Calling all rowdier readers: Inventive, intelligent erotica for mature audience only

As an independent producer of books, it was heartening to hear that people still read; it is easy to say that video has taken over but that is actually a form of distraction for the folks who wouldn’t have been reading anyway.

The erosion at the border between readers and non-readers isn’t significant as long as overall we continue to prize the time-travel peculiar to writing.  Visual media transcends language, I can’t argue that the complexity isn’t alluring.  It cannot replace the building of impressions word by word, crafted to communicate the subtleties (or brash facts, or whatever) in the common language of writer-reader.  That’s why translators reweave the fabric of the story because it cannot be done word for word or “out of sight, out of mind” in English becomes “blind and crazy” on a foreign page.  That’s why declaring sexy writing as graphic is a fact but calling it erotic is a matter of judgment.  So many words… so many meanings.

Story telling is tribal, it invokes a common lexicon, known characters with specific motivations:  the big bad wolf, and the fairy-elf-pixie chastising the goblin-imp-troll.

Up next for my readers is the second in a quintet of sexotic books about a retired call girl turned erotic advisor.  Honey B. tells a truer-than-true tale of commercial satisfaction.  She gives Frank advice about Dick.


Honey B., Sexual Consultant (Book II of V) – EXCERPT    (All rights reserved.)

People want to want and be wanted, they consider desire an exciting state if it leads to contact and painful if there is no resolution for this urge towards another.  Many times I’ve had couples discover that what bugged one was that the other “let” them have sex but never initiated sex, or offered service, or accepted service, never broke whatever routines they’d attached to their coupling.  It’s the sexy underwear debate, not only that you wear it but that you put it on of your own accord.  Men imagine women stripping, selecting the flimsies, sliding them on, showing them off.  It is partly how it looks and partly what it means to elect to look like that.  Men appreciate GO signals.  Inter-male contact relies a lot on signs and context: you can punch a guy in the boxing ring but not on the football field, rump slapping is not an element of chess.

When their female partner trumpets a sex call, the male can respond with enthusiasm.  Once in gear they’ll usually go all the way.  Much of their frustration in a given situation lies not in the fact they didn’t get sex but that it took so long for them to understand they weren’t going to get sex.  They stoked the fire for an engine that was never going to leave the garage.  Men’s inventions and machines offer red lights, warning flags, most men would benefit from forthright sex signals.  Not getting it is bad enough, you see, but thinking you might, maybe, then realizing not, that just aggravated them.


Jane was the epitome of plainness.  She was plain plain.  Nothing about her was plainer than any other thing, she was of medium height, average build, even featured, yet inside her sizzled a slutty bitch.  Nothing seemed more incongruous than to frame her unremarkable face in a feather mask or to stick tassels on the tips of her 34B bosom.  She thought she should be a more successful dominatrix but it wasn’t happening.  She had the necessary accessories, the right attitude but – fizzle.  I told her to donate that stuff she was wearing to a poor whore’s home and get some button-down-the-front dresses, a few drab wigs, and a selection of common household items like wooden spoons, a belt, a yard stick.  I was of the opinion some men didn’t think they deserved an exotic mistress, to perform slave service for plain Jane was to face the true unworthiness of a miserable dick.

To our way of new thinking, since she had to work so hard to appear exotic, she might turn about-face and step a bit deeper into the verbal works for stimulating her clients.  She could learn to talk nasty instead of wasting time decorating her plain exterior.  We brainstormed various patters for her, these were sex speeches she could build on.  She distinguished herself from the common practitioner of this art by mesmerizing them without a shiny exterior.  She slapped them for calling her beautiful because it was so obviously a lie.  How could a lower life form expect a beautiful woman to notice him?  Even plain Jane wouldn’t touch him unless he paid.  Her pussy was just a hole; her tits two humps with bumps, nothing deluxe about them.  Don’t even think Jane gave a shit if you enjoyed yourself.  If you paid, you played.  She enjoyed your money.  Every pathetic excuse for a man who could raise the price could get his face licked or kicked, she’d twirl a cucumber in your ass as nonchalantly as she bent forward to be fucked (never ever fucked face to face, she didn’t like to be “close” when she took it from a john).  She would dismissively shake her head at a guy even as she yanked an ejaculation out of his cock, proving he was nothing but a cum-cow, milked by a sullen maid; next?

Jane and I enjoyed a fruitful collaboration, we found it easy to discuss her prostitution, it was obvious I didn’t consider it odd that the soul of a sexual dominant had come plainly wrapped.  Why not?  I’ve met many hot-looking women with cold hearts.  Jane was willing to do her best but there is so little advice available to a pro when her methods are stale.  She discovered sex work was easier when you were honest.  She never liked the habitual, stereotypic response of her customers, she didn’t let them get away with their mundane play acts.  Where else but at my place was she going to have time to work this out for herself?


Ollie did not like having his penis touched by other people: not by their hands, their lips, their vaginas, their butts.  It gave him the creeps.  He didn’t like to masturbate.  He did not consider himself “ill” or “dysfunctional” but he did want me to tell him, honestly, was it possible he was just naturally not a sexual person.  I said I thought the “creeps” were a response, if he was truly asexual he’d be unresponsive to stimulus.  Did it give him the creeps to have his hand touched?  His elbow?  His shoulder?  His chest?  No.  No.  No.  No.  Would a gloved hand fondling him be better than a bare one?  Never thought of it.  Probably not.  Condom-covered cock?  Didn’t know, hadn’t tried.

I told him, honestly, he was demonstrating an aversion that I would call a “mis-function” in that he invested special energy resisting such typical contact.  Did he dislike touching others?  In general, no, he did not dislike touching people; he, for instance, could square dance but, specifically, sexually, nope, he didn’t want to touch them any more than he desired to be touched.  I suggested this aversion might be compensation for whatever deeper peculiarity of circumstances engendered this anti-sexuality in him.  It would not be necessary to seek the roots of that personal quirk as long as he considered it as such.  If he ever felt it was intruding on what he wanted from life then it would have escalated to the status of a problem and would then deserve attention of a personality specialist.

Ollie went out my door, back to his neuter world of engines and gizmos, satisfied with the idea he could ignore the harping of his sisters to get involved with someone.  They didn’t like his long-term bachelorhood, they expressed disapproval of his solitude, didn’t all people who grew up in a family want a family?  If you didn’t, did that mean you were repudiating your family?  And your family’s families?  Not to Ollie.  He was paying his bills, keeping his yard mowed.  He attended all family functions, belonged to the VFW and went monthly to their socials (socializing, not hoping to “meet someone”).  He always was glad he’d gone because he felt he should go, he’d talk to people, trade assessments of local events and developments:  he liked the mall, he didn’t think the town needed a third topless joint.

I became Ollie’s other monthly outlet, for him our conver­sations were a personal foray.  Whether by genetic chance or social conditioning Ollie lacked motivation to couple but he was curious about coupling.  He was not missing information, he knew precisely how and what sex was but in earlier self-examination had determined he did not like it.  He always ended up hurting the feelings of his partner because he could not attain an erection.  Of those who stayed around long enough to hear his explanation that it wasn’t her he didn’t want touching it, he didn’t want any one, any woman, any man, anybody, to touch his genitals, too many of the women forged ahead figuring surely SHE could “fix” him.  He finally gave up dating.  The women he knew were either married so he couldn’t pal around with them, or single but considered him eligible – for which he disqualified them…  Contrary to the social myth that women don’t want sex, it had been his experience that when a man and a woman are together often enough even if the man makes no move whatsoever sooner or later the woman will move against him.  Then he has to say no, thank you, how kind… but, really, no.  No.  NO.

Sooner or later I thought he would run into a companion but it didn’t happen.  Ollie was attractive, solvent, a good conversationalist, handy around the house.  He had tried forewarning new lady friends that he would not pursue the sex angle but somehow they mostly thought he was using reverse English to learn her sexual potential.  The more he protested, the more they yearned to learn why.


Sense memories play a part in sexual exploration, not all arousing input comes from touch and sight so we close our eyes and reach for the subtler signals:  what is the sound of ejaculation, the scent of orgasm, what does ready seem like?

Lots of talk of physique and technique, but I was not a surrogate providing hands-on education.


Penny and Brand were in a sex slump.  Their jobs were familiar and nothing was going exceptionally right or wrong between them.  How could they spice up their love life?  They weren’t seeking more personnel or anything “odd” but I seized on the fact they found the identity of participants crucial.  When we discussed fantastic sex, setting wasn’t men­tioned, equipment not noted, for them sex was about people.  Perhaps they could rent costumes, slip away from the mundane and approach each other as a knight might circle a queen, like Romeo dogged Juliet, reaching forward and backward in time so as not to be confined in love matters to the daily reality of being outwardly middle-aged, middle-of-the roaders.  Shedding their current “skin” might allow them to act differently, they might act like actors!  Action!

They looked at each other and laughed.  I could not have known they’d actually met in a college play and first kissed while dressed as a butler and a maid (off script).  They considered costumes a great idea, stunningly on-point in our first meeting.  How does this happen?  Intuition?  Practice? Combo?  I struck a chord with them, they played their parts.


Lady readers, close your eyes and slowly squeeze the muscles of your pelvic floor, clench it tight then shift it forward.  Imagine a man in the room, a finger in your hole, a prick pushing forward.  Men, imagine that.

#erotica #sexybook #KathleenK

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One thought on “Calling all rowdier readers: Inventive, intelligent erotica for mature audience only

  1. […] Calling all rowdier readers: Inventive, intelligent erotica for mature audience only […]


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