Pussy Footing Around

I've been reluctant to weigh in on the scandal, but there's been a lot of talk about pussies lately.  The word has been thrust to the forefront of our national consciousness.  There was a time when authors like myself were the only ones to give pussies their place in print. But now....!  It's pussy all the time and everyone wants to weigh in.

Here's what I'm saying.

Since my blog is so far away from political, I think there is one unifying message we can all agree upon. Pussies deserve respect. I'm not the first and won't be the last to acknowledge that without laying blame, pussies have brought kings to their knees and inspired lesser men to achieve greatness. Have we evolved beyond that fact? I'm afraid, not yet. 

There may be no greater disrespect of the pussy than depriving it of want it needs.  If you like having it grabbed, then by all means, find someone you trust who will do it for you.  But let's never forget who deserves to make that call.  (Here's a hint...you need to have one.)

INSTA-LOVE is real!

The question: Is insta-love a real thing? This phenomenon is hailed and hated by many in almost equal amounts in my estimation.  I can sometimes see a reviewer rolling their eyes at the mere concept.  I am guilty of writing the instant chemistry and guarded optimism of that first spark-filled meeting. Well, I am a believer, because I have been a witness.  The day I met my husband was the first day of the rest of our lives together. Simple as that. 

In Swept, Rory shares the story of how she and Spencer first met. It's fated bliss right from the start. I'm sure I have some readers who've been stopped in their tracks by cupid's arrow, even if just for a short while. In writing and in life I think you have to be open to the possibilities...as readers too.  I want to hear your insta-love stories if you feel like sharing.  Comment and warm my heart. 

The Wide World of Men

I’ve always been mystified by men.  Maybe it’s my single-parent-mother upbringing that adds to the fascination. A lack of testosterone around the house had me wondering if boys wore pajamas to bed like me or just their underwear. Did they slept with socks on or curl up with their blankets?  Somehow I couldn’t imagine my latest teenage crush doing these things.  Boys were way too cool for any of that. Soon, I found myself seeking conversation with guys just to understand what made them tick. 

Of course those conversations were sometimes pretty transparent, focusing on how my skin tight guess jeans looked on my 14 year old booty, but I digress. Back then it was the rare conversations with boys about the world around us, the things they cared about, the people they looked up to, that had me hungry for more. The male was a foreign species and I wanted to know everything I possibly could. 

Yesterday morning while caught in traffic on the highway, two model-worthy guys sat in a white Jeep Wrangler deep in affable conversation.  Dark-hair with scruffy beard was driving. Sandy blond hair with a bashful smile was in the passenger seat.  Blond guy laughed and covered his face with his arm while dark haired guy cut sideways glances at him and goaded him on.  I watched them in my rear view mirror and inserted my own dialogue.  What a captivating pair they were. 

The most intriguing part was being on the outside looking in.  These guys were friends; close friends, I’d venture. I also got the impression they were hetero. All the macho bluster and posturing the addition of a female usually inspires was missing from the scene.  What I saw was just pure guy time, simple and easy, males in their natural state. 

In my own house I am surrounded by males.  I am the lone chick.  I watch football, play Xbox, wield a tool or two.  I am no dainty flower.  And yet, the girl in me is still enthralled.  For this reason, I adore writing male characters.  I love their dialogue, their quirks, their swagger and their vulnerability. I can only hope I do my dudes justice.

The dawn of a new release is an exciting time; not a whole lot different than waiting to be picked up for a first date.  Boy was that a long time ago...but I still remember that prickly anticipation creeping up my spine  Make Me is coming in May.  Yes, yes...I know that's a long time to wait for a date.  But what if that date was with two gulp-worthy Marine vets; best friends who found solace in each other's arms?  What if that date was such a long time coming, you didn't even realize you needed it so bad?  I can't properly describe the power of the parallel universe that is my character's lives.  I have lived their struggle to be together for the last eight months.  That's a hell of long time to wait.  

So at last, I have a release date.  We have slated May 16 for the release of Make Me, my next MMF contemporary.  I am a ball of anticipation to share it and finally let Rebecca, Manny and Kyle loose on the world.

Dream Girl

I believe that I am the most brilliant at night…when I am asleep.  I dream big, in Technicolor clarity, without fear or hesitation.  My dreams are epic and entertaining, often comedic and somehow in some kind of Sybilesque way, surprising. I have actually been surprised by the twist revealed at the end of my dream.  I mean I am“Wow, I didn’t see that coming” kind of surprised.  I awake, might I dare say, rather impressed with myself and the rippling waves of creativity I surfed during my shuteye. 

“Honey,” I say, nudging my husband awake. “You would not believe the dream I had.”

He squints at me and yawns.  “Oh yeah? What was it about?”

Suddenly I’m blank. I remember the sensations, one nonsensical scene, maybe two.  “There was a guy, and he had this…um…this….”

“Yeah?”

“Um…wait, it was crazy, so good for a story…” I’m fried.  Perhaps all that brilliance has resulted in a short circuit.  “Never mind.”

“I’m going back to sleep.”

“Me too.”

Menage for mainstream?

I, for one, would religiously tune into a weekly TV show that focused on a sexy polyamorous relationship. I mean, you would probably be able to set your watch to me sitting expectantly with a glass of wine, my comfy velvet pillow tucked up against me in my chair, my feet propped up, the door closed and my eyes glued. I would never miss it! It could even be a reality show. Ooh that might actually be better than fiction! 

OK, so there was Big Love on HBO, which focused on the polygamous relationship of a rebellious Mormon and his three wives. It was must see TV for me, but mostly for the drama. It wasn't exactly the sexiest thing on cable. Then there are the Mormon reality shows showcasing polygamy; a true sexy-fail! So why not? Why isn't there a sexually charged polyamorous TV show to tantalize our fantastic imaginations? Perhaps we aren't ready yet...but I have a feeling we don't know what we are missing!

Old School Sexy

I'm known to have a slightly compulsive personality.  My latest kick is corsets.  Ask me how many real deal corsets I own and the answer is zero, until yesterday.  So now I eagerly await the arrival of the steel boned piece of beautiful torture my fore-mothers fought to banish into history.  Thanks to a late night internet raid, I am drowning with anticipation for slipping into my new obsession.

Corsets, I've found, have as much personality as any other article of clothing, if not more. I probably perused over 150 different designs before finding one that fit my own personal style.  (If there's one thing I love as much as feeling sexy, it's shopping.)  I also scored a pair of black rumba panties and I have the perfect pair of patent leather Mary Jane stilettos to go with it.  That's the new love of my life on the left.

Now I'm completely hooked. (No, that wasn't an intentional pun.)  The newbie that I am, I'll be trolling Amazon and Ebay for more corset deals.  Let you know when I graduate to the handmade, artful varieties I can only dream about, like the ones pictured below.

Is vanilla the new chocolate?

Someone surprised me recently with the thought that a darker character is all the more hot because he appears at first glance to be such an average everyday guy.  I’ve written Jack that way intentionally in my current work in progress Polished, because darker Dominant side is his way of coping.  He’s a good guy at heart and might not even need his kinks if he felt more in control of his life.  In truth, the darkness doesn’t obscure his light the way he thinks it does.  His darker side lets his light be seen all the more clearly.

When Jack gets dark, he takes on a sexy new dimension.  That filthy mouth of his curls toes. The darkness comes on suddenly, surprising you and sending sparks of excitement up your spine.  “First you’re going to get your sweet little ass down from there and bend over the counter while I show you who the fuck is the boss around here.”  I love a man that keeps you guessing, especially when he even surprises himself.  Sure, bad is good.  But good, being bad is absolutely delectable.

We get to know Jack a whole lot more later in the book.  A sneak peek into the start of this complicated MMF menage love story is linked above.  Enjoy.

Tough Girls Need Love Too

I’m a firm believer that a character doesn’t have to be perfect to be loveable. It’s often more interesting to have a look through eyes that are slightly jaded and bear the scars of life.  The human experience isn’t always all peaches and cream.  When we have the opportunity to grow with a character through her anger and fears, we get the privilege to experience her joy with more intimacy. 

A “bad attitude”, as others would call it, is a lot of fun to write. I love the chance to let my inner bitchiness out.  But at the root of that sour tongue is usually a damaged ego just crying to be stroked by the right person.  It isn’t that a tough girl doesn’t want to be taken care of, it’s just that she’s been forced to take care of herself. It’s a hell of a lot more scary to risk another let down in a long line of disappointments than to keep on trucking in survival mode.

I’m toying with a new story that doesn't yet have a name.  But here’s the budding start of a romance that I hope gives a peek into the heart of a tough girl who needs love too.

"Ow!"  Hot coffee in my lap while I'm trying to merge onto the freeway is not the way to start the morning—impossible to manage the gearshift and a Styrofoam cup at the same time.  I might be a girl who's good with her hands, but this would take a magician.  It’s pretty fucking ironic to be delivering dry-cleaning with a stain on my pants, and so goes my day.

I would turn around and go home to change, but that would make me late and I can't afford to lose this job; not while I'm on parole. 

"Come - on!"  Not another old lady puttering her way to Wal-Mart, I can't take it.  I should try to be patient; it's my need for speed that got me locked up in the first damned place. Boosting cars with my ex and his friends seemed like a great way to spend the summer, at the time.  Too bad I was the only one who took the heat for it and that jerk took off to God knows where.  

And there it is again, gaining on me quickly in my rear view, taunting me like it does everyday—that sleek sculpted beauty.  I can't hear its low rumble over the pounding base of hip-hop swelling my eardrums.  But, sure as shit, I can sense that Camaro hovering behind me every time.  The windows are tinted black—as black as the paint job.  I have no clue what’s inside, but by the way that thing moves, I'd say it's got to be male.  Of course, I could be wrong.  After all, I drive like a bat out of hell most the time.  Not today, though.  Today my coffee cup has me driving like a little girl, and I can only watch as he pulls up next to my VW GTI, waiting for me to make a move.  It slows, waiting, looking perhaps.  I imagine he is looking right at me, asking me … do you want some of this? 

I'm thinking about tossing the stupid coffee right out the window, throwing my second-hand hatchback into fifth and giving him a run.  Too late, he's already gone.  Tomorrow.  No, tomorrow I'll still be on parole and a speeding ticket is the last thing I need.

"You got eight deliveries before 12:00," my boss barks, with the raspy jingle of the entrance bells punctuating his command behind me.

I don't even say hello, because he never bothers to answer me back.  I just take the clutches of tailored suits and pretty dresses belonging to somebody with a better life and get back in the car.  Fuck Tom and his lack of manners.  When I made it clear that he wasn't going to get any bonus pussy for hiring an ex-con, he was done with me.  Now, I get about three sentences out of him a day; suits me just fine.

The job isn't all bad.  I know my way around this town better than anyone, so I can always manage to finish well ahead of when I'm due back.  I'll hit the desert outskirts and kick up the hatch back in the sun, let it beat down on me with its healing warmth.  Behind red-hot eyelids, I conjure my own version of revisionist history and rewrite the last three years of my life.  Mostly, I imagine I don't get caught.

Everyday by dusk, I'm finished with my stops, but Tom always makes me straighten the place up before I go.  It’s a mad rush to get out … in time to catch the Camaro.

The whole thing is ridiculous, yes, I know.  But, it's become a bit of a routine for me—a game of sorts.  We must work the same hours, and live in the same direction from town, because if I leave at exactly 5:30, I'll see him for sure, and it thrills me every time I do. 

In the evening, he doesn't pass me.  He rips around the spattering of commuters on the freeway that runs through my town, only to hover like a specter behind me, matching my speed for the three exits I stay for.  After that, I don’t know where he goes or what he does. I can only imagine and I have a pretty damn good imagination.

When tomorrow comes, I'm ready.  No coffee this time, my hand is poised on the gearshift as I obsessively glance in the rearview, looking for him.  Today I'll see if he'll chase me, I'll test our little game, force his hand and see who’s holding the cards.  The energy I feel radiating from that sleek, black testosterone-laden machine could be a complete fantasy.  Today I'll give a little pinch and see what happens.

Today, however, there's no Camaro.

It’s a disappointment, though who would want to admit it.  The whole thing is silly. 

“Get these over to Club Minx over on Rte 85.” Tom barks just before quitting.

“Wouldn’t you rather make the delivery yourself?” I sass him with cock of my head.

“Ha, ha.  Very funny.  Just make sure they pay you everything, crafty sluts tried to stiff me the last time.”

Not hard to get over on you, I quip silently, and let the door swing closed behind me. 

The strip club isn’t hard to miss.  It’s the last neon sign at the edge of town, beyond that it’s just coyotes and moonlight.

I pull up and wonder if I’ll recognize any of the strippers inside.  In a small town like Gopher Creek every one ain’t exactly going to be a lawyer or a veterinarian.  I’m sure I had homeroom with at least one of those chicks.

Inside, the action hasn’t really started yet, but the place is all polished up and ready.  Curiosity about what goes on in this place had me beg my X-boyfriend to take me, but it turned out the only place we ever went together was court.  What a loser.

Nobody even glances in my direction; bartender and the waitresses are all busy setting up.

“Hey, I have a dry cleaning delivery.”

The guy with the shaved head wiping down the bar doesn’t even look up.  “Over there,” he says with a thumb in the general direction of the back.

I save my thank you for someone who gives a damn and sling the clear plastic covered corsets and studded boy shorts over my shoulder.  Through the curtain and down the hall, the techno music is getting louder and the smoke is getting thicker in my lungs.  I quit when I got out, another dirty habit left behind. In front of the door where it’s all coming from is a guy with a look on his face that tells me he recognizes me too.

“Last time I saw you, you were trying to steal my car,” he says grinning too much to be talking to the girl who popped his door lock last summer.

 Exactly what Mr. Perfect Football Captain is doing in this place, I have no idea.  I fix my jaw and remind myself he isn’t better than me.  “I didn’t know she was yours, promise.”

He laughs.  “Would it have mattered if you did?”

The wallpaper is looking pretty interesting right about now.  It beats staring back into those prying blue eyes.  I shrug.  “I don’t know, maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“We had auto shop together.  We weren’t friends, Zach.”

“No, I guess we weren’t.”

“Can I give these to you?” I ask, doing my best to get the hell out of there.

“I’m covering security for my cousin.  I’m not the housekeeper.”

“The attitude is new.”

He shakes his head. “I’m sorry.  Kind of had a fucked up morning.”

“I kind of had a fucked up year.”

“Your own fault,” he says with a bashful smile, reaching for the dry cleaning.

The way he’s looking at me makes my stomach hurt.  “That will be forty two bucks.”

“Hang on.”  He knocks on the door and it opens with a pile of curls and a pair of pouty lips.

“What ya need, cutie?”  she says, doing as little as possible to cover herself since even I can see the spill of her cleavage in his face.

Zach blushes and it makes me want to punch him in the arm.  “Got your dry cleaning here.”

“Oh, thanks babe.  Come in.”  She ushered him through the door and shut it before I could say anything.

“Hey!”  I bang my fist next to the glittering star in the middle. I’m not sure what I’m more pissed about, the way she snatched him away or the fact that she’s about to stiff me.  I bang some more.

Zach reappears and I snatch the two twenty’s and leave the ten in his hand.  I’m three steps in middle of heading to the front door when I figure I should give an explanation.  “Don’t worry about the two bucks, I don’t have any change.”  Truth is I couldn’t take another second of being in there with him and that gorgeous face of his and the way he was chewing on his lip like he had something else to say.  What else was there to say?  Zach was a dead-end daydream I started in high school that was nailed shut the minute I got caught in the Mustang convertible his dad apparently bought him for graduation.

By the time I get outside, I’m practically running to my car.  

Hail to the V

So when I first saw this commercial I stopped everything I was doing and watched with a bemused, and slightly agape smile. Thank god for DVRs because I couldn't believe what I was seeing. A TV ad acknowledging the power of the vagina? I mean really, in the US, where we are so twisted inside-out about what is sexist and what is man-hating--what is virtuous and what is slut-keteering? Did I really see that? 

 Of course it's a big laugh and completely over the top. Or is it? Maybe the delivery is over the top, but the message might be right on. If we think for one moment that a man's sexual desire has nothing to do with his rise or demise, we are giving the human animal too much credit. Surely everything isn't tied to the nether regions; it's possible to motivated by the desire for power,or self-awareness or fame and fortune. But a whole lot of the time that boils down to what kind of woman a guy can get if he achieves those things. 

It got me thinking. Can you imagine for one moment and world without vaginas? Disregarding the obvious procreation problem for a sec, what would the hetero fellows do with their time without a woman to 'appreciate' their good work? I know I'm much more interested in sex when I've been impressed by hubby fixing the garage door without me asking. I'm 100% certain he knows this.

I'm only half joking. I mean even an erotic writer knows that life doesn't revolve entirely around sex. But any woman who's had the delightful experience of her man sniffing up her skirt (quite literally, perhaps) knows what I'm saying is true. There is a hell of a lot of power in between those legs and it isn't anti-progressive to tell it like it is. Hail to V indeed!

The Other Olympic Games

ESPN’s article about the rampant debauchery sure to be taking place this weekend in Olympic Village has given me the biggest flashing green light to put a voice to the fantastical wonderland of sexy fun I’ve always imagined it to be.  I mean, my god, how could it not be? In fact I think it’s wildly hypocritical to ignore the obvious.  Athletes are amazingly in touch with their bodies and what they can do with them.  Hmmm…. let’s see.  What do people tend to do with their bodies?

So I’m as patriotic as the next red blooded American and I appreciate the sentimental image we all cherish of the stoic and dedicated athletic hero.  But what about all that sexy muscle saturated in adrenaline?  That’s going to make for some very healthy libidos.

If only I could find a way into the biggest party noted for the most washboard abs per square foot in the universe.  It might just be worth picking up archery.  (As I crack open this bag of Cheetos)  I mean, there can’t be an age limit for holding a bow and arrow, right?  ;)

It Takes a Village

Copyright Alyssa Turner, 2012

“Is that a fish?” The name on his warm up jacket says Diederich and the look on his face says that he doesn’t understand a word she’s said.  “On your chest.”  She points to it, grazing her finger over the tail as someone bumps her from behind.  He smiles and pulls the German flag on his warm up jacket away a little more.

It is a fish.  She can see it better now, especially since he’s flexed his pectoral a little to make it swim. 

“Ha, neat trick.”  Maybe he knows who she is.  In the US, she’s suddenly a household name for the two gold medals she won on beam and floor exercise.  Just in case, she’d better introduce herself.  She has to yell because the Brazilians are pumping their brand of hip-hop at full tilt  in the crowded hallway. “I’m Cait.”

He nods.  “Cait Mi-zi-ohh-la”

She shrugs.  “Close enough.”

“Lukas … Luk,” he says tapping the fish with his index finger a few times.

“Nice to meet you.”

Someone bumps her again, shoving her into his arms and it occurs to her that she’s the only one blushing.  Unfair advantage.  But this isn’t about fairness is it? This is about the last night in the Olympic Village and the looming promise of swift goodbyes in the fuzzy light of the morning.

Her voice flutters.  “I saw you swim.  Bronze, not bad.”

His turn to shrug.  And then he has his fingers in her hair and creeping up the nape of her neck. “Gold,” he whispers. “You are gold.”

Unrushed, but inevitable none-the-less, he eases his hot tongue into her mouth.  Their kiss makes up for their clumsy words.  Words are over-rated anyway.

But then there is German being spoken around her and Luk takes a last slurp of her bottom lip before turning his head towards his teammate.

It isn’t clear at first, what they are saying.  Then Luk tucks his finger under her chin, his purple lips pursed with a hopeful question on them.  “More?”

She’d never turned from a challenge before.  More reps, more rotations, more, more, more.  Now the question hangs in the air in front of her like a bright ripe cherry.

With growing confidence, Cait reaches over to the zipper pulled high on the other swimmer’s chest.  As she tugs it down, the grin is spreading on his razor clean face.  She’ll keep it simple.  “Yes, please.” 

___

This is just a start.  Do you ever imagine what goes on after dark in the Olympic Village?  It's definitely something to think about.