Free! Smut! Get it while it's hot! Coupling 2, edited by the exceptional Sommer Marsden, is available for free right now. Go get yours! What are you waiting for? If you enjoy the collection, we'd love a review. If you put up a review, let us know, and we'll link to you and kiss you and toast you with pink champagne!
Mina Murray graciously reviews Vida Bailey's story "Night Heat" from Sudden Sex. She says, "I was utterly enchanted by this story, in which a woman, woken from sleep by a storm, is coaxed back to bed and back to warmth by her lover." The entire review is here. I have to say, we've done a pretty bang-up job matching reviewers to the stories in my Sudden Sex Blog Tour. Still, there are a few stories in need of good homes. Do you want to choose one for yourself? Please drop a note to msalisontyler at yahoo dot com if you'd like to play along!
How about $3.99? For only two more days, Got a Minute is on sale for the unbelievably low price of $3.99. That's, like, seven cents a story! Got a Minute received one of my favorite reviews of all time. UK Forum wrote: "Classy, but very, very dirty, Got a Minute is one of the few very indispensable filth anthologies around."(Wow, I sure as hell don't know how to spell 'indispensable.' That took four tries!) Here is another fab review for the collection. And here is the TOC, so you can see what you're getting.
Let me know what you think. I always like to hear from readers!
She says: Valenti blends submission, (potential) exhibitionism, spankings and anal into a well-crafted story.
Read her whole review here. If you'd like to join the tour, please drop a note my way so I can get you a copy of our trilogy! You only need to review a single story to join the fun.
Looking for a little spice this weekend? Why not plunge into Coupling 2? We could use a few reviews on Amazon if you're so inclined. As an aside—when I went to find the book on Goodreads, I was offered instead: "Spin-Orbit Coupling Effects in Two-Dimensional Electron and Hole Systems"—which *could* be dirty, if you think about it.
I have a secret. Oh, well. I guess it's not a secret anymore, because I'm about to hit the "publish" button and send the information out to anyone who cares to peek. Yes, after months of hard work, and a bit of back and forth with my publisher, Cleis Press, I have the table of contents for Shhh! Don't Tell Anyone... Erotic Fantasies about Sexy Occupations. This idea lingered on my hard drive for nearly seven years. Some books take longer than others. I'm so pleased to share the TOC with you all. Authors, please hit me with your favorite link and I'll gussy this up nice and pretty. Also, you'll be hearing from me by the weekend with the contracts. For those of you who might be confused, yes, I have a different occupation book in the works. And no, I haven't finalized the stories for that one yet. Give a girl a breath, won't you? Deadline for those stories is June 1.
I was typing an email to Sommer Marsden, like you do, and I mistyped "loverlapping" for "overlapping." I caught the error, and then started imagining what loverlapping might actually mean. Wanna play with me and toss out your definition? If enough people join in, we might even have a contest...you could even win...pencils.
Post your definition in the comments. I'll wait (some unspecified amount of time) and then post the comments and we can all have a look.
In between deadlines—which I look at like running between raindrops—I'm in Spring Cleaning mode. Sprucing up my in boxes, at least. (Don't they look pretty?) You would not believe some of the emails I've tripped over. Letters from friends. Letters from enemies. Letters from dead people. (Written, obviously, before they were dead.) Kathleen Bradean suggested I need OuijiMail in order to respond to those. I've got a difficult time letting things go, apparently. I mean, I kept single sentence emails from my editor saying she liked a story I wrote. Seven years ago. Or requests from my publisher to pen catalog copy. For their 2005 catalog. Some of the letters have provided comic relief. Like this one: I was wondering about publishing, although I have never done so before. I noticed that you are not accepting unsolicited manuscripts, so how do I become a solicited manuscript writer? I don't know if I ever responded to that. (How does one respond to that?) My goal is to whittle down the e-baggage—so it can fit into an e-carryon and be tucked in an e-overhead compartment. (I only travel virtually.) Then I can tackle my desk. Or I can wait for it to die, so I don't have to respond. Coming soon—another call for subs. Until then, why not join our Ass Tour? XXX, Alison
...better than a French kiss? A friend sent me this from his vacation. I love that people think of me when they see images like this. Gives me the perfect opportunity to say: please join our Ass Tour. Admission is free. The rewards are ass-tastic.
I'll be ready to post the table of contents for a new title soon—once I alert all the patient authors. Plus, I have a few more calls for submissions to display this month. If you saw my desk, you'd shudder. If you saw my brain, you might run screaming. So why don't we all simply admire the fesse (French ass?) above and take a breath.
You're in the wrong place. My sweet gang bang story is up as the Filthy Friday excerpt at Sh! Women's Erotic Emporium. As Kristina Lloyd would say, I'm dead chuffed. I really am. Sh! is such a positive force in the world of sexiness—and "Last Call" is one of my favorite stories.
My first note of the day was: "Just read your filthy Friday excerpt—brilliant." Now, that's a nice way to wake up.
I'd love to hear what you all think of the piece after you catch a moment... or your breath.
You got that right. I am both loud *and* proud of my love of bondage. And I have been loud and proud for about twenty-three years. (Give or take.) Before that I was a riot, but quiet. (Give a girl a point for rhyming, won't you?)
Happily, Come As You Are nailed my fetish with finesse in their latest review:
The Big Book Of BondageAlison Tyler is loud and proud of her love of all things bound. Hence this richly contained collection of bondage themed erotica. From a chair that arouses in The Naughty Chair to a long commute that is anything but boring in Commuter Training, these stories are ripe with strong characters determined to push their boundaries and submit to partners that honour and cherish that trust. Bondage and submission comes in a variety of forms and each story tackles the subject with humour and wit. Thumbs up for another great bondage anthology from Alison Tyler and the folks at Cleis Press. If you're into bondage, too, please check out our bite-sized collection Cuffed. For $3.99, you get three stories by three authors—me, Sommer Marsden, and Sophia Valenti. This month, I am going to do my best to promo the title, which I think is a fierce little trio. If you decide to snag a copy, and you toss us a review, please let me know. I will link to you, kiss you, pin you to the floor and lick your face like a puppy... whatever you need. XXX, Alison
Yes, that is the name of this post. I am about to make Kristina Lloyd's motherfucking day (as Ari Gold might say). How? Well, first I have a picture of my friend Tom's awesome t-shirt that is for sale at Urban Outfitters. How cool is that?
That's his shirt—that he created—and it's for sale. Here. For $28. If you buy the shirt, you will be supporting an awesome, incredibly nice person—who also happens to be uber-talented. Actually, it's sort of unfair. Tom is a sweet, driven guy who always has time to talk to you. Do you know what I mean? His company is called Sumo Surfer, and you can find him on Facebook, Twitter, and the Web.
Anyhow, I've known him for wow—a decade—suddenly, I feel all old. And I was lucky enough to train with him for several years. People used to stop me on the street to compliment my arms. No joke. All thanks to Tom.
Bear with me... or even bare with me... I'm a little groggy this morning. But we have results in for our first round of the Smut Marathon. I have to say, once I enter the stories, I forget who wrote which. So this will be a reveal for both of us. Or all of us.
First Place: The Lake House Den by CJ Lemire
Second Place: Library by L.C. Spoering
Third Place: The Tiny Cabin by Laila Blake
This was so close. The stories were only separated by a single vote from one level to the next. In fact, there were multiple stories that received the same number of votes, so I'm just going to list the rest without saying places:
Scenes with Fantastic Locations by D. Sadie
The Garage by Serafine Laveaux
A Bar in Bologna by Tamsin Flowers
A Hole in the Wall by Molly Moore
Pulse by Preston Avery
A Long, English Beach by Victoria Blisse
A New Orleans Apartment by Jillian Boyd
Return to the Scene by Aisling Weaver
Far Away from Civilization by Marie Rebelle
The Assault Course by John D.
Anticipation by Angell Brooks
A Sturdy Wooden Cabin by Andy
Now, because we had a glitch with the voting, I'm not going to exile anyone from this round. We're all adults here. We're all going to play fairly in the future. Consider this a freebie. I'd feel bad otherwise.
I'll be contacting all the writers with a new challenge today. Hope you're all game to continue. I'm totally excited about what I'm tossing your way!
Stop back soon, because I have a photo of my hot friend I'm going to put up for a little reader entertainment.
XXX,
Alison
P.S. I believe if you click the image of the poll, the picture gets bigger. The stories are not listed in the order of the most to least votes.
Smart Ass is the third title in our annual anal erotica series. (Ha. I think I finally learned the difference between annual and anal.) Here are a few reasons to try our ass:
• For under $5 you help support five indie authors.
• The collection has received stellar reviews.
• You get to tell people you're reading Smart Ass. (Come on, that's sort of fun.)
This month, I decided I would try to promo this title specifically and see if I could goose the numbers. Today's the last day. If you've been on the fence, the wall, the split... why not come over to our side? No, we don't have cookies. But we do have lube.
Unfortunately, there seems to have been some poll manipulating on this round. So I've decided to restart the voting and try again. Please stick to one vote per customer. Poll will run until midnight tomorrow.
Here we are at the Smut Marathon—Round 1. This was the assignment:
Please pen me a 200-word (maximum) description of your ideal setting for an erotic story.
That’s it. Ta da! Do not go over the word count.
Of course, me being me, I did not remember to ask the writers to title their pieces. Some did, some didn't. I slid titles in for the polling to make things easier—so I'm apologizing if I stepped on any toes. I'll remember to ask next time.
What do you do? Read the 15—yes, 15—anonymous entrants and vote for your favorite. Poll ends at midnight on April 30th. Winner will be announced on May 1, and I'll be handing out the new assignment at the same time. Please feel free to share the link with your friends, families, strangers, neighbors, dog-walkers... But authors, don't reveal which piece you wrote until the voting ends. Then I will add the author name to each story.
Oh, I posted the pieces in the order I received them. I'm trying to do all of this fair and square. Every once in awhile, it gets a little oblong...
Entry #1: A New Orleans Apartment
A New Orleans apartment, looking out over Bourbon Street.
Midnight. Mardi Gras.
Even for the late time of night, the heat weighs heavily and all the windows in this apartment are open.
It’s sparse, filled with mostly noise from outside and the smell of cheap cigars and third-hand whiskey fumes.
The bed is unmade. Strewn around it are a variation of Mardi Gras beads and the odd piece of clothing.
A half drunk glass of scotch sits on the bedside table. There’s a desk in the corner, with an antique typewriter on it. One sheet of paper, one line of uninspired words in thick, black ink.
It’s the air that gets you though. It smells like old sweat and cologne and Mardi Gras pussy. And the faint trickle of disappointment lingers in the background.
*****
Entry #2: The Lake House Den
The sweet dawn light poured through the floor to ceiling windows of the lake house den, basking the room in soft pastels, attempting to probe its night secrets.
The removable wall panel on which the dartboard hung remained secret-agent silent about the St. Andrew’s cross concealed behind.
The whips, canes, rope, clamps, dildos, vibrators, plugs, lube, and other pervertibles hid from the sunlight, tucked away in the armoire against the far wall.
The exposed ceiling beams gave no hint about being structural, such that a suspension ring lashed to them with a leather strap might create the perfect anchor point to fly her from.
So what if the round table in the corner was a good height and diameter to bind her atop, her head hanging off one end and her ass perched at the other, to present her holes perfectly for fucking? Such thoughts surely had no place in the innocence of morning.
If the tatami mats seemed well suited for relieving the stress of time on her knees, and the candles on the mantel burned at the ideal temperature for drizzling on delicate body parts, that was just coincidence, right?
Nothing to see here. Move along.
*****
Entry #3: Scenes With Fantastic Locations
In erotica, the setting is best when it's involved with the story. A cozy basement make-out session is one thing, but knowing that they had their first fight on the couch only a week before makes it more precious. It adds an edge to the scene beyond just three people exploring each others bodies during tearful apologies which turn to curious exploration.
I have a fondness for fantasy and sci-fi. This leads into scenes with fantastic locations: floating motes of light over a shadowed pool, an asteroid crater, or perched on top of trees in the rain. But, what really gets me off is knowing that the shadowed pool might be haunted and that the asteroid is minutes away from being pulverized. And fucking on top of the trees? It really depends on who owns the trees and what is below.
Settings are just as much of a character as the people involved. A childhood kitchen has more poignancy than just a table to fuck on. I want the emotions to rise as someone grips the edge of the table, remembering how they carved their initials on the top or it fell on them during a makeshift BDSM scene.
*****
Entry #4: Far Away from Civilization
An adventurous young woman rows down the river in a small boat, enjoying a lovely wind still summer’s day. Unintentionally, she falls asleep in the boat after a light lunch. She does not notice that her boat slowly drifts down the river in the light wind. At a sharp bend in the river, her boat drifts under overhanging branches and towards the shore. The young woman wakes up when strong male arms scoop her body out of the boat. She screams and tries to free herself, but the man holds her tight and carries her to the encampment where he lives with a group of men and woman, far away from any kind of civilization. This group lives according to their own rules, which are very different to those that the young woman has been used to all her life. The leader of the group takes a fancy in the young woman and claims her to be his property. She fights, she hates, she tries to escape, but she does not only fight and hate him. She fights the feelings inside her and hates herself for developing tender feelings for this savage man.
*****
Entry #5: A Long, English Beach
It’s a long, English beach with sand gradiated from fluffy-white boiled rice to the darker, brick coloured wetness that clumps like spilt sugar in a saucer. The sea sparkles and waves, dark as ink and bright as day depending on the angle of the sun. There are people around, dog walkers and families but if you walk along the beach the crowd thins out and you’re suddenly alone, dwarfed by the sea wall and free to do whatever you please, naughty or not.
Behind the towering wall is a road and on the other side there’s amusement arcades and shops selling rock, fudge, ice-cream and Fish ‘n’ chips. The scent of doughnuts and salty air, the calls of fishermen selling their wares blends with tinkling music from the amusements and the ring of prize bells with the clunk of dropping coins. There are quaint cafes and souvenir shops. There’s hustle and bustle all around but movement is languid; everyone’s on holiday and out for enjoyment. Laughter echoes from young and old and the air vibrates with the potential of long days filled with opportunities to have fun. It isn’t home, you’re free to be, to do, to fuck.
*****
Entry #6: The Garage
Thick shafts of sunlight penetrate high windows to splay across cinder block walls and stained concrete floors. In the shadows a wire cage sits chained, padlocked, the lone guardian of zip ties and duct tape and clamps of all sizes. Within reach dangle belts, thick rubber and nylon, growing stiffer with time. Some bear curious twists, more shackles than belts now.
Massive doors open revealing the pits, their gaping slits guarded only by lone gratings that slide tirelessly along the dark chasm. Shadows swell within its depths, defying the sun as it seeks to enter. Twisted tangles of hose cascade from above, their slickened skin gleaming, their pumps leaking lube. Deeply ridged vacuum hoses dangle limply beside, their raspy inhales barely audible beneath the insistently pulsating air compressors and the metallic clinking of chains as they strike the massive hoist frame dominating the far wall.
A dark sheen of oil embraces all surfaces, slipping and slicking wherever contact is made. The slightest caress stains and defiles, impossible to remove. Even the scent overwhelms. Sweaty and musky and ripe, it forces itself upon you, into you, claiming you. By stain or by scent, the garage marks you for its own.
*****
Entry #7: The Tiny Cabin
Licking at the old and weathered wood of the pier, the ocean sends wave after wave against the sand several feet below us, the sea foam sizzling as it quietly disintegrates. The air is sticky and salty, but finally a cool breeze is blowing in the last light of the day and a torch splutters on the banister. Somewhere far away, the horizon is still visible – a patch of sky still orange and violet where it meets the sea. Outlined against it in the distance is a boat with billowing sails – I watch its slow progress towards the edge of the word.
Like the pier and the banister, the cabin is made of wood that has grown grey in the violent coastal weather. I am sitting at the side of the bed you carried out here, the white cotton sheets smell clean – a little stiff and starchy to the touch -- and the salt has not yet defeated the scent of laundry detergent. White curtains flutter through the open French windows of the tiny cabin, as if moved by the smell of frying fish wafting through the door or the low-key, crackling music from the record player.
*****
Entry #8: The Assault Course
My naked body shivered in the cool breeze wrapping itself around my torso, chilling me to the bone. It stung my mud-caked shins and wet thighs. It bit into my exposed nipples and iced my fingertips. It whistled through the trees around me, providing a soundtrack for my torment.
I focused on the array of slides, swings, nets and challenges in front of my eyes: the assault course was the scene of our first date and her first victory. I could still taste the earthy mud in my mouth from being thrown face first into the silky, algid earth. I could still feel the bruises on my bare body as I was hunted, diving under cargo nets into filthy puddles or scaling large wooden structures.
I had a sixty second head-start, but I'm now tied naked to the tree, illaqueated by the elegant manager and helpless as she giggles nefariously from behind me. “You can't resist me,” she smiles, and the nude woman kisses me on the shoulder. “You're mine now,” she whispers in my ear. And I was, exposed and vulnerable in her playground.
*****
Entry #9: A Bar in Bologna
You asked about the setting? A bar in Bologna that I happened upon while walking through the city one night after dinner. Intrigued by throbbing music and a mess of hipsters spilling out onto the sidewalk, I pushed my way in through the crowd.
The room was dark and the air hung heavy with cigarette smoke, patchouli and sweat. Chandeliers of deep red glass cast virtually no light and the mottled mirrors lining the walls reflected only shadows. The music was so loud I could feel the drumbeat reverberating in my chest like a second heartbeat. I sat down on a red velvet banquette at the back and noticed my body was vibrating against the cushions in time to the bass.
The place was heaving and everywhere I looked I saw exposed skin; the hard, sinewy flesh of youth, ripped forearms and shoulders, abs and backs. All covered with dark tattoos that rippled as their owners writhed to the music. At the next table, a boy swept his ponytail aside to reveal a skull on the nape of his neck.
A bar girl with wind-sculpted cheekbones and a fierce undercut asked me what I wanted.
I ordered absinthe.
*****
Entry #10: A Sturdy Wooden Cabin
Early sunlight shines on the granite walls that stretch thousands of feet upwards into the deep blue sky painting them the warm shade of an open fire. The valley floor is littered with impossibly tall trees reaching straight up towards the hot sun. Their bark is a deep ochre and they are surrounded by lush green meadows. The sound of a fast moving stream somewhere nearby is audible now but will be masked by the sounds of people when the coach loads of tourists arrive later. Water flowing in the stream is ice cold, cascading from the frozen mountain peaks above. The silence is deafening, broken only by the occasional cry of an eagle soaring overhead.
Nestled between the trees, barely visible to each other are sturdy wooden cabins. Each cabin has a large walk in shower, easily big enough for three. The beds are oversized with soft cosseting mattresses and a tall post at each corner. Furniture is simple and sturdy, carved from local wood and timelessly elegant. The main living space is dominated by a large stone fireplace with a soft bearskin rug stretched out in front.
Solitude and privacy are absolute, until the tourist hordes descend.
*****
Entry #11: Library
Top of the stairs, to the left, and straight on through the stacks. The library always seems to be the last on the agenda when it comes to funding, and it shows, giving the whole place the air of something from not just different lifetime, but a different century altogether. The sounds of the outside are deadened here, and voices go instinctively soft the further in you venture. There is something magical, dangerous, enticing in the journey.
The shelves groan under the weight of decades of books, and dust, settling like snow over the surfaces. The wood is worn smooth in spots, the oil of hundreds of hands; there is a sort of musk in the air, like the smell of flesh, of human contact, the sighs of books, the perfume of pages, the breath of the anticipated.
Speaking seems sinful here, but who will tell the tales left behind—the long dead authors of the forgotten tomes? They are easily forgotten in the filtered sunlight through the warped glass of the windows. This is a hidden world, right out in the open.
*****
Entry #12: Return to the Scene
Bette's diner hums with the familiarity you can never quite call home again. Jake's bulk, somewhat larger and topped by less hair, dominates the grill and Vera still wears catseye glasses and laddered silk hose, seams snaking. Nope, not home now, just as it wasn't eleven years ago, no matter the hours spent clearing tables and slapping the wrists of truckers and football players.
Soon someone else would make the bells ring on the plate glass door with its taped-up signs for turkey shoots, bingo, three-day revivals. Someone foreign to this time capsule who might just break it. The air went hot and beads on a tall glass of tea dripped. No one watched her sit in the corner booth but everyone knew where she sat. The chrome table edge winked, the chipped formica gaped a toothless smile on rounded corners. Nothing changes, everything changes, it all stays the same.
Vera tapped her pencil on the counter. A cropduster's trail sputtered over the gravel lot. The twin props rubbed the consideration into a smear of pesticide and dirt. When the sunny cloud of dust settles a motorcycle leans just beyond the expanse of windows.
Fifteen stories up, with the fiery sun setting into the city skyline, the evening beckons.
Through the clear glass patio doors, chaise lounges are arranged artfully on the sand coloured deck. Spaced properly and topped with luxurious cushions, they are big enough for two to play, and any seat will give you a view of the city at its finest hour.
A hot tub, set into the wood in the corner bubbles in anticipation of bodies filling it tonight. The deck is firm, brand new in contrast to the older building. The whole block is brick and mortar, built to last, not to fulfill some architects unrealized art school fantasies. A standing shower is next to it, out in the open, for all to see.
The brick is warm to the touch, rough in some place, worn smooth in others. The view from the ledge is orgasmic. The lights of the city awaken the night, bringing out the beautiful, the carefree, the adventurous.
The hidden speakers sound the call, the smoky layers of jazz inviting one and all. The whiskey sits in its decanter, surrounded by empty highballs.
Just waiting for guests to arrive, and the adventure to begin.
*****
Entry #15: Pulse
This space is a warehouse and most often dark, dingy, dead. Tonight, though, it pulses with life, with energy. Sequential bright white spots and beams of neon pink, cerulean and yellow paint the air in a kaleidoscope of Technicolor. Pulse, pulse, pulse. Bodies fill the cavernous space, close in a way that everyday life would never allow - moving, swaying, bleeding into one another, a rhythm that could only be called synchronous. Pulse, pulse, pulse. The smell of beer and cheap spilled rum plus musky fresh sweat, smoke, and lust gathers all who enter here into a pocket of unanimity. Pulse, pulse, pulse. Then there is sound. The reason they have all come. That pure sweet pulse, pulse, pulse of lyrics and voice and instrumentation joining to create something unto itself, something transcendent, something alive. Effortlessly this force connects each human being with the instinctive pulse, pulse, pulse in their own body, their own soul, that same pulse, pulse, pulse that echoes, mirrored and transmitted from one to the next, to the next. Everyone here knows the beat. Everyone here knows the words. Everyone here is enraptured and hungry, hot and needing. Everyone here is pulse, pulse, pulse.
*****
There you have it. Fifteen completely different answers to the same challenge, which is why I can do new and fresh anthologies year after year. Every writer has a unique viewpoint. Don't you love these?
XXX,
Alison
P.S. Please only vote once. Let's be honest out there.
I woke up with this algebraic formula in my head: C2 = T2 + E2. Which I somehow magically understood meant: Career = Time + Effort. Isn't that the most bizarre thing in the world? I mean, I sat up in bed with that formula, knowing exactly what the letters referred to. The concept of "career" baffles me, to be totally honest. Oh, and "brand." People are always talking about making sure you have a "brand." I tend to fall into things. Or do it all ass-backwards. I don't know anything about marketing. I'm always worried about being too obvious when I ask readers to buy our books. But I'm sure there is a healthy/happy balance in there somewhere. You write. Then you market what you write. You deal with the bureaucracy and paperwork. Then you write some more. I like the writing part best. And I tend to feel like a loser in regards to the shmoozing, which I think maybe is what the dream was about. Still, math while I sleep? Before coffee? That just doesn't seem fair. But speaking of math...Hang on for the first round of the Smut Marathon 2013. There will be 15 pieces to vote for. I cannot wait to share what the stellar writers have come up with!
Thank you ever so to Scarlet, who added a review to Sudden Sex on Amazon. Her review is whippet-quick and concise, which fits the book perfectly: I don't know about everyone else out there, but I like my erotica to be short and to the point. Don't get me wrong - foreplay, character development, that's all great stuff, but sometimes you're just looking for a "quickie" to get things fired up. That's why I adore Sudden Sex. You can seriously flip to any page, land on one of the 69 (of course) stories, and get caught up in a quick tryst. Seriously hot, and well-written to boot. I know you've heard me asking for online reviews for years now. Here is my beg from 2006, which doesn't seem all that long ago, but is. Actually, if you click that link, you can read an excerpt from one of my new novels for Cleis Press. Book Two, now that I take a moment to place the scene. It's been offline for years, and here you can have a peek. The beg is in the P.S. In other news, I just did an online interview with a site I'll link to shortly. One of the questions was: Who was the toughest character for you to "get right" that you have written so far?
My answer:
Jack in Dark Secret Love (Cleis Press, July 2013) is a dom’s dom. There’s a scene I wrote from his point of view which was almost scary. The whole series is written from the girl’s side of things. But once (maybe twice) I slid into Jack’s body—and that was a wild ride.
I sent the interview to Cleis to forward to the site, and I got back this note that made me smile all day:
I apologize if this comes off too fangirl-y, but you're just so charming in your interviews! I know this interview is for Morning Noon and Night, but the more I read about Jack, the more excited I get to finally read Dark Secret Love.
Fangirl away, my friend. Fangirl away. XXX, Alison
To my great delight, Kristina Lloyd has reviewed Gina Marie's "Seasonal Affected Disorder" for the Sudden Sex Blog Tour. I knew Ms. Lloyd would love this story when I first read the piece. Just check out what she has to say...
I love this piece so bad!
You know you’re in the hands of a writer to trust when her opening line drops you into a scene you can feel: “The air smells clean and sharp like minerals, tastes like new snow eaten from a mitten.”
If a writer can describe air with such evocative precision, I want to be there when her characters are trying to claw each other’s skin off.
The entire review is here. Kristina Lloyd's new novel is coming out in 15 days. The book is called Thrill Seeker, and I cannot wait to get my dirty little hands on a copy. (Hint. Hint.) Ms. Lloyd was recently reviewed by Graydancer—hence the t-shirt above. Gina Marie lives, writes, and dreams in the Pacific Northwest. She has authored award-winning erotic fiction for Clean Sheets, Oysters & Chocolate, Lucrezia Magazine, Sacchi Green's Girl Crazy, Ily Goyanes’ Locker Room and the Seattle Erotic Arts Festival, among others. She is also a published poet and photographer. Gina enjoys exploring sensuality through erotica as much as she loves heating up the kitchen and running naked in the rain. She has a weakness for bad boys, good whiskey and fast cars, and has never met a dirty word she didn't like. She keeps a sexy blog at http://www.aphrodites-table.blogspot.com There is still room for you on The Sudden Sex blog tour—or on our Ass Tour. Drop me a note at msalisontyler at yahoo dot com if you'd like to play along. XXX, Alison
Oh, wow. I just gave myself an idea for a story. Yes, a button you press for Sudden Sex! But that's not what I meant.
Here I am, trying to get all clever with another button. Unfortunately, I'm not sure if this will work. Here's what I thought, if you took part in the Sudden Sex Blog Tour, and you want to tell your friends, cut and paste the code below into a gadget on your blog and... voila!
Ha. No wait. I did it again. The code turns into the button. The button links to the Sudden Sex Blog Tour. The Tour leads to each individual review.
I just did a frantic online search, and found this article, so clearly, I am not alone.
Now, if anyone tries to use the code, let me know if it works!
XXX,
Alison
P.S. Does not seem to work. I am sorry. It looks the same, I swear, as the code above. The only difference is a little bit of coding at the start and at the end that seems to disappear. But when I cut and paste, nope. You get code, no button. Soooooo.... if you want a button, email me at msalisontyler at yahoo dot com. And if you want to tell me how to do this correctly, email is the same and level of gratitude is surreal.
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