April 01, 2015

I forgot to take off my clothes...


I had a dream in reverse. Or upside down. Possibly backwards.

I was a stripper—and oh, did I fucking love my outfit. Talk about bizarre, I was wearing a long-sleeved pink angora sweater and a pair of matching petal-pink walking shorts made of lace. High-heeled orchid patent leather pumps completed the outfit. Pink lipstick from a 1950s photo shoot replaced my standard cherry. I didn't dream the part on stage, only the part where I rushed back through the velvet curtains.

And I was aglow. You know that feeling where you nailed something? You hit the mark. You succeeded past your wildest expectations. That was me.

Then I looked down. I was still dressed. I'd forgotten to take off my clothes. No joke. In my dream, rather than endure the nightmare of being naked in public—I experienced the nightmare of not remembering to undress!

While there are countless dream sites that interpret what it means to be missing clothes—or to be naked in public—I have not found one to explain this dream away.

So I'll interpret the situation myself. I think the dream means I need a pink angora sweater. And a new pair of pink patent-leather pumps!

XXX,
Alison

March 30, 2015

Trollop with a Question #50


We've reached the portion of our program when I can't actually remember if I've asked this question before. But I'm very secure (I just made up a new word while typing: sex-ure) in the fact that if I have, I haven't asked it exactly like this...

Look at the time. The buzzer has gone off. The bell has rung. The clock has been punched. The other employees have all left to their normal, after-work lives. But not you. You are staying late. You're burning the candle at both ends.

Your light is on.

Why are you at the office so late? Because you're going to indulge in that sultriest of sultry escapades: sex at work—which is one of my all-time favorite activities. (Who knew?) I've collected stories for several anthologies on the topic, and I've written hundreds of my own tales dealing with sex with employees, sex with bosses, sex at offices, sex on unexpected job sites. For some reason, sex on the clock is something I can absolutely double-down with.

Which leads us (in my meandering, not-enough-coffee sort of way), to the question:

Have you ever had sex on the job? 

And if so (bonus question), will you share? Where were you? Who were you with? Change the names (or leave them out) to protect the... innocent? Just the dirty details, please. And only tales of adult interactions.

One of my first romances was with a man who worked the late-shift at a grocery store. Our time in a freight elevator at his store was intense and memorable. I didn't think he would. I was sure he wouldn't. But we did.

The scent of fresh strawberries turns me on to this day.

XXX,
Alison

March 29, 2015

A Loose Interpretation


The first story I subbed to a magazine (and one of the very first full-length erotic stories I ever wrote) was rejected because there was too much BDSM. The editor asked me to write a lighter story, and I did. She took my second attempt. But that first story—I don't know where it landed, but I remember the piece. The story was called "A Loose Interpretation" and in it, a girl receives a late-night phone call from her dominant lover. He tells her when to arrive at his apartment. And he says—oh, no, he promises—that he'll whip her with his belt one stroke for every minute she's late.

She wants that. She worships his belt. There is something about the utilitarian device, something about the way he pulls the leather from the loops, that makes her weak-kneed.

She arrives at his apartment on time—and then sits in her car and waits as the clock ticks over. How long does she wait? Long enough to get what she wants.

Because that's the most important part of stories to me. I want my characters to get what they want. Whatever they want. Whatever they need. They come to me with their kinky urges, with their wicked desires, and I try my best to satisfy their cravings. To fulfill every last fantasy.

I've been thinking about this story lately. One of my friends likes to say that all relationships are power struggles. Maybe they are. I don't know. But I like the power struggles specifically in BDSM relationships. And I like pieces in which the subs have active roles. In this story, the girl could avoid being punished. But why would she want to do that?

The "loose interpretation" refers to a poem I adore by Sir Thomas Wyatt: They Flee From Me. I have the words memorized. I believe I blended the poem with the story, and I most definitely misinterpreted (or truly loosely interpreted) the meaning. "But since that I so kindly am served. I would fain know what she hath deserved."

I'm searching for a copy of the story so that I can key it in—the original was most likely written on a typewriter (because yes, I'm that vintage)—and share it with you soon.

XXX,
Alison

March 28, 2015

10,000 Flowers


So many people want me to sell me 10,000 followers. And my overworked brain always changes "followers" to "flowers." But I thought the other day I would love 10,000 flowers. I don't know if it's possible—but anything's possible, right? In this land of great opportunity. So if you would like to send me a flower—either here for me to post or on Twitter where I will repost—please do so. A picture you've taken yourself, s'il vous plait, like this beautiful one by Riendo. (I'm at msalisontyler at yahoo dot com.)

I'm even going to create a hashtag—#10000flowers—if Twitter will let me.

This first one is for Sommer and Jim, who would have been 50 today. I am thinking about her—and him—so hard, and I'm sending all of my love.

XXX,
Alison

March 25, 2015

Sit Down & Get Writing!


This is exactly what I did yesterday. For nearly eight hours. I worked on the fourth installment of my Jack, Sam, and Alex story. I've been unsure of how to proceed logistically with the series. What I think I'm going to do (but this may change) is put up installments of about 100 pages (25K) at a time. Otherwise, the sheer amount of words I have to work with (a quarter of a million-ish, give or take) is a little daunting.

I feel like the flow is good. Do the stories stand alone? That, I'm not sure of. But I love what happens in Paris—the power play between the human points of the triangle. I want to get this portion up so that readers can tell me if it works. Hopefully, soon. I'll keep you posted!

At the same time, I'm reformatting some of our older titles. Skirting the Issue originally came out in 2009, before I knew how to link the contents to the stories or even format the books correctly. I believe I did the reboot right—but on Amazon the "search inside" still shows the older file. The revise contains a free bonus story for our upcoming collection Office Sluts. You know how I feel about sex on the job. (I like it.)

All of the money from these collections is divided equally among the authors. You are supporting indie writers with every purchase—and we're so fucking grateful!

And speaking of grateful... Bisexual Husbands, the new incendiary collection edited by the mastermind of erotica, Violet Blue, has received a handful of stellar reviews:

Violet Blue always finds great stories and authors for her anthologies. This one is no different.

Between the covers are seven hot and kinky tales of husbands gone wild—pushed and prodded into it by their wild and kinky wives.

I was mesmerized by the nonstop intensity of this collection.

This collection of short stories grabbed me right away and held my attention until I'd plowed through them all.

And the mother of all reviews... A post by Ms. Naughty.

All of the authors are seriously thrilled when you take the time to put up a review. Especially, in this brave-new world where publishing has been turned upside down! The writers I know would still put words to page if nobody was reading. Because we're driven. We can't stop. It's not a choice. But having the outlet to contribute to indie publishers is a life-saver right now. Indies like Digita Publishing—who treat writers right—give me serious hope for the future.

Not only of publishing—but of writing.

XXX,
Alison

P.S. Pencils are by my friend The Carbon Crusader.

March 23, 2015

Trollop with a Question #49


All sorts of titles are revving in my head, but "Baby, You Can Drive My Car" wins out. I adore, worship, want to run my hands all over this beautiful painting by my super-talented friend Tom Biagini. I think I may have an erotic story that matches the car. I need to go rummage in my (mental) story closet to see what I can find.

Until then, here is your Trollop with a Question for this week:

Quietly, you slip out of your house and shut the door. Click. It's late. Really late. But you can't sleep. You have money in your wallet—enough to take you where you want to go. You get into you car, pull away from the curb, and head...

Where?
Where are you going at this late hour?
Where's that cherry of a car taking you?

Bonus questions: What's on the radio? What are you wearing?

XXX,
Alison

March 21, 2015

Multiple Orgasms and Auto Erotica


I tend to work on multiple orgasms—I mean projects—simultaneously. That's the way my brain works best. One book will be close to completion. One will be merely a glint in... well, yes. Occasionally, I overload the circuits and I can't figure out which idea to mud wrestle into submission. Currently, I'm putting a great deal of time into reformatting vintage erotica, but I'm also nearly done with our next new collection: Office Sluts.

But this morning, I went a little wild and started working on an anthology called Other People's Panties with stories by Thomas Roche, Sophia Valenti, Sommer Marsden, Dante Davidson, and more. Why? Why can't I simply knock out the books on the desk and tell my brain, Shhh. Stop that. Don't start the new one. Finish the other one!

Because I can't.

This is why I have so many stories in various states of undress, why I have novels waking me up in the night with their demands to be fucked. I mean, written.

I ought to embrace the way I work instead of slamming myself against an impossible wall. I won't change. My brain won't change. This week, I confessed to having the desire for more than two decades to do an anthology called Auto Erotica. You got it. Sex in cars. I have to slide that one over on the table while I finish at least a few of the projects currently in play.

But, of course, my brain is whispering, "Sex in a Cadillac. A spanking over the hood of a Ford...." And damn. I need to take a quick shower and tell my brain that it's not the boss of me.

Except, it is.

XXX,
Alison

P.S. Most beautiful painting is by my seriously talented friend Tom Biagini.

March 20, 2015

Sparks Will Fly



Today is the official release date for Violet Blue's spectacular Bisexual Husbands. (But there was a soft opening last night—I had to. Sorry. Couldn't resist.) If you enjoy the collection, please help Violet out with a review. She's absolutely rocking this brave new world of publishing with beautiful covers, sizzling interiors, smart-as-fuck intros, and killer line-ups.

My story, Sparks Will Fly, closes the book.

Personally, I've got a hard on (a wet spot?) for bisexual stories. I've written a series of novels that feature a tense—an intense—relationship between two men as part of an uber-complicated triangle.

For Filthy Friday, I thought I'd post a little bit from that story. If you've read my novels, you'll recognize the characters. If you haven't, well, I think their relationship will come across loud and clear. Currently, I'm working on breaking the rest of the story into novel-sized bites.


Love Struck

Pain is the center of all of my pleasure. The source, like blood through my veins. But it’s not only the ritual of being spanked, or the torment of being bound, or the concept of submitting to someone else’s power. The desire runs deeper for me. My whole world revolves around the simple concept of “taking it.” I am small—5’4” in stockinged feet—and slim (as Elmore Leonard likes to say in his books, “a sweet little 105 pounder”). But I can steel myself to accept all sorts of cruelty. Of malice. Of the most decadent type of agony.

And yet being in control made me wet.

I’d dabbled in this role occasionally, for Jack’s sake. I had stepped hesitantly into the shoes of a Dom as if sliding on one of the sexy little costumes that hung in my closet. Without Jack in the room, things were different. Of course, I was only playing this part due to Jack’s request. But with him physically absent, the atmosphere felt charged in a whole new way.

I wondered, when Jack arrived, who he would debrief first. Would he call me to him, set me on his lap, and let me spill out my side of the story? Or would he take Alex out to a bar, some manly watering hole, and learn his version over shots of hard liquor?

Did it really matter? Were we down to “who does Jack love more?” Was that what this was truly all about?

No. I didn’t care. I mean that. I was only curious. I wanted to know what went on with these two men when I wasn’t present. I wanted to know what happened between them when I was out of sight.

And Alex didn’t look as if he gave a damn about what I wanted. The strokes on his skin were nothing compared to what Jack had done to him at Juliette’s club. Still, I pressed on.

“How did it start?”

“What, Sam?” he sounded weary. But when I bent over the bed and slid one hand under his body, I could feel how deliciously hard he was. He groaned and tried to pull away, but I stroked him through the boxers, and he started to buck against my hand. I was turned on, almost indescribably so. I thought about what it would feel like to have him roll over, to slowly pull down the shorts, to interrogate him between long, luscious licks of his cock. But that wasn’t what I needed. Reluctantly, I moved back from the bed and returned to my questioning, crop dancing in my hand.

“The two of you. How did it start?”

He gave me a look of total disbelief. “You’re not serious. That’s what keeps you up at night? How Jack and I met?”

I traced the tip of the crop under Alex’s chin, so that he raised his head up toward the ceiling. Then I bent down and kissed him. Feeling totally out of control, and not sure how to regain my balance. 
Alex kissed me back, surprising me. I’d thought he would pull away. I’d thought he would refuse. His lips were warm on mine, and I lost myself for a moment in the kiss. Lost myself until he bit my bottom lip hard, and I had to pull away.

What the fuck was I doing here? Alex was right. Why did I care what went on behind closed doors? I had what I needed from Jack. All that I needed. Why rock the boat?

Because Jack had given me the chance. And he knew me. He knew all of the questions that swirled through my mind on a daily basis. He knew how difficult it was for me to hold my tongue. Yet I’d managed. I’d behaved. This was my reward. Alex must have known that, too.

“Does he take you out to lunch, tell you what he wants you to do to me for the coming week?”

Alex closed his eyes tight and turned his head away. He clearly didn’t know how he was supposed to answer me.

“We’ve fucked,” I reminded him. “The two of us have shared a bed together.”

“Yeah?” Now, he looked my way. Telling me that what I’d said didn’t matter. Didn’t count for anything. He would have fucked anyone at Jack’s request. Alex’s commitment ran so damn deep. He was beyond loyal.

“Were there girls before me?”

“We’ve talked about that, Sam.”

“Was there anything like this?”

“No. I’ve told you that, too.”

I felt like one of those insecure chicklets who’s always asking her boyfriend for reassurance. “Do you love me? Do you think I’m pretty?” But instead, I was craving knowledge.

“Did he fuck other girls the way he fucks me?”

“How does he fuck you?” Alex spat back.

I took a deep breath. “Did he hurt other girls the way he hurts me?”

“That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?” Alex asked, and his expression seemed to soften along with his tone. “You want to be special. You want to be the one.”

I should have been whipping him. I should have been in control. And yet I was trembling. Guilty for asking Alex questions that I ought to have been brave enough to pose to Jack. What the fuck was I doing? What did Jack want from me?

I sat on the edge of the bed, my reflection mocking me from a mirror across the room. Who did I think I was, all dressed up like this? Jack had successfully set this scene from thousands of miles away. Suddenly, I felt angry. As if I was acting a part in a play, and I didn’t believe my role. I was a phony. I unbound Alex before he could ask me another question. Then I started to head toward the bathroom, tears streaking my cheeks—the stress of the flight, the surprise of traveling without Jack, the urge to understand my place in the world—a combination of emotions flooding through me.

But Alex was quick. He was up and on me before I reached the door. His hands gripping tightly into my upper arms. Hard enough to leave bruises.

“Why can’t you just accept it?”

“Accept?” I echoed.

“He loves you.” He stared hard in my eyes. “And he loves me. And there are no game plans. There is no manual. This is just how it is. Crazy. And messy. And fucked up in the best possible way. You’ve had these needs in you for years. And he fulfills them.” A pause. “Doesn’t he?”

I nodded immediately.

“Then what do you need? Come on, Samantha. What’s all this really about?”

My eyes flickered toward the crop, and it was over like that. My little turn in the driver’s seat. Over in a breath. In a heartbeat. In the whisper of Alex’s voice as he bent down and pressed his lips to my ear….

XXX.
Alison 

March 18, 2015

Buy the Ticket...



Alternate title: When they don't behave...

I have run into this more and more lately. My characters refuse—flat-out fucking refuse—to do what I want them to. Generally, I allow the characters run the show. I'm magnanimous like that. I invite them in—they do the work. But recently things have gotten out of hand.

For instance, I wrote a novella called The Spanking House. The piece was intended to be 15,000 words. I had the idea from start to finish. I knew all the tricks and turns. Until I didn't. Suddenly, new characters arrived unbidden. Doors opened to rooms I hadn't envisioned. Things I didn't expect happened. And the 15K just laughed at me:

Ha. You think you're done? You're not done. There are more words. Many many, more words.

So I'm back to the grind on that one. Hope to have a completed novel soon.

Last week, I was working on a story about two strangers connecting. I had the piece plotted. I knew who did what when. Until I didn't. The characters were supposed to go home together. I didn't realize that they'd be unable to wait. The urges were just too strong. I didn't see that they'd have to duck into that bathroom, to engage in a filthy quickie when they could have been caught at any minute.

This is, honestly, the story of my writing life. So I shouldn't be that surprised. What is slightly alarming is how often I am wrong about what I thought would happen. Not a little wrong. 180 degrees wrong.

But last night, as I berated myself for being unable to tame a character into doing what I wanted, I had this aha moment. I'm the conduit. That's all. If the work is going well, the characters exist where they exist, and they run the show. And I'm simply along for the ride.

I hope that you'll continue to take that ride with me.

XXX,
Alison



March 16, 2015

Trollop with a Question #48



Monday snuck up on me. I mean, I turned around, and there Monday was, gazing at me with that insolent half-sneer on his face. But that's okay. Because damn, Monday looks hot. All tricked up in a pair of worn Levis and a tight white tee. Leaning up on the wall, fingers stroking his belt buckle. What I'm trying to say is that in the mood I'm in, I'm going to fuck Monday so hard...

Wait. What? I think my worlds collided for a moment. I'm supposed to be working on a story in a file over there and penning a Monday question over here. My dirty wires must have gotten crossed. Excuse the error.

For today's Trollop with a Question, this is what I have for you...

A quickie with a stranger?
Or a group grope in a room filled with a people?

Let me get my brushes out to paint the picture:

You're in a town you've never been before. You sit at a corner table in a busy cafe. Suddenly, you feel someone watching you. Turning, you spy the most attractive stranger you've ever seen. There's an instant connection. That jolt resonates to your core. The stranger stands, and you follow. You enter a unisex bathroom stall—all white-washed and clean. There are no words. You don't share the same language. But what you have is heat—and what you do is fuck.

Or...

The fantasy has always consumed you. A night of carnal pleasure in a room filled with people. You are the main course. They are there to please. You're stripped and spread out—arms over your head, legs spread. Hands touch you everywhere. Then mouths. You float on the sensations. You're lifted up higher than you've ever been. Nothing compares to the feeling of being taken care of by men and women who all strive for one thing only: to bring you pleasure.

Which would you choose?

XXX,
Alison

P.S. For today only, my short vintage story Girls Are a Nuisance is yours for free.


March 15, 2015

Six Reasons Why I Love Writer.ly

Yes, I have confessed—professed (color me obsessed)—my love for Writer.ly's six-word story prompts before. (If you don't believe me, check here.) But now I'm giving you six reasons why (yes, my first ever numbered list) I love Writer.ly:

• The six-word prompts are a personal challenge. My routine is simple. Either I don't sleep and I get up, or I sleep a little and I wake up early. I work on whatever I'm working on. (Yeah, that's pretty specific. I know. But I write on a novel or dive into a short story. Or I edit what needs editing.) Then I crave a break. Writer.ly is my mind candy. I don't reach for the cookie jar. I dip into sweet words.

• Although I'm awful at working in groups (I've learned from multiple hard experiences), there is a community in Writer.ly. Once I put up my day's submission, I read what other writers have penned. (I post first, then read. Always.) There is support in starring and sharing other writers' works. I love this. And I'm always impressed with the various ways writers tackle the same topic.

• Six-word prompts are perfect for short-attention-span writing. I don't have a lot of time to mess around. There are always deadlines sitting on my shoulders. But anyone can take a six-word break.

• "Perfection is unattainable." (That's a quote from Tin Cup, one of my all-time favorite movies.) But if you are not happy with your words—there's always tomorrow. Brush off your pencil and try again!

• The six-word prompts are all about words and play. And I worship wordplay. One of my friends observed that my greatest pleasure comes when people are willing to play with me—literally. Years ago (more than six years ago!), I used to run weekly prompts on my blog. I'd toss out an idea, and anyone who wanted to enter could. Writers posted their entries anonymously. I put up polls. And readers voted for their favorites. I sent out prizes to anyone who would join. Not only winners. (Because everyone's a winner in my book.) Writer.ly's six-word prompts capture this playfulness for me.

• Writer.ly is positive. There are so many negatives right now for writers. Writer.ly is a positive corner of the internet for me. Her page is a virtual coffee shop. I want to linger and hang out. Drink my java. Mess with letters and fonts. Discuss serifs. We need all the positive we can get.

So there you have my first ever numbered list.
I hope to see your six-word stories soon!

XXX,
Alison

March 13, 2015

I reject your rejection...



This is a story that I have treasured for years. And I was inspired to share the tale with you because of a note on rejection Alana Noel Voth posted the other day.

Once upon a romance, I was dating a cartoonist who was moderately—that is to say, mildly—successful. But he received his share of rejections. In fact, in his opinion, he received more than his fair share. At some point, he created a rejection letter for the rejection letters. Seriously. He wrote a form letter that read (along the lines of):

To whom it may concern,

Thank you for your rejection letter.

Unfortunately, due to the sheer amount of rejection letters we have received, we cannot process your rejection letter at this time.

In no way is this a reflection on the quality of your rejection letter.

We wish you the best of luck in placing your rejection letter with another artist.

Sincerely yours.

Oh, do I love this.

For more on rejection:

Rejection
Failure, Reject, Loser
Third Times the Charm
What the Fuck?
It's the way...
IfYou Don't Have Anything Nice to Say...

XXX,
Alison

March 12, 2015

Kiss an Author

Remember when I suggested people Merry a Writer? Well, yesterday, I came up with #kissanauthor. What do you do? If you're on Twitter, post a tiny snippet of a story by an author you adore. Hashtag the post with #kissanauthor. I was able to snag some lines by several of my favorite writers yesterday. (I'm a lucky editor who has access to thousands of stories.)

The math trick is that you only have 140 characters to work with. Some of the lines kept spilling out of the box. Which meant I had to be very selective with the words I chose.

If there were more space, you could put in the title of the work, a link, etc. This is why I'm also suggesting this as a theme for posts.

Kiss a Writer: Insert Writer's Name Here

Then you could say something along the lines of  This is a bit of a story I love. Here is the author. This is what the story meant to me.

I'll be doing this periodically, so you can see what I mean. For fun, you can also slide your snippets into comments here. That way I can grab some for Twitter, as well.

Why do I want to do this?

Because writing can be lonely. Take now for instance. I'm sitting in my office. It's dark outside. I've only got coffee for company. Waking up to see that readers are enjoying your work would be a thrill, I think, for any writer.

And speaking of thrilling a writer—check out Violet Blue's request for reviewers. I know Violet would be delighted to wake up one morning and see a slew of reviews for her latest collection!

XXX,
Alison

March 11, 2015

Office Sluts


I tend to flirt with whimsy in my titles. I swoon for clever. I brake for allusions. (One of my favorite short story titles is "Girls are a Nuisance," a reference to the Raymond Chandler "Pearls are a Nuisance.") I get a hard-on when authors titillate me with their words.

That said, I'm trying something new. With this sultry anthology of office-related escapes, I'm tramp-stamping the collection from the start. Here is a title that is worthy of the dirty, naughty, filthy pieces within. Yes, my friends, this is a book about Office Sluts.

The tawdry ttable of contents:

Quiz Day by Sommer Marsden
Too Strong to Break by Sophia Valenti
Page Ten of the Employee Handbook by Alison Tyler
This Call May Be Monitored by Xavier Acton
On the Sly by Sommer Marsden
Go! by Ayre Riley
Morning, Noon, and Nighty by Alison Tyler
Surrender by Sophia Valenti
Memorandum by Thomas Roche
New Tricks by Nica Jacobs
A Real Page-Turner by Alison Tyler
On the Mend by Sophia Valenti
The Silent Danger of Paper by Sommer Marsden
Disciplinary Action by Marie Sudac
The Suit and the Princess by Alison Tyler

We're still working on the cover, but the image is Riendo all the way! Stay tuned for more info shortly. Also, if you're interested in reviewing Violet Blue's latest collection, Bisexual Husbands, please drop a note to msalisontyler at yahoo dot com.

XXX,
Alison

P.S. Was that three cover reveals in three days? I'm on a roll!

March 10, 2015

Bisexual Husbands...


I promised you another cover reveal, and here's the beauty right now. Violet Blue keeps raising the bar with her ever-so-classy covers. These little collections are extremely important to me because they prove that indie presses can succeed. From the font to the layout to the covers to the smoking hot interiors, Violet is taking erotica to the future.

The price point is totally appropriate, too—Filthy Housewives sells for $3.89. And the authors share all the profits. This is a publishing model that makes me swoon. Filthy Housewives features my story "Out of Luck." Bisexual Husbands will be home to my new piece "Sparks Will Fly."

I'll post a table of contents shortly. Until then, please feast your eyes on the charming collections and make a note that Bisexual Husbands will be up for pre-sale in one day. Yes, I'm counting the minutes...

XXX,
Alison

March 09, 2015

Trollop with a Question #47


I don't believe I've ever managed to do anything 47 times on my blog. Until now. Yes, I have asked questions for 47 Mondays! I should probably plan a party for the one-year mark. Until then, here's today's question:

You're moving into a new neighborhood and you have a choice of locations. You can either park your car in front of a tiny writer's cottage, with pale purple wisteria dripping from the eaves and dandelions adorning the wild lawn. Across the street is an old white two-story house. Within lives the bad boy (or bad girl) of your dreams.

Or:

You move your belongings into an apartment complex—that turns out to be a complex apartment. The 1940s building is filled with history and romance. There's a sexy secret behind every door. You live on the top floor, and you work your way down...

Truth? I'm currently writing stories featuring both of these scenarios. The first is called "The Spanking House." You can read a snip of this story, here.

I'll have another cover reveal for you tomorrow. And I hope to have more information for you about The Complex soon, too.

XXX,
Alison

March 07, 2015

My dignity...


Where'd it go? Have you seen it?

I read a piece yesterday by an author who advised fellow writers to "abandon their literary dignity" and pen racy page turners. In fact, she went on to say (and I'm paraphrasing) that print readers were more intellectual than Kindle readers. That writers should go so far as to pen two versions of their books—one for those smarty-pants print readers and the other for the groundling Kindlers.

I thought about the interview most of yesterday. Because I have this gut feeling that the way we read will constantly change and evolve. But that the words are what matter.

Whether you're reading words on paper, on a Kindle, on a note I slipped under your door, on a bathroom wall, in a comic book, on a billboard, on this blog (ha), the words have a chance to resonate, to linger, to get under your skin.

That is, if we writers do our job correctly.

My relationship with words is complicated.

• I own pet words.
• I have favorite words.
• I edit words.
• My words are edited.
• I dream about thousands of words.

When I started writing, I wrote for magazines, newspapers, 'zines and ultimately print publishing houses. Now, I am actually able to write mostly for myself. That is the power of the ebook (and the internet).

I don't know if I believe the studies referenced in the article. But I do personally know many ebook readers. They're intellectual. They read Shakespeare, romance, books on algebra, plays, Bukowski, pulp fiction, non-fiction, and porn. Basically—they read everything.

But there's more to the piece that I didn't like. Clearly, the author doesn't think much of racy—or page-turners. Because why on earth would you have to abandon your literary dignity to write one? We all have our dignity. The definition of the word? "The state or quality of being worthy of honor or respect."

Are you a writer? You get to have that. Dignity, my friend, is yours.

I'm not linking to the piece. All you have to do is type in "abandon your dignity" and it comes up.

But this reminds me of another rant I—yes—ranted, several years ago.

XXX,
Alison

P.S. Why did I have such a strong response to this? Because it pushes my buttons. I don't like when writers divide and point fingers. It feels too highschool to me. "You can't sit with us, because you're pulp. We're lit." Or "We don't like you, because you write smut, and we write historical." I don't care what you write. You can sit at my table in the cafeteria and we'll share french fries and words.

March 05, 2015

It's Not Personal...


...she said as she pulled his belt from his slacks and snapped the leather in the air. "It's not personal, Billy. Don't take this the wrong way."

He was bent over her desk, staring at the green felt blotter. He could feel his heart racing. He could hear the sounds of his coworkers outside of her office. The workplace was bustling. Everyone else in the building was experiencing a normal work day. But not him. He was bent over his boss's desk, and he was about to get a whipping with his own belt.

"It's not personal," she said again, leaning her body into his so he could feel the warmth of her, smell the spice of her cologne. He shut his eyes. His cock was so fucking hard. She undid his slacks and pulled them down. His boxers were next. He was half naked in his boss's office. She was standing there, observing him. He felt hot all over.

His boss didn't rush. She pressed him into the desk so he was positioned exactly as she wanted him.

"I told you what would happen if you disobeyed, didn't I?"

Billy nodded his head quickly, then remembered the rules. "Yes," he stammered. "Yes, Ma'am."

"Don't make a noise. Don't make a fucking sound."

And then she started. The belt made the sound for him, a whisper in the air, a crack against his skin. He stiffened. His hands were balled into fists. His whole body tensed and then slowly relaxed. She waited for that. She waited for him to give in, to surrender. Then she struck again.

"It's not personal, Bill," she said, and her voice was like a song to him, a melody. "It's business."

He sucked in a breath. He hoped he wouldn't come on her blotter. He waited for the next blow.

XXX,
Alison

March 04, 2015

Dirty Etymology: Motherfucker


Dirty etymology anyone? I know I'd feel better if I could sit here and mumble swear words to myself for awhile. So today, I'm going with one of my favorites. This word pleases my mouth. And I say it the way Hans Gruber said it in Die Hard. "Yippie-Ki-Yay, Motherfucker." You have to hear him speak the words. The cadence is fucking gorgeous.

So you know, I'm not the only one who is obsessed with dirty words. When I do my research, I find articles on places like Slate dedicated to the same words I'm looking for.

Apparently, the OED first cited the word in the late 19th century. It was considered only an insult for many years.

Wiki says the word literally came from men who would fuck mothers—mostly soldiers who would trade sex with hungry or needy women for money or valuable items.

Honestly, I had no idea.

I entertained myself reading the Wiki talk page about the word. People really were getting into it—"If you reference the George Carlin line, then why can't I list Snakes on a Plane?" Ah, I actually am madly in love with this Wiki sentence: "... it is used as a compliment, for instance, in the jazz community."

Norman Mailer used the word "mother-fugger" in The Naked and the Dead. He used the term "motherfuck" in "Why Are We in Vietnam?" (1967), which is considered one of the earliest recorded instances.

Slate says, "By the late 50s and 60s, motherfucker finally became, in some usages, a positive description."

Aw, I love that. Finally. As if we'd been waiting.

Now, I'm just sitting here in complete wonderment. Why? Because I landed on The Compleat Motherfucker: A History of the Mother of All Dirty Words.

So you know what? I am going to buy and read that book, and I'll come back to you with a review and more information. I mean, I owe that much to the word I use daily, don't I?

XXX,
Alison

March 02, 2015

Trollop with a Question #46



I love swear words. I'm not sure what this says about me, but I've never gotten over the juvenile delight in the f-bomb. Sometimes I will actually try to err on the clean side, and I always fail. I know I'm not alone. A friend of mine—who is a primary teacher and who must watch her mouth eight hours a day—has the filthiest tongue when she's off the clock.

My go to curse word is "fuck" (obviously). 2,823 files on my computer currently feature the word.

A few weeks ago, I said that if I were a super hero I'd be Curse Girl. And my nemesis would always be trying to wash my mouth out with soap.

Which made me think of today's question:

If you were a super hero, what super hero would you be? 
And (for the bonus) name your nemesis!

Can't wait to hear your responses!

XXX,
Alison

P.S. Are a Super Hero junkie (like I am)? Please check out my Pinterest Board.