When it comes to erotic writers, Alison Tyler is never without a steamy story. So, where does she get her inspiration?
Whoever said, “Neither a borrower nor a lender be” clearly didn’t know any writers. Oh, wait. Was it Shakespeare? Then, damn.
See, we do both all the time—borrow and lend—as Shakespeare well knew.
Right now, I’m lending you my words. If you like them, you can share them with your friends and co-workers, sex partners, dog walkers. Trust me, I won’t mind. And I borrow, oh, I borrow all day long—and often well into the night. Wherever I go, I am soaking in the sights, sounds, words, scents. Take yesterday, when I went for a walk. I strolled along behind a stranger, a woman in a pair of dark jeans and a black long-sleeved tee-shirt. As we walked, I saw her take off her top and shake out her hair. She had on a tank beneath, and her sinewy back and arms were swirled with tattoos. I never saw her face, but I know she’ll star in some future story. The lilt in her walk. The shimmer in her hips. I am vampirish in the way I suck the color and taste from the world around me.
And nowhere do I suck more than from my husband.
Hmmm. Maybe those words needed to be reshuffled in some way.
This is what I mean. I was recently asked: “How has your writing inspired your marriage?” And I thought, Oh, baby, it’s the other way around. I am lucky enough to be married to my muse, a man who provides me with endless inspiration.
But “muse” sounds a bit too feminine for what he is. A muse would have a flowing gown of iridescent gold. Maybe wings. Something sparkly. My man is more like a master set designer, dialogue coach, scriptwriter.
The way he looks at me lights me up inside. His words send those dangerous flickering shivers through my body. And his actions… we’ll come back to that.
The most important part of a story to me is the connection between the characters. The bonds that holds them together (BDSM and otherwise). When I write about kinky relationships, I focus on the power, often shifting, ever malleable. The movement between the two (or more players). I draw on my own world to give my imaginary characters substance and depth.
I know what it’s like to be on the floor looking up. I know how I feel when I’m bound to the wall. I know what is going to happen when he tilts his head, when he motions to the stairs. Go up. Wait for me.
I take from my life and I make my writing come to life. Sometimes I only give a hint, a line of reality into a fully fabricated piece. For other stories, I lift entire scenes, rub them with the softest sandpaper, and then blow off the fine dust. And then there are the times when I write so real you can smell the smoke:
So he’s fucking me in the kitchen and calling me Julia. And the fire alarm goes off as he starts spanking my ass. Wisps of smoke swirl around us and the light flashes on and off. Jeans and panties round my ankles. Hair loose past my shoulders. Old blue hoodie over a favorite well-worn scarlet tee. He’s spanking my ass with something
hard and whippy, plastic—but what?
The alarm right above us—flashing and screaming.
“You feel so good.”
Look down to see pink panties with little flowers, and I’m not wearing a bra under the shirt. Smell
the sweet sizzling smell of something burning. Now, I’m
getting closer, and the smoke’s getting
“Christ, that’s such a slick sweet pussy.”
thicker. He drops the dustpan—dustpan!—a laugh rises up in my throat. Then
“You get so wet for me.”
slam-bam wham and we’re done.
Yes, I’m not a thief of hearts. I’m a thief at heart.