The Fall of Summer

September 7, 2016

I'd write about the fall of St. Olaf, only it hasn't happened yet.


But speaking of storytellers... I've got one that, ahem, Rose to fame in the anthology Summer Love: Stories of Lesbian Holiday Romance.


Sure, you can no longer catch any rays.

But you can still catch some gays!

The Sapphic sort, to be specific.


Thanks to Ladylit, Summer Love is available for a queer - I mean, mere - 99 cents in ebook format.

That's e for erotic, exquisite, essential. There are no tan lines in my story, "The Boi Who Cried Woolf," a tale of two bookworms who experience a summer of literary pleasures, but there are plenty of laugh-out-loud ones.

Emphasis on out.

But if you insist on staying in, at least make sure your...um, inning is one for the books.

Curiouser and curiouser,
Allison Wonderland

Bachelorette's Degree

June 22, 2016



Never tell tales out of school.

Unless those tales concern students who are out at school, in which case always tell them.

One such tale is titled "Guise and Dolls," and it's currently enrolled in Girls on Campus, taught by Sandy Lowe and Stacia Seaman at Bold Strokes. This tale proves, by degrees, that you can't judge a cover by its book. 

And, thanks to its star students' acceptance and admission, the story never cuts class.

Or sass.

Or...another relevant rhyme.

And now it's time for an examination of the out-at-school tale I've told:


"The only lady parts you like are the ones you get to do onstage," I tease.

Joelle kneels down, begins fussing with one of the many straps that trap her feet inside her shoes. The V-neck of her shirt dips into a U.

"I'll do it." I practically throw myself at her feet. 

Joelle stands. "It's nice to have friends in low places."

Friends. Why did I pursue a friendship with Jo when I can't pursue a romance with her? I mean, what is it about unrequited love that makes it so appalling and appealing at the same time? I hope the professor covers this topic in my Psychology of Women course. Otherwise, I may have to withdraw. "And to answer your question, I dated guys, but I always knew I liked the birds better than the bees, so… Hm. I think only half that euphemism is effective, but you get the gist."

Jo steps out of her shoes. "So did you ever let a bee sting you?"

"Nope." I flop back onto the bed, the pleats in my skirt spreading out like a paper fan.

"I think I'm allergic to bees," Jo says, unbuttoning her shorts. She grins at me. Looking away is not an option. "You've seen London. You've seen France. Now you get to see my—"

"Camouflage underpants? Who do you think you are—G.I. Jo?" I'm surprised they're so simple, but they're sexier that way: no frills, just thrills.

Joelle trades in her shorts for the pair of pants she got from her closet. She leads them up her legs, slowly concealing their svelte shape with the dark denim.

"Do these jeans make my ego look fat?" Joelle inquires, posing like a paparazzi princess in front of the mirror.

"Colossal." I pat her posterior. "Just like your caboose."

Joelle shakes her fanny in my face. "You can borrow them sometime."

"Oh, so you're going to let me get in your pants?"

"Absolutely."

My smile squirms. "Stop leading me on," I mutter, half-hoping she'll hear me and half-hoping she won't. It's my fault—I shouldn't be flirting with Jo, not when she knows I have feelings for her. And she knows. There's no way she can't know. It's plain as gay. Day. Whatever.

"I'm not leading you on," Jo insists, but her tone is too chirpy, like she doesn't take me seriously.

"You're a leading lady. It's what you do."

"I'm not always a leading lady. Freshman year I auditioned for Peggy Sawyer in 42nd Street, but they cast me as Dorothy Brock. It all worked out for the best, though, since Dorothy has this fabulous song about wanting someone to be gay with and play with. Not exactly your garden variety coming-out story, is it?"

Jo wants someone to be gay with? Great. Jo wants to play with someone? "Great, I'm in love with a playgirl."

"Luck be a lady. You're in love with me?"

"Like you didn't know." Atta girl—make her look stupid.

"I knew you were attracted to me, but amour? I didn't know I could wish you."

She's next to me on the bed, smiling with her straight teeth and sitting with her straight spine and… and… "Not exactly your garden variety coming-out story?"

"Oh, come on," she says, eyes spinning like a compact disc. "You think I've been flirting with you all this time for tits and giggles?"

The whirring in my ears mimics the frozen yogurt machine in the cafeteria. I open my mouth to squeak, but this time no sound comes out.

"Okay, clearly you didn't like that question, so maybe you'll like this one: what does a person have to do to get some lip service around here?"

Nothing, apparently—before I can do or say anything, Joelle is shoving her fingers into my hair, letting them tangle in the loopy blond locks. I guess gentlemen aren't the only ones who prefer blondes.

The kiss is long and long overdue. It is liberal and liberating, decadent yet decorous. It makes me want to do a keg stand (I don't drink), study a broad (but with no space between us), and go streaking across campus (fully clothed).

With lips that taste like tropical punch and a mouth that tastes like blueberry yogurt, Jo's kisses are more amazing than Joseph's Technicolor dreamcoat. Go, go, go, Jo! This girl kisses with precision, perfection, panache.

But then, I always figured she would. 

Jo College is not your average Jo.

If you took pleasure in that humani-tease, you might want to consider majoring in Women's Studies.

Curiouser and curiouser,
Allison Wonderland 

A Class of Touch

February 5, 2016


Come May, comely collegians will hit the books and the sheets.

It's all thanks to Bold Strokes, who are encouraging these undergrads to make bold strokes with their pencils and their fingers.

The big manuscript on campus is edited by Sandy Lowe and Stacia Seaman and includes my dyke drama story, "Guise and Dolls," about a doll who has a major crush on her friend, Jo College.

But does Jo put the "straight" in "straight-A student"?

The "bi" in "syllabi"?

Or the "Liberal" in "Liberal Arts"?

The answer may not be entirely queer to our underdog undergrad, but if she can give her friend a first-class edu-gay-tion before graduation, she'll be overjoyed.

Curiouser and curiouser,
Allison Wonderland

A Wonderland Winter

December 23, 2015


"Soar Spot" first burst onto the lesfic scene in Ladylit's collection First: Sensual Lesbian Stories of New Beginnings.

The characters experience their second coming, if you will, in the new Coming Together collection Keeping Warm, edited by that altruistic marvel Alessia Brio.

This anthology serves as my seventh act of phil-antho-py for Coming Together, and for this particular - not to mention particularly prodigious - project, proceeds that come in will go to Operation Warm, an organization that offers children sartorial sustenance in the form of cozy coats.

Not only will this charit-ebook keep kids bundled up; it won't cost a bundle either.

I'd say that makes Keeping Warm the ultimate book jacket.

Curiouser and curiouser,
Allison Wonderland

Pink Ladylit

November 10, 2015


When I am out - of doors, that is - I'll either play miniature golf, go paddle boating, or pick apples.

Or, like the ladies in my new story for Ladylit's latest, Al Fresco: Five Outdoorsy Tales of Lesbian Lust, I'll attend a carnival.

My favorite ride is the swings, but I'm also fond of the fun slide, the merry-go-round, and the scrambler.


And that's where my story starts: with two best friends riding that ride with the Skip-It style whip action and - consequently - hip action. Best pals Liz and Jody love the eighties and especially the Pink Ladies, and they've got something else in common as well: they're both gay.

Jody doesn't find this grody, but Liz does, and she's loath to admit it - and even loather to admit that she's developing feelings for her friend. Remember in Grease when Coach Calhoun instructed students at the dance-off that "all couples must be boy-girl"?


Well, it looks like Liz was listening - a little too closely.

Will Liz unscramble her thoughts and start thinking Pink so that she can stop spending her gays - er, days - mooning so sad and blue?

You better shape up when you don't need a man, 'cause why have tears on your pillow when you can have queers on them instead?

Curiouser and curiouser,
Allison Wonderland

First Lives Club

October 13, 2015


When you're single and looking, you have to hope for the best and prepare for the first.

Grade, that is. 

The first grade for "Soar Spot," my contribution to First, came from editor Cheyenne Blue, who deemed the piece A-okay and opined:

I love this story. It's wonderful...truly marvelous. I'm in awe of how you can take a serious subject and lighten it and make it erotic all without trivializing the subject.

Coming in second is fellow author Victoria Blisse, who writes of the work:

[Allison's] story of two women meeting in a shelter for victims of domestic abuse sounds like a somber tale. But add in Allison's wry humor and trademark puns, and her story, "Soar Spot," takes a very different twist.

In honor of the anthology's release, Cheyenne asked each contributor to share a personal first. You can click queer to read about one of mine: in this case, a date. It was great - she not only treated me like a princess; she played Pretty Pretty Princess with me.

Of course, when someone doesn't make you feel like a princess, as the protagonists in my story discover, the first, best, and only thing to do is to kick them to the curb.

Without resorting to violence yourself.


October is Domestic Violence Awareness Month.

So put on some purple and raise awareness.

Just don't raise a hand to someone.

Better to be a purple people eater than a people beater who turns their shoved ones purple.

Together, we can beat this thing.

Curiouser and curiouser,
Allison Wonderland

First-Rate First-Aid

September 13, 2015


Cheyenne Blue has released another outstanding collection of concupiscence, this one entitled First: Sensual Lesbian Stories of New Beginnings.

My contribution, "Soar Spot," tells the story of two women at a Safe House for survivors of domestic violence. Sick of spouses whose anthem is "Keep on Shoving You," the freshly-free femmes are committed to beating the odds their first time out. 

Here's a first look at the story: 
 
"The first time leaving may be the hardest, but so is the first blow," Lois remarks, browsing the new donations of old board games. "So if I even think about going back to him, you just slap me silly, you hear? And I'll do the same for you and--Ha! Here's one. This one's perfect for us: Stay Alive, 'The Ultimate Survival Game.' We'd better follow those instructions to the letter. What else do we have? Trouble, Aggravation, Pac-Man. There was a Pac-Man board game, really? There ought to be a Pack-Your-Bags-And-Leave-Your-Man game. Where every girl's a winner."

I chuckle, still in mouse-mode. But Lois is a chatterbox. Now that she no longer has to keep her lips zipped like a change purse, she loves putting in her two cents' worth. I for one hope that zipper stays unzipped for good. After all, better to have a busted zipper than a busted lip. Besides, I love listening to her. She's that perfect combination of soft-spoken and outspoken, a cross between Clair Huxtable and Mulan. Maybe one day I'll take my voice back from the villain too.

Lois joins me on the rectangular rug of squares in the children's playroom. We don't have kids, but we do have two other roommates, so when we can't sleep, which is often, we come to the safest room in the Safe House.

Another square appears on the carpet. "Remember Pretty Pretty Princess?" Lois asks.

I remember it well: a pastel hell of junky jewelry with a leper in the loot: the black ring. If you got stuck with it, you lost the game―and, apparently, your looks.

"Personally, I think the black ring should have been the crown jewel," Lois comments. "What's so bad about a black ring? I mean, as long as it's around your finger and not your eye. But if it is around your eye, you can always cover it, 'til he whacks the other one--"

"--and you don't dare die!"

Mangled lyrics lead to tangled limbs, and I live for these moments, where everything's child's play and I can just liberate my laughter and sigh into her softness. All the sore spots are gone now, although it does hurt emotionally, because she's too pretty and too smart and too straight for me, not to mention too close for comfort, especially now that she's humming into my hair. The instant I identify the melody, I pretend she's serenading me. I remember the first time I heard her sing this song, five years ago, when she was onstage and I was backstage and the only thing to strike was the set.

In her arms, I'm reminded of the way Snoopy hugs Woodstock, except I don't feel small at all, just hugely important. Even so, I let go, so that I won't let on that I have feelings for her. We may have met in a past life, but we've really only known each other a couple of months, and in another month we won't even be living here together anymore, so why keep in touch when we probably won't even stay in contact? And of course I'm falling for her only because she's the first woman to give me shelter from the norm. Being with Lois is completely painless. It doesn't hurt that she always has a sweet heart and a kind word and a heroic smile.

I love it when she shares that smile with me, and she probably still would be if I hadn't pulled away so quickly, like The Artful Dodger fleeing the scene after picking a pocket. Flicking the game's plastic spinner, I watch as the little gray arrow goes into a graceless pirouette. It looks as dizzy as I feel. 
When the spinner stops, it points to Lois. Or to number three.

"I'd do anything to do that show," Lois murmurs, her fingers tightening around the wooden leg of the child-size chair next to her. "I know the plot is very…funereal, but hey, so was my marriage. Right after we tied the knot, he tightened the reins, telling me I had to retire from the stage. I wasn't even professional. I was doing community theatre--for kicks. Well, those came later, but anyway…"

She flicks the spinner with a combination of force and remorse, and I watch as it revolves in revolt.

"The first time he told me I had to give up my passion, I thought he was joking. So I laughed and launched into the Lucy Ricardo act, begging and pleading with him to let me perform, and he…well, he cut me off. Clearly, he wasn't pulling my leg; he was taking a page from the stage and threatening to break it. And that is one cast I did not want to be in. Speaking of one…" She points to the arrow, which points at the aforementioned number. "Figures," she scoffs. "He always pronounced my name funny, put a T at the end of it, so that it sounded like Lowest." She shakes her head, smiles in that woeful way that really isn't a smile at all―a wordless oxymoron. "You got a three," she says. "You go first."

Now that you know the first thing about my story, please take a second to peruse the pieces of others--ladies first, then this, which will bliss you out, and finally Women and Words has the last word on First.

Curiouser and curiouser,
Allison Wonderland