October 09, 2015

What Time Is It?

Back in the day, I humorously (wickedly? wantonly?) owned a watch that featured a white face with white hands and no numbers. I remember a stranger asking me what time it was once, and I flipped my wrist to show him without thinking. He was, in a word, nonplussed. (It was a bit like this one—but I don't even think there were hatch marks!)

Time doesn't mean much to me. Sleep doesn't either for that matter. But damn—2 a.m.—yes, 2 a.m.—came fucking early today. I woke up thinking about crushed peaches. In my dreams, crushed peaches 1) enhanced the libido and b) cured stage fright. Who knew?

Clearly, I'm going through one of those "I'll sleep someday" phases. It's not that I never sleep. It's more that I hardly sleep. Rarely sleep?

That's okay. I'm getting work done. Right now, in the midst of the rest of the projects, I'm copy editing the next installment of my Jack, Sam, and Alex story. When the first book came out (I think it had been in print for about about month), my publisher told me the novel had received some of the best reviews of any of their books. Ever. I was especially proud because I honed those words intensely.

But I wasn't done.

The first three portions were simply the tip of what I have in my files. And so now I'm polishing the shaft. (Oh, my gosh. I hope that's half as funny as I think it is.) I plan to have the next installment up by November 1st.

Until then—please admire this new review Even Deeper received. My favorite line: "Jack ruined so many other book Doms for me because he came first." Entire review is right here.

Here is a snippet of what I'm whipping into shape:

Weren’t we supposed to be going somewhere?

Day-tripping? Sightseeing?

            That’s what I’d thought, but Jack didn’t seem to be in any sort of a hurry. Would we spend all afternoon in the hotel room, playing twisted mind-fuck games to pass the hours before nightfall?

            Ask the 8 Ball, baby. I think it’s going to say “yes.”

            Cast the picture in your mind: There was Alex, on the bed, not daring to pull up his slacks. Or not wanting to. There was me, still holding his hands, still looking into his eyes, feeling the connection between us. That rare emotional wire that every so often made me realize that I was as firmly bound to him as I was to Jack. In a different way, yes, but bound just the same.

            And then, there was Jack, belt in hand, regarding us almost as if he’d never seen us before.

            Who were these two subs on his bed?
            What was this leather belt doing in his hand?

            No, I’m playing. He never looked like that. He always appeared in control. Just about always, anyway. Now, he did watch us, but not with curiosity, simply with an expression of consideration. A “where do we go from here?” sort of look. Or maybe that’s how I chose to decipher the expression on his handsome face. Maybe Jack had this entire scenario all planned from the start, despite what sort of outfit I'd chosen, despite what time Alex had decided to stumble back into our lair. Our den. Our own private haven.

            If I’d been in a suit, or in jeans, or in some primly proper pink dress, would the same situation have unfolded so neatly?

            Ask the 8 Ball, baby. I think it’s going to say, “yes.”

            “Take off your clothes,” Jack murmured, voice soft but commanding as ever, and both Alex and I looked at him, Alex turning to glance over his shoulder. Who did he mean? Who was he talking to?

            There were no further instructions, and so we both—nervously I’ll say—stripped. Took me a bit longer than Alex, with my garters and my buckled boots, and the bra under my T-shirt. Alex was down to the bare in no time at all. Waiting, watching me. He seemed different than he had when he’d wandered in. Adrenaline from the thrashing had clearly woken him up. But the circles, violet smudges of fatigue were still under his eyes, and the rumpled quality hadn’t left him. That just-been-fucked, up-all-night quality that I still find so unnervingly appealing. Even in myself.

            Jack appraised us for a moment in silence. Almost as if he were a customer planning on  making a purchase. Which sex did he want today? Male or female? But no, that was only my initial reaction. A flawed one. Jack wasn’t choosing between us. He wasn’t like a customer at all. He already owned us, after all. In truth, he was more like a director, deciding how to position his actors. Or a sculptor, and we were his clay.

            He’d asked Alex what the boy had needed. Now, he took a step closer, gripped him by the nape of the neck and kissed him, as if he’d known all along exactly what Alex needed. As if he knew better than the boy knew, himself. I watched, standing there. An audience member? No, because I was naked, as naked as Alex. But I was not a player, either. Not yet.

            Jack kissed Alex firmly, sweetly, then broke off and took a step back once more.

            Was Alex hard?

            Ask the 8 Ball, baby. You bet your fucking life, he was.

            He’d been hard since he’d walked in the room. That was my guess. Replaying the images of the previous evening on loop in his mind. He was like me in that way, I think. He relived his fantasies-turned-realities in an endless manner, almost as if mentally checking to see if they’d really happened. Because wasn’t our whole life like a fantasy-turned-reality? Wasn’t our whole world the stuff of dreams?

            I wished we could trade films. I’d love to have viewed the behind-the-scenes visions that Alex owned. What had happened in the club when we weren’t with him? Where had he gone afterwards?

            Jack must have realized that he was losing me, losing me to my own thoughts, which was a dangerous concept. He couldn’t allow that. Couldn’t allow me to slip away. In a flash, he walked to my side, kissed me the same way he’d just kissed his boy. Powerfully, his hand on the back of my neck, his lips so firm, so hot on mine. I shuddered when he released me, feeling his hand trail down  my back to rest on my naked ass.

            My rear was still cherry-colored from the spanking, as Alex’s bore the stripes from his own belt. Almost nothing sexier than that in my opinion. Having to bend over for your own damn belt.

            Jack let his hand rest there, a warning or a reminder? I didn’t know. I stayed as still as possible, but my eyes met Alex’s. And I found safety in his gaze, as he must have found strength in my hands on his moments before. We were partners, in a way. Travelers on the same ride.
  What was next, though? What did Jack have planned?

            Ask the 8 ball, baby.
            Ah, it won’t work this time. Only yes or no questions are accepted.


Please don't forget my contest is still rolling... and have a spectacular Friday!


October 08, 2015

Truth or Fantasy? Fact or Fiction?

"Write what you know," writers are told. Honestly, I've never understood this advice. "Write what you research" would work for me. "Write what you like" would be fine, too. Or even: "Write what you fucking want to write."

One of my very first short stories was a time-travel piece from the point of view of a male saxophone player. I'm not male. I don't play sax. I've never been to the 1920s.

Now, it's true that a few years ago, I penned a piece for RT Magazine about mining your life for your words—but I was talking more about recognizing emotions and truths in your world and transforming them into your work.

That said, there is a question erotica writers have always been asked:

Do you do what you write about?  

This query is specific—in my opinion—to smutters. Nobody would expect a murder mystery writer to kill people or a western writer to, say, be a cowboy. But if an erotica writer pens a story about fucking a cowboy—well, people want to know. Did his spurs jingle jangle jingle?

I have gotten my panties in a twist in the past over assumptions aimed at erotica writers. (That one in particular irked me.) But things have changed since 2008. Erotica has had a renaissance. We're not in the shadows. We're not in the dark.

Maybe the real question people have is: Does your work turn you on? Are you writing your truth or your fantasies?

And here is my latest musing:

Yes, I do what I write about. Have I done everything? No. Will I tell you what I haven't done? No. Why? Because maybe I'll do it in the future. (Ha.) But I'm a very meta writer. I draw from my life and my fantasies, my experiences and my dreams.

Of course, not all of my stories are true. They're stories. I make up the characters. Or, really, I listen to the characters in my head and write down what they tell me. And how could they all be true? I write paranormal. I write time travel. I write body swap. I write from a bisexual male point of view.

But in a way, all of the stories *are* true. (I know. I know. I just said that they weren't. Bear with me.) What I mean is this: the core—the filament within—those kinky desires, those are genuine. I write smut for a reason. I write it because I love the heat, the yearnings, the fetishes, the power, the raw hungry emotion.

Truth or fantasy? Fact or fiction? Yes. Or better yet:

...yes I said yes I will Yes.


October 07, 2015

Eau de Alison

Insomnia makes everything more interesting. 

I don't bother second-guessing myself anymore. I jump to fifth-guessing. Twelfth guessing. Right this second, I can't seem to do anything correctly. 

So I'm going to switch gears and try something different. Totally different. I've been wanting to pen perfume reviews for years. I interviewed Chandler Burr (one of my perfume heroes) once upon a time. I've always loved his words. How he can make you understand a scent on paper. That takes talent. But I knew if I wrote perfume reviews I'd describe the aromas in my "eau"n way. (Ha ha. Perfume humor.)

See, I wanted to write perfume reviews in the forms of stories, with each one based on the type of sex one might have while wearing a particular scent.

Then I worried—because I tend to worry. The perfume companies might not want to read porn based on their creations. And I never want to step on anyone's atomizers. So I thought of a new way. I'd write a story, and I wouldn't reveal which perfume I was reviewing. Clever readers might be able to figure it out. If not, no problem. The stories would simply be stories. Like this one...

200 words. On a dime.

He was waiting for her in the dark. When she opened the door, he reached out, touched her, let her know he was there. She stood totally still, expecting him to tell her what to do, how he wanted her, but he remained silent. 

They were simply two people in a dark room.

Her heart sped up when he bent and brought his lips to the back of her neck. She could feel the flickers of current dance through her. She lowered her chin. He bit her nape.

His hands ran up and down her arms, smoothing her, soothing her. She had on a long sweater, a tunic that hit her at the top of her thighs. Beneath, she was wearing nothing. The sweater was dove gray, expensive, cashmere. But the color didn't matter. In the room, everything was pitch. Black.

The sweater caressed her when he ran his hands over her body. She shut her eyes, leaned back against him. He lifted the hem, let her feel his cock against her naked ass. Slowly, he entered her. Slowly, she exhaled.

He pushed his hips forward.

She followed his lead.

In the midnight room, they made their own sweet light.


Finally, something complete this morning. Something I can wrap my words around.


P.S. Perfume posts from the past...

October 06, 2015

Medieval Slang and Other Words

One happy side-effect of reading Chaucer is that I now know which day is Tuesday. I mean, I make an extra-special effort. Honestly, I am a very strangely organized person. I know where everything is. Usually. I know where I am in the schedule. Mostly. But my brain, my office, my files, are all slightly disorganized to the casual observer.

For instance, if I turn to the right, I see Chaucer on top of four other books, a 45 album by the Police, several wind-up toys, a figurine from Paris, a stack of silver bangles, and a music box.

Really? This is my brain. That's what I look like on the inside.

A few years back, an expert used my blog as an example of how not to blog (apparently). Because you can't find anything the way you should be able to: RSS feed (I still don't know what this is), contact info, Twitter account, non-existent Facebook, etc. If I had, say, a team of smut stars, maybe I could make things sleeker. But I figure that if you want me, you'll be able to find me, and this blog is mostly like a little aperitif to go with the novels or collections. Kind of a—if you like my words in book form, here's a little behind-the-scenes peek.

Which is how I'm attacking Chaucer. Sure, we could have regimented meetings. Roll call. But fuck that. I'm trying to give you a little bonus to go with the book. And today, I thought we'd discuss Medieval Slang. (That slips right into my love of dirty word etymology, yes?)

Now, you should know (based on what I just told you), that I don't really plan this ahead of time. You learn what I learn—as I learn it.

So I typed in "Medieval Slang Chaucer" and received:

The medieval poet Geoffrey Chaucer wrote in the vernacular, or the language of the common people. Canterbury Tales, for example, is a collection of stories filled with plenty of swearing, slang, and fart jokes.


Cunt, as defined by Wiki:

"The word appears to have not been strongly taboo in the Middle Ages, but became taboo towards the end of the eighteenth century..." and "The word appears several times in Chaucer's Canterbury Tales, in bawdy contexts, but it does not appear to be considered obscene at this point, since it is used openly." (This last quote comes from an article called "Chaucer's Cunt.") Of course, if you go to the article, you see how Wiki cherry picked the line, because right after it, the writer says: "Oddly these statements are followed by quotes from The Canterbury Tales that bellie them, for the word Chaucer uses is not 'cunt' but 'queynte.'"

And then I lost my train of thought while wondering if 'queynte' would play out as a Scrabble word.

Aha! And reboarded it with "a brief history of raunch," in which the writer reminds us that Chaucer makes a point to separate his own voice from the vulgarity of that of his characters'. ("I didn't do it, man. I only said it." No, wait. That was Lenny Bruce.)

This is taking me quite some time, honestly. I just discovered a website called Medievalists.net. And I found this book: Holy Sh*t, which you have to admit sounds like me.

So I won't actually admit failure. I'll simply admit that I didn't get as far as I'd planned. This is definitely a subject I'll return to in the future.

For previous posts on Chaucer, check out:

The Invitation...
Some background...
The Bawdy Bookclub
On being banned...
"He bathed in blissess..."
On Tuesdays, We Wear Chaucer

And for more on dirty words, visit:

• douchebag
• motherfucker
• round-heeled
• Pardon my French
• dick
• tramp
• snatch

I hope that you're enjoying this seriously strange journey! Please share your experiences if you so desire.


October 05, 2015

Trollop with a Question #77

Sommer and I were talking the other day, and she told me her #1, all-time favorite comic strip. I'm not going to reveal it, myself. I'm going to let her tell you. But, this leads us to...

What is your #1, all-time favorite comic strip?


I should have kept a list, but I didn't. I should go back and make a list, but I don't want to... But after a brief search of my underwear drawer—I mean, my previous posts—I'm fairly certain that I have not asked this question before.

Now, do we mean comic strip, like, in the daily paper? Or do comic books count? Comics that appear in magazines? 

Um, yes. Answer this however you'd like. Because this is a blog, not a game show, and I don't have to adhere to a whole lot of fine print.

Oh, wait. Do I mean a specific panel in a strip? Well, no. (Though I have this one from "Get Fuzzy" taped to my wall with the line: "You can wordify anything if you just verb it." Love.) I am asking generally. What is the one strip you'd read forever and forgo all others in favor of?

I'm a Mad Magazine girl to my core—specifically Snappy Answers to Stupid Questions. But my first tattoo was going to be of Spiderman (seriously—twenty-mumble-muble years ago, I walked into the tattoo parlor in Hollywood and almost had myself inked with a fairly substantial tattoo of Spiderman). But no, I have to go with Snappy. I think.

Now you...


P.S. For today—Movie Quotes to Live By is free! Download yours right now!

October 04, 2015

The Allure of Silk Stockings

Short fiction is an art form.

A few weeks ago, I tossed out a writing prompt. I had not done this in a long time. But over the nine years of keeping this blog, I have hosted multiple writing contests of various sorts. I used to put up weekly challenges and polls. The writing entries delighted me. I even mined ideas for whole anthologies based on what fell into my box. 

Sometimes I would allow 100 words, other times 250. Word counts matter. I love to see how writers tackle themes—and I'm even more impressed when they can wrangle words within tight spaces. (For some of my favorite 100-word entries, check out my Flash Fuck Me blog.)

This time, my challenge was simply to write a 100-word flasher based on the prompt: How many ways are there to wear sheer stockings? (You know me and stockings.)

Graydancer came through immediately (and intensely):

He watches.
I extend my leg, pushing out with the toe,
offering it to him. The tip of my foot pauses,
hanging in the air.
He waits.
I try to hold it, an amusing measure of
defiance. We know I will bend. My hair
tickles my naked thigh as I fit the tiny O of
fabric over the foot. Toes, soul, bump of
ankle, curve of calf—the layered folds unfurl,
forming the shape implied but impossible to
achieve without penetration.
He stands.
The band snaps tight inches from the wet
curls of my cunt. I shiver.
He comes.


Angell Brooks played along, too (sublimely):

The constrict around my wrists, the seams creasing my skin with every movement.

This was not what I had in mind when I ordered them from Paris. "The stockings your legs deserve" the tag line read. It sounded better in French, but that was the point.

When I dressed that morning for work, I felt very French, sexy, with my pencil skirt and ruffled blouse. Empowered even, as I brought my boss his coffee.

His eyes trickled, his chin lowered, telling me, without words, what he wanted.

On my knees, naked, my cunt twitches, as the silk tightens further.


And then into my inbox slid this gem from Dan...

Janie likes to find her sheer stockings discarded or secondhand, because she loathes buying anything new. She wants people to see that her stockings are well-worn at the knees, with a run up the back that's been stopped with a few strokes of silver nail polish, and to wonder at the hole midway up the inside of her thigh. She wears her stockings with garters, deep burgundy with black lace because there's nothing pastel about her, and Janie wants people to know that, like her stockings, she's used but not used up.


Followed by an entry by David:


Wearing only stockings, heels and a nipple chain she is staring into the mirror. He is behind her in a dark suit, in his hand the flogger that always makes her gasp and moan.

He moves closer and she watches his hand slide down her belly and between her legs. His fingers are wet now and he touches them to his lips before slipping them into her open mouth.

She can feel how hard he is and knows she will soon be kneeling in front of him.

He steps back and her mind is already anticipating the flogger's kiss.


I'm so pleased that you all joined in! If I missed someone, drop me a note at msalisontyler at yahoo dot com.

Gorgeous photo cover is by Riendo. I plan to host more writing challenges soon. I honestly forgot how happy they made me. If this were a live reading, and I was your dirty MC in second-hand tails and a sequined bow tie—I'd ask for a round of applause for the writers. Let's give them a virtual one here!


October 03, 2015

Tearing Into the Clothes of Fall

I have a prediction.

Fall styles will include boots.

No, really.

And warm things. Like sweaters. Maybe a poncho? Perhaps layers. Yes, I'm definitely seeing layers.

I worship fashion. I papered—literally papered—my walls and ceiling with fashion spreads from the time I was too young to know how to pronounce Hermes. (All right. You caught me. I still don't.) I adore those glossy thick September magazines. Even the ads. Especially, the ads. But what I find quite delightful is something my grandmother liked to say: "Everything old is new again."

Polka dots. Always in as far as I can tell. So are stripes. And animal prints. Ballet flats—do you remember when we wore metallic ones?

Leg warmers were the rage in the 80s. And they were in again six years ago. And now they're back. Wiki-how even has a way to wear them so that they're, like, totally 2015. (This is making me laugh. Seriously. If you can't figure out how to wear leg warmers, we may have bigger issues.)

When I was young(-er), I would own three pairs of jeans at all times. One would be crisp, dark denim—that perfect indigo blue. Too stiff to sit in comfortably. The second would be gently faded. This took time and effort. A serious commitment. You had to roll around a little bit to get them to ease up. The last (and always my personal favorite) would be ripped, shredded, holy. This was pre-distressed jeans. You distressed your own jeans. My mother despised the holy jeans. Then one day, a famous magazine featured a model (maybe she even graced the cover) wearing a gorgeous blush-colored button-up shirt and... yes... holy jeans.

I proudly showed this to my fashion-conscious mother. Tacked the photo to my wall as proof. I've never grown out of my love for destroyed clothing. (Luckily, my man has his own way of dealing with my clothes when they cross the line.)

Of course, there are avant-garde styles. I read about models wearing models down the runway—and the male ponchos that had a hole at penis-level. But generally, I think fashion is cyclical. And that the most important thing about the art of fashion is feeling comfortable in your own skin (and your own hair!) before you even reach for your underwear.

What prompted this post? Yesterday, I spied a familiar spread in one of the main magazines. Holy jeans? In. In. In.

Thank god.
Sam will be thrilled.


P.S. I forgot all about this post I wrote on fashion & BDSM.
P.P.S. Torn features the incredibly talented Sommer Marsden, Thomas Roche, Sophia Valenti, and Jax Baynard. The cover is by Riendo—of course. This is indie erotica

October 02, 2015

An Erotic Endeavor

When I first started to seriously write erotica (as opposed to simply typing at any free moment to release the words from my brain), I gave myself a deadline to "break in." I told myself I had ten years to sell a story. And if I hadn't sold a story by that point, well, I'd just have to... re-evaluate.

I'm not joking. That was my plan.

Luckily (for me), I sold my first piece fairly quickly. And my second. Then a novel. Then another. I never paused for air (or sleep). I found my niche—"breathless" erotica (my words have been called)—put my head down, and cranked out over 1,000 stories, more than 75 collections, at least 30 novels.

Last October, in the midst of a situation that still leaves me shaking my head, I created a new goal. I wanted to put out a collection every month. And if I couldn't, well, I'd just have to re-evaluate. (I'm cruel to myself in many ways. Goal-making is not one of them.)

So I failed in my efforts—but I was able to accomplish this:

Alison on Top
Alison on the Rocks
Alison After Dark
Alison's Cheating Heart
The Spanking House and other stories
Even Deeper
Bent Over His Desk

I also contributed to these stellar collections published by the positive powerhouse Violet Blue:

Filthy Housewives
Holiday Kink
Bisexual Husbands

I didn't finish Figment—although I wanted to and am still working hard on the words. I didn't finish The Great Distraction—although I wanted to and am still working hard on the words. In fact, I didn't finish any of these, although I... you get the picture.

One of my editors always reminds me: It's the work that matters. And even in the midst of turmoil, in the topsy-turvy world I find myself spinning in, I was able to get something done. I'm going to celebrate the successes rather than the failures as I make a new goal.

And hey, if I don't succeed, I'll simply have to re-evaluate.


P.S. All of the titles on this post are fair-trade erotica. I am grateful for every sale.

October 01, 2015

Cozy as Fuck

Today is Thursday! (Yes, I checked the calendar.) And it's October 1st, which means that my Sex & Coffee contest has reached the bottom of the cup. *Whimper* Luckily, I will be revealing a new contest at the bottom of this post.

First, though, here are the entries to my Sex & Coffee contest... I am so thrilled you all were willing to play along and take photos of your caffeinated beverages with my high-octane books!

Photo by Lucy Felthouse

Photo by Sommer Marsden

Photo by Jim

Photo by Angell Brooks

Photo by Graydancer

Photo by Trix

Photo by Maureen

Photo by Anonymous

After all these years, you probably guessed what I'm about to say. But yes, everyone is a winner in my book. (Ha. Early morning pun.) So the grand-prize, which is 14 books, goes to David, who took this picture to the right. But everyone else should also email me your snail mail address, and I will send you one copy of one of my titles.

Now, for my next contest! The other day, I received a sales email with Cozy as F_ _ _! in the subject line. The missing word was "fall." I thought it was "fuck." (Of course.) So that is the theme for October's contest. Please take a photo with one of my books (or more of my books) and something that is cozy/fall-related to you. (Mittens? Boots? Leaves? Pumpkins?) Yes, Kindles are fine.

Email to msalisontyler at yahoo dot com. Please let me know if it's okay for me to post your photo—and (if so) how you would like to be credited. Yes, you can (and please do) enter even if you've won contests from me previously. I have a porn closet that is overflowing with books. And I have no idea what to do with them. So really? You're helping me!

You must be 18 or over.

Thank you for delighting me with your entries!


September 30, 2015

Your Destination

Before I found what I was looking for, I hit a lot of walls. I would tiptoe into new relationships, put my nose to the ground, drink in the scent, search for the kink. Some people forget, I think. And some people never experienced this. But now you have more tools to find what you're after. When I started writing—and searching—I thought I was alone.

I'd ask a pretty boy to tie me down, and he would be horrified.

I'd ask a handsome man to spank me, and he would say I was broken.

I'd beg, crawling on hands and knees, spilling secrets, spilling vodka, and be turned away. Denied. Derided. Destroyed.

This is why I feel that the new world order is a positive. People can find what they crave. They can find what they need.

And I am all about need.

If you desire kink, if you want stories that are filled with a white-hot filament—a blue, incandescent flame—I'm your girl. I've been writing these words for a quarter of a fucking century. All I want to do is get them right. I will keep trying, keep slamming my fingers on the keys, keep waking up at midnight to jot down a new idea.

Ask me to tie you down, and I will.

As me to spank you, and I will.

Crawl on your hands and knees to me, and I will never turn you away.

You're here. At last. You've reached your destination.


September 29, 2015

On Tuesdays We Wear Chaucer

I know this is a strange book group. Disjointed. Disorganized. Not everyone started the book at the same time. People are reading different versions of the book. More people are reading than are talking. But my feeling is that in a slippery way—we're all in this together. And I'm enjoying the concept of doing something with people virtually. Because I am a loner—and I work alone.

But since we're all over the book, as it were, I'm trying to offer a little extra to the experience.

The Invitation...
Some background...
On being banned...

Ah ha. The word my brain was looking for was "supplemental" (for "a little extra"). Sometimes these things take me a moment.

For today, I thought I'd offer a bit of insight into what life was like during Chaucer's time. Although some sites put a question mark after the number, supposedly Chaucer was born in 1343.

I typed in 1343 London—and hey, that turns out to be an address.

Trying again, I learned that:

• An early form of Cricket, called creag, was being played.

• Edward the first agreed to the "Articles of the Charter."

• The Pope urged Edward the first to make a temporary truce with Scotland.

And I feel like I'm dozing in the back row of a history class. I want the meat. I want to know what life was like.

Oh, wait. Here's something. Medicine included "examining urine." Check this out—I'm seriouly happy we avoided the medical experience called "medieval surgery." (Though I don't think that's what they called it. That's simply the heading I found.)

The Middle Ages, according to one article I found, produced "some of the most important, original, and enduring works in this history of Western culture." Dante's Divine Comedy was begun in 1308 and completed in 1320. (I have to say, dates like this make me so fucking happy. I'm always feeling like I can't finish anything in a decent amount of time. Not to compare myself in any other way to Dante, but I am thrilled when I read that other authors spend years on their works!)

Artwork in calendars shows the types of activity people (I believe the peasants) engaged in: shaking acorns from trees, pruning vines, harvesting wheat. The wealthy feasted and indulged in leisure activities—such as working with hawks. Couples in the upperclass dressed elegantly and enjoyed strolling through meadows.

I tried and failed to figure out what the ratio was between peasants and the wealthy. (Do you see where I'm going here?) I mean, in Chaucer's time did we already have a 1% owning more than the rest  of the 99%? What will our time be referred to in 800 years?

Anyway, I'm hoping you're enjoying the experience. Feel free to share your insights. Next week, I plan to discuss some of Chaucer's influences on modern works. And possibly some Medieval Slang!


September 28, 2015

Trollop with a Question #76

I really was a popcorn girl (well, popcorn, candy, and coffee) at an art-house theater. But that's not where my love of movies came from. I've always been a cinema slut. The lights go down. The projector spins. There's this magic in the air. Popcorn-scented magic. I can't tell you how many times I've fallen in love at the movies.

So I was charmed, delighted, and honored when my friends at Mobile Movie Making Magazine asked me to pen the foreword to their new book: Movie Quotes... to Live By.

This gave me the idea for today's question. I feel like I may have touched on the theme before, but I can't find the post in my archives. (Mea culpa if I have.) Here goes:

What is your all-time favorite quote from a movie?

For the bonus round: Why? Why are the words meaningful to you?

I'm going to try to winnow mine down to one. But honestly, I'm having a difficult time. Movie Quotes... to Live By goes on sale on October 1. There are more than 300 topics in the book, I believe, ranging from Acting & Actors to Zombies.

My Sex & Coffee contest is still running—and I will be posting the submissions for the Sheer Stockings writing prompt shortly. I'll have a new contest for October, too. And I'm waiting for my pencils to send out (to those who have contacted me).

There you have it—my Monday update. Now, back to this coffee cup, already in progress.


September 25, 2015

I'm on the map...

Thank you to everyone—from long-time readers to my mother—who sent me the link to this new book. I am blown away by the gorgeous detail of the maps—and I am thrilled, surprised, and incredibly honored to be a location on the Erotica Island. (Come visit me. I have soft-serve ice cream and plentiful cabana boys.)

The book went on sale yesterday, I believe. (I rarely know what day it is.) There are a whole slew of maps within the atlas. I'll tell you more about them when my copy arrives. If you are planning a trip to the Island of Erotica, don't forget to pack your indies! Your support means the world to us. (Pun intended.)



September 24, 2015

Dirty Etymology: 69

69 is my number. I mean, it belongs to me in so many ways. The amount of items in my cart (any cart, choose a cart) often rings up to $69. I'll have 69 miles left in my gas tank. My change purse will hold assorted coins that total to 69.

I don't want to take credit if I'm wrong—but I believe "Bondage on a Budget" was the first erotic collection to contain 69 stories. (Right now, the title is down. I'm polishing up the book for a re-release for its 20th anniversary. No, really.) I also collected 69 stories for Down & Dirty, 69 (oh wait, it has 70), and a handful of other anthologies.

Yes, 69, it's everywhere I want to be.

But where did the term come from? Seems pretty obvious. Right? Look at those saucy numbers. They're licking each other up and down, right and left. But who first gave the position that name? Well... let's find out together!

My first stop? Wiki. Wiki let me know that 69 was the cardinal number between 68 and 70. Now, I haven't imbibed much java yet, but I will let you know I am at least *that* good at math. Wiki then explained it was a sex position in which both partners give each other oral at the same time.

Another site helpfully explained that the circles represented the heads and the ends of the digits equalled the feet. This site did provide awesome synonyms: double-header, flip-flop, fork and spoon, loop-de-loop, and vice versa (my favorite).

(Randomly, my search led me to a page that explained "robot" was first used to denote a "fictional humanoid" in 1921.) And then I found quite a few articles on hippies—which I realized was because I was typing in "69" and "history." And 1969 was a banner year for hippies.

Now, suddenly, I landed on "irrumatio," which is a totally new term to me. Dating to the Greek (those Greek!) this term is the act of thrusting the penis into the mouth or throat, between the legs, breasts, or feet... of two partners. Yum!

Here is my search string: 69 • etymology • first use in literature.

The list of terms that come up for me: Robot, Cunt, Fuck, Paganus, Paul and the Faithfulness of God. So I add in "sex act" to my search and now:

Homosexuality, Gender, Cunt and "Where did the 'trick' in the phrase 'turning tricks' come from?"

Fun aside: Now, I have the song, "Who Put the Bop in the Bop Shoo Bop?" in my head.

Ah... I have found something. The French name is soixante-neuf! Whore's Catechisms (France, 1790) seems to be the first mention of the soixante-neuf.

However, there are images of sixty-nine positions dating to ancient Greece *and* the Kama Sutra has a mention of the position, with the alternate title: "congress of a crow."

Although the trajectory was different from my other etymologies, I still enjoyed the trip. I hope you did, as well.

Get out that bar of soap. Here are some of my previous forays into dirty words:

• douchebag
• dick
• tramp
• snatch


P.S. Here's something amusing. Once you know the title Whore's Catechisms, all sorts of 69-related articles slip into view!

September 23, 2015

First Words: Sommer Marsden

Although I don't foresee many (any?) anthologies in my future, I truly appreciated the run I had as an editor. Words illuminate me. They light me—and delight me. I trace letters with my fingertips when I'm nervous. Or anxious.

So basically, a lot.

If you ran into me on the street, chances are that you'd spot words scribbled on my hands. I am the paper for my own notes.

The past twelve months have been challenging for me. And "challenging" is an understatement. I was crushed by a situation last year because 1) I am a person and b) I have feelings. I continue to deal with the fall-out on an almost a daily basis. Other people's decisions massively changed the course of my life.

"Out of my control" is not something I do well.

But I am striving to reach for the positive. The positive to me always equals words. So I've decided to redecorate with some of my favorite words by some of my favorite authors.

Sommer Marsden's first words fell into my inbox nearly nine years ago (if I have my math on right). I'd been reading for multiple collections, and I was deliciously rocked by the way she unfolded her tale. If you haven't read "She Looked Good in Ribbons," do yourself a favor. Track that story down. Now.

I'm also planning on putting up loose words I discover in my travels. Like this one: grateful.

I want constant reminders of how powerful words can be—and I want to pay attention to which words I use (and choose) to define myself.


September 22, 2015

"He Bathed in Blisses..."

I have never been fabulous at planning. So I didn't create rules for this book club—nor a syllabus, a calendar, a plan. In my mind, this is more like an open-ended ride. Get on. Get off. Share your experiences along the way.

At some point, I will probably toss out a new title in case people have reached their end. Until then, I'm truly excited to hear about your progress. What do you think about the work so far? I'm dipping in and out every day. The cadence of Chaucer—even in the translation I'm using—is almost hypnotic to me. Soothing, if you know what I mean.

I find myself incredibly charmed by the phrases, fascinated by the story, and simply astounded that I'm reading something that was written so many hundreds of years ago.

If you're late to the game, here are the Chaucer posts:

What else am I working on? I've decided to promote the positive. Here and there I'll be posting quotes from writers about other writers. Share them when you see them if you're so inclined. Here is one from Giselle Renarde about Sommer Marsden's work.

Where am I finding the quotes? Over the years, I've asked writers to review each other's stories in my collections. I'm mining content from the thousands of posts I've amassed. 

Rather than rail against the negative, I'm striving to share the many glittering examples of writers helping each other that I've delighted in over the years.

That's not to say I won't be railing against the negative. I have a post in the works about my current realizations on why smut writers attack each other. Don't think I've lost my snark. But I'll be evening things out when I can.