New Issue out now.
New Issue out now.
… is the title of a new short story (very short) in the upcoming edition of Gutter Magazine. I’m really very delighted. It’s been years since I was published in a Scottish publication and it’s nice to be home.
Last time I published in Scotland it was a literarish story in Product magazine, under my ‘real’ name, back before I started writing erotica. It was a surreal story about a couple in a sado masochistic relationship. This time, it’s a literarish story (I think, I never feel qualified to judge) that includes very extreme dark sex.
I’ve waited so many days
I’m waiting here still – sifting fine sand
and when you show up at last
I’ll lay all my heart cards down in a fan
Finch and Sparrow
cherry red inside the mouth
are fed from fine artists’ paintbrushes:
yellow inside mouth:
glop made from tinned
wide gape –
glop. Raw meat.
Day old chick.
Why, hello and welcome, Allison Wonderland! You do look peachy. Today, I’m delighted to host Allison as part of the Bound By Lust blog tour. Without further ado …
I want to extend a big spank-you – er, thank-you – to my hostess, Nikki Magennis.
I am delighted to be among the awesome authors showcased in Bound by Lust: Romantic Stories of Submission and Sensuality, edited by Shanna Germain and released (in a manner of speaking) on June 12 from Cleis Press.
My story in the collection is called “A Preference for Deference,” and it’s on the Sapphic side. (Backside, that is.)
This piece was inspired by its opening line. I heard it—I said it, in relation to a rapidly-approaching deadline. You do that sort of thing when you’re the president of ProcrastiNation. Even though the original context was completely asexual, my mind meandered into the gutter. And it’s a good thing it did. Otherwise, that “rapidly-approaching deadline” for Bound by Lust would have come and gone.
I’d like to share a snippet of the story. Now, because I know how tough it is to exercise restraint, I won’t keep you waiting.
“A Preference for Deference”
I’m in a bind. Not that kind of bind. I should be so lucky. It’s more like the bind you find yourself in when the love of your life wants you to do something she knows you don’t want to do and you know you can’t say no to her because, well, you just can’t say no to her. God, am I whipped. Not that kind of whipped. I should be…
So my partner Lisa wants me to join her women’s Bible study group. Now, I enjoy the company of women just as much as the next person, but sanctity just isn’t my scene. Lisa’s big on it, though, and if she likes it, I guess it can’t be all that bad. Besides, maybe the couple that prays together stays together? I’ve been involved with Lisa for seven heavenly months, and if my secular days are numbered because of Lisa’s affinity for divinity, then so be it.
That being said, there’s no reason I can’t give her a hard time about it. “What kind of right-wing wingding are you schlepping me to?” I grouse, pulling up my pantyhose.
Lisa rolls her eyes and swishes her cinnamon-flavored mouthwash between her cheeks. How does she do that? I can’t even pat my head and rub my stomach in sync. “Knock it off, Nancy,” she scolds, placing the bottle back on the counter, so that hers is touching mine.
My fingers wrap around the canary-colored handle of Lisa’s hairbrush. “Do you realize that it’s 8:30 in the morning?” I demand, maneuvering the bristles through Lisa’s wavy tresses. “And it’s Saturday, for Christ’s sake. Who in their right mind is awake at such an ungodly hour?”
“Someone’s up bright and surly,” Lisa quips. Her gaze drifts to the bed, where, only fifteen minutes earlier, we were a snarl of languid limbs and sex-scented serenity. I tuck my chin into her shoulder, settle my head against hers.
“I love you,” she says.
“You’ll thank me later.”
“I’ll spank you later.”
“Fine,” she says, and for a second, I think she sounds more cheerful than fearful. Yeah, right. Lisa, she’s… Well, let’s just say that her idea of kinky is making love with the lights on.
On the other hand… she is suspiciously submissive. I know the Bible is all in favor of discipline and obedience, but that doesn’t mean… Actually, now that I think about it, I wonder if that does mean… I mean, maybe it’s possible, I guess, that she…
Nah, forget it. There is no way on God’s green earth that Lisa would ever go for any of that rough stuff.
I hope you found that fassinating. Um, fascinating. Darn that spellcheck. It is cruising for a bruising.
Spanks for stopping by!
Curiouser and curiouser,
Girl Fever, edited by Sacchi Green, is now available!
My story, ‘Lure’, indulges my bird fetish with a short, shifting story of an obsessive affair.
She was hovering over the jewellery case when I saw her first, her face a double reflection – two smiles, two sets of teeth. Her fingers tapped the glass, pointed out a silver pheasant studded with paste diamonds.
‘How much is the peacock?’ Her voice had Irish notes.
I smiled. I didn’t correct her.
‘Let me buy you a drink and I’ll call it a gift.’
There was a pause, during which I fell over, burst into tears, apologised profusely, tore my clothes off and lay down on the ground and stopped moving.
‘Yeah. Sure. Five o’clock?’
I breathed out and released the moon from where I’d stuck it in orbit, let the tides return to normal and the birds sing again.
They reached the tree line soon after, broke away from the shelter onto the bare mountainside. The path was a cobbled staircase, each step a big boulder. They hit a steady, hard pace and crossed the shallow stream that fanned across the saddle of the hill.
‘Not far now,’ he said, laying a hand on the small of her back, where sweat had soaked her shirt. The warmth of his touch spread and radiated.
‘I think I may hate you,’ she said, leaning over to clear her throat and spit on the ground.
‘Tell me at the top.’
From there it was a steep climb to the summit. Shale slipped underfoot. The air was sharp, thin gas, breathtakingly cold. They turned onto the peak and looked up to see the world in front of them. Above them, the sky was huge and blank, endless dizzying cerulean. And the hills stretched out, ripples and furrows; ancient old cracks following the fault line that stretched all the way to the North Sea a hundred miles away, as the crow flies.
‘Wow,’ she said, ‘beautiful. Almost worth getting out of bed for.’
They waited for their heartbeats to slow, felt the sweat dry on their backs as they circled the hilltop, looking for landmarks. Bumping against her elbow, he took her in his arms and they cooried up against the wind, bending into the hollows of one another’s bodies. Below them, the surface of the loch glowed sapphire blue. Shadows flickered over the water and across the moor, turning the landscape into a stark kaleidoscope.
‘Look,’ he said, ‘down, by the fir trees.’
Far below them, two deer paced the line of a fence, looking for a way over. As the walkers watched, they leapt, cleared the wire in two perfect arcs, and fled across the open grass, white tails flashing.
Well, here’s a new put-down. I heard it first at LitReactor, where the article author used the literary equivalent of rubber gloves: inverted commas. In the comments they didn’t bother, and thus a new derogatory phrase is born, validated and shared.
It hurts on a few levels. First, there’s the whole sneery implication of ‘Mommy’. Once you’ve bred you’re a MILF, a yummy mummy, or a Mummy. You’re not a woman anymore. In fact, this phrase is generally used to refer to women over a certain age – kids are almost irrelevant. The condescension is hard to put your finger on – so it’s hard to fight. ‘Mommy’ is a statement of fact, I suppose, for, say, me. Which provides a handy smokescreen for the nasty misogyny wrapped up in the context and the patronising absence of various other possible terms (why not just ‘women’s porn’, for example?).
And then there’s ‘porn’. Funny, cause I kind of thought that now we’re all so down with the sex there was no longer a derogatory implication in the word – in fact, I thought it had almost gathered some dirty cachet. Some harmless but slightly illicit appeal. Maybe not. Although in some cases writing sex is seen as a daring little thrill, something to prove just how fucking brave you are, seems the snobbery and childishness of some parts of the literary world doesn’t fade so easily. So, yes. Sex is still tawdry, silly and base. Take a note, everyone.
Last, couple the two words together, and what do we have? A blowsy woman in a shapeless pinny, wringing her hands with dumb sexual frustration. A stupid breeder who’s no use to the world anymore because she’s exhausted her sexual capital and therefore her worth to the wider world. A woman with so little imagination/taste/intelligence she has to resort to reading about sex.
Look a bit fucking harder. This is what we have. We have a woman, torn in so many directions, sick of being ignored, sick of being laughed at, sick of being dismissed. Tired of the whole damn issue. Yes, women read porn. Yes, we have children – or even don’t, and still get older. Though it may make some people screw up their impeccably tasteful noses, we still have sex and want it.
Yes, we have Mommy Porn*. Grow up and get the fuck over it.
*UK version: Mummy Porn – as yet unseen in the wild.
Slip over to Apocrypha and Abstractions for a read of my short work: Dirty Aubade.