tiffany

2011-12-13T06:57:00.000-08:00

I love the new cover for Tiffany Twisted! I'm not sure when this version of the e-book will be live. But I really love the look of Rouge's design! How clever the tagline is, too: Ever Wonder What It's Like to Be a Man?

XXX,
Alison

"I could trust Alison Tyler..."

2011-12-11T19:45:00.000-08:00

I like that. How could she trust me? She could trust me to put together "a collection of stories that is the perfect balance of spicy and well-written kink." I like that, too. "Well-written kink." That pretty well sums up my desires as an editor. I try my best to put together anthologies compiled of well-written kink.

These lines are from a 4-star review of Hurts So Good. You can read the entire review Night Owl Reviews.

The reviewer's main complaint? Too much spanking!

I get spanked a lot. I mean, I get that note a lot. But I have a difficult time sitting down. I mean, holding back. I know not everyone out there likes spanking. That's okay. I like the fetish enough for the rest of the crowd.

XXX,
Alison

P.S. Raise your hand if you can tell I've been drinking.

"well-written, intensely erotic stories"

2011-12-10T07:02:00.000-08:00

It's Saturday. It's early. I have seventeen things to do in the next half hour. And I just spelled hour like this: our. That happens sometimes when I'm working too fast. Not that I misspell "hour," necessarily, but that I misspell everything. Like misspell. That looks wrong to me. Except it's not. But it does give me the opportunity to link to this clever piece on misspelled words. (I like the part about the dolphins.)

What I really wanted to do was toot my own horn (and ring my own jingle bells) about this fab new review for Naughty or Nice:

Described as “a blazing-hot feast of holiday erotica sure to jingle sleigh bells and curl mistletoe,” this collection features a little bit of everything to please almost everyone. There’s some bondage, BDSM, lesbian encounters, gay love stories, and even an incident with a couple of candy canes, if that’s your thing. This book separates the good girls from the bad, then gets them both naked.

Read the entire review here.

And have a happy Ho-Ho-Holiday!

XXX,
Alison

P.S. Love the pendant, don't you?

Aw, you're making me Blush

2011-12-08T05:54:00.000-08:00

Wait, I think *I'm* making me blush! I was asked by Harley Moore to pen a piece about spanking. A piece about spanking! Why on earth would anyone think that I would want to write a... oh, yeah. That's right. I love spanking. Okay, so I was asked to write a little article, and I went hard. I mean, long.

Check me out at the 4-letter word blog!

XXX,
Alison

...not just about anal...

2011-12-06T06:43:00.000-08:00

How's this for a fab new five-star review for Smart Ass?

I am a fan of erotica but never read any collection specific to anal. This short anthology however was a wonderful and surprising read. Every story is deliciously intense, and they were not what I expected... I was pleasantly surprised to find depth of character in the stories, and they were not "just" about anal. This is a worthy collection and one I have loaned to a couple of friends already.

We work so hard on these taut little collections.I love when swell reviews like this one pop up unexpectedly!

XXX,
Alison

Wham, Bam, Thank you, Sam!

2011-12-05T07:47:00.000-08:00

Oh holy fuck. What a way to start a week! So, I was planning on wearing this luscious sweater dress. Black and white stripes—very sinuously cut. Sam walked in while I was sliding on the stockings.

"This is what you're wearing? Out of the house?"

Now? Not. But I swear, trying to stride out in that formfitting dress was absolutely 100 fucking percent worth the effort!

XXX,
Alison

Kink Up Your Christmas (redux)

2011-12-05T06:14:00.000-08:00

I spent a few hours (which felt like days) trying to tame our cover photo for the print version of Smart Ass. Thank god, the kick-ass Kristina Lloyd saved the day with her photo-tweaking skills.

The POD of Smart Ass should be available soon. This is our third annual anal sex collection: Kiss My Ass, Bad Ass, Smart Ass. Wouldn't a kinky holiday present be a Kindle pre-stocked with all three of these filthy little titles?

XXX,
Alison

P.S. With those twinkles, the cover actually sort of has a Christmassy anal sex feel, doesn't it? Hmmm. Maybe I just need more java!

Bad Ass Kicks Ass

2011-12-01T07:15:00.000-08:00

We won a kick-ass new review for Bad Ass. I love reviews like this!

Character driven. Yes, not something you'd expect to read in a review about anal sex but yes, these are all very well-written stories that draw you in. Oh yeah, they're really HOT too!!!!!!!

See? You can have it all. Good characters and hot ass sex! What more could a girl (or boy) want? Oh, wait. I know. These kick-ass gloves!

XXX,
Alison

"oh so very kinky..."

2011-11-28T06:11:00.000-08:00

Here is the perfect review to wake up to after a long, luscious holiday weekend... (and oh what a holiday weekend it was)...

Sexy hot and oh so very kinky. Yeah once again I'm indulging my BSDM fantasy. Or should I say fetish? Ms Tyler brings us an anthology full of naughty girls and guys needing a little slap and tickle. Cris-crossing the boundaries of pain and pleasure this group of tales will either leave you needing to grab your significant other or wincing in pain, or even a little of both.

Thank you so much to Getting Naughty Between the Stacks for highlighting Hurts So Good! Read the entire review here.

XXX,
Alison

P.S. First, I have to shake a little of the champagne out of my brain, but at some point this week, I will be posting several new calls for subs.

Silver Fox

2011-11-23T06:14:00.000-08:00

I've been letting my hair go silver for six or seven years now. The beginning was a bitch. The color just looked messy to me. As if I forgot to paint my hair each morning. Now, at least once a week, someone stops to talk to me about my choice not to dye.

Last Wednesday, I was in the ladies room at El Coyote restaurant, and a woman at the sink said, "That's natural, isn't it?" I nodded. "I can't tell you how fabulous your hair looks," she continued. "I wish my hair would look like that if I stopped coloring it. What's your secret?"

Honestly, I have no secret. I stopped paying $100 a month to color my hair or $10 a month to color my hair, bathroom, and towels. After dying my hair since I was 19 (because I craved that Veronica/Bettie Page/Joan Jett look of hair so black the color shined blue in the right light), I gave up the ghost, and went ghostly gray.

The coolest thing? Right whenever I am on the cusp of dying afresh, someone will stop me and say, "Don't ever dye your hair." Not that I do things because strangers on the street offer unexpected compliments, but every so often I start to waver.

What I miss about coloring my hair? The smell. (Sue me. I'm weird. I worked for years in beauty salons and stores, and I love that chemical scent.) The feel. There is nothing softer than recently dyed hair. That glossy, gorgeous texture. Oh, I loved it. The bad-ass sensation of having fuck-you black hair. My natural color is espresso brown. I always wanted to nudge the dial to 11.

When I gave up the coloring bottle, I did so as an experiment. If I absolutely hated being gray, I'd slide back into the sweet salon seat. As it stands, I'm simply waiting to see. If I go all white, I plan to dye my hair cobalt. Just once. Right now, if you see a silver fox on the street—or in the ladies room at El Coyote—give a wave. She might be me!

XXX,
Alison

P.S. I know I've written about this before—but as the topic comes up in my life so often, I don't feel as if it's over-kill. Or even over-dye.

Speed Humps

2011-11-22T07:05:00.000-08:00

File this under "fun with road signs." I like this a lot. I'm still trying to get a good picture of the knobby-headed sign that must signify cul-de-sacs. It cracks me up every time I see the bulbous erection on a yellow square. I can't be the only one who reads the sign this way. Can I?

Speaking of speed—with the upcoming holiday, I am speeding through several projects. Should have some exciting announcements to share shortly. And for those ever-so-patient, or even never-so-patient authors who are in my third Harlequin collection, I've been told that I'll have editorial feedback on the manuscript after the New Year.

Good things are worth the wait, right? Like street sign hard-ons! (If you see one, send me a snapshot!)

XXX,
Alison

You spin me...

2011-11-21T06:31:00.000-08:00

On the very same day I received our final bill from our current warehouse, I also received an offer to from a competing warehouse. The company wanted our fulfillment business. The two emails were back to back, nestled tight together in my in box. I thought that was funny, actually. "We're closed for good" right above "Wanna open?"

I dragged my feet for years before donating our remaining inventory and shutting the doors. It's a weird feeling to me. I think I used the knowledge that somewhere in Ohio we had 100,000 books in a warehouse as a Linus-esque security blanket. Like, I might not have much, but I do have books.

There was something very comforting about that fact. Maybe because I grew up in publishing, and our company *always* had books somewhere. Occasionally, we lived close to the warehouse, so we'd actually visit all our books. When land in California became too expensive, we trucked the books (not us personally, of course) to a new location. But they were still there. I knew it. I paid insurance on them. I could see the numbers in the reports.

Now? Not.

Being virtual means there's a huge weight off my shoulders. I no longer will hemorrhage stocking fees, storage fees, handling fees, restocking fees, etc. I won't have to enter a hundred tiny little numbers in my Quickbook files. But part of me is still that luddite. I mean, I'm the girl who bought a record player a few years ago and mourns the loss of my Lou Reed collection from way back when. I love holding my LPs, stroking the album covers, deciding which one to put on the turntable.

It's not, I think, that I like stuff, but that I like *certain* stuff. You spin me round like a record, baby, right round, round round sounds so much better than You spin me round like music that you can't see traveling invisibly through the ether from one device to another device, right round, round round. Doesn't it?

That said, I'm fucking psyched that places like Create Space exist. So now you can have your virtual book (traveling invisibly through the ether...) or you can have an actual book to hold in your actual hands. So while we no longer have a warehouse, we still have books.

I always liked books much better than blankets, anyhow.

XXX,
Alison

The Blue Rose

2011-11-20T06:29:00.000-08:00

The Blue Rose is one of my earliest novels. This Victorian-esque tale of lesbian love has been sitting in my porn closet for years. I always have the intention of keying in the manuscript and putting the book for sale as a Kindle/PDF, and I always have other things that get in the way. (You know, like life.) But in the past month, four people have requested an e-version of the title.

Honestly, I'm a little scared to see how I wrote back in the dawn of the 90s. But I'm a quick typist, and I thought that if I tackled 10 pages a day, I'd be done before Christmas.

Would you be interested? What would you pay for an e-version of this retro Alison Tyler novel? The book actually sold well (in my opinion). 10,000 copies. Good deal, especially as I had no name recognition at the time.

I'm sure Riendo could help me come up with a glorious cover. I am waffling about whether to return to the original title — The Belles of the Ball. I'd be up front, of course, about the fact that the book was originally pubbed under The Blue Rose.

Opinions? I'm all abloom!

XXX,
Alison

That's what you get...

2011-11-12T08:56:00.000-08:00

Amidst half a dozen projects, I'm penning a story about a firebreather I've been working on since last June. Some stories sashay slowly into my stratosphere. This is one of them....

Jenny showed up the way she always showed up. She came slithering under the doorjamb, appearing in a puff of smoke. Firebreathers have all sorts of tricks like that. When I returned from a run, Jenny was on my sofa, curled up in the corner as if she’d been there all along, as if she’d never left. Except we hadn’t lived here together. She’d had to look long and hard to find me.

“Lola,” she said as I unlocked the door, startling me enough so that I dropped the keys. While bending to retrieve them, I tried to make sense of the situation. Jenny had left me for a girl in her entourage. She’d literally run away with her to join the circus. I’d had dreams of her burning up, of her getting too drunk to do her trick correctly and incinerating herself until all that remained were ashes. But she looked solid and whole on my sofa, her skin still that translucent shell, nearly iridescent, her lips parted into a smile, her green eyes wide and filled with hope. Stray kitten, ma’am, won’t you take me in?

“You can’t stay,” I said.

“Nice greeting.” The big green eyes went dark. Her voice held razorblades and whiskey. That’s what Jenny hid right beneath the surface. Metal shards and Kentucky bourbon. She could take you to a faraway place, a dreamscape you’d never been, build the pleasure until your eyes rolled up and your heart tried to escape from your chest. And then somehow, when you awoke from the bliss, she’d have burned through your credit rating, cremated all your closest relationships, and left even the clothes in your closet soot-stained, singed, and smelling of smoke.

“My husband will be home soon,” I said. It wasn’t a lie. “You have to leave.”

“No drink for the road? No kiss for old time’s sake? No fuck with your hands over your head and your eyes shut tight?” I could remember being fucked by Jenny. I could remember the ways she could make me come. Pleasure, always, tainted with a little bit of pain. That’s what you get when you fuck a dragon.

XXX,
Alison

P.S. If you don't buy these, I will.

I Heart You...

2011-11-09T05:33:00.000-08:00

I say that a lot. It's like "love" lite. Snort. I never thought I'd actually type "lite." Anyway, one of my friends is going through a brutal, surreal time right now. I was half where she is about six years ago. Which makes no sense, I know. But I mean, I am fully empathetic to her situation, and I wish I could shake the Etch-a-Sketch and make her whole world smooth.

She is operating currently in a world that seems to be run by Monty Python. On acid. Or Candid Camera. With a dirty lens.

Practically every day, she feels as if she's going to hear someone yell, "Punked!" (I had that sensation the other afternoon. I had a bag of groceries with me, and I was hanging out with a friend in her store. A woman was shopping, and I continually moved my bag of groceries out of her path. But wherever I put the bag, the stranger moved to that exact spot. Finally, I looked at her and said, "I'm trying really hard to stay out of your way." She hadn't even noticed what was going on. She was in her own little time zone. I said, "I was waiting for Allen Funt to appear," and she was old enough to get the reference.)

Anyway, this is simply an "I heart you" post to Velvet. She knows why. Cuddly bear keepsake not included.

XXX,
Alison

Please tell me who I am...

2011-11-08T05:35:00.000-08:00

Stop me if you've heard this one. I received two statements yesterday. One from our insurance company and one from a doctor's office. Neither matched up in any understandable, conceivable, or logical way. (I was practically my own Supertramp song.) I called the doc's office first, and I was told that our insurance refused to pay for the visit. I called the insurance company who said of course they'd pay, they'd love to pay, it would make them feel all warm and fuzzy inside if they could pay, but the doctor was a non-preferred doctor.

Just as I was about to prove the statement false, the insurance company held up a virtual hand.

"Oh, wait!" the insurance company suddenly said, "your husband *did* go to a preferred doctor, they just billed incor—"

... Do not adjust your screen. Nothing's wrong with your computer. I got disconnected. After spending twenty-seven minutes first on hold, and then repeating numbers and dates and names into an automated system. After finally winning the lottery and getting a real live honest to goodness breathing, sleeping, snoring, sneezing human on the phone. After making the breakthrough that there *was* an error in the mix somewhere. The insurance company hung up on me, and I was left with, "If you'd like to make a call..."

But I've learned. No red spots for me. No tequila in the morning. I called the doctor's office back, got a person more quickly than I had with the insurance company, and walked the lady through the discrepancies until she said, "Oh, yes, I see the error. Disregard the statement. We'll re-bill."

Lest you think we're ill people who use up more of our doctoral allotment than the rest of the world, well, we're not. Sam had the misfortune of becoming sick several years ago. And he has to take tests periodically that are medically required. But we're not hypochondriacs.

I work my ass off to pay more than $25K for basic health insurance a year. And I've started writing down the hours I spend unraveling billing mistakes. Yesterday's two hours of calls were to avoid paying more than $400 I didn't think we owed. I was right.

Honestly, I don't know why I chronicle these events here. They're not really, you know, porny. Maybe so I don't go insane. See red. Pop. Or maybe so people will understand that your average, everyday, all-American, able-bodied, other-words-that-begin-with-vowels people can barely break even with today's health care costs.

Yes, you all know that there's something wrong with the system.

How to fix it? I haven't a fucking clue. But I bet the answer ain't that logical.

XXX,
Alison

Seeing Red

2011-11-07T06:36:00.000-08:00

Monday seems like the perfect day for an installment of my hospital billing saga. You'll remember that the amount we owed went up each month, even though we had not visited the hospital recently. (Knock wood, throw salt.) When I would call and speak with a customer service representative, the woman would tell me to wait and see the following statement.

You'll understand how jittery I felt whenever I opened the new wave of bills. It was like Christmas! In hell. This month, I held my breath, pulled out the crisp white bills, and saw that each of our five statements had gone up by thousands of dollars. One statement that only had $208 remaining shot to more than $6 grand. Of course, this was an error. I never believed the hospital would actually try to collect on the error. But it was an error that had become increasingly time consuming.

The amount paid also did not reflect what we'd actually paid. On one statement, the dollar amount paid was listed as $69. We'd paid $30.

So, I got Laura on the phone. Yes, your favorite and mine. Laura. And I calmly told her we had a problem. "I need a statement that reflects what we actually owe and what we've actually paid," I said. I guess that is a lot to ask.

She looked on her computer and she proceeded to teach me basic math. "Well," she said, "you made two $30 payments—one in August and one in September—and $30 and $30 is close to $69."

I don't know about you, but I am not so okay with best guess math when it comes to my bills.

"But we didn't pay $69," I told her. "No matter how many of the five payments you add together, none of them equals $69."

"Why don't you wait until next month to see if the statements are fixed."

That's when I saw red. Like, actual spots of red. Laura and I were about to break up. "Look," I said, "your automated system calls me every week. There is always a problem. I spend hours of my life on the phone trying to sort this out. And I have been doing this since 2009."

"Ma'am, if you raise your voice at me I will disconnect the call."

I hadn't realized I'd raised. "Do you know what I'm going to do?" I asked.

"I want to remind you that you're being recorded."

"I don't fucking care if I'm being recorded," I said.

"If you use profanities, I will disconnect the call," she said.

"I get up at 4 a.m. to work. And I do not have time to unravel your mess. The next time you send me out a bill that doesn't make sense, I will send you a bill for wasting my time."

"Ma'am," she said.

"If you ma'am me," I told her, "I will disconnect the call."

She ma'am'd again. I hung up.

I have a friend who refers to the type of angry I got as "being in the rage bubble." I'd never been in it before.

It took a nice, slow shot of tequila to make it POP.

XXX,
Alison

A Taste of Chi...

2011-11-05T07:00:00.000-07:00

Oh yay! Oh wow! Oh happy day!

I have the cover art for "A Taste of Chi." This novella was originally penned as "A Waste of Chi," but often titles take twists and turns before they step off the ride.

Here is the official copy:

A Taste of Chi

I’d been with Andrew for seven years—and we hadn’t made love once. You would think two expert yoga instructors would have incredible sex, but he believed it was a waste of chi, a loss of vital life force. And slowly he made me think the same way, taming the sexuality that was once so fervent in me.

Then Cormac Smith walked into one of my classes. Suddenly seven years’ worth of pent-up emotions and sexual frustration stirred, making me realize just how much I had sacrificed—and what Cormac could give me instead….

The novella will be available in January 2012. How cool is that? I'll put up snippets and bite-sized bits before the "e" goes up for sale. Right now, I'm tying loose ends for a few mega-projects and shuffling the TOC for a few new ones. Anyone into bondage? I am fully going back to my roots!

XXX,
Alison

40 and Fucking...

2011-11-02T06:46:00.000-07:00

...fabulous! That describes Sommer Marsden... or it will in, um, 30 days. Is it 30? I can't do math this early in the morning! ("Thirty days has September, April, June, and November...") Anyway, in honor of her birthday, Sommer is throwing a big party for you! Because she's all kinds of generous. All you have to do is give her a bit of birthday advice. The info is all right here. So what are you waiting for? Go!

XXX,
Alison

We haven't even started...

2011-10-25T07:11:00.000-07:00

I am balls deep in a gang bang story (Kristina Lloyd would be so proud.) I don't know that I've ever written one before. I've penned many the orgy—but I can't recall a single GB. What's funny is that in Word, "gang bang" is accepted as one word, while blogger seems to insist it is two. This actually tweaked a line in my piece:

I want the bartender to close and lock the front door at the bar. “What happens in The Local, stays in The Local,” I want some wise ass to say. There will be laughter, of the nervous variety, and the men will try not to look to each other’s eyes. Because what we’re going to do here is a gangbang, and brother, when you say that word aloud, people get jittery.

This isn’t non-con, mind you. I am not asking for something from The Last Exit to Brooklyn. Don’t leave me unconscious on an old vinyl car seat behind the bar. Yes, I want the abuse, but I want to revel in every moment. In fact, I want to name the lineup. That’s why we have to wait until closing time, when everyone else can leave except for the five men I’ve settled on.

Choosing was the difficult part. Which five? And even more curious—why five? Five is the number I’ve decided on tonight, because I think that’s what I can take. Five guys in a line. One after the other. And then five guys in a circle, coming on my naked skin.

I won’t start out naked. I want to be clothed and mussed. I want my opaque black tights pulled down and ripped. My panties tugged until the seams give way. My outfit was purposefully chosen for the thin material that will tear easily. I would have worn a dress made of paper if I could.

Closing time’s coming. I look at the clock over the bar. The boys are starting to shuffle around. I can tell that they want the rest of the crowd to leave as much as I do. Stumble home, people. Get into your trucks, shut one eye, and hope you make the ride home alive. However you do it, get the fuck out. My five are all hard. I know that. They are about to come in their pants, and we haven’t even started.

XXX,
Alison

P.S. Yes, I've used this t-shirt before, but it's too fucking good to share only once. I'm even ordering one. For a friend.

The way I like my asses...

2011-10-22T06:37:00.000-07:00

...all in a row. Just like that. And look at this! Smart Ass has a brand-new 4-star review up on Amazon! Here's an excerpt:

Smart-Ass is the third of a series of small anthologies revolving around explicit Anal sex put out by the indefatigable Alison Tyler, following Bad Ass and Kiss my Ass.

The lineup this time is the usual suspects of authors:

Kristina Lloyd in 'My Ass is Your Ass is My Ass' presents us with Coral, a character whose relationships with Snowy and Tony tips from competition over her to a threesome.

Sommer Marsden combines barbeque and the burn of adultery with an old flame in her story, Smokehouse.

Thomas S Roche (Who, by the way, has a SF novel out now, The Panama Laugh) in the 'Tahoe Tease' has an arresting story of the power of tease, denial and mutual titillation.

Sophia Valenti 'From the Bottom of my Heart' takes the well-worn trope of friendship turning into something more. Much more. As in no more squeaky-clean sex something more.

And in the anchor position, Alison Tyler herself brings us 'Plucked.' The string instrument metaphors highlight the changes in tone and notes that's coming to Sandy's sex life. Whether he knows it or not.

The variety of the stories and the tone of the authors makes the anthology worthwhile. The authors across the board prove that the physical description of sex is beside the point and its really how sex is a part of the relationships between the two (and sometimes more) characters, and their emotional growth and change. The writing is beautiful and well sculpted, as a story of any genre often needs to be.

And, the stories are also hot. Give it a try, and you'll soon see what I mean.

Thanks so much to Jvstin for the review!

XXX,
Alison

I can see your...

2011-10-21T07:06:00.000-07:00

...underwear. That is, if you are wearing any. I am wearing leopard-print. (I had to stop and check, which is silly, because I generally wear leopard-print.) I'm a bit giddy this morning. We had a really nice time last night at one of my favorite pubs. But I'm going slow (due to the really good time), so hang in there with me. I have a few different updates to post (about books in progress and books to, um, come). My guess is that it will be Monday before I get my fingers untied.

Happy Weekend!
XXX,
Alison

How do you say Blow Job...

2011-10-19T07:07:00.000-07:00

...in French?

I'm beyond honored to have my stories appear in the French edition of Violet Blue's Ultimate Guide to Fellatio.

This reminds me of the postcard I received too many years ago to count... and the story by Nikki that was referenced yesterday in a groovy new review of Hurts So Good (which I referenced in the postcard post above).

Wow, that was more than a mouthful, wasn't it?

XXX,
Alison

"off the scale of brilliance"

2011-10-18T06:52:00.000-07:00

Can't get this one out of my head today. Luckily, it goes nicely with this 5-star review of Hurts So Good.

I still have four slots open for my sequel to Afternoon Delight. Drop me a note at msalisontyler at yahoo dot com if you're interested. I am not looking for writers to hit the readers over the head with the time. (You don't have to include a blinking digital clock in your story.) But I want the book to feel like a 24-hour sex ride. So I would appreciate a reference somewhere in your story to the slot you choose. Readers playing along at home, can look for the time in each story. If they're not too busy getting off.

XXX,
Alison

In the mood...

2011-10-17T05:11:00.000-07:00

...for a sequel to Afternoon Delight? Good. I am, too! I promised a new call for subs this morning, and here it is. If you would like to submit to a brand-new anthology of erotica for couples to be published by Cleis Press, please drop me an email at msalisontyler at yahoo dot com.

What? How is that a call for subs?

Well, here is the thing. Just like with Afternoon Delight, I am collecting 24 round the cock—I mean, clock—stories. I want one piece per hour of the day. And I don't want to be manically shuffling at the end of the deadline, tearing my hair and moaning, "Wait! I have sixteen three a.m.s but nothing for 7:00!"

So ideally, what I'd like is for authors to choose three different times they'd be willing to accept. I will fill in a little day-planner here and get back to you with your time slot. Being accepted to submit is not (unfortunately) a guarantee that you will be in the book. Cleis has final approval of all content, as ever.

Deadline for the stories is February 1. Payment is $75 a piece — and I only take non-exclusive rights to use your story in the collection. I'm looking for original stories that are 2500 - 4000 words. (As always, I can be wooed by stories that fall on either side of the count.) The theme is erotica for couples. I lean towards stories that are happy. You know me. Do not slaughter your characters or give them seasonal depression or drop them in a pit of despair. At least, not for me. That said, I am kinky. This is not specifically a BDSM-themed antho, but I have no problem with all the cool and deliciously decadent way couples play. My no-nos are the same as ever: no non-con, no incest, no underage, no animals.

Let me know if you'd like to be included. I'd love to hear from you by Friday, so I can give everyone a time slot asap!

XXX,
Alison

Some Sexy Asses!

2011-10-16T06:56:00.000-07:00

Now, *these* are some asses I like to see all in a row. Look at that line-up! Bad Ass continues to kick ass. But Smart Ass is slowly finding its stride!

We will have a print book available before too long. The illustrious Kristina Lloyd will be assisting me with the cover.

Until then, you can purchase the book as a PDF, Kindle, or Smash.

Be good and happy assing!

XXX,
Alison

It's like deja vu all over again...

2011-10-15T07:15:00.000-07:00

"Everyone has the right to make an ass out of themselves. You just can’t let the world judge you too much."

I had that deja vu feeling as I was playing around with this, and sure enough, I've grabbed Maude's dialogue before. There are some films that I can watch on repeat. With Harold and Maude, I think I could shut my eyes and listen, and still be entertained.

On Monday, I'll be posting info for a second call for submissions, so please stay tuned. This one is slightly more complicated than the others I've done, so I need to organize myself (she said as she looked forlornly at the wreckage on her desk). Watch this space!

XXX,
Alison

The continuing saga…

2011-10-13T06:19:00.000-07:00

You’ll be thrilled to learn that I have a secret admirer. Well, not exactly secret. You see, my admirer is our local hospital. And she loves to call me at least once a month.

The call comes in as SVC Bureau. Or something special and sexy like that. I answer, with ticklish trepidation, and am told by a robotic, yet feminine voice—which butchers my name in such an adorable way—to call back the next day between 8 and 5. Oh, but I know that trick. See, that’s my admirer’s way of making me admit that *I* want her. I have to call her back.

We’re co-dependent, the hospital and I.

In the morning, I take a deep breath, a shot of tequila, a Valium, some cocaine, and I call. I’m put on hold, of course. But you know, I like hold. Hold is like purgatory. We’re all friends in hold.

When the operator finally takes my call, I’m relieved. This is a woman I’ve come to know. Laura. We are intimate, the two of us. We speak each other's unspoken language, fluently. Laura giggles when I tell her that the autodialer dialed me. Laura likes to laugh. We go through my list of account numbers and determine there is no logical reason I should have received the call.

But what’s logic in the face of a lust like ours?

"Oh," says Laura, with a squeal as if she's just been pinched on what I imagine is her perky derriere. "Except this. You see, we received your four payments on October 2nd." She makes a tsk tsk noise. I want to fuck her six ways to Sunday. I have to fan myself with my stack of hospital statements to stave off a swoon.

"The payments weren’t due until October 5th," I tell her in a husky whisper.

"Yes, that’s right, but see, it can take nine days for our computer to process your payments fully."

2 + 9 = 11. That is why the autodialer called me on the 11th. Because I was fucking early.

"So should I ignore the call next time?" I ask. Thinking no, I won’t do it. I won’t not call when you tell me to call. Laura agrees this would be a foolish tactic.

"Oh, no, we’ll send you to collections if you miss a call," she says, that bubbly tone warming me deep inside.

Collections. It’s like hold. But longer.

"You did that before," I remind her as I play with myself. "And the collection agency said you didn’t have a reason to do so." This talk of bills takes me closer to the cusp by the second.

"Yes, but we took you back," she reminds me just as quickly.

That’s why I love my secret admirer so much. She always takes me back.

XXX,
Alison

"the most sinfully erotic material..."

2011-10-12T06:34:00.000-07:00

Seriously. Best button ever! And the perfect way to point you in the direction of a 5-star review for Smart Ass:

I know that a review usually consists of more than two words. But after I finished this lovely gem from editor - and contributing author - Alison Tyler, the first and only words to come to mind were. Holy. Fuck.

I love Alison. She has the talent for putting together some of the most sinfully erotic material I've ever read, with just the right touch of crass to balance the class.

Beginning with Kristina Lloyd's poetic orgasms in My Ass Is Your Ass - where she allows one of her lovers to claim ownership over that sensitive piece - we are brought into the world of anal sex, and shown that it's not quite as taboo as society tries to lead us to believe. Sentences like "My ass is your ass," are followed up with richly evocative lines such as "I fall through nights of liquid velvet, lights prickling as ageless galaxies die across the dark skies of my mind." Pretty words meant to enhance, not mask, the mind-numbing descriptive sex.

Sommer Marsden's Smokehouse finally shows the link between the animal instincts of sex and food. Sure it's been done (Basic Instinct anyone?), but it's been done with low lights, and pretty foods. I don't know about anyone else, but when I'm tearing into a rack of ribs, sauce all over my face, it's primal and rough. You can't eat BBQ and be pretty. And primal is what we get when Jones meets Jason for the first time after their break-up. In an off-limits area, he takes her off-limits area, in a hot, sexy, sweaty way that has me considering a career in competitive BBQ.

Thomas Roche takes his character right to the limit in Tahoe Tease. I can't give anything away on this one - it's just too damn good NOT to read. As a woman, I appreciate it. Hopefully the men will too. It's funny, and erotic, and - did I mention funny? I just wish I had the balls of his main character Trina. She's got spunk.

From the Bottom of My Heart is a story of trust and attraction between best friends who finally go for it. If you've ever had a crush on your best friend, this is the story to read. It'll encourage you to share your feelings, and other parts of your body. And hopefully come out on the other side still friends. Or maybe more?

Finally, at the end of this collection, is Alison Tyler's little gem Plucked. It's the perfect way to round it out. Ladies man Sandy finds out, finally, what brings him to his knees. What it is that makes him cry, makes him scream. And when he's left in the dust by the woman who dug it up, he finds a connection right under his nose, that might just lead him to where he belongs.

Do I actually have to say anymore?

"Holy fuck" is right. I'm so thrilled with this review—one that hits every story in the collection. I think this may be the best of our three anal anthos so far. But an editor isn't supposed to play favorites. So what do *you* think?

XXX,
Alison

Better Bondage Erotica (Redux)

2011-10-10T06:46:00.000-07:00

I've been hinting that I have new books coming. And now I'm going to flash you with one of them. Yes, I've signed to edit a brand-spanking new bondage collection. I had tried to put one together over a year ago, but sometimes the best climaxes are the ones you work the hardest for. This bondage antho will be published by Cleis Press — due to come out about a decade after the first bondage collection I edited for Cleis. Pretty cool, yes?

So here (once more) is my call...

I'm ready. I'm willing. I'm waiting. I want better bondage stories. The ones that peel back the very skin of your average bondage story and delve deep into the BDSM soul. Send me the stories that hurt. The ones that turn the volume way up. The glossy type that lace to the knees. (I don't like 14 eyelet, btw. I like 20.) Give me chrome. Give me hardware. Cuff me down and force me sit in my chair to soak up every last word on the page.

My standard no-nos apply: no incest, no animals, no underage. Aside from that, I don't want gore. I don't want non-con. And I don't want bleak. If you've read my books, you know my style. If you haven't—hey man, why haven't you read my books?

Word count: 3000-5000 (but I'm a flexible little sprite—if you wow me with a shorter one, or draw me in with a longer one, I'll take it).

Deadline: February 1, 2012
Payment: $75 (for non-exclusive rights)
Publisher: Cleis Press

Questions: msalisontyler at yahoo dot com—and that's where you should send your piece, too.

Directions: Paste your sub into the body of your email. If I want it as a different format, I'll get back to you. Promise.

Bio: Shoot me one that is 50-100 words. Include your favorite form of bondage in your bio, please.

If you subbed previously for this collection, don't worry. I still have your story. If you've sold the piece elsewhere but want to send me something new, go for it. Just let me know.

XXX,
Alison

I can't remember my lines!

2011-10-08T07:13:00.000-07:00

Oh, my god. I can't go on stage. Why? Because I can't remember my fucking lines. The opening one is something about chocolate, right?

I say, "May I have the last chocolate?"
He says, "You had the second to the last one, can't I have the last one?"
Then I say, "Come on. I really want it."

Or something like that. The rest of the play is a blur. And, shit, I can't even figure out how to get on stage. In rehearsal, there was no great big house set piece. The stage was bare. Where do I go to get in? Nobody will help me. Everyone is working on rehearsing their own lines. And why the hell is my script, when I start to page through it, filled with clippings from magazines, instead of the actual words? I really do not need to see clippings of high heels and lipsticks when I'm desperate to know my next line!

What will happen if I go on stage with the script in my hand?

This is the dream I woke up from. So funny, because if you think about it, I wrote the play. In my sleep, I mean. So ultimately, I knew all the words — the way death knows where all the pieces go in the Bergman movie the Seventh Seal.

I came across my notebook from my film appreciation class the other day. The professor, one of my all-time favorites, wrote on my essay, "What a beautiful tribute to the power of film and to you and your family. If film be art and the reconciliation of life, then the questioning mind and the searching heart help bring it about."

But I think he would have been unimpressed with my stuttering on stage. I hate dreams like this. And I don't even fucking like chocolate. You can have the last chocolate. Go on. Take it.

XXX,
Alison

You gotta hold on...

2011-10-06T10:10:00.000-07:00

This is the new thing they do. You call and are put on hold immediately. Forever. For so long you can't remember what your life was like before you were on hold. When an operator finally picks up on the other end, said person asks, “May I put you on hold?” Of course, the operator puts you on hold without waiting for your response, but my response sounds something like: NOOOOOOOOOO. YOU FUCK HEAD, YOU CAN’T PUT ME ON HOLD. YOU ALREADY HAD ME ON HOLD. I DO NOT WANT TO BE ON HOLD AGAIN. JEEEEEEESUS. DON’T PUT ME ON HOLD. DON’T DO IT! DON’T DO IT! DON’T….

By then, they’re back. But I think the “Can I put you on hold?” timing is used to activate the recorder. I’m hoping that’s the order of events. Otherwise, they’ve got multiple recordings of me going: NOOOOOOOOOO. YOU FUCK HEAD, YOU CAN’T PUT ME ON HOLD. YOU ALREADY HAD ME ON HOLD. I DO NOT WANT TO BE ON HOLD AGAIN. JEEEEEEESUS. DON’T PUT ME ON HOLD. DON’T DO IT! DON’T DO IT! DON’T….

In any case, I held my place and tongue yesterday until finally speaking with Laura, who (with a giggle in her voice) told me that her supervisor had spent all day researching our situation, and guess what? He couldn’t figure it out, either. No, really. That is the upshot of the hospital bill saga. Why is our amount owed going up? Nobody knows.

What’s the solution?

You’ll like this. Don’t do anything. Wait for the next statement to arrive. If the number continues to go up, then call back.

Honestly. I am not making this up. My balances owed have gone up for no reason at all. We have not incurred new fees. We have not visited any hospitals. (Knock wood, throw salt.) And yet, one balance increased by the exact amount that we’d paid and the other increased by ten times that amount.

I thought there would be something else offered. Like, sacrifice a goat, and we’ll clear up the problem. Or sign your soul over to this nice man in red with the cute little horns and spiked tail. But no. Wait and see. And then call us back.

We’ll put you on hold. You’ll like it there.

XXX,
Alison

The coffee's on me...

2011-10-05T07:53:00.000-07:00

Well, at least, a fifth of the java is on me. This is one more reason why we are closing our warehouses: I received a check for .76 cents. I'm always sort of baffled by stuff like this. Really? You sold two units of Naughty Stories from A to Z, volume 4? Wow.

Luckily, I also received a check yesterday that is an advance for two new books. Insert big sigh of relief here. I can frame the .76 cent check and deposit the other (which includes the numbers 666, I might add).

One of my friends thought I was very amusing yesterday—talking much more about the wee tiny check than the larger check. Confession time: I spent way too long this morning trying to figure out what someone might buy for .76 cents. I mean, you can't even buy Pop Rocks! (They cost a buck.)

I have more in my hospital bill saga, but I will wait until the 1/5th of the joe kicks in.

XXX,
Alison

I guess I'm wrong...

2011-10-04T07:53:00.000-07:00

I fucking love this Depeche Mode song, even though the video is somewhat disturbing. But I swear, Wrong is my soundtrack when I'm dealing with the hospital regarding bills. We are on seven (yes, Virginia, seven) payment plans. I am current on all but one. And that one is a bitch. I spent countless hours on the phone with the hospital last month trying to straighten out the situation.

This weekend, I received an automated phone call telling me I needed to call between 8 and 5 on Monday.

So at 8:01 I called. And waited in holding hell for more than a half an hour.

"You did not receive an automated phone call," the operator told me when I finally (37 minutes of holding later) got through.

"I did. I answered the phone myself."

"Ma'am, our automated system did not call you."

Oh, my god. She ma'am'd me.

"Yes, yes, it did," I said, thinking, How do you know? Maybe your automated system got drunk with another hospital's automated system, and they crank-called patients like me.

I went through all seven of our accounts until we found the one that had dialed me. This is the account I spent hours in August trying to get onto a payment plan. No statement ever arrived, so I did not pay it. (More on that in a moment.)

"The statement went out on August 19th."

I told her to check her records. I called on August 23, 26 and 29th because I received the other statements (multiple times, may I add) but never that one. But, I told her, the account balances on two of my statements increased, so I figured they'd taken the seventh statement and divided the remaining balance over those two.

"The balances did not go up."

Holy fucking fuck. "I'm holding the statements in my hands," I said, voice starting to tremble, "and the 'balances owed' have gone up. In my opinion, only the balances left to pay should change, and those should go down."

"Ma'am, your balances did not increase."

She ma'am'd me again! "I'm holding the statements in my hands," I repeated, feeling smoke start to leak out my ears.

"I'm looking at your accounts, and the balances did... not... go... up."

This is why people have meltdowns. This is why people drink tequila in the day time. This is why I am all silver.

Finally, I faxed the fucking statements to her, and now I am waiting to hear back. While playing Depeche Mode. On loop.

XXX,
Alison

Get it in the ass...

2011-10-03T06:33:00.000-07:00

It's been a busy October for ass sex! We've sold ten copies of Bad Ass since October first and Smart Ass is starting to give the little anal sex anthology that could a run for its money. (Hmmm. I just realized that I'm not entirely sure what that cliche means.)

I'd love to have a few more reviews of the books up on Amazon. If you're over 18, you have an Amazon account, and you're interested in reviewing either, please drop me a note at msalisontyler at yahoo dot com.

And I'm still collecting contacts for a second Smut Marathon. Wanna play?

XXX,
Alison

More Spanking...

2011-10-02T06:43:00.000-07:00

...coming soon! I'm spanking this collection into submission right now. Six reprints — slightly used stories that are (for the most part) difficult to put your pinkie on. Plus one sizzling scorcher of a new spanking story. I'm embracing my favorite fetish from its kicky plaid school girl skirt to the hot, blushing bottom beneath.

Are you on the edge of your seat yet?
You will be!

XXX,
Alison

Off the cuff...

2011-10-01T06:35:00.000-07:00

I am completely mesmerized by these Lips Cuffs. I think if I had one, I'd be tempted to kiss the cuff (or maybe give the sweet lips a sip of coffee). No. Scratch that. I share my java with nobody.

I am also tempted to kiss the cover of Shanna Germain's new book: Bound by Lust. I love the tangled mess of pearls, and I'm honored to have been asked to pen the foreword.

This weekend is also a tangled mess. Not of pearls, but of overlapping events. I am going to become a human Ping-Pong ball while working simultaneously on two stories. But not to worry. I think a Ping-Pong paddle may feature prevalently in one of the pieces. So I'll consider the schedule to be research.

Speaking of research (how are my segues working for you?) I am still gathering info to see if enough writers would like to participate in a second, and far more organized (ha!) Smut Marathon. What is the commitment? One piece of writing each month — approximately two-three weeks to write a piece (generally only a few hundred words) and then one week for voting. For each contest, I try to wrangle a different sponsor, so that there is a prize. I choose a theme — one that hopefully matches the prize — and we go from there. I would not be starting this until January 2012 (wow, doesn't that sound like the future!), so there's time to consider. Drop me a note at msalisontyler at yahoo dot com if you're interested or want more information.

Now, off to find my Ping-Pong paddle...

XXX,
Alison

Kinky Filthy Sub...

2011-09-30T06:56:00.000-07:00

Wow, I heart this necklace big time! Jesus, that's just the bomb, isn't it?

On top (I mean, I'm posting directly above) my mundane publishing woes, I have delicious writing news. Those of you who have been playing along at home, know that I've written five novellas for Harlequin this year. I worked my little fingers to the bone to make the styles and characters different, and for my last piece, I was a little worried. I wrote third person present tense, and I wound up with more characters than I'd initially planned. It was like that Marx Brothers' movie where the people just keep coming. Except dirty.

My biggest worry when writing for Harlequin is that my doms won't have enough soul. But I took great care with Frost:

“I want you to train me,” she says again, louder this time. He doesn’t seem to understand.

All of the nervous gestures she’s worked for years to disassemble come back in force. Her head goes down. She looks up at him from under her glossy, dark bangs. She bites her bottom lip, hard, welcoming the immediate spark of pain as a way to clear her head. When she was a top, she was able to bury these glitches—what she has come to consider as the human side of herself—beneath an icy exterior. Somehow, that ability has disappeared. Frost does things to her.

“Don’t worry,” she says, almost more to herself than to him. She squeezes her thighs together under the table, feels her bare legs touch above the lacy tops of her stockings. She knows, in her mind, what this will be like, what she’s asking for. There are men who would snap her up in a heartbeat. She doesn’t want those men. Frost doesn’t see the treasure she’s offering. “Training me won’t be so difficult. I’m good. I simply need a little discipline.”

He looks at her directly. She feels that appraisal she sensed at their first meeting. “What do you want from me?” His voice is gruff. They’re talking for real, now.

She can’t help herself. “How long do you have?”

He considers what he has to say. The heat between them is palpable, shimmering like hot liquid metal in the air. “I don’t think I can do this again.”

She’s confused, but she sees pain in his eyes, and she wishes she could help him. “We’ve never done anything before.”

“Not you,” he says. “This.” He acknowledges their connection with the slightest gesture of one finger. “It’s been too long for me. I’m accustomed to what I’ve got now.”

Everything in her wants him. She visualizes pushing away the table—hearing the coffee cups clattering—and crawling to him on the floor. She knows just what it would be like to undo his fly, suck his cock. If any of those behaviors were socially acceptable, she would be in motion. Or if this was a different type of establishment where the rules are skewered. There are so many places she could go, dark clubs. She knows the way down their shadowy alleys, knows they offer her salvation. She doesn’t want that. She wants him. None of this makes sense to her. Love at first sight is a fairy tale, and she no longer believes in fairy tales. But she feels something with this man. The fact that he hasn’t walked away gives her hope.

“What have you got now?” She has to ask the question, even though she doesn’t think she wants to know the answer. That’s the journalist in her, always digging in other people’s dirt.

He drains the rest of his coffee. The half-smile on his lips is bitter. “Nothing.”

****
Yesterday I heard back from my editor who said:

Thanks again for sending this story - I just read it through and it's great! Really sexy and kinky but with a great emotional undercurrent.

Many thanks for your hard work.

The relief I feel borders on the delirious. And tastes quite a bit like champagne.

XXX,
Alison

"The girls I like best are the ones undressed"

2011-09-30T06:41:00.000-07:00

Heard this for the first time in Amsterdam. It was on an endless loop on a porn channel. What? We watched porn in Amsterdam? Say it ain't so. I could, but I'd be lying.

Danced in the kitchen (in my socks) to the CD all morning.

He said, Captain.
I said, Wot.

Wait. Don't *you* dance to that in your socks in the kitchen? Doesn't everyone?

I have all sorts of sticky business situations to tackle today, and all I want to do is watch 80s videos. So far, I've alerted our (final few) sellers that we are closing our warehouse, planned to kill the non-erotic website, discussed what to do with remaining copies. I've begun the paperwork and... blah blah blah. (All right, now I hear Bob Loblaw's Law Blog in my head whenever I say that.) I hate the grown-up end of business. I swear. But as Captain Sensible says:

Once a lifetime, twice a day
If you don't work you get no pay.

Hopefully, by Monday, I can announce several cool new projects. I just have to tie up (gag, and cuff) these loose ends first.

XXX,
Alison

P.S. Speaking of mishearing lyrics, I totally heard the lyric as "the girls I like best are the ones I undress." Somehow that has a filthier ring to me.

Head full of zombie...

2011-09-29T06:13:00.000-07:00

I'll admit it. I was watching Men at Work videos this morning. Don't kill me. Why? Because I have a million other things I ought to be doing. See, we're finally closing our warehouses. After our main publishing company was dealt a crushing blow back in 07, I continually tried to keep the business afloat. This month—like tomorrow—I'm pulling the plug and watching the little-company-that-could circle the drain. (Someone said that to me once at a party. I asked how she was doing, and she told me her father had passed away. I expressed sorrow, as one does, and she said, "Oh, he circled the drain for awhile before he went down." I stood there with my Pimm's Cup feeling as if I were being Punked.)

Unfortunately, I'm doing the same thing with the print portion of PTP. I began Pretty Things Press in 2002, and I have to say... it's slightly devastating to see part of it go. But I have fabulous new projects on the horizon! And maybe later on I'll have a head full of zombie.

Okay, I'll admit, I had no idea what that lyric meant when the song came out. Does that ever happen to you? You're blissfully (and loudly) singing along to some tune, and then someone clues you in to the fact that you're singing about masturbation, or heroin, or anal sex.

Or maybe it's just me.

XXX,
Alison

P.S. The zombie legs bookmark is really fucking cool, don't you think?

If...

2011-09-28T20:38:00.000-07:00

I were to host another Smut Marathon — more organized and official this time around — would you be interested in participating? Please post a comment here or let me know at msalisontyler at yahoo dot com. I wouldn't start for a little while — I'm in the gathering information phase.

XXX,
Alison

Well... fuck...

2011-09-28T06:13:00.000-07:00

I seem to have forgotten how to sleep. I've swum through bouts of insomnia for the past—um, my whole life. But it tends to get worse when I'm working on a big project. Now that I'm on top of the novella (pulling its long, glossy hair, calling it bitch) I would like (please, Sir) to sleep once more. (Look at that. Lack of sleep makes me both Dom and sub in the same sentence.)

My new routine appears to be: stay up way too late/wake up way too early. I am able to fake intelligence for at least part of the day, and then I become half-robot/half-zombie. Oh, well. I'll simply have to write a half-robot/half-zombie story.

If you want to discuss zombies, go check out Miz Angell's blog. Sommer Marsden is Chez Angell discussing the Zombie Apocalypse.(God, I can never ever spell that word correctly on the first try.)

Okay, back to pretending I am human. Please add coffee.

XXX,
Alison

Notes from the past...

2011-09-27T05:35:00.000-07:00

I posted this almost four years ago, but I came across the story again in my files. (I was looking for something else, of course.) So strange to see my writing from decades ago. I don't know that I've matured much—or that my handwriting has become any clearer.

Over the past few days, I slammed myself repeatedly against the computer. I mean, my deadline. I could hardly see the real world around me. Everything grew blurred and fuzzy on the edges. But I did exactly what I wanted with this one. There's pain. There is pleasure. And there is a happy fucking ending for all.

Now to reclaim my desk, review my to do list (which exists only in my head), and get ready to make a big announcement. I have a few new projects I'll be sharing soon—with calls for a different kind of sub entirely than the one I recently tied to a bed in my novella.

XXX,
Alison

P.S. If you click the image, you should be able to read the story. Sort of. The image gets bigger, but the handwriting remains atrocious.

Done!

2011-09-26T05:40:00.000-07:00

I'm done! I did it! I done did it and now I'm done! I don't know why, but novellas demolish me. The length is out of my comfort league, I suppose. Give me 1,500 words. 4,000. Or 88K. I don't have a lot of in between ability. I guess I feel that as soon as I give my characters a background, I want to really dive inside of them. Even now that I've hit "send," there are scenarios I wish I could write, doors left shut that I would have loved to prop open. Or at least, peek through the key hole.

But I'm pleased with this new novella. I like who my characters are, and I enjoyed putting them through different twists and turns.

What's funny is that I started with three characters and ended with five. (And no, they did not procreate.)

Here's a taste...

How many times has he jacked off to images of Hadley over the past twelve months? Too many to count, that’s for fucking sure. He was certain the situation would unfold differently when he saw her again. No, he doesn’t think life is like Hallmark movie of the week, but he’d yearned for a happy ending. He thought she’d remember what they had—what they were like—how it felt to have his dick deep inside her.

When she’d let him, that is.

His hand pumps up and down his shaft. He was hard since before she arrived. Simply knowing she was coming to the gym today gave him an erection. Part of him—the guilty part—is certain she can guess what he’s doing right now. She had him down pat when they were together; she understood what made him tick.

So many times, she forced him to wait for his pleasure. She’d make him to go for a week, two, three, with no release, and he loved it. When she was in her cruelest moods, she’d keep a red pen by the calendar. Each day he survived without an orgasm, she’d draw an X in the little square. There would be a reward waiting for him if he was good, or sweet punishment if he was bad. He enjoyed both situations equally, if he were to be completely honest with himself.

He’d imagined that this year was simply the longest punishment she’d ever meted out. And he’d behaved. He’d been faithful—if “faithful” includes watching an almost endless stream of BDSM porn. He didn’t sink his dick into any other woman. That should count for something, right?

His hand works his cock as he imagines her tying him down to her bed, telling him what a naughty boy he’s been, punishing him with her favorite array of X-rated weapons. He hesitates only long enough to fill his palm with the synthetic-rose scented pink soap. He’s not thinking clearly. He only craves relief. The liquid soap feels like pure sin on his rod. He fucks his slippery palm while he recalls his past with Hadley. She liked to use a wooden paddle first, heating his asscheeks until they were deep cherry-red. Then she’d stripe him with her crop, watching as he worked hard not to fuck the mattress in his desire for mercy. Sometimes being bad feels so fucking good. Guy knows all about that...

It's too early for sake. For champagne. Or tequila. I'm going to have to nudge a friend and see if she'll meet for a celebratory coffee. Lift your mug with me.

XXX,
Alison

Still knee-deep in porn...

2011-09-25T09:29:00.000-07:00

...but at least I have these killer Franco Sarto boots I scored at the thrift store for $5! Are they not the bomb?

Hopefully, I will be done tonight and able to turn in my novella in the a.m. Wish me (more) luck!

XXX,
Alison

Knee-deep in porn...

2011-09-22T07:27:00.000-07:00

I am trying my best to finish my fifth novella for Harlequin by Friday. So far, I've got a heroine who is topping from below, a dom who doesn't know he's a dom, a male sub who isn't entirely secure being bi, and a gorgeous leather-clad Master who doesn't give a fuck about the sex of his partners as long as they are willing to submit.

In 10K.

Wish me luck.

XXX,
Alison

Go on... Be a Bad Ass...

2011-09-20T06:09:00.000-07:00

My bad ass friend Tom Biagini is offering 50% off through Wednesday at Sumo Surfer. The code to know is: EASYRIDER.

How effing cool is that? And how hot would you look wearing the shirt while reading Bad Ass?

XXX,
Alison

Smart Ass: Plucked

2011-09-19T06:02:00.000-07:00

One of my first reader reviews for "Plucked" made me happy all week: I seriously loved Plucked, full of melancholy and romance, and oh, just the way you conveyed that sense of small town with so many deft, light, touches. Really skillfully done. A story that'll stay with me a while.

This is one I worked on for a long time. Occasionally, I know a plot line but don't know who the characters are. With some stories, the characters arrive first. With Plucked, I knew Sandy. I knew the ice queen. And I knew exactly what was going to happen. But for some reason, I took my molasses-slow time getting from point A to, well, point anal.

She’s at the bar that night. We’re all at the bar. Small-town living means that your choices are narrowed to two—stay home or go to The Local. Sandy’s at the corner—his corner. Nobody would dare to sit on Sandy’s stool, even when he’s not in the bar. That’s how things are out here. What’s yours is yours. At least, until you lose your turn. The woman steps inside and scans the room quickly. I can see her assessing the situation. Battered floor that matches the scuffed bar that matches the ripped-up stools. An old jukebox—not vintage, mind you, nor refurbished retro—just fucking old.

Then there’s me, behind the bar. She comes forward with a smile.

“You serve caffeine in the morning and liquor at night?”

“Yes, ma’am.” That defines my life in a solitary sentence. I’m an insomniac and a workaholic. I need to keep my hands busy or my thoughts take me places I’d rather not go.

“I’ll have a vodka.”

I choose the best we’ve got and give her a glass that’s extra clean with no dings. Sandy seems beside himself. He doesn’t know what to do. Does he offer to pay? Does he move to her side? She still has not looked his way. When she downs the vodka in a single swallow, he seems to realize she might leave, and he might blow yet another chance.

“The next one’s on me,” he says, moving Mercury-swift to the open stool at her right.

She tilts her head at him. I’ve never seen such a cold-blooded stare in my life.

If she were a reptile, he’d be digested. Sandy seems unaware. I want to tell him to run—the way you sometimes find yourself yelling at nature shows if you’ve had too much to drink. “Run, little mouse, run! The diamondback’s about to strike.” But he’s hypnotized already, mesmerized by some sick promise in her eyes.

I serve my regulars while listening to Sandy try to banter. He asks if she’s new to town, as if he hasn’t been asking all over, as if he hasn’t been party-lining up the place trying to figure out who she is and where she’s from.

“Passing through,” she tells him, and she toys with a pack of foreign cigarettes on the counter.

“But staying for a little while?” The hopefulness in his voice makes my throat tighten.

One bit of gossip had her taking an old farm for a few weeks. The farmer’s long gone and his city-slick heirs have turned the homestead into a vacation rental. For three times what the average rent is, you can stay in the rustic quaintness of a formerly working farm. Urbanites seem to find this concept enticing. As if creaky floorboards and a Chambers yellow stove are as exotic as a trip to a foreign land.

“At the Winters’,” she says, naming a different location—one with a small, second unit on the water.

“Are you an artist?” He’s rolling his dice. The “passing through” ones are usually artists, or writers, or musicians.

She shakes her head and taps her fingertips on the bar, and I see that Sandy was off. No telltale paint stains, but there’s a callus on the tip of her left pinkie. I know what she is before Sandy does. My mother played cello with our city orchestra. I wasn’t always a hick. Some of us who pass through end up turning around and staying when they hit the county line. Creaky floorboards can woo even the strongest heart—or occasionally the most broken.

“Writer?” he asks next, and I turn to see her smile at him. Oh, Sandy, I want to say. Run, baby, run. She’s a viper. I feel her attraction even though her gaze is not aimed at me.

“I’m on hiatus,” she says, and she doesn’t say more. Sandy rolls the word around in his mind. I can see him trying to figure out what to do next. He appears surprised when she slides one slim arm around his shoulders and pulls him close. If I weren’t right across the bar I would not have been able to hear her say, “How about you? Passing through?”

He chuckles, nervously. When was Sandy last nervous in front of girl? Sometime circa the 90s, I’d have to guess. “I’m here,” he says, “for good.”

“That’s my only option? For good?”

I feel as if Sandy and I are in some way connected. Our hearts beat faster at her dark, slow words. My mental pleas of Run, Sandy, Run, have changed in a quarter note to Be bad for her, Sandy. Go home with her and be bad.

*****

If you like Smart Ass, please let us know!

XXX,
Alison

Get Sauced!

2011-09-18T07:26:00.000-07:00

This story was originally titled "Prego"—but so many people thought the story was about pregnant women that I gave the piece a new title. I originally wrote "Prego" for a collection called Tasting Him, and I learned from the very first spoonful that readers either loved or hated this one. I know authors aren’t supposed to admit something like that. We’re all supposed to pretend that every reader adores each word we put to paper. But Prego tends to strike a nerve.

Or perhaps a taste bud.

This review delighted me the most:

Okay, so I get the food part of the story, here’s where I get hung up: these people live in San Francisco. Presumably pretty close to North Beach. Why in the world are they using jarred pasta sauce for a dinner party?

Um, without the jarred sauce, there is no story. That's my cheap answer. My expensive answer is that I don't actually know how to make sauce from scratch, so the thought never entered my mind that serving jarred sauce at a dinner party would be in bad taste. I actually like sauce from a jar. (I can hear people uninviting themselves to my next culinary event.)

When I posted the above review on my blog, one reader urged me to learn how to make sauce from scratch. “Please learn before you die,” she said. “It’s fun.”

This gave me the idea to include actual recipes in my food-related short stories. (And I coined the phrase "a Recipe Romance.") Over the years, I’ve written a slew of erotica that relates to food, which is odd because I’m one of the worst chefs around. Luckily, I know one of the best chefs! Chef Saffron has graciously agreed to provide me (and you) with original recipes to enhance my foodie sex stories. Every meal she’s ever cooked for me has been beyond restaurant quality. She is to food what I am to smut.

The PDF is available now at All Romance. Kindle to come. Look for more Recipe Romances shortly.

XXX,
Alison

If I Were a Zombie...

2011-09-17T07:10:00.000-07:00

I'd eat Thomas the most. (After I devoured Sam, of course.)

Thomas Roche has a brand-new novel out called The Panama Laugh. I have not read the book yet. (I cannot wait for my copy to arrive!) But I did want to highlight a few 5-star reviews for him:

This novel is an excellent addition to the Zombie genre, but also worth a read even if you don't give a fig about zombies, but like mercenaries, peace-corp drop outs, cryogenics, cheap whiskey, burning man, hippie cults, Panama, and San Francisco. Highly recommended.

Oh, my god. I like cheap whiskey, Burning Man, hippie cults, and San Francisco. I cannot wait to read the book!

Here's another:

Not content with milquetoast victims surviving the best they can, he adds in a bunch of bad asses up to their necks in the worst trouble possible. Throw in counter culture, mafia culture soldiers of fortune, hackers, and history lessons galore for a smattering of what to expect. His character's dialogs are hilarious and endearing as they work to unravel the terror that plagues their world without unraveling themselves (Well, perhaps really frayed at times). The world he crafts holds together with unexpected twists and turns and well crafted flow of an impossible situations! Read it now so you can brag when someone snaps up the movie rights!

I have been a fan of Thomas' writing since the early 90s. He never fails to rock my world. I will definitely do an update when I read the book. Until then, if you read The Panama Laugh, please toss Thomas a review online and let me know. I might send you a cool prize in the mail. Like brains or something...

XXX,
Alison

P.S. The Panama Laugh is on Twitter!

You Bet Your Ass...

2011-09-16T10:25:00.000-07:00

Smart Ass is already a best-seller on All Romance!

And our Kindle is live, too.

I am feeling all sorts of proud of us right now!

XXX,
Alison

Karma Kicks Ass

2011-09-16T07:06:00.000-07:00

Oooh, look at this fabulous review for Slave to Love:

Looking for a classy and well written grouping of contemporary erotica? Alison Tyler has paired up some of the best pieces featuring tales of first time bondage, master/slave encounters, one time stands in the heat of the moment, and power struggles pushing bodies to the limits of their arousal and strength. This collection of short stories will enthrall you in their words of desire...

I worked hard (I won't say "slaved") on the book the first time around, and spent more time gathering a fab, frisky foreword by Mistress Kay and two sultry stories by Sophia Valenti and Sommer Marsden for the reboot. So I'm super pleased to see that the collection is well received!

XXX,
Alison

Please Review our Asses...

2011-09-15T05:38:00.000-07:00

Here is our first reader feedback for Smart Ass. A big huge thank you to Chicago Girl!

Bought the book and printed for the porn-reading-train-ride home yesterday! I was squirming in my seat after the first page! It's a shame that I never end up sitting next to a hot stranger who could help me out with that - usually a frumpy commuter instead who is zoning on her sudoku..anyway.

Scrumptious! It seems strange to discover sweetness in anal stories - but you delivered hot, sexy and sweet in all.

Great job - as usual - and thanks for leaving yours for last - had that sweet dessert on the ride in this morning. Loved Sandy!

—Chicago Girl

I felt the same way when I read the whole assembled collection. The book is filthy, of course. (You wouldn't expect anything less from us, right?) But this is a sweet collection, as well.

XXX,
Alison

P.S. I love this description: "the porn-reading-train-ride home."

And we're live...

2011-09-14T12:44:00.000-07:00

Smart Ass is all set for you to kink up your Kindle!

XXX,
Alison

Take 25% off My Ass

2011-09-14T05:54:00.000-07:00

I mean *our* ass. Our asses? Our Smart Ass! I think I did this right. I am feeling foolishly proud of myself. (That is, if I *did* do this right. If I didn't, I'm just feeling foolish.) We're offering 25% off our brand-new collection Smart Ass if you buy the book on Smashwords before Saturday. What do you have to do?

According to Smashwords, "Customers enter the code prior to completing their checkout."

Promotional price: $3.37
Coupon Code: DZ33X
Expires: September 17, 2011

Oh, man, I hope this works!

XXX,
Alison

P.S. Okay, so when I first looked on Smashwords to make sure the book was there, it wasn't. Turns out, I had to "deactivate the prude filter" to see the book. Heh.

Are you a Wise Ass?

2011-09-14T05:14:00.000-07:00

a) You need this shirt, and ...

b) You need to buy our brand-new collection Smart Ass.

I have now Kindled, POD'd (what *is* the past tense of POD? Print-on-Demanded?), and Smashed. I'm waiting for the proof for the print book, and Kindle is slowly moving forward—you can see the book, but you can't buy the book.

And I am still in the wrangle of the Smash.

But fingers crossed, all will be available soon!

XXX,
Alison

Annual Anal Erotica x 3

2011-09-13T06:44:00.000-07:00

I always, always spell that wrong. I type "anual" instead of "annual." But that's okay. Because I'm all sorts of giddy right now.

SMART ASS is OUT!

I LOVE the cover that Kristina Lloyd designed! I'm thrilled with the stories penned by Sommer Marsden, Thomas S. Roche, and Sophia Valenti. And I'm just basically warm, whet, and worked up. (Ha. Those were synonyms for "excited." I don't really agree with any of them.) Truly, this is a hot fucking book. I mean, sizzling. If you like anal—to read it, do it, or fantasize about it—then this is the book of your filthy little dreams.

We're up at AllRomance right now. Kindle, Smash, and POD to come.

XXX,
Alison

P.S. Necklace is a special order from Metal Taboo, of course.

Thank you for not smoking...

2011-09-12T06:34:00.000-07:00

I saw on the 10th that Sommer Marsden had gone four years without smoking! And I wanted to throw her a party — or at least give her a shout out. But then the weekend zoomed by me on hyper speed. Anyway, I found this Thank you for not smoking t-shirt, but I can't grab an image. So I went with the "thank you for pot smoking," which cracked me the fuck up.

Congratulations on the four years, SM! You are an inspiration!

XXX,
Alison

Don't think about pink elephants...

2011-09-11T07:37:00.000-07:00

I'm working on a pegging story right now that was published years ago—and honestly, I cannot for the life of me remember where. (I'll do a quick search in a minute. I'm sure I can find the history in my records.) But now that I have the opportunity, I am cleaning up and polishing, stretching and extending. Same as I did with On Finding Jon's Porn. I think sometimes, if you sit on a story for a while, you can see more clearly what was missing the first time around.

Either that, or my characters have grown bored doing the same thing over and over for the past decade. I get to come in and provide brand-new entertainment. And they're grateful. Trust me.

And then Reese—sweet, innocent-looking Reese—was behind me, maneuvering into proper position, her fingertips spreading my muscled asscheeks, trailing down the split between. And then her cock, well-lubed from her own pussy juices, pressed aggressively against my asshole.

Oh, fuck. What was going on?

She slid on in, despite the fact that my body tensed instantly. That I turned my head to look over my shoulder, wanting to see her face. She drove forward, as if she’d been ass-fucking men all her life, and I had to take it. Had to, because I wanted it like I’d never wanted anything before. Reese with her rhythm, slip-sliding her way inside me, and me, forgetting who I was or where I was, automatically fucking Mackenzie. Just fucking her. Because I had to.

I don't know if I was even aware of the term "pegging" when I first wrote the piece. Or maybe "pegging" hadn't been invented. Not the act, of course, the name. Whatever you call it, I'm having a great deal of fun driving (and thrusting, and slamming) new life into the story!

XXX,
Alison

I see asses everywhere I go...

2011-09-10T06:46:00.000-07:00

It's getting kind of spooky. I'm not kidding. When shopping at Target (of all places), I stumbled across a birthday card that showed a picture of a donkey—the text inside referenced being a wise ass. Then I saw a bumper sticker featuring the phrase kick ass. Basically, everywhere I turn, I see an ass. Sometimes, like with this eye shadow from MAC, the word is embedded (assets). But I swear, I feel as if the signs are all pointing to the release of our brand-new anal collection: Smart Ass.

We're in the final editing phases. Every day we're getting closer. So hold onto your... ass.

XXX,
Alison

All you need is...

2011-09-09T06:57:00.000-07:00

...no, not a pumpkin. Love. My friend is growing pumpkins and she has this trick of scoring the skin when the pumpkins are small—the words grow with the pumpkins. Pretty cool, yes?

Of course, if it were *my* pumpkin patch, I'd probably have written a few different words on the pumpkins. Can you imagine?

If you're not in the mood for love, though, and you'd like a little porn, I have two copies of Heat Wave to give away for Amazon reviewers. This book is a reissue. The original came out in 2004. The new book features two new stories by Sommer Marsden and Sophia Valenti and a fabulous foreword by Violet Blue.

Would you like one? Post a comment to let me know which word you'd have scratched into the skin...

XXX,
Alison

"...then she gave me that look..."

2011-09-08T13:49:00.000-07:00

Never Have the Same Sex Twice recently received a rave write-up: Trying to keep monogamy from monotony is in the details and Never Have the Same Sex Twice: A Guide For Couples delivers all the details needed. It was fun to lay in bed and read with my spouse and watch as her eyes widened then gave me that look. It has been fun, fun, fun.

Sam and I met via one of my best girlfriends from high school. She lived upstairs from Sam, and she gave him one of my early novels to read. Based on the content therein, he assumed I was a lesbian—but he wanted to get to know me anyway. (He's always had a thing for chicks who write.) One of the best things about our "cute meet" was the fact that I did not have to come out to him as a porn writer. He already had read my work and was a fan.

My life would have been so different if we hadn't met. I was right on the cusp of moving to Manhattan to live with Tristan Taormino and another friend of hers. Life takes you on sharp turns when you least expect it. Sixteen years later, we're still going strong. In fact, I just penned a foreword to Shanna Germain's new book Bound by Lust that is really all about Sam. Here's a snip:

What’s hotter than bondage?

That’s where the lust comes in. See, being tied up by someone who knows every nuance of what I like tops everything I’ve ever done. (And those who have been playing along at home for the last two decades know that I’ve done a lot.)

Sure, there are the sudden attraction aficionados who prefer a rough night with a stranger. Nothing wrong with that. But I want something more. I want to be with a man who understands how to take me right up to the precipice of pleasure, who will promise every night to push on my inner boundaries with his big, rough hands...

To read the rest, you'll have to buy the book. More deets to come.

XXX,
Alison

P.S. Not only do I lust for this ring, it's my size!

"could be his gardener"

2011-09-08T06:48:00.000-07:00

One of my friends makes miniatures. She's built entire countryscapes using the tiniest materials. Generally, she outfits her creations with toys manufactured by the company Britains. Yesterday, she sent me a link to a more unusual listing she found on Ebay: Grandad with friend relaxing in the garden.

The write-up made me laugh out loud...

GORGEOUS LEAD ITEMS FOR YOUR GARDEN DIORAMA.

BRITAINS LEAD GRAND FATHER RELAXING IN GARDEN WITH HIS PIPE,SAT ON GARDEN SEAT .TWO MINITURE CONIFER TREES IN POTS, WITH HIS YOUNG FRIEND.COULD BE HIS GARDENER,TREES AND GARDEN SEAT HAVE ENGLAND MARKED ON BASE,HIS YOUNG GARDENER IS UNBRANDED,IN VERY GOOD CONDITION.

Miniature enthusiasts live in their own world. I am absolutely mesmerized by some of the amazing creations. Like in the book Microworlds. And yes, I'm already working on a story...

XXX,
Alison

"It's hard to be an artist..."

2011-09-07T14:16:00.000-07:00

Inflection mine. My friend Tom is having an art show tomorrow. He promises to wear clothes. But I'm guessing some of you would prefer he go without... sluts.

XXX,
Alison

Such a Smart Ass

2011-09-07T06:44:00.000-07:00

We've been working so hard at our new anal anthology—and we're almost done! I'm so fucking excited about this collection. Here's the TOC:

My Ass Is Your Ass Is My Ass by Kristina Lloyd
Smokehouse by Sommer Marsden
Tahoe Tease by Thomas S. Roche
From the Bottom of My Heart by Sophia Valenti
Plucked by Alison Tyler

Stay tuned. I know *I'm* on the edge of my seat!

XXX,
Alison

What's German for "Got a Minute?"

2011-09-06T19:54:00.000-07:00

How fucking cool is that? I have no more details. Not when it's coming out or anything else. But I love love love the cover!

XXX,
Alison

Into Anal?

2011-09-05T07:02:00.000-07:00

Wow, I just posted a query on Twitter:

Into anal? Giving/receiving? Please tell me why (as eloquently as possible in 140 characters). I might quote you in a new project!

And several people immediately unfollowed me. Is anal still that taboo? Reallllly? I'm kind of gobsmacked. I mean, type "Anal Sex" into Google, and you get 172,000,000 sites in a heart beat. Of course, maybe I'm jaded. I've been working on our new anal erotic collection, Smart Ass, for awhile now—giving the book a final spit polish before I send the ms. to the authors to proof. So I guess I simply have anal on the brain.

But still. Taboo? I don't think so. Do you?

XXX,
Alison

P.S. Oh, and if you'd like to respond to my Twitter query here, please feel free!

You're the same kind of bad as me...

2011-09-04T07:25:00.000-07:00

Tom Waits - Bad As Me by antirecords

I love the comment that says, "Why didn't you call this Bad Ass me instead?"

The lyrics floor me as ever. I've adored Tom Waits for so long now. His words feel as if they're embedded in my brain.

XXX,
Alison

Hello? Hello?

2011-09-03T07:37:00.000-07:00

We went to Target yesterday to buy a new phone. Why did we need a new phone? Because I tend to drop ours. To the point where now our phone will just randomly hang up on people in mid-conversation. So that often I find myself holding the receiver and saying...

"Hello?" Hell-"
Fuck. Not again.

But clearly I'm senile, because when we came home from our shopping trip I discovered... no phone. I'd completely forgotten that's why we went to Target in the first place! Helllooooo? Anybody home? Obviously, not me.

XXX,
Alison

P.S. I always liked this song, although I think this is my favorite of hers. God, did it really come out in '95? Suddenly, I feel senile *and* old.

P.P.S. Doesn't she sort of look like Shanna?

The Beauty of Blushers...

2011-09-03T07:01:00.000-07:00

Oh, I adore this image. My erotica mixed with cosmetics pretty well sums me up to a sparkling T (for Trollop).

Blushers is now available as a print book *and* a Kindle. And maybe if you read the seven sizzling spanking stories, you won't even have to wear blush! Although I know I will anyway, because I am continually on a mission to find the fill-in-the-blank. Someday I will have to take a picture of my glossy and glittery cosmetics collection. A little embarrassing, maybe, but a true sign of my quest for the perfect scarlet for my lips, pink for my cheeks, burgundy for my eyes...

I've asked this before, but what are *you* on the quest for?

XXX,
Alison

Kink Up Your Kindle!!

2011-09-02T11:32:00.000-07:00

I don't know why, but Alison's Wonderland is selling on kindle right now for $3.99. That is more than 70% off! So if you have a Kindle, why not snag a copy of this fabulous fucking collection—and fabulous collection of fucking?

XXX,
Alison

What have you found?

2011-09-02T07:49:00.000-07:00

Went out last night and heard a band do covers of some of my all-time favorite songs ever. Including this one. Got dolled up—favorite scarlet silk blouse with black dots (which I've had for about a decade), jeans mini, stockings with a playing card theme, deep red boots. Drank tequila and watched the band and chatted with friends.

"Going to get lucky?" K asked Sam.
"Hope so," Sam said, rather than tell him he already had.

Or *I* already had. Lucky is as lucky does.

Sometimes simple pleasures are really the sweetest ones. Like the pleasure of watching a record go round and round and round...

XXX,
Alison

"Alison Tyler Plays With Her Tits And Sucks On This Hard Cock"

2011-09-01T07:01:00.000-07:00

If the Diviynls had written their song today, maybe they would have changed their lyrics from "I touch myself" to "I Google myself." But I have a quick fix for anyone who ever has wasted time looking for themselves on the Internet. Have the same name as a porn star. Then, when you Google yourself, you'll come up with statements like, "Alison Tyler Plays With Her Tits And Sucks On This Hard Cock."

Or "Frisky girl Alison Tyler behaves wildly when fucking and sucking and eating cumshot."

Not that there's anything wrong with that. But that's not me. Want the porn star? The tall, amazon beauty is right here. Want the porn writer? You're at the right place!

XXX,
Alison

In a barbed sort of mood?

2011-08-31T11:03:00.000-07:00

Then you totally need to click over to Yandy and snag their Barbed Wire stockings. I have several pairs, and I get the most compliments ever on these! (I wear mine with a short black American Apparel skirt and a black Pink Floyd tee.)

Even cooler, they are reduced from the standard low $3.95 to $1.19! No, I am not on Yandy's payroll. This is a genuine gushing review from a super-satisfied customer!

Oh, and if stockings are on your mind, why not check out our collection, Stocking Up? Look, with the money you saved on the barbed wire stockings, you're almost there!

XXX,
Alison

Bitchy Is My Middle Name

2011-08-31T05:55:00.000-07:00

Oh, my god. One of my best friends received this t-shirt from her... mother-in-law. Not as a gag gift, or on April Fool's Day. This tee was given as an "I saw this and thought of you" present. I'm not sure how I would respond to that. I think I would probably giggle uncontrollably.

Or reach for a steak knife.

That said, there are days that I absolutely would wear this shirt without any hesitation. Like when I read a review recently by a fellow author who slammed one of my collections. A collection she's actually in. (Why? Why would you do that? This has happened to me before, and I've never understood the concept. I just could not do that to a peer.) Or when a woman nearly backed into my car and then gave me a look as if *I* was the one at fault. (Um, no. You nearly backed up into me. You don't get to give *me* a look.) Or when I just received some weird legal settlement from a distributor that I'm supposed to sign about a dispute I didn't know we had.

Vendor and Distributor have agreed to settle a disputed claim without any admission of liability on the part of either party...

Hello? What claim? What the fuck is going on? I feel like a guy in a car with a pouty girl, knowing something is bothering her and doing that whole, "Is something wrong?" routine and having her go, "Oh, no. I'm fine." But you know she's not fine. She's seething.

My warehouse simply forwarded me this "ShortFormMutualSettlement." Shouldn't I know what we're fighting about first? Before I agree that they're not at fault.

But if I had to pick a bitch shirt, I'd probably choose one of these instead:

There's no whiny ass scared and screaming "Bitch" in this shirt! (This one just makes me laugh.)

I'm not shy—I'm just a bitch. (I could never pull this off.)

Ever Been BITCH SLAPPED? (Hands down, my favorite.)

Yeah, that's the one I'm going with.
And you?

XXX,
Alison

"delightfully quick easy reads"

2011-08-30T07:26:00.000-07:00

Naughty Fairytales from A to Z came out so long ago, I tend to forget about the collection. (What a difference seven years makes.) Unfortunately, the book is not available as an e-book yet, and I'm not even sure if Plume has plans to go the e-route. But I was happy to see a brand-new, five-star review for Naughty Fairytales pop up this week:

These stories are delightfully quick easy reads. Quirky and well written retellings of stories for adults only. And I ended up giving my copy away to a friend who also absolutely fell in love with it!

XXX,
Alison

P.S. Oh, that fabulous Beanforest!