Category Archives: Romantic

National Poetry Month – Don’t deny yourself the clarity of poetry

Don’t deny yourself the clarity, power and beauty of poetry based on an ugly introduction to it in school (you probably didn’t appreciate asparagus back then either).  Poetry is the essence of communication, even when heavily symbolic.

Poetry can speak in headlines, or let rhythm determine content (haiku), it is in our songs, in our pledges.  Poetry flashes meaning at you, it summarizes or deconstructs (or both).  There are many forms of poetry, go ahead and peek into a few books.  If you don’t find something you like in a couple of pages, or by skipping around, that book is not talking to you.  And that’s OK.  Try again.

I earlier argued the point that Tweet-sized thinking is poetry:  Few Words, Much Feeling.  This is not intended to diminish the craft and word-work of our collective lyric soul.  Once you sample a few poets, close your eyes and grab for the after-glow of your favorite.  Somebody arranges words in a way that appeals to your thought-constructs.

ARCHING OVER (Collected Collections) is graphic.  Whether it is erotic is up to you.  This collection revels in reduction:  getting to the base/bone/blood of sexual connection.  Yearning.  Triumphant.  Exultant.  It is not without love.  “Look Inside” link for Kindle sample.


sailing on the sensuous breezes

of a moon-swept sea

creatures of a planet

that binds us by gravity

yet we learned how to fly

it limits our life span

but lets us love forever


#eroticpoetry #poetrymonth #poetryspeaks

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We come like a heartbeat, a rolling pulse, emptying one chamber to fill another.

Make Me                  Take It

Let Me                     Have It

make-me cover image

erotic poetry

 Kathleen K.




you always make me feel


over you, on you

with you


* * * * *

i stand, naked, in your mid-day dreams

shining for you

tender tabernacle

for a never wavering prick

* * * * *

we’re holding our breaths

afraid to alter the balance

it’s so perfectly right

like one of those kinetic sculptures

that knock their pieces

together then apart

together then apart


* * * * *

i want some

i want one

i want you

* * * * *

i stood behind you

and reached around

my hand like yours encircled your dick

but my other could slip

between your legs to cup your nuts

my forearm pushing against your ass

my tits warm and full on your back

as we spilled you like a pitcher

both watching it pour

* * * * *

up the backs of my legs


a hem lifting



to where the seams end

dark bands

above which, plump thighs

skin galore

* * * * *

the brazen stance repels you

but in truth you always had better sex

with people you didn’t exactly like

you tried harder, pushed more

daring you both to perform at peak

convoluted but effective

so withstand the initial withdrawal

for the satisfying slam when we notch crotches

* * * * *

serial jack off

first, me for you

then you on me

* * * * *

i didn’t lie

those are my own pinch marks…

i missed you so

* * * * *

the goal is to go over

the edge

teetering teetering

finally tottering

* * * * *

from behind me

your hands curve

and cover my breasts

like my own do


* * * * *

i sit up

you stand back

we connect

male plug

female receptor

alternating currents

* * * * *

there are times

when your prick weeps

shiny drops of feeling

* * * * *

leather gloves on a naked me

moving all over a naked you

* * * * *

tender human holding

what sometimes crackles

is a hum, is a hush

our surfaces in contact

rise and fall

whisper kiss

that’s all    is all

* * * * *

i’m so tender

when you are

so sensuous

so fine

but when you’re bad

i’m even worse

and when you fail

then i won’t try

* * * * *

glossy lips

reflecting desire

to cling, to cover

to color

even stain

* * * * *

you’ll never know

what i feel

… it’s rather sad

because it is so beautiful

i see my very own star

(you see it twinkle in my eyes)

* * * * *

no, i will not stop


stop this

* * * * *

chapped nipples

sore buns

and a sandpaper pussy

raspy nerves

it isn’t that the thrill is gone

it is that the party’s over

i want my body back

* * * * *

the feel of flame

misted lips

skin that crawls

i love you

* * * * *

you come: a liquid signature

purely yours

* * * * *

there at the tip of my nipple

in a space so small it’s a nub

hide such feelings

hot and cold

sharp –

plucked like stringed instruments


* * * * *

oh, the longing

for the longing

the wanting want

* * * * *

you ask would i please

please you

like this

would i, please

do everything you like

and like it



ARCHING OVER  Collected Collections of Graphic Poetry Ideas

#giftideas #erotica #romantic #explicit #complicit

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A Musing on BJ’s and Big Betties — Reading Erotica — Vintage Boomer Porn

For those of you reading this web log with a discerning eye, you see a playful construction of hints and glimmers cloaked by a breezy freewheeling attitude.  The style is colloquial.  Idiomatic.  Inclusive language supports the narrative sense that this is a story being told to you with native fluency.  It’s fun to read because it rolls along then STOPS, turns and returns.

frontcover    backcover

The books are naughtier than they look… the covers are deliberately modified to mask the sharp images inside.  Discretion without deception.  The tagline for The Lunarium is “One man’s memories of the watchers and the watched.”  The reader puts the spin on it.  Watching who, watching what?  This kaleidoscope of frank sexuality and sly innuendo was Named to Kirkus Reviews’ Best of 2013 because of its verve.

1.  creative enthusiasm: enthusiasm, energy, or spirit, especially in the expression of artistic ideas

2. vitality: lively vigorous spirit

Synonyms: vitality · energy · dynamism · vigor · vim · dash · spirit · life · animation

All these erotic-sexotic-graphic books share that same layered flavor; smart and sassy and chill.  Authoritative voices are offhand and intimate to reach a cross-section of people.  Writers and readers have to share the translation table quickly in order to connect.  These books do that with provocative charm.

Stoner is a two-part fictional memoir of reefer and romance.  Counterculture all the way but reverent and sacramental too.  There may be “wham”, there may be “bam”, but there is way more than just a “thank you, ma’am.”  Smokin’ Hot.  Not suitable for some, appreciated by others.


    Reader Discretion is advised.

BJ after sex?  Rare enough to deserve its own section.

When the sex acts meld together and go from kissing to fingering to facing to dicking to facing to fingering to dicking again then the totality of that exchange is reabsorption.  You taste of each other, mixed and heated; you’ve given over all of it, every bit of it, in exchange for the same surrender.  There’s something daring about trusting each other with the grimaces of pleasure, the hissy rasp of sexual demands:  ordinary words sound dirty by their inflection.  There’s a challenge and response volley, an escalating verbalization, when body language isn’t enough.

In the best sex, it all churns together, my taste, her smell, the intimate grunting, aware that underlying it all is the sharing of your everything, your every naked heaving thing, rubbed in under the skin, spurted inside, dripping out, mingling.

The feel of her just-fucked cunt on this man’s face evokes an understanding of what we’ve done, how I’ve battered the gateway and thrust into her, resulting in a slick swollen slot.  Her copious wetness required a dab of a towel, a swiping away of the excess, so as to treasure the sheen left behind, the ferocious glory of secrets shared.  This is what she really feels like, really tastes like, really looks like, when she’s fully and totally aroused.  We’re way beyond flirtation here, beyond the guessing game of will we?  We have, we are, we do.  We can.  Will we ever.


Penis fracture




Candles through cascading amber teardrops throw seven spots of light in a dark living room.  I’m fixated on the light so I could gather my thoughts, I’m higher faster than I expected, and I recalibrate my expectations.  The stone came on full-bodied and bemusing (which sounds a whole lot better than discombobulating, and adds a shade of humor when at the time it felt herky-jerky.)

I’d been fed a spicy Thai dinner served by my sometimes friend LaLinda, my college love, my young adult goddess.  These many years later she’s still my tokin’ buddy.  Alone together in her living room in the soft light l felt how loaded we were, how gloriously strong and enduring our attraction, that our sexing hadn’t only been about our new skin and carefree hearts.  It turned out to be stronger than that, whatever it had been still existed between us.  I had no idea what was going to happen next which was OK with me since I’d expressed a seismic thought:  it really was forever for us.  Not forever passion, nor forever cold, deeper still was the source and that would not die between us, we were hooked up that way by our natures.

There’s a certain “one for the road” feeling to our love that night, we were in an oasis with clear margins, out of time, like we like to think we were back when we all thought everything mattered so very mucho much.  Older now, we know what matters is the moment because those moments power the world.  LaLinda had topped her high with two shots of tequila, giving her a loose abandoned attitude, so when she pulled out her Big Betties I wasn’t surprised.  She had to be drunk to talk like that, I’d seen this side of her on rare occasion so I knew to turn off the auto-pilot and use my instru­ments for the landing.  She beckoned me from across the room and even from that distance I could tell that she was ready for me.  I’m making the maximum contact with her when I understand we’ll always come down to this, I notch in deeper and press for more:  she’s tangy sassy with a dash of told-you-so, my favorite flavor.

Her attitude toward the Betties was hilarious:  she obviously considered them planted on her chest like man-beacons.  She would ask me, gee, what could she do to hide them?  Look how they rose up in her blouse, surged out of her bra, and once bared were aquiver.  It was immodest of her to point out their solid nubs but she was right, they were very… nubby.  I thrilled at her response to my touch, I trusted her body to tell me what she felt comfortable with, she knew I’d do anything to please her including stopping what displeased her.  She asked if I’d mind if she knelt at the edge of the bed, her panties pulled up with her back bare.  I undercupped her breasts and then pulled her up just a bit, to change the angle of her bottom, then I stopped and she remained on display, I felt her in my arms against my body, but I was still outside of her, still up against her undies until she told me to pull them down.

With her heart in my hands, I let loose my admiration of her every crevice, we were entwined for that specific purpose, we agreed to appreciate simple physical achievements so I prodded her with toys, and swatted her with my cock, we were having a great time for old time’s sake.  She’d be moving on the next day so I loaded her up to the best of my ability.  I gave her tender bites and deep tissue internal massage, I told her how gorgeous she felt in my hands, ripe and rich and oh so ready.

It’s what she liked, what I’d ascertained she liked, and so I gave that to her when she signaled for it.  Usually we were more matter of fact but when she wanted praise and stamina I’d have an extended opportunity to DO stuff to her, I never ever tired of that.


“I never thought you’d do that.”

“I thought you’d never ask.”


“I thought you’d never do that.”

“I never thought you’d ask.”


Click here for Gift Ideas bedside readers for the adult mind

Kathleen K. at

#erotica #sexybook #legalizeweed

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Calling Covert Cupids – Erotica – Valentine’s Day Gift Idea

Sassy, sexy, informative, witty and wry:  Bedside Readers by Kathleen K. Books

There’s plenty of time to order up a Valentine’s surprise.  Consider these, please, and don’t forget to invest in yourself.  Priced to share, the printed books are $6.66-9.99 and Kindle $4.99-6.66.

The graphic poetry of ARCHING OVER is provocative, yearning and exultant… couples could read favorite parts alone, back and forth, or together, silently or out loud.  Singletons, treat yourself to a sweet retreat with wayward words to remind and inspire you.  Be pervicacious about your joy, you deserve it.  There is a difference between celibate and dormant.

Consider vignettes of voyeurism in The Lunarium, named to Kirkus Reviews’ Best of 2013, as a treasure trove of stirring sexual details.  Things you didn’t know, things you forgot you knew; intelligent and inventive, constructed for the sophisticated consumer of high-end erotica without mucking it up for the straightforward love-the-naughty readers.

For the rowdiest readers, Sweet Talkers (Words from the Mouth of a Pay-to-Say Girl) is raw and immediate, a nonfiction chronicle of a phone sex business including call diaries, training bulletins, re-created calls and Top Ten Fantasies.  Now in its 3rd edition as an on-line collectible, it marks the Twenty-Fifth Anniversary of the business that inspired it.

If you like sex, and you like weed, you might like Stoner.  Or you might not, and that’s cool too.  Balance the legalize-weed political agenda with a high spirited sexotic fictional memoir.  It’s an oddly thoughtful look at reefer and romance from a man cloaked by his ordinary day job and unremarkable appearance.  He’s the guy you want to come to your party, he’s your cousin in Ohio, your son-in-law, you.  Women trust him because his lovemaking is not a trick, it is a knowing.

Honey B., Sexual Consultant is the second in a quintet of books from a retired call girl turned erotic advisor.  Frisky and brisk, in a cavalcade of intermingle-for-hire encounters, she shows that you can’t get what you want until you know what you want.  Kirkus Reviews called it “novelized… hard-core erotica”.

So, Covert Cupid, why not take this step toward sensual scenarios and explicit descriptions of the watchers and the watched?  If you are a typical modern American, your sex receptors are exhausted by unrelenting video stimulation and audio intimations of sex.  Overt and subliminal ping-ping-pings hit us high and low, a hint here, a grunt there, much of it thoughtlessly absorbed so that we aren’t enchanted by a hint of cleavage anymore.  A simple trip to the grocery exposes you to magazine covers that leave nothing to the imagination no matter your mood, the exaggerated breasts and bums are there in your face.   It dulls you.

Dismiss the streams of “content” that blare their message:  get off the roller coaster and follow me to ride the teacups.  You know what I mean – slow down, snuggle in, and prepare to shift your weight around in response to the same forces as the coaster but without the screaming.  Reading is intensely personal, a deliberate pursuit of information presented letter by letter… no splashing or flashing… the barest elements of emphasis are available yet epic tales are told.  It’s evocative to give over to those tingles of memory and desire stirred by lush language.

Sex-specific detail is always tricky, how little or much c/w/should you say if for some reason you had an actual opportunity to talk about your love life?  If I asked you to submit anonymously a 100- or 1000- word statement about what you do in bed and who you’re doing it with, what would you say?  How different would it be if the statement had your name on it?

Help yourself remember and imagine passion and confluence; conjure the sweet slick sense of entry to a hard-wired carnival of physical response and emotional reaction.  Open the book, close off the world, think about sex.  Take a slow-roasted approach to your passion and call forth a similar appreciation in your partner.

Take your time when sharing your excitement, be considerate; since sex always ends the same way, the variation in the experience must come at the beginning.   

Not Suitable for some.  Appreciated by others.


One man’s memories of  the watchers and the watched

Click to Look  Inside


Words from the Mouth  of a Pay-to-Say Girl

Click to Look  Inside



Collected Collections   of Graphic Poetry

Click to Look Inside





(It’s a Long Story)

Click to Look  Inside




(The  Weightless Joint)

Click to Look  Inside




A Truer-than-True Tale of Commercial  Satisfaction

Click to Look Inside

#ValentineGiftIdea #sexybooks #erotica

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Kathleen K. answers five more questions about writing for rowdier readers

Five More Questions about writing erotica.  See 21 Questions for indie author Kathleen K.

Kathleen, do you think the arts and entertainment world are becoming more sexually open or less?

Exaggerated sexuality splashes over music and video, film and advertising.  It deadens the impact of the rare and real opportunities we have to consider passion in our lives.  The wedding industry corrupts the ceremony of private pledge to everlove.  Fashion parades itself on stick-thin models who diminish the confidence of the consumer they claim to embody.  I do think pandering to the lowest common denominator is all twisted up in commerce and culture, and not to our benefit.

Erotica flourishes underground, taking a sacramental approach to the magic words of desire. Shamed by the religious-civil morality police for celebrating sex, the average reader lacks the confidence to judge for themselves when offered explicit verbalizations of natural lovemaking.  People can get hot under the collar with a banned book in hand.  I think it is the personal reaction to erotica that proves its power.  We’re thrown in the salty sea of commercial sexuality without a defense, it is just there on the screen, on the billboard.  Written erotica demands you move yourself ahead one word, one sentence, one paragraph at a time.

As in any form of literature, there are standards and conventions in erotica that distinguish it from porn.  Basically, is the writing all and only sex (porn) or were there connectors via dialog and scene setting to qualify as “artful”.  Our vocabulary is wide open; our acknowledgement of the basic interconnection options available to us is presumed.  Erotica is deliberate.  Using deliberate to mean considered, judged, evaluated, meditative.  Erotica straddles the reader.

Porn-adgraphy is deliberate too… deliberately thrust into view not to celebrate the deeper powers of soulful attraction but to sell whiskey, motor oil, and web domain names.

Have sexual attitudes in this country changed over the past 10-20 years and therefore, such views are reflected in our books and entertainment, or is it that our literature and entertainment have pushed the envelope and the public’s views have followed along?

We’ve polluted ourselves sexually, like we do the air and water (we’re sloppy), it shows in the decline of our bodily health.  Overtly sexual messaging dulls the receptors, it is as simple as that.  If you want to prize the images of intimacy then you must make some choices about what you watch by choice and what you absorb passively like the beer commercials on a tavern’s TV.

This oversaturation is part of the video culture that came of age as the century turned and settled.  We were doing fine with our Y2K cable TV and our mobile telephones which were not high-speed interactive processing centers.  You flipped it open and made a call; you flipped it closed until you wanted to talk on it again; it didn’t talk to you.  Even with that primitive communication system, we were meeting and mating and procreating.  Exponential growth in what you can see on your own screen, what you can pipe into your ears has some relation to the need for Viagra and scientific sperminating.  We brag about our hip appreciation of sex more than we experience its true glory which is by definition a private act.

We’ve got a bit of monkey-see, monkey-do left in us so the shiny objects and pounding music of visual input are hypnotic.  If I drink that potion, I will drive that car; if I smell like something other than my own self, I have a better chance of connecting with a partner who disguises their scent too.

Books take an investment from the reader and thereby carry additional impact.  My bedside reader books are tailored for the nightstand.  Like all intoxicant-stimulators, dosage matters.  Some folks need one simple good-night vignette, some want a couple to mix and match.  There are changes in tone, in personnel, in subjective objectives that let the reader skip past any that don’t ring right (at the moment).  Unlike Fifty Shades of Grey where you must appreciate the dominant male and subordinate female motif, my books shift focus to all sorts of scenarios.  There is value in variety, allowing each reader to find parts of the book that work for them without begrudging that some pages go to those of other interests.  It’s about thinking about sex.

Do books lead the way in terms of influencing and commenting on sexual mores — or is that role being usurped by film or cable TV or other forms of art?

Books remain the hidden asset of our influential thinkers, there are few true intellectuals who ever forsake reading.  Reading closes down those other sources of input in order to drop into a world of words.  People can read amidst distraction, on a bus, with the dishwasher chugging away.  Some reading is snatched a page or two at a time; other times you set up survival supplies, kick back the recliner and enter a COVE away from everything else.

Of course video impacts reading, because it represents a separate stream of info.  Before TV… before even radio… cultural significance was given to magazines or books.  Publishing is controlled by restricting access to presses and paper and distribution points.  What was available to read fifty, a hundred, two hundred years ago, was “richer” on a per-volume basis due to scarcity of choices.  It wasn’t better or worse but it had more impact on the individual since they saw so little of it. Video is the EXTRACTION OF WORDS which means the message is accessible by a less invested audience.  Telegraphing visuals through the eyes floods the mind, reading a word at a time teases it forward (wayward).

How do your books make the reader feel?

Squirmy sometimes… mostly grateful.  They stress how smart the books are.  For those who do enjoy sensuous writing, I provide them ardent landscapes.  I have collated so many perspectives that the reader has been able to grasp essential details about what is truly attractive to them.  You say you like boobs?  Perky upturned titties or heaving bosoms with dark crowns?  Pert bottom or a big fat can?  Saucy talk is impish, almost elven.  Erotica works best when it carries the reader forward, sets the pace as part of the out-of-control indulgence in savoring luscious language about sex.

There’s some consternation about my book Sweet Talkers in particular because it is nonfiction.  This upfront chronicle of running a phone sex business includes so much “unspeakable” dialog to and from the callers that it defies an easy dismissal.  This isn’t dirty, it’s rude – in a dare-you-say-you-don’t tone.  It was first published in 1994 and went to paperback in 1997.  That experience set me into a rich niche of collectible erotica.  I understood I was counterculture for the times but I also had faith that the times, they were a-changing.

Readers feel the possibilities that parade through the books, they are curious about the situations that percolate and escalate.  They are surprised that it is inventive and intelligent, frank and explicit, oddly thoughtful, successfully riding the fine line between not quite enough and a little too much.

As a woman, do readers relate to you differently when you are writing erotica than if you were a man?

I have been told readers “forget” that a female is writing my books because the male characters are so strongly drawn… as if men haven’t been strongly drawing female characters into our myths and fiction all along.  There is always a little kick when women enter a sex-based exchange:  any woman, any time.  Overall there is such a strong sense of humanism in the books that I hope it dulls the gender-skewed perspective on sex.  [He complains he’s doing it just three times a week, she complains he wants it every other day.]

Readers are engaged and aren’t overly concerned with the gender of the mechanic providing the linkage as long as the proverbial vehicle moves them along.

Spread ‘em.

Spread me.

My most economical phrasing of sexual dominance.  Who is fuckin’ who?  [You don’t know fuckin’ if you remember to say “whom” here.]  Bing-bang-boom.  It’s sweet and snarky, hot and hotter.  Choosing to provoke those reactions isn’t gender based, we’ve had our naughty bawds male and female, straight and gay, all along.  My gender has colored my late-Boomer childhood, my white American experience.  We’ve each got our finitude to contend with.  My day job is in IT so that’s another boy-land I’ve invaded… even there I am counterculture.  Gender rules culture… I try to counter that.

#erotica #sexy #KathleenK

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Studying what we already know: men and women are different.

We have proven the gender difference is neural, cellular, bio-electrical, socio-emotional, and hydraulic.  Our brains are different, our bone mass is different, our hair growth patterns are different.  Over and over we seek to quantify the abyss between men and women.

Book #9 in my collection is the second potcentric sexotic fictional memoir, Stoner’s Bone of Contention, and the narrator examines this gap by diving in.

**** EXCERPT ****

There is not a mere gap between the genders, there is an abyss.

a•byss   [uh-bis]   – noun

  1. a deep, immeasurable space, gulf, or cavity; vast chasm.
  2. anything profound, unfathomable, or infinite: the abyss of time.
  3. (in ancient cosmogony)
    1. the primal chaos before Creation.
    2. the infernal regions; hell.
    3. a subterranean ocean.

You have either been in the abyss or you have not. You might have approached it, examined its edges, sniffed its presence, licked its periphery, but in fact you have either been taken into the abyss between ♂ ♀ or you have not. Virgin or not. We’ve held to that distinction in our life experiences for recorded history. Then we invented all sorts of words to specify how far from virgin you become over time.

Clarifying further, ♂ v. ♀ draws deeper into the elemental differences as if to reflect the polarity of copper and iron. They can be alloys but one does not consume the other (watch for phases). This dichotomy whether of metals or humans can be a topic of conversation but it is not amenable to fundamental change. It is what it is. We are equal but we are not the same.

I am enchanted by the abyss, by that divide between sides, us men and those women. Gays, transgender, spinsters, priests… these folks are straddling a high-wire over the natural canyon of gender, locking into unusual configurations, unable to actually descend fully and freely (and frequently) to that most profound sensation of merging flesh interlocked by nature. I am fully formed and at peace with my choices. Confused people may stumble into the abyss, tumbling down along its edges. Abyss dwellers aim for the deep center of the breach where there is no resistance. To meet in the canyon between genders you must go all the way to the floor to connect with someone(s) from the other side who also descended there. Roiling in the gorge, we surrender to greater forces, the inevitable gravity of sexual connection. We always fall deeper once we tear away our fact-jackets and surrender to our brain-driven bodies.

**** END EXCERPT ****

Erotica, at least the hetero expression, brings focus to the difference in design and motive between the genders even as it shows the human unity in acts of sex∞love.  The neutral fact of gender difference was exploited when men took hold of many “powers” of life (money, property, law) specifically acting as men and more pointedly declaring themselves self-evidently superior versions of the human being.  We can’t untangle that now, together we advanced over time and for that we should be grateful.  Whatever it took to get us to this point has bred a curious, inventive population.  We have such talents!  We can re-balance.  Men were quick to take the big things on like government, commerce, war, but less willing to do the small every-day (every single damn day) stuff like parenting and citizenship.  We’re better off blending our strengths, yin-yang, like twining varieties of ivy.  You can’t let one choke the other.  If you buy the Adam and Eve story then man is the prototype and woman is the archetype.  We can parry and thrust all day about it.  That can be entertaining.  Doesn’t change anything.

What we cannot ignore is the outcome of the current value system that has millions of US citizens in jail, tens of millions of US minors living in poverty, and soul-crushing tax debt for our heirs.  This is economic mayhem systematized into bureaucracies.  Shame on us for following such uncouth leadership.

Violence is still one essential difference in the genders.

“Men are afraid women will laugh at them. Women are afraid men will kill them.

— Nicola Griffith, Hild

The fact is some men will kill women for laughing at them – how dare she!  (And some women do have vicious laughs.)  What we need to do is separate the BIG goal of gender parity from the IMMEDIATE goal of gender détente.  Between individuals there can be accord; we meet and mate as individuals.  Any bonded pair that thinks either member is weaker than the other based on gender will struggle for balance over time.  For love to work, there must be thoughtful consideration given to both sides of the bargain.

“He felt protective of her.  Not because she was weak but because in her strength she was precious.”

— Jeromeo Clover – narrator/character by Kathleen K.

My vivid family fiction books center on deep and abiding relationships without the folderol of overt sex acts; the quote above is from The Lent Hand (Adventures in Beach Town Towing).

“A beautifully woven novel about an unusual boy… and how he learns to be a father, without having really been a son.

A comical, honest love story between two lost souls who complete each other.”

— Kirkus Reviews Jan 2013

The “family” fascinates us, we spy on the workings of our friends and neighbors, gleaning strategy for our own household dance.  My kind of readers like to slip into the world of a book, they want to believe and experience the chances and choices as circumstances evolve.  I let the story roll forward, characters wither or thrive, not everybody wins.

I offer my readers a sense of perspective that does not dismiss all men as brutes nor revere all women as sainted.  Life is much more interesting than that.  There are underlying themes of duty and honor that run through yet each book establishes a world of its own:  a tow truck driver and the women who love him, an empty-nester mom with a second chance at love, a sociable voyeur, a fatherless heir to a family fortune in the hands of her selfish uncle.

I invite you to read. ← Click to LOOK INSIDE the books

#erotica #genderdynamics #fiction

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The Art of Tweet-sized Poetry: Few Words, Much Feeling

The Art of Tweet-sized Poetry: Few Words, Much Feeling

Marianne Moore was never so confounding as when she dabbled in simplicity. In The Complete Poems of Marianne Moore, published in 1967, the 80-year-old poet had ruthlessly pared down “Poetry” from 29 lines to three:

I, too, dislike it.

Reading it, however, with a perfect contempt for it, one discovers in

it, after all, a place for the genuine.

Quoted from by Jennifer Szalai


COMMENTARY by Kathleen K., indie author and publisher

Poetry has been taken out of the hands of most readers, sadly denying them the fun of discovering writers who are wringing out the distractions and conveying the message.  Erotica poetry has the double-burden of being naughty and nerdy.  Don’t flip it off so fast, it might fertilize your fantasies.

Arching Over (Collected Collections of Graphic Poetry) assembles four small books of erotica poetry into a compendium of oddly thoughtful words about love∞sex.  The book has been professionally assessed by Kirkus Reviews:

[This] collection of erotic poetry offers a cavalcade of love affairs, focusing on the narrator’s moment-to-moment fantasies and experiences.

A sprawling collection… that intriguingly lays out a dance of seduction in all of its conceivable steps.


I invite you to consider the following samples, out of context, to discover if perhaps Tweet-sized poetry is one way to yank your mind around.


resurrect the words

that have been drowned in soap

i’m not supposed to like hearing them

any more than you are supposed to like saying them


want to feel you again against me

wrapped around your wishes

want to know the commotion

at the center of your sensual self


120 smiles:

run tongue

from clit down slit

to slot

and back up


repeat     repeat


10 repetitions, 4 sets


serial jack off

first, me for you

then you on me


i didn’t lie

those are my own pinch marks…

i missed you so


the goal is to go over

the edge

teetering teetering

finally tottering


from behind me

your hands curve

and cover my breasts

like my own do



i sit up

you stand back

we connect

male plug

female receptor

alternating currents


It is your own hand that brings you off

but it is my voice in your ear

as you crest, as you peak,

you at the vertex

with me in the vortex.


Vivid Family Fiction:

Vintage Boomer Porn:

#Erotic #Poetry #AdultsOnly

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A Musing on Sexy High Heels and Female Strategy: It’s not the shoe, it’s the choice of shoe.

COMMENTARY by Honey B., Sexual Consultant (see Bibliography below) written by Kathleen K.

It’s not the shoe, it’s the choice of shoe.  If the shoe makes you teeter and totter about, if you walk like there are marbles under your feet, if your big toe is not the dominant structure of your inner foot due to disfiguring bunions, then I question your good sense.  Oh, and toes aren’t supposed to cross.  Fashion pushes us a bit, but to misunderstand the mechanics of the high heel and a narrow toe box involves considerable denial.

The fashionable heel height of shoes goes up and down, what remains is the step and glide of a person in their own world.  If you perch on Lucite stripper wedges then you exhibit not only execrable fashion sense but complete disregard for anatomy.  If you clop across a tile floor at the office, you are not being looked at for your leadership quality.

Walk strong and sure no matter the environment; it isn’t cute to self-mutilate with footwear beyond your body’s capacity to tolerate.  You look good when you move with grace.  Flip-flops don’t have a heel at all (part of their problem) but are just as likely to make you shuffle and slap as you pass by.

I’m not saying you can’t wear high heel shoes and still use your brain but I do know there’s a connection between an over-emphasis on fashion and a lack of self-assurance.  An eye-catching shoe on a confident woman works, what doesn’t work is the delusion any shoes can fool others (for long) into thinking you are taller, thinner, stronger or hipper than you are.  Irony:  your tortured feet aren’t attractive after those crazy shoes come off… when you might actually be sending a direct sexual signal.

There is a weight-height ratio when matching bodies and shoes, figure yours out and show you are well centered in all aspects.  Then establish your style within that range, take a stance you can sustain so you look and feel good.

There are uses for extreme footwear:  ski boots and summer sandals and boudoir kitten heels.  Shoes are platforms.  Test the function, that’s all I am saying.  Can you go up and down stairs in a reasonable amount of time in an emergency?  I am asking you, please, stop mincing around.

Adj.  mincing — affectedly dainty or refined, niminy-piminy, prim, twee


Is this really your message, do you like this logo for yourself?

Hobbling yourself is not a demonstration of power; it marks you for weaker contender-males who are reassured you are influenced by peer pressure.  You strap on stereotypic “girlie girl” shoes and are surprised people judge you for that.  We judge each other constantly.  We just don’t agree on the point system.  For many of us “fashion” translates:  Dress like a [clown], be treated like a [clown].  The first function of your wardrobe is to protect and enhance, to present you to the world… and help you move through it.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________ brings you books for the rowdier reader

Truer-than-True Tales of Commercial Satisfaction – Sexotic Fiction by Kathleen K.

Honey B., The Suite Life


Available now

Honey B., Sexual Consultant


available early 2014

Honey B., Erotic Advisor


available SUMMER 2014

Honey B., The Buzz


Written; not yet scheduled for production

Honey B., Happy Endings


Written; not yet scheduled for production

This is vintage Boomer porn with redeeming social significance written for the rowdier reader.

Not suitable for some, appreciated by others.

#erotica #sexy #KathleenK


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Foggy Friday Night – Potcentric Sexotic Bedtime Reading

Clear Majority Favor Legalization of Marijuana – if you haven’t heard, read all about it.

It’s a foggy Friday night, and I am going to let Stoner tell you part of his story:

Stoner with a boner (It’s a Long Story) by Kathleen K.pot-face

SAMPLE – All Rights Reserved.

I kept wondering if I was over-acting on my fucking orgasms; whack jobs resulted in the same pounding heart and tensing thighs, the corkscrewed desire heating inside me, but I did not cry out, did not clutch the sheets in the same way I pressed my partner to me at the extreme moments of our sex together.  I got off on the stereophonic nature of vocalizing with my partner because I felt strangled when I held back my pleasurable growls and praise to God (damn, that’s fine).

I was taught to consider my partner in all my social actions: female relatives made it plain they were participating in the world in a way their own mothers had abdicated.  Even when looking for the naughtiest girls, I found the self-sufficient ones.  I was not fooled into thinking that my immature selfish antics were more important than they were, and never (ever) was it casual to throw a kid into somebody.  I never thought to put that burden on any of my partners.  It was great if she joined in the contraception but in all cases I did everything I could to avoid pregnancy short of The Snip.

My uncle spoke to me of marriage, in place of my absent dad, describing the state of grace within a family, of loyalty as a virtue and commitment its manifestation.  Before being capable of accepting that level of involve­ment, wild behavior had life and death at its root.  Do not mistake the joyride as a means of transportation, it is stupidity for the sake of metamorphosis – you change with each risk – you age with every mile, even happy laughs foster wrinkles.  Also, he made me understand, when the golden age of wild oats came upon a person, it was a duty and an honor to sow them with personal style.  To scatter them, all of them, then.


She was wrapped in clothes.  A turban she unrolled first, letting down a tangle of orange-tipped brunette hair.  A scarf unwound from her tanned throat, a cape around her freckled shoulders…. a silver tube top (in this weather!) above a wrap-around skirt made of red velvet… slave slippers with the long laces twining around her ankles, calves, shins.  My darling beauty contained away from the dirty world, the world full of callous youths like me who would make love to a woman I didn’t understand for reasons I couldn’t specify.  She must have had a few loose thoughts of her own because she engaged this callous youth (at her age!).

Arlene stripped for me, it was a process that did not require my assistance but benefited from my attendance.  I didn’t have to wonder what she saw in me, I was pure raw untouched manhood and I knew that was my prime value.  I was protected from knowing how much more there was to it because, frankly, I barely could control the callous thoughtless relations.  How would I have dared to actually communicate with a woman who knew to dress like that for me?  It helped that I was selfless at times like that, intruding with personal insights would have stalled the woman for whom I played puppet.  Toy with the puppet, fuck with the puppet, forget the puppet… happy puppet.  And, remember, there are other puppets and other women who like puppets.

I didn’t judge the reasons a woman got naked with me, I tried to present my best credentials, never knew which key worked on the gate to speech, to touch, to blending.  I was hopeful, I was healthy, I offered myself to women far distanced from my peer group.  Why not?  My oats sought foreign pastures but still I hunted the open gate.


I dreamt I was the head guy running a lingerie factory – it would be clean and bright, full of work islands where purposeful people cooperated to frame the breast, belly, bottom.  We would flatter the style of one woman at a time.  Panties, boxers, swim cut, thigh-hi, bikini, hi-kini, thong.  How many curves need to be added to encircle the carnal globe?  How can you fault the theory of evolution if it carved Audrey Hepburn out of the simian Lucy or Tina Turner from the mythic Eve.  How much more mysterious that these characteristics spruce up a guy like Lucky Vanous – to look touchable and edible and likable to mucho many who see you.  Borderline too good to be true.  That gives them a confidence as individuals to appear as symbols (models).

I would talk to the panty designers about maintaining lift, achieving separation, affecting buoyancy.  The fabric department would share samples, explain why this lace would not suit the junior line; I’d invent a slippery non-snag fabric for the sake of the working man’s hands.  Always I’d be asking:  Does this please you?  Is this right?  Should we make more like this?  Tell me how it feels.  Tell me how it makes you feel.


Yes, I love to bury my cock in the liquid-lined crease of flesh, gateway to the foyer of life, the vestibule, the place you make offerings, the site not accessible without cooperation (nullified by force).  That first time and its other iterations, the mild fear that this may be the last (and if it is, it must be the best!) (but how to judge: deepest in, longest held, the tight fit or the right fit?).  Yieldings as separate sighs and cries, the silent slipping of skin ‑‑ some of it rubbing together, some of it peeling apart.  Slapping and crackling, too lusty for some, so many aspects to keep hidden even if you surrender topical access.

Not all my choices, sometimes I’ve been stuffed into a waiting hole, the handiest thing of a moment, as if cocks had been lined up on a table and mine selected to try out. Sat upon or backed up against, my stick taken into the cooze, my driving power not required (not invited) ((not accepted)) (((not tolerated))).

Nothing better than fucking a fucking woman, women who merely confer access aren’t fucking you and you know it, there is no velocity, you can’t rev the motor, you may have a marvelous time but you are not fucking.

The verbal use of fucking has been diluted by people (who mustn’t actually fuck) using the word improperly.  What word will replace it?  Is there anything as essentially provocative as a word we kept hidden on our broadcast bands for many decades, the no-no finally blurted on network TV, bleeped but readable on the lips… no wonder we’re having saran-wrapped sex, we don’t respect the inner-powers that make the scent of a person overcome social considerations and you end up balling your landlady.  Hypothetically.


Through it all, the casual access to quality bud.  We were a stoner community, always with reefer on hand.  Not living off the smuggling money, none of us did more than deal for our own stash, we were part of the underground railroad of herbalists.  There were lean times, we had outages, but they were noticed, they were CURED and we got back in the groove we preferred, the mist of consensual reality-blurring where we cooperated to be happy individuals.

Some friends and I lucked into two income sources:  we put together intricate puzzles and framed them for sale.  Our trademark was to leave the edge pieces off, as if the puzzle might go on and on in all directions, sculpted not squared.  We also made hooked yarn rugs.  We’d buy rolls of interlock rug canvas and the artistic among us would color designs to be filled in by whoever could figure out how to use a latch hook.  We had set up four rug tables, and two puzzle tables, in the living-dining room of a communal house.  There were pocket doors that were pulled closed to keep the air fresh, you could be high but you could not get high in there.  Friends were welcome, and hours would go by as people came, helped, left… it was collegial, we listened to comedy albums and FM radio.

Later, the pot community would seem to shrink but there were enough of us left to create a social ripple, we were the voice towards de-criminalization of marijuana, more like 3.2 beer with government-imposed age and activity limits.  A venial sin, a misdemeanor, it could compound criminal charges (stoned robbery, stoned hit and run, etc., would be punished more severely).  In time we were joined by the medical community who found marijuana’s stomach-calming properties perceived by the users to be superior to any chemical substitute which contributed to its efficacy.  For their patients who were being beaten up by cancer therapies, somehow they were convinced getting high cut through the nausea which let them eat which helped them live.  As the age in government shifts upward, our candidates haul along college backgrounds that could well have included dorm smokers, binge drinking, liberal sex.

Weed is a naturally occurring substance, it should be cultivated for commercial purposes like we do with sugar or coffee, provided in the market place like medicine, like wine, like bullets.  Let’s stop the cat and mouse on weed, save that enforcement budget for the speed labs and crack houses where the gap is clearly visible between tolerable and intolerable.  I have established a quiet room with wood shutters on both windows, a mat unrolls to seal the door, there are shaded lamps, it is not dark-themed, more like sand colors, sea grasses, clouded skies.  I listen to music, to the surge of my emotions, I want to be alive to the extent I am capable.  I’m not a major league player in public-approval roulette; I’m out there doing my job and earning my rewards.

Intoxicants should be controlled, pot included, because in fact it really isn’t good in large doses, it profits from moderation like all things do; still it gives young adults something to build a rebellion around from which they have a good chance to recover.  Most of us slow down when stoned, if not actually stop, and pot will let you go ‑‑ unlike speed, unlike heroin, unlike cocaine, unlike alcohol.

The relentless amount of marijuana necessary to become physically wrecked is usually stemmed by becoming mentally wrecked first.  You don’t get mastermind-type criminal projects accomplished when you’re blasted.  Not likely to complete a neurosurgery residence toking regularly either.  Some things don’t mix.  Pot can be used to forget to succeed as well as to find a new way to define success.


#legalizepot #pot-positive #HempFest #Stonerwithaboner

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Illusions – Stupid Ass Selfies – Spanky Talk – Literate Erotica

This link to Three Illusions that Will Destroy Your Brain” is worth sharing to enrich two-minutes of your day.  Hopefully it can help erase the stupid ass selfies that currently plague the web.

COMMENTARY by indie author Kathleen K.

I don’t know why we are so overt with our images (Google: rectal thermometer fetish) but shy in our words.  I write high-end erotica and sexotica for the rowdier reader.  I caution people it is Not Suitable for Some, Appreciated by Others.  Still, even with good reviews and a strong web presence, I have not yet crossed past the stigma that “nice people” don’t read this stuff.  (Please help me prove them wrong.)  Fifty Shades of Grey opened the discussion once again:  why does romance flourish but erotica struggle?  That book took the romance formula of masterful man (in commerce, in bed) and the female waiting to be educated by him (ergo, we start with a coed) and spun in some spanky talk.  Indisputably, it was eFingered by millions of eReaders.  The Fifty Shades trilogy wasn’t considered well written… but it trounced other “smarter” books in the marketplace.

Sassy, sexy, comical, intelligent erotica is not for everybody.  What I’m producing is not your mommy’s porn.  Enjoy the counterculture imagery from a cast of sharp characters:  a pot-positive memoirist, an organized voyeur, a fictional pay-to-play girl (retired) turned sexual consultant, a nonfictional pay-to-say girl who wrote the cult classic Sweet Talkers.  I seek sophisticated readers who can go highbrow but appreciate the low down.  I label the books bedside readers for the adult mind because they are tailored for the nightstand.  Deliciously explicit.  Using vignettes, free-wheeling prose, and snatches of conversation, I create scenarios for you to fill in, stimulating your imagination, fertilizing your fantasies.  It’s a great way to slip away from the real world as you gear down for sleep.  (Note:  I prefer print book to screen reader at night given what we know about visual stimulation before bed.)

This format lets you dip in and out of the books, not needing to remember plot details, or get to any particular stopping point; mix and match to suit the mood you’re in or the mood you’re cultivating.  Skim past what doesn’t interest you this time, you might run across it in a different mood and find it more meaningful.  There is a specific sex-positivity and good cheer in all my work, I find glory and humor in all the things we do to “feel” connected.  I’ve been called “competent” at novelizing hardcore erotica: begrudging praise for being literate in a stigmatized arena.  What can I say?  Lighten up, you erudite reviewers, I write “good reads” – that’s the whole point.  Quit counting commas, tell your targets was is it worth the time and money to read?  Don’t dissect the plot… share your unique judgment on the experience of reading it.  That is much appreciated by author and reader.

I have a standing offer to send you a free book if you review one of my other books.  I keep prices low to encourage spur of the moment purchases ($6.66 to $9.99).  I believe fans are the BUZZ.  Echo back, would you?  I’m easy to find if you can remember my name:  KathleenK – for the rowdier reader – Vivid family fiction for those who read between, around and beyond the words.

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