You have to tell the truth about booze to face the facts about pot.

Liquor is not the problem in the same way that guns are not the problem.  It’s about people.  Many people don’t drink at all.  Most drinkers like the buzz, they use it to celebrate and commiserate.  Then there are the ones who overdose themselves to sickness and death.  Pot will have the same mix of users but at its worst it is still safer than alcohol because it is highly unlikely you would overdose on it.

The second tier of impact is what happens to others in the presence of a drinker or a toker.  Drinkers brawl; stoners laugh at each other.  Drinkers drive aggressively, repeatedly, while potheads creep along, paranoid and over-thinking. The heart of our lies about alcohol pertain to drunk driving.  We allow carnage rather than face the facts.  We have repeat offenders being excused and nobody can explain why that is.

If you factor booze into domestic violence and sexual assaults you arrive at the conclusion that drinking is an accelerant like gasoline on emotions.  Pot is a gentle stimulator, breezy and befuddling.  You can mess up on either but not all trouble is created equal.

We’re talking about intoxicants with no other purpose than to alter biochemistry.  At that level, alcohol and recreational marijuana are the same.  It is a lifestyle choice just like playing cards or tossing horse shoes (you know, you can kill somebody with a horse shoe).  That’s the main reason I believe herb should be regulated like any other grown-up feel-good stuff.  Most of us will be fine, some may need to curtail consumption, and, yes, there will be addicts.  That’s the truth about drinking and toking.  It’s that freedom thing, to associate and to worship, to live your life within local community standards or face shunning (prison).  Hoist a few, blaze up, but keep your hands to yourself and yourself off the road.

 After pg 24         Barry “Mandot” Messer

SAMPLE — For high-spirited readers

from the potcentric sexotic fictional memoirs of Stoner

Not suitable for some, appreciated by others.

Drinking just ain’t for me.  I went down that path a ways, and must say the neighborhood tavern provided me some wonderful evenings.  At first, you think you’re drawn to the people but eventually you realize it’s the fog you like, drunk is drunk varying only in degree.  I was a different “me” after a few beers, plus I was emboldened by the others’ inebriation.  Besides, it says something when you meet a person in a tavern:  it isn’t church, it isn’t work, and it isn’t home.

I got sponsored into one tavern’s in-crowd by a lady I knew.  She lived alone in a tall skinny house about three blocks from the bar.  I learned this location was critical to her plan to avoid a second DUI.  She intended to be impaired when she left the neighborhood bar (about 11:15 p.m.), that was the point of her drinking after all.  She wanted to get convivial, boozy, but leave before the mood turned at midnight.  She didn’t pay attention to the road when in that frame of mind and, since she wasn’t going to quit drinking any time soon, she found a way to drink and not drive.  We’d stroll the short distance home, still jazzed by the interaction down at the tavern, old enough to know how to attain and maintain intoxication.

Donna and I made a good pair, she had a wry and biting wit that kept me on my mental toes.  She was tart without being bitter.  She had yellow hair and royal blue eyes that turned black in the moonlight.  I thought of Nordic maidens when I became familiar with her body.  Her shoulders and hips were in proportion with a long sturdy torso between them.  Her skin was the color of sunshine on a white rose, glowing with the feel of pink.  She liked to burrow against my body wearing only a bra and panties, me confined only by my underwear.  Tactile stimulation: her rounded thighs resting against my leaner ones, the scent of her neck distinct from the ever-clean smell of her hair.

Donna didn’t get naked with the lights on.  Period.  She had to gentle herself down when in the maddening grasp of the male.  It flipped switches in her so we learned to let the agitation drain away.  She explained to me how often men rejected her because they didn’t want to wait until she relaxed.  Unlike me, they failed to sustain the arousing sensation of body contact without advancing their own agenda.  I’d while away the time thinking sensuous thoughts and suppressing my own impetuous sexuality to reach for a deeper, more mystical approach.  She was slow to warm but then she held her heat.

She had installed one of those clapper switches on her love lamp, the specific light she kept on so she wouldn’t get naked until she was good and ready.  It cast a flattering light on us both, just enough illumination to see her nipples thicken against the fabric of her bra.  She especially liked to touch my cock while I was still wearing my underwear.  It made me feel anonymously explored, palpitated.  Donna was assessing strength and flexibility, the weight and length of me.  She was dull-minded from the liquor wearing off and half-lulled to sleep by our quiet cuddling, she slipped into a sexual mood like a drip gathers itself to drop.

Her lovemaking style was passive, she placed herself in my hands.  I’d learned to tell her when to move, and she always did when I told her to, but she didn’t move if I didn’t say so.  She had told me about her first husband’s teasing her overeager humping but it was so long ago she couldn’t remember if he was right about that.  She didn’t want to know.  Her pleasant acceptance of our shared sensations kept our lovemaking from becoming passionate.  She was grieving her second husband, a man rendered impotent by advanced diabetes, a suicide (by morphine overdose) ((no one ever admitted to supplying him the needle, the drugs, but I was convinced Donna hadn’t done so, I came to believe it was his brother who thought it was love to let him go)).  To capitalize on the tender side of their marital love but diminish the frustration she remained in her panties and bra with him when they slept together.  He said he couldn’t bear to see her naked, it would be a feast set in front of a man with his teeth wired shut.  In the dark he could pet her to orgasm, in the dark he could liberate her breasts; still, even in the dark, he could be overcome by a lack of physical fulfillment that broke both their hearts.  No kick.  All these years later, she didn’t give her nakedness to me because it had been denied to her true lover.

The tavern Donna and I frequented served unsalted peanuts and low salt pretzels, the eating was not to stimulate your thirst (the camaraderie did that).  It is congenial to snack from a shallow bowl of simple food chased by cold beer.  It was the bar’s habit to order food in about eight o’clock, we rotated through Italian, Chinese, Deli, Fish’n Chips that we ate family style.  The bartender got free eats for organizing the order.

It was important to Donna that “her tavern” was not dark and hopeless, it wasn’t filled with sodden drunks smelling vaguely of piss (perhaps because it dribbled on their shoe tops).  This place entertained people who played pool, or cards, they provided music for the sound system and would play guest selections if the majority didn’t object.  The newspaper was pulled out, and far-reaching discussions ensued.  They always hoisted one after reading first the births, then the weddings, finally the obituaries, out loud.

Donna had never slept with one of the guys from the tavern, it would have changed her whole “sister” dynamic.  She didn’t want to reveal herself to any specific one of them, it was important to her that her man be seen as an import, with no history of his own with these people.  In the first place, she and I could agree to presenting a certain face of our relationship, it appeared to others that I was in pursuit of her while the fact was I’d been drawn into the situation by Donna’s invitation.  I played the woo-er, the beau, so that she could tease me for the benefit of our crowd. A drinking crowd.

After a few hours visiting with them, the edges of the room disappeared and all the action seemed to center around our tables.  We’d have sudden death double-solitaire game crowding out the beer mugs on one table, at another the ashtray might be filled with bottle tops we were saving to flip against the curb later.  (The various twists and warps of the cap added a high degree of difficulty — they weren’t uniform like pennies for pitching.) Donna would sit with one leg thrown over mine, or her hand on my thigh, physically connected with me in a proprietary way; our relationship served some purpose in the group, lent her substance as an individual by being the member of a pair.  I was loyal and true to her, it would have been a sacrilege to eye other women when we were in our little world.

I was smoking dope on my own, she didn’t mix pot with beer.  Once in a while somebody would bring in a joint and I’d step outside to take a few tokes to be sociable but then it wasn’t really like getting stoned all the way, it was a head-topper.  In a sense, I was appreciated for “being myself” when I wasn’t being me at all.  I was playing the role of Donna’s man friend.

Donna was more the pill type than I expected, she loved to slip into a downer drowse, timing herself to get home before the serious lassitude struck her limbs.  It wasn’t my kind of high (low) to share but I didn’t mind her enjoying herself in this way.  She’d be too out of it to really take care of herself, I’d have to guide her to the bathroom and wait outside the door calling out reminders of what to do next; once I piloted her back to bed I’d solemnly explain what I hoped to achieve sexually and she’d nod along earnestly but then she forget and seemed surprised – every time – when my hand slid between her legs.

Even relaxed to a literal hover, she still didn’t want to be naked with the lights on and I respected this.  The lights were out before the underwear came off.

The room would not be pitch black, moonlight could creep in, there was a streetlight on the next lot, once in a while she’d allow a small candle to flicker.  It forced me into a tactile dimension where I had to imagine her ass by its contour and her snatch by its scent.  I knew her nipples were large and dark, dense.  Breasts low-slung with a pleasing uptilt.  Her hips were fleshed over and smooth but still perceptibly forming a basin for her compact pussy.  It seemed her clit was snuggled up to her pussy, barely covered by her shallow mound.  It was easy to involve that nub in our lovemaking.

She did let me nudge her butt cheeks open when she was on downers, once in a while she’d relax enough to let me prod at the hole there incidentally/accidentally for a few minutes but she was adamant there’d be no actual butt sex.  She indulged my request for this type of arousal because I was so cooperative about the lack of visual nudity.

At her request, I wore a leather blindfold one night so she could see me in the mirror naked and fucking her.  I helped her set up.  I felt foolishly excited by this concept:  used by her, serving her.  Once readied, I couldn’t see a thing, no sliver of movement, no shadow shapes.  I especially liked when she got astride me and I felt her swivel so I knew she was looking back over her shoulder at the mirror to watch her backside plunging on me and off me.  I could imagine what it looked like from what it felt like for me to be her platform.

I reached up and pressed her breasts back against her ribs, holding her there, she had solid-feeling flesh that filled my palms.  She’d lift herself into my hands, shoving her belly down tight against me and arching her back so I had the sensation of capturing her in flight.  I’d thumb her nubby nipples until I felt it in her pussy.


I went through one-hitter pipes every few months, doing minimal maintenance, until the active one got too sticky to use.  I dropped it into some pipe cleaner and brought out another one, same shape and weight, fresh.  I double-tap the bowl, sucking up the high, alone at home.  I wander around, touching talismans, blowing dust off framed moments.   This was my place, it held my things, it welcomed my visitors, and anchored me in the deepest way.  I had freedom in this refuge, I was myself here.

Getting high before my walk meant I’d have to plan ahead, avoid distractions, stay true to the mind-altering I’d instigated, savor it.  From my den to my door to the sidewalk then toward the residential section, away from the bakeries and bars and quickie marts and all those hellos.  I was one of many people feeling at ease moving through a friendly neighborhood.  I welcomed my thoughts against a backdrop of family life, toys on the lawn, grill on the back porch; all these other people were acting out the scenes I remember as a kid.  I don’t feel the need to pass this knowledge down to another generation, not like these others who are doing so every day.  I’m glad ‘community’ exists and I can trust it to endure, it’s our successful adaptation to tribal politics.  I’ve got a clan, I pledge allegiance to the flag, I accept the modern way of life.  I’m a frequent flyer in the head-osphere.  I’m just as good at landing as I am at getting off.


“I am major mellow, Captain Cooked.”

“It’s a creeper weed.  Sneaks up on you, it needs time to ripen.”

“Ripe sounds good.  I’m baked.  Toasted.  Completely completed.”

“As long as you’re not wasted.”


I was surprised how many women expected me to start mooching once we were intimate.  Evidently, lots of men slip this way.  Since I believe each adult should have a way to sustain their own life, I was not in need of a “boost” from the budget of a lover.  It would have offended me if I was expected to “assist” in the living expenses of someone else, whether or not it was for sexual access.  That’s part of the here-and-now for me.  I can observe mooching as a fact but can’t “feel” it for myself.  It didn’t bug me when I kicked in money for a new roof for my cousin’s house because it was a tenth anniversary present.  They could use their own hard-won roof savings for a surprise weekend honeymoon… that’s how my family helps its people.  Lift one burden.  Wipe out one worry.  Expect them to handle the rest.

I adopted a neighborhood nursing home and tithed to its general fund.  It wasn’t hard to explain to myself why I thought this was due… if those that could help did help, we’d eliminate some stresses on all of us. The donated ten percent seemed easy to calculate and was rooted in my idea of a worshipping society.  I wasn’t going to be attending any sermons soon but it didn’t mean that I was exempt from good works.  There are amenities not funded through Medicare that can make life easier for our seniors.

Would I be so generous if I didn’t have the money?  I am frugal by nature and legally unencumbered so it wasn’t hard to relax into the comfort of sending in some off the top, like it was taxes, it made me feel like a citizen, not just a voter.  If I earned less, I’d still tithe.

When I examine my character I know that this is a profound part of my value system, a basis for my other decisions.  I don’t know how other people feel but it is apparent that many of us compare ourselves to what we think we ought to be and seek peace in our choices.  At times I sit in my place and feel so right-with-the-world that it’s risky to acknowledge it (jinx it).  My extended family respects my contributions to our lives together as living acts of commitment, I am there for them, with them. They’re with me.  This is what you do to build family links that last.  I invest my time in them.   Same so the other loves of my life.  Because they matter.  To me.


If you, like me, like sex and, like me, like drugs, you may like sex on drugs, like me.  Or you might not.  And that’s cool too.

#erotica #stonerliteracy #KathleenK #indaclub

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One thought on “You have to tell the truth about booze to face the facts about pot.

  1. […] are intoxicants that serve no other purpose than to alter body-mind chemistry.   You have to tell the truth about booze to face the facts about pot.  And here’s another […]


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