Lights fade up on Alison Tyler sitting at her blue Formica kitchen table dressed in a red silk bathrobe. She’s drinking a cup of coffee and typing into her laptop.
Alison Tyler: Come on, we’re doing this online. Can’t you at least dress me better?
Lights fade to black
Lights fade up as Alison Tyler enters her kitchen dressed in killer boots and a black leather dress. She sits at the table and sips from a martini glass.
Scott McMorrow: Nice entrance. Love the dress.
AT: Oh this? I just threw it on.
SM: Do you think I could have one?
AT: A black leather dress?
SM: An entrance. You showed up looking like a porn goddess. I just kind of showed up.
AT: Not a problem.
Lights rise on Scott McMorrow sitting at his desk, typing on a Mac.
SM: That’s it?
AT: You’d like more detail.
SM: Maybe a few adjectives. An adverb. You could ask me what I’m wearing.
AT: I didn’t know this was going to be that kind of an interview. (deep sigh) What are you wearing?
SM: Killer boots, black leather…
AT: We should start. Where’s my vodka?
SM: I thought you were sipping coffee.
AT: Switched drinks with the outfit. (checking notes) We recently discussed the German cannibal trial on Lust Bites. One man allowed himself to be cooked and eaten by another… Caused a bit of, um, consternation among our readers. You wrote an entire play on the event, called Leftovers.
SM: Leftovers doesn’t focus on that particular event, though it definitely holds elements of the relationship those two had, physically and emotionally. The play is a dark comedy about a reality cooking show, Eat or Be Eaten, that has contestants vying to win so they can gain the rank of most coveted comestible.
AT: First t-shirt of the day. So, for you, cannibalism is…
SM: Delicious. I enjoyed researching that play. And, hey, everybody has to eat.
AT: Do you always look to real-life events for source material?
SM: People do wild stuff. I like that. And if I can use it…
AT: Tell me about Puppet Therapy.
SM: That play is rooted in a marriage counseling practice that was big in the 70s… couples using puppets to role play with each other. I put a twist on it.
AT: Whips, chains, and threesomes?
SM: I’m all about the cheap thrill. That play does have an elephant, though.
AT: Always fun for a casting director. I read in your bio that the play was performed in Italian. Did you have a chance to see the translated work?
SM: Teatro del Navile did a great job of that in Bologna. The warped humor played really well for the Italians. Though I don’t speak the language, I could follow the rhythm of the audiences’ reactions.
AT: Now what about your play, Fishing the Moon? This one features a girl in drag, masturbation on stage, death and dismemberment. Another play features Jell-O. In a bucket. Used for… you get the idea. I’m sensing a theme with you.
SM: Want to know what flavor Jell-O?
AT: Your latest play, Future Sex, is being read at The Bay Area Playwrights Festival on August 5th. Can you tell us a little bit about what that festival is like?
SM: Great experience. We had a pre-festival retreat. All of the playwrights had to read their plays in front of each other.
AT: Kind of like show and tell. Ooh, and I know all about the thrill of being Exposed, of being Caught Looking, of playing Hide & Seek….
(Beat) Wait! What’s that noise?
(A siren offstage)
It's the Shameless Plug Alert… not that I’d know anything about that. Scott, you edited the erotic poetry collection, Velvet Heat, which features 45 poets, including fellow Lust Biter Shanna Germain, and was a finalist for an IPPY award. The sultry photograph on the cover is by Thomas S. Roche. A commenter today will win a copy of this luscious collection—and one of Shanna’s poems from Velvet Heat is below. Thanks so much for visiting, Scott.
SM: Great to be here.
AT: Now what flavor was the Jell-O, again? Learn more about Scott at www.ScottMcMorrow.com.
Lights fade to the sound of ice cubes clinking in a glass.
Letter to My Ex
I met a man last night who reminded me of you:
snake-hipped, thin through the calf, tight across the chest,
even said howdy pardner in that fake-ass drawl.
But he didn’t fuck like you, all tongue and teeth and tip.
He was soft and gentle and didn’t once use
the flat of his hand against my will.
Baby, it made me ache for Dallas,
the leather rain across my face, the press of buckle
to my backside, the way your teeth snapped against
my skin, a dog at the end of his chain.
I said to this guy last night, but he wasn’t you.
That first time I came for you—for anyone—you said
pressure and time, pressure and time will make you mind.
I still have indents in my skin, pockets where you
buried your bones—they wait for someone to dig
them out and resurrect their desire
by firelight, by rainfall, by your stiff fingers,
thunderbolts that split my skull like a sneeze.
I want to be sick of wanting you.