Quick and Quiet and Queen, She Was

February 25, 2013


It's kind of on the ephemeral side.

Or, in the case of the characters in "Thrill the Competition," the efemmeral side. 

This story, an erotic romance about beauty queens, appears in the recently released (yet wholly captivating) anthology Sudden Sex, Alison Tyler's latest for Cleis Press.

Here's a piece of the action:

"It's not much fun giving a blow job," Taryn remarks over the noisy gush of heat hitting my hair. "Although I think every lesbian feels that way, don't you?"

"Only if they can speak from experience," I reply, wincing as Taryn continues to torture my tresses. Taryn winces, too—for an entirely different reason. "And I seriously doubt that the judges are going to inquire about my sex life, oral or otherwise, during the interview."

"Agreed." She puts down the blow dryer and picks up a hairbrush. "A better question would be: why did you get involved in beauty pageants?"

I smirk. The answer is out of the question. I got involved in beauty pageants because I wanted to meet girls. I could care less about the sash or the cash or the crown that glitters like a dinner plate in an advertisement for dishwashing soap. That doesn't mean I don't take pageantry seriously. It just means that I'm not in it to win it.

I used to think pageants were sideshows, populated with aspiring anchorwomen who were glitzy and ditzy, self-confident and self-conscious. But I've been on the circuit for two years now, since I was 19, and in that time, I've met girls with moxie and mettle and razor-sharp minds. Girls like Taryn. 

The first time I saw her parade across the stage, her gown sparkling like a Christmas ornament, her teeth aligned like corn on the cob, I wasn't really attracted to her. There was something in the way she moved, her back as straight as an exclamation point, her steps so polished, so precise, that made me think she was hollow on the inside.

But, as the saying goes, first is the worst, second is the best, and Taryn made a much better impression the second time around. We were at a local pageant, waiting outside the hotel's conference room for the personal interview to begin, when Taryn tapped me and said, "I much prefer T&A to Q&A. Do you?"

If you answered yes to the above question, I hope you'll get the sudden urge to splurge on Sudden Sex, which can be picked up (but not put down) from Cleis or, if you prefer cheap Sex, Amazon.

Curiouser and curiouser,
Allison Wonderland

Catch Her in the Wry

February 14, 2013

Best Lesbian Romance 2013 is hot off the presses!

Selected for inclusion by Radclyffe, my story finds the heart and sole occupant of "Undress You Up in My Love" finding Southern comfort in her new roommate.

And now for a meet and greet...

"Sex-crazed straight girl preys on innocent lesbian. How's that for a headline?"

I'm clinging to her now, like one of those plush Garfields with the suction cups on its paws, the kind you stick on your car window. "I am not a heterosexual," I bristle, alternating between necking and nuzzling.

"You are according to that clock on the wall," Darla replies, pointing to the plastic pussycat with the tick-tock tail. "You're not officially a lesbian until your coming out party."

Darla is referring to my impending debut. In less than an hour, we will be subverting (perverting?) a time-honored Southern tradition: the debutante ball. Darla had a conventional coming out ceremony when she was 18. I did not, so she decided to make up for it. I thought the whole idea was kind of hokey and tried to dissuade her, but once an idea gets into Darla's head, it sticks there like a Post-it Note.

She's spent four months making the preparations. You should see our living room. It resembles the aftermath of a Skittles explosion. I appreciate all her hard work, but still... "We could cancel it," I suggest, jiggling the zipper on her dress. "Once you've been to one ball, you've been to them all." 

Darla's mouth takes the shape of an oval, reminiscent of an Easter egg. "Call off the ball?" she bawls, sounding at once melancholic and melodramatic. She jabs her fists into her pelvis. "Heavens, no!" 

I laugh, savoring the sound of her voice, all sugar and syrup and sass. She tried to ditch her accent once, tried to trade it for the timbre of the East Coast. (This happened shortly after we returned from a trip to the Big Apple. She says coincidence, I say hogwash.) But the North and the South just don't mix, and for all her efforts, she sounded like a cross between a vampire and a Valley Girl, which would have been cute if it hadn't been creepy. (I paid her – in sexual favors, of course – to say, "Like, oh, my gawd, I’m totally going to, like, suck your blood.") 

I love her voice, her voice, in all its Georgian glory. And I love the way her lips move when she speaks, how they stretch and crinkle and smile – she can't seem to talk without smiling. And I love the way the apples of her cheeks puff up when she grins, especially when that grin is followed by a kiss. While we're on the subject of smooching, I love the way her kisses taste like pecan pie. And the way she holds me when she kisses me. And the way her fingers, long and limber, make me ache and quake and crumple. 

Hard as it may be to believe, I didn't always feel this way about Darla. To be perfectly honest, when I first met her, I thought she was a trifle… repulsive.

Assuming you, queer - er, dear - reader, did not find that sample repulsive, trifle or otherwise, the anthology is available here and there.

Best of all... you may be able to get it for zip if you enter Erie Gay News' contest.

Best of luck!

Curiouser and curiouser,
Allison Wonderland