Category Archives: Sample

State Regulated Weed = follow the money

kathleen k, regular marijuana, states rights,

Regulating marijuana is a question of political priorities and for me gaining state revenue on marijuana outweighs losing money on law enforcement because at risk is the profiteering of criminals who do not necessarily limit their nefarious activities to the friendly herb.  Prohibition funds mob-gang behavior.

Besides, predictable-dose edibles are a boon to the consumer!!!

Special thanks to the Internet:

Look at Washington State’s pot revenue here.  It’s a bit of cash, not a flood; it goes to social programs related to health and welfare; it’s coming from taxable businesses who employ people at their stores, and growers, and delivery folk, even accountants, etc.  It is a BUSINESS of and for the people.  Let it be; hell, let it spread.

This Colorado county did something smart with a weed tax.

The bureaucratic hell-hole complicating things is the Federal Schedule I drug designation of marijuana, placing it in a more dangerous category than cocaine or methamphetamine! (Please search Faces of Meth to refute this.)  This is a cultural error reeking of bone-headed politicians; it ignores (and limits) the research and applied science of medical pot plus anecdotal evidence of uncountable hours of crime-free recreational use.  This Schedule I designation is also the entry point for Federal intrusion when pot should be a States’ Rights issue akin to other sin-tax initiatives like liquor, tobacco and gambling that rely on local nuance.  We need to keep the pressure on to correctly categorize this herb as the natural substance it is so that communities may judge it fairly, and use the revenue to enrich their citizenry.

COMMENTARY:  I am all for keeping synthetic pot on the Do Not Fly list since it seems to qualify as “engineered” like coca leaves vs. extracted cocaine thus changing its cultural and actual impact:

“The prophetic “Legend of the Coca Leaf” presages us of the difference between the way the leaf is used traditionally in the Andes, and the corrupted form used by Western conquerors. As the Sun God said to the Andean wise man Kjana Chuyma: “[coca] for you shall be strength and life, for your masters it shall be a loathsome and degenerating vice; while for you, natives, it will be an almost spiritual food, for them it shall cause idiocy and madness.”

These facts and others like them can be found on the new Coca Leaf subchapter of Drug War Facts at

For an interesting social history on marijuana, clickety-tap here.

PLEASE ENJOY THESE FREE WRITING SAMPLES FOR MATURE READERS from my pot-centric sexotic book Stoner’s Bone of Contention which is second in the Stoner series mixing artful rhetoric with heady philosophy and sensual escapades:


I haven’t stopped getting high. I mean, I still get high when I smoke, the effect hasn’t worn off. It’s a long story but, believe you me, I’ve been banging the bong for decades and each time I respond to the Pavlovian chime in my head that says, You’ve Arrived on High Street. It’s a place in my thoughts providing a different vantage point, my redoubt. Stoner Town is peaceful and self-sustaining, to be there is to have arrived at launch. Once you are high, and know you are high, then what comes next is what you do while you’re high. I walk, I watch movies, I make beautiful love with ordinary women. I drift far from my work-a-day world. I’m not running away, I’m stepping aside. I’m experiencing a moment through the softening gauze of ganja. I’m well-read enough to know the word ganja is not Jamaican, mon. I consider toking to be my private bridge to serenity.

The bustier. I love a long-line bra that circles the torso and provides shelving for the breasts. To see beautiful mounding tops shoved up from a controlled midriff emphasizes them, yes, but not beyond what they are… there is no padding, no filler, it’s the glory of engineering. Although it is a furtive pleasure, it is not a secret.

All kinds of bras catch my eye but this particular garment skips far past the purported medical/cosmetic reasons to cradle the boobs and serves them up as tidbits, choice and tasty.

Cold out tonight, my fingers stiffen but I’ve never found gloves suitable for toking in the snow. Fingerless gloves leave the gap between fingertips distorted, thickened. In fact, the gloves are not fingerless, they’re tipless, so the fabric extends up the finger quite a way. It’s aggravating but not enough to dissuade me from hitting a doobie in the hush. If it’s really cold I will alternate a glove from smoking hand to lighting hand. I used to balance the joint between my lips but I gave that up when an ember stung my chin and I heard the sizzle of the joint in the snow at my feet. Only half-way high, lucky to have been in the thick of a gentle storm, bummed by the mechanical failure. This white night I had a spare on hand, determined to experience my solitude as the flakes drifted over everything, with sheltered negative spaces that escaped the fall but would be filled in with drifting later. It’s the pregnant part of a snowfall when you can’t know how long it will last, how wet-dry it was, so much depended on the air through which it floated, that little bit heavier than air yet subject to the wind’s whim. Snow fall, mood rise.

JoEllen, JoE (long E), JoE, agreed to eat a pot brownie with me, chased with ice cold milk, then we played a game of Scrabble. It takes a while for the pot to hit, and it starts with silliness about words: herd hard heard hoard. We’re in tune, the stone intensifies and hits our bodies, we’re on a rug in front of the fireplace, it isn’t like getting the spins when you’re drunk, you aren’t out of control, but neither are you in control, you are acceptant not resistant, perhaps that is the difference, you are unconcerned about control. JoE is staring into the flames, her image flickering for me, and I disengage my own sensors, giving her more time to BE over-stimulated. I am in a protective hover around her, knowing this kind of body high is surprising at first. She’s got to make the first move, that’s just how it is between us, so I factor in the delay as she acclimates to being high as a star in an extra-dense body. When she finally does lean toward me (topple into me), I got a strong sense of her intoxication. High-yaiyai. She started showing me her stuff, her shirt came off, her pants were undone, and I knew she was close to making her choice. If she retreated, it wouldn’t have been a tease. If she continued it was a one-time that-time  only thing. I understood she ran the gate.

Her hand slipped over mine and lifted it to her lips for a soft kiss, then pressed it to her cleavage, spanning the swell of her sleek tits, they didn’t wobble or bounce, they were firm and full with magenta-crowns and a stiff thick nub; once she put my hands on her we were open.

I’d been with JoE stoned and straight, she idled high if you know what I mean, she was tuned up and ready to go, even after a few beers when she was languid in general, she was sexually intense. This night the pot brownie seemed to have hit the root of her restlessness, she was still and quiet and sexy in a significant reinterpretation of her body language. She was so high that only the most compelling motivations survived and those were to be held and stoked from ember to flame. I fed her and oiled her long before I dared to connect. It was going to be a long night.

Tiny tea-cup titties. JoE believed she had the same number of nerve endings as found in those gargantuan tits that seemed so popular, she handled her little beauties roughly to show me what she liked: she liked to show me what she liked. One hand fondled her top half while the other toured the bottom, drawing my attention to the flat planes and pronounced curves of her personal circus (her term), her need to show and tell – even when wrecked by the brownies – was her signature, I realized, the thing she did to prepare herself for giving over to a man. If he couldn’t wait for her to explain things, well… maybe he wasn’t her kind of guy after all. I knew enough to enjoy her ritual; I understood not to panic if it seemed we weren’t making any “progress” toward “sex” when in fact it was all about making peace to proceed to passion.

She was a pretty girl with a kind heart and a wicked sense of humor; I had no problem lounging around with her, stoned beyond speech, enjoying my view of her, filling up with anticipation. Part of the challenge was to keep myself contained, not lunge for what I wanted. I felt an intense desire to pull her up against me and shove myself inside but that’s just my little head talking, he’s extremely short sighted (one-eyed).

I had rescinded my dick’s decision-making role. It could scream and twist and dribble down my leg but it did not select my partners nor pace my activities. Taming it took years, I didn’t break its spirit, I did not crumble its hopes: I gave it structure and dignity and let it off leash only when I’m ready to respond to its choices. I let it romp when the time is right; I surrender to its dick-ness because in fact it is very purposeful with full support from all the rest of me, delivering the essential connector, not my kissy lips, not my probing fingers. No, those were mere servants to the Ultimate Goal of Intromission, the taking of a woman’s space, her secret world. No doubt, my dick does the fucking. I am careful to set the stage and interpret the indicators because once the fucking starts good sense fades, responsibility is pounded away, we are doing what we are built for, coupling. I’m a beast when I know that she wants that part of me, that she’s called out audible signals, made all the right gestures, has teased us forward, and she’s ready to say yes when I ask if she is sure. She can still wave me off, so far we’re just playing; she has to be SURE because, for all my good manners and rational thought, once authorized then I’m a full-blooded rip-roaring dick on the loose.

I like fucking the naughty ones, the ones who dare you to show yourself. JoE was one of those girls for me, she was firm in her demands and specific in her examples, I rode her hard yet she matched me back, every time I went in deeper she rippled around me, bucking her hips to double the impact when we collided. I could put all of myself inside her, slip it back out, possess and surrender, because that is what she wanted. I couldn’t believe how much she wanted it, not at first, not until she showed me.



Interview with the Voice of Sexotica for the Rowdier Reader


Reader of Novels – Art in the Public Domain

It was my great fortune to be noticed by a lively blog for authors and people who work with them, orchestrated by a bona fide “resource” in the book business.  This compendium voices book-community interests.  I recommend it for indie author-publishers, and book consumers no matter age or station.

Interview with the Voice of Sexotica for the Rowdier


I’ve included a bit of sexotic text below, just by way of example.  This is an excerpt from Stoner’s Bone of Contention (The Weightless Joint) intended for mature audiences with open minds.  Potcentric, sexotic fictional memoir.

The double-tub with jets and shower hoses was a statement piece, hidden elements like thick insulation and sound baffling were part of the simple luxury of the bedroom suite, the one-armed long couch had crisp fitted slipcovers of washable fabric, there were area rugs (suited to bare bottoms) sitting on top of room rugs (suitable for bare feet) offsetting easy-mop hardwoods and tile pavilions. There were two double bedrooms, four guest beds, because even with one guest there can be the sex bed(s) and the sleep bed(s), there is the option to stop one phase and begin another without the mundane chore of immediate cleanup.

Janna drank sips of bourbon all night long, while I sucked up little hits of pot. It was not our intention to get wasted because the sex was too good to blur. We took breaks, replenished ourselves, we readjusted our framework. Janna gave as good as she got, we overheated from time to time, so ardent that we added too much fuel to the fire. I’d see her eyes glaze and realize I’d been pounding into her with my own eyes closed for a long long time before I looked down and saw her stunned and finished. I eased up, backed off, made the sad decision to disengage and shoot it like a firework.

That private retreat was the only single family dwelling I owned in the city, it was maintained by a different contractor and not part of my property management business. Part of my decision about Janna took this into consideration because I had not allowed these two elements to cross. My party life was my own, I withdrew from the work-a-day world reassured my real stuff had been insured, monitored, was waiting for me. Lead me to the luxurious linen and sturdy furniture. Layers of window coverings from sheer to blackout: I had designed window shades that snapped to the sill. Each bedroom and the smoking den were ventilated by silent fans, with slim radiators featuring artsy dials setting low to high, and dimmers on the light switches; this was a polypurpose place.

The availability of four double beds led to many combinations of guests so the rooms were filled with sensual memories. Someone like Janna meant so much more because she shared it with me and turned it to her advantage. She understood how cute she looked tummy-down on the ottoman so I could stare, stupefied, at her flaring ass then track the crack to her darkness. Eventually she’d lean on her forearms, straightening her legs to rise then bending her knees to settle in for round two of teasing. More of her hints were exposed but nothing… tangible. I felt her promise.

She put this show on in the smoking den, so I could toke along, phases settling one atop another until she grabbed her own ass cheeks and pried them open, pulled them up-out-back to show me my ultimate target, commanding me to take aim.

She wanted what I wanted, good hot balling, letting the carnal rule, laughing when I growled up into her pussy as I twisted her tits, feeling her buck and knowing I’d be mounting her soon, not yet, but soon, so I was all the more serious about heating her up. Nothing gleams like a wet cunny, weeping with the desire to be filled, crying for cock. Not all women ever get to feel that reckless joy but Janna had no qualms about sharing this most extreme hunger for sensation. She didn’t care if it wasn’t pretty, because it was so fucking real. We got off on each other, on our slamming tight and rocking back, we had matching parts and similar intent. She meant to control me through my cock and I intended to let her.

She did me, she let me and made me and prevented me, forestalled and goosed me, those were just her ways of communicating to my preverbal brain to stay on task, this was not about me coming but about me fucking her and riding her and turning her over to re-enter from some other angle. I knew I would come, later, I would spill into her waiting void, but not yet, and not just once.



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Too much porn, not enough sex – Learn to ride the tide

kathleenk_erotica_sex_porn_saturationThe saturation level for porn is higher than I thought possible… the relentless ram-jam-a-lam-bam of it pollutes the part of your heart that gives over to desire.  This disconnect shows most in the young because they are awash in the repetitive climaxes of the selfish and are not treated to the meaningful advances it takes to reach an interpersonal pleasure-based orgasm.  Conversely, they are denied the hope of pair-bonding given the high divorce rates, the bickering over who may marry whom, and the dismal state of love as war.  Vows for now.

The anticipation of physical intimacy is frittered away; we’ve seen it all, stark and gasping, but then we fidget watching love scenes that capture the sweet probing and rapturous elevation of permission between people.  We are way too mechanical and task-oriented in sex.   We may be all modern about hooking up but in fact the percolating of desire and escalation of tension is rarely savored.  Nobody wants to wait for even a moment… brew my coffee in a minute, cook my burrito in two… look at my picture and swipe right or left.  Do it.  Do it.  Do it.

Take a vacation from whatever’s left you bored by sex and go in another direction… reading, writing, listening, thinking about the sweet tease of sex to come, what will happen when you reach out… break it down and look at the pieces.  Not just those pieces… all your parts.

kathleen_k_erotica_sexotica_booksSex is a tide of sensations and emotions, it has a push and a pull, it is powerful in its rhythm yet capricious with its swells and eddies; we ride the wave action on the surface of a surge only when we paddle out to meet it.  Some of us never dive below that churning to find the cool deep energy within.  It isn’t only about love, or what we think of as “love” when commingling emotion with sex.  It can be appreciation, it can be joy.  It can be supreme kindness.

Don’t think only about your sex, consider sex in general, consider it across time and distance, assess its impact on history and culture – our survival.  This isn’t just about a little rub-a-dub at the club, bub.

Here’s a low, slow roll on text from The Lunarium; he’s telling us about sex clubs. I am experimenting with adding audio segments for some of the stories.  I’m envisioning home-grown parts-of-books in online sound files:  quick and light and freewheeling, organically indie as the books themselves.  That’s the fun of collaborating with people.  I would have never heard, or at least had not yet heard, a dark rumble in the words of my favorite voyeur. That got me thinking.

SAMPLE – Not suitable for some, appreciated by others.  Vignette-Things of voyeurism.

The Lunarium

(One man’s memories of the watchers and the watched)

The Second Thing >< Voyeurs’ Cave

You say you didn’t know that places like the Lunarium really existed, well, obviously they do. They always have and, I hope, always will. The human being gathers information for survival. Some eye the moon, others hear the wind pick up… there are people watchers. Human social senses cycle through eons and aeons. Through it all we’ve needed air, water, food and sex. Shelter is nice but a luxury. (Love is a form of shelter.)

To learn the powers of sex, whether or not by observation, has driven many a human through life. We are not alone, here and now. Artists etched sex on cave walls as soon as they could put their minds and materials to it. People are generally secretive about sex, elusive. These are important feelings to be handled with care. Privacy is a state of mind in an igloo; a matter of custom with rice paper walls… we may know exactly when others are making love but rarely see them do so.

I want to watch.  Justify it? Let history do that. I accept this as a fact about myself. Being a ritualistic kind of guy, I arrange to view the embodiment of erotic contact in much the same way I get to church on time, and see my accountant quarterly. Sexual adventures seemed necessary to me. I allowed for them in my life. I cultivated a reputation of having a private existence, distinct from other duties, and was careful to remove myself from my “real” world for my voyeurism. It was as much a matter of discipline as caution, if I truly wanted to participate in such exotic behavior then a fifty-mile journey would be worth it — an odyssey. I didn’t walk the wild side in in my neighborhood, nor did I take the neighborhood with me: I dressed differently, modulated my regional pride, rented a car, carried cash… I became my essential self which contributes to the pleasure, I’m sure.

To preserve its impact, I don’t indulge myself in as much of this as I would like to do. Distancing it helps in that regard. Adventuring is a treat, a special event, not to be confused with my mundane life. I wasn’t “me” when I showed up at a party house: I attended as a single straight male. I didn’t usually go into the orgy rooms because there is a presumption of participation. I stay in the voyeurs’ cave – lots of graphic foreplay and a little actual balling – with no obligation to reciprocate. The watchers very much affect the do-ers. In the orgy rooms there are no barriers, you are available in all senses. You will not be hurt (there are rooms for that). You expect excess.

I have seen groups of people doing sex stuff but they knew they were being watched and acted accordingly. If it ever happened you were given the chance to see seven people join genitals would that be “worse” than watching a married couple in a spot-lit cocoon? Do people object that the sex is wrong, the watching is wrong, or is it the selection of personnel and props?

Ritual is big with Americans. Pledge allegiance, file your taxes, follow lines on the road, yield to the right, stop at red octagons. Two-by-two. Marriage is a legal/financial state, with various religious & social overtones. We’ve regulated vice and put sex central to that category. Vice = moral depravity: a judgment call. Regular crime isn’t considered depraved… robbery, burglary, murder, rape. Simple crimes. But vice, wicked vice, sex for hire – gambling – the naughty crimes ‑‑ we pay special attention to vice, it has its own department. (Mind crimes.)

You don’t find a voyeurs’ cave listed in the phone book; making contact is clandestine and often done with code numbers and false identities. It is easier to buy an illegal handgun than to find a swingers’ party. It isn’t even a sense of privacy that contains sexual adventures, it is a sense of peril that fences us in. You must not get caught doing this – group sex is depraved!

I am able to move freely through this society because I am not extremely anything. I’m not rich or poor, giant or dwarf. I’m at mid-life, averaged sized, typically Irish with my dark hair and green eyes, clear pale skin. I was spared the red hair and freckles that stereotype Gaelic, given a crooked nose by accident and a beard because I hate shaving.

The truth is, life has been good to me.

 kathleenk_erotica_voyeurism_lunarium erotica_kathleenk_sexotica_best_of_kirkus_reviews

Named to Kirkus Reviews’ Best of 2013


Most likely the average penis will fit the ordinary vagina

kathleen_k_sexotic_penis_size_erotic A Study of Attractiveness, Penis Size and Body Shape

You’d think by now we’d have figured out most people are around average (thereby establishing the average).  The enduring question of penis size has been answered yet again: 5.16 inches in length when erect, and 4.59 around, according to an analysis of more than 15,000 appendages around the world.

Since the root cause of this question is the idea that the penis is intended to fill the vagina, where is the corresponding target dimensions for the phallic missile?  That begets the question:  how would you measure the vagina?  We know it can accommodate a baby’s head with proper preparation…  these statistics on penis length and girth don’t begin to address the convoluted nature of that vault and its keeper.

The underlying unease about the equipment pinpoints the lack of honesty in our literature and art when it comes to what makes sex good for people.  It isn’t merely beauty, it isn’t only power, and it sure is not dick-length.  Sexual viability is a pre-verbal accord in some ways, a subliminal click.  Long before a woman sees a man’s penis (in the usual order of social-sexual involvement), she’s assessed his suitability and only an extreme anomaly would reverse that.  On a bio-science level, we’ve got a nearly universal adapter going on the hole and pole business, it is rare that anyone strays too far from the Bell curve bulge.

This isn’t the first pitch I’ve made for men to use what they’ve been given and for women to do the same, the theme runs through my books:  Penis size is a fact, what matters is a judgment.

In my choice to write sexotic vignettes around the themes of voyeurism, reefer and romance, phone fantasy, and sex⇔love strategy; I am assigning a high value to potential.  These bedside readers are brimming with ideas to consider – be thoughtful about your sexual happiness, consider elements to seek within and beyond yourself, identify purpose to confer meaning.  And have some fuckin’ fun.


SAMPLE – Not suitable for some, appreciated by others.

–from Honey B., Sexual Consultant (Book II of V)

Wendy gagged on Willie’s dick every time she ate it. Willie felt she was rejecting him not only physically but emotionally. He told me he understood she was new at it but, geez, in over a dozen attempts they’d always ended up with her spluttering and Whee Willie sputtering. Wendy didn’t say much but finally she turned to me and sighed. “He‘s the one. He thinks he has to hang his nuts on my chin or it doesn’t count.” Willie shrank back from this as if he’d been stung. He’d mistaken her virginity for innocence. He didn’t act happy about hearing this from her. Where was she getting her information?

She didn’t see what her having watched some sex movies had to do with her essential wife & partner wholesomeness. Wendy had known all along what was going wrong with their oral sex (she had a few ideas about intercourse, too) but try as she might she couldn’t dissuade him from thrusting his penis all the way into her mouth from the first to the too-soon last. He had no concept of laying back and letting her moisten his cock first. How could she tell him to let her take it in little nibbles, a bit at a time, saving the deep throat duty for the end when she was relaxed and open to him?

Our triangulated talk not only cured this one symptom but revealed a deeper presumption that he was to be the sexual leader on their team. He had no reason to doubt she was inexperienced when they wed but it was big news to him that she’d actually watched sex on a screen before she had any experience. She said it was a real eye-opener. I should think so, knowing the wide range of graphic film images available. They grabbed a couple of movies from my lending shelf and dashed home to discuss this hitherto unexpressed aspect of her nature and what it might mean for their future.


Nolan wanted me to look at his dick when it was erect and tell him my professional opinion of it, was it thick enough, long enough, the right color, did it feel OK… Upon inspection it revealed itself as ordinary in all respects, exhibiting no untoward aspect. He packed it away and left a happy man. His few lovers never spoke of it to him, he didn’t know who else to ask, and it was useless to speak in theory. Someone had to look at it and then look him in the eye and tell him the interpersonal truth. I told him it was slightly thinner, somewhat longer and exactly the same shape as other pricks I’d seen, and like all the others it had the head on the top. If the thought of me looking at it is what gave him the hard-on so be it. It was not the first or last time I’d give a critique of the client but rarely was it as simple as this particular see-and-say report.


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



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The Butts of Two-Dimensional Creatures

kathleenk_erotica_counterculture_rowdier_readerHow to Write a Think Piece on Butts

The stupid ass selfie world that I have referred to in the past has hit a plateau. We’re either going to show the butt’s bull’s-eye, or recede back to mere suggestions of the undercurve and projection ratio of the buttockeal zone.  (What is common to breasts and butts?  Cleavage.)

Me?  I use sass and humor to appeal to a deeper sense of the self, speaking to the true power and glory of sex in my books and blog.  Whether you’re overusing the camera or not, there is always a significant difference between showing and sharing.  The selfie-deluge will stop when we quit looking at each other as two-dimensional creatures.

Instead of gawking at cracks-of-whacks, I would rather put sex positive messages in a richer context, as shown here in a moment with Stoner:

At her request, I wore a leather blindfold one night so she could see me in the mirror naked and awaiting her.  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 shape.  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 nipples until I felt it in her can.

This is Libertine literature, rejecting the knee-jerk definitions of acceptable words (not a really ‘naughty’ one in the sample). The rowdier reader brings a rich imagination to the saucy language because this won’t be the first “odd” thought that has temporarily inhabited their head.  They texturize and extrapolate from the words I’ve arranged.  For samples of my sexotic-erotic fiction, click here.

Not so rowdy?  Click here for e-samples of my all-age family fiction which has been reviewed as “witty and wise, especially for fans of tough-minded heroines” and “beautifully woven”.  For some, the folderol of overt sex diminishes their appreciation for the wanting and hoping that motivates love-lust.  Fair enough.  I learned long ago to note that my work is not suitable for some, appreciated by others and somewhere in these dozen books is probably one that would speak to you.

My hope is that you will stop communicating with anybody who shows their own ass online.  We do not need any more closed-loop photos (see me see me), further sanitized by raster graphics – we’re aflood with them.  They are flat and evoke no scent, no sound, no solidity.  Like any other attention-seeking behavior of a self-absorbed being, the cure is to ignore it.  As for you selfie-satisfied folks, you depict yourself reaching back to your monkey roots for sure.


#readmore #sexpositive #kathleenk

Women are not single fuse firecrackers content with the same old bang

The conversation on women’s appreciation of sexotica continues:  Porn for women: Real people having a real good time (Guardian)

It’s not that women don’t like porn. It’s that they don’t like most of the porn that actually gets made, and they’re doing something about it, according to the U.K. Guardian.

COMMENTARY by counterculture author-publisher Kathleen K.

There is a gender distinction in sexual expression that needs to be blended together for a mixed audience to appreciate.  Putting the focus on “women producing porn” grabs the headlines but, in fact, females have been present in the industry as writers and arrangers and directors all along.

What we didn’t have was the old-boy network that got work produced and distributed.

One key to women’s participation in the Sexpression Business is indie freedom, made possible by digital distribution and online communities.  The idea that women don’t like porn fails to note the fact that porn is shorthand for male-dominated imagery… it is a brutal close-up of ram-jamming ferocity.

It doesn’t help to flip the presumption and imagine that women want soft-focus kissy-face.  Women appreciate preparation, it underlies the truth that it takes females longer to “get ready” whether it’s for a picnic or the prom.  Sexually, we’ve got more moving parts and our sex receptors are configured differently within our gender.  See this review of Vagina to appreciate the complex design of female response.  Women are not single fuse firecrackers content with the same old bang.  Men brag they can be turned on and off like a switch and fail to appreciate that women have so many more ineffable elements to their arousal.


It has been my experience that women are just as curious about the workings of sex between imaginary characters as men are, but they prefer more spin on the players before starting the game.  Don’t believe it’s that fundamental?  Consider the glory hole.  That’s a man’s world.

As a writer of erotic-sexotic books, I make the distinction for “sexotica” because some folks just don’t like to get overly-involved in the actual action but are most curious about the factual options.  Sexotica is colloquial, direct and specific, it uses the vernacular.  The reader stays one step removed.

Erotica engages the reader’s egocentric core, it draws energy to their own desires and incorporates them into the action.  Erotica is designated so by the reader(s) response; sexotica qualifies on content alone.


Dark Prince, Heed Thy Queen
(In the Realm of Roles and Reversals)                SAMPLEComing.  Soon.  September 2014

I’m not defending Nathan, I’m explaining him. I consorted with this dog and thought he was a man. The sad part is that Nathan was a man in many ways, in basic ways. 95% genetically similar. 5% canine-lupine. (It’s only a couple of percent difference for human to chimp.) I was accustomed to men as house pets but then along came this hound. I was feeling sexually adversarial at that point in my life; I was tired of being nice. Acting sweet didn’t get me over the rainbow. I needed a commanding male|mate against whom I could struggle. The last thing in the world I wondered about was his bank book (since I wasn’t showing mine). I was far too busy sifting impressions of a most searing entanglement.

I didn’t want somebody to love. It was more selfish than that, I wanted somebody to enjoy my body with me. Screw me joyfully, with wit and daring. Seduce me, not entrap me. I wanted to feel the maleness of a man, dagger unsheathed for drawing blood to the pelvis… fluids rush, nerves tingle, the move is on.

Nathan might choose to be erotic spectator, director, participant, reviewer. He reserved the right for each of us to adopt roles in our love life. He was not to be considered a dick, his was not always central to our pleasure (nor was my box). He commandeered my whole body. He needed me for himself. He needed me for his friends. I got off on pleasing him, and his friends. I had dropped my guard, all the gates were down, I accepted my lover, Nathan, as a man. He could have been a frontiersman, an astronaut, a fisherman. External objects didn’t signify to me, it was a time of voluptuous indulgence, outrageous comfort, careless intimacy.

My involvement was pure, I had no thought of paining anybody. I didn’t mind a secret love life because how could I have explained these sexotic games to people I worked with, or to people at my health club? My family said I was looking fit. It was true I’d rather have sex than eat, I’d walk bra-less in short shorts for two miles with Nathan six paces back watching people watch me walk. He’d hump me standing behind a park bench in a secluded thicket then we’d walk home hand in hand, acting innocent but looking smudged.

One Halloween I went full-on French Maid then attended a party with Nathan. I was told to clean a man’s dick and was handed a warm soft cloth; he was wearing leather chaps and not much else… naughty party. This was a sensational moment with a check on emotions. No one presumed to ask me why I was engaged in this particular behavior. Such was Nathan’s power that he would know which man would accept and act on his offer of my tender tending. The costume “hid” me, objectified me, removed me from a sensible realm. Smart. Nathan knew how to work us all.

I didn’t care if the men “liked” me or not as long as Nathan had faith in me. I had given myself utterly and I understood his need for these sexual tableaus. When we were alone and made love, which was the way we did it most of the time, I felt the direct effect of his reliving those scenes. I know it pleased him that I could encompass more than one situation as long as I held true to my desire for him.

“I remembered a video I saw long before I met you, I got a copy for you to watch tonight. I’ll be back around ten. The second lead actress is a lot like you, in attitude, I mean. You have a similar shape, her ass isn’t as fine but you both have insane knockers. Flat on her back, she gets the same dreamy look you get when we ball. Notice what she does, and do that for me when I get back.”

He was not fanciful, he was effective. I was eager enough to supply the requisite smoothness to our affair, I overlooked things that really weren’t important when I compared them to our ardor. I forgot the clock when he was late, I didn’t complain if he wasn’t groomed or if he expected me to feed him first one time and ignored my food the next.

Whatever it took, I did. He was there for a sexual reason and I would work to discover that reason. It might start at the door with a quick deep feel or his move might not come until after we watched TV and ate our take-out food. The few times he put me off sexually (when we were in an otherwise active phase) it was only to build up for the next time. I’d be patted on the rear and told to put on a specific dress at a certain time – then he’d throw me a pair of crotchless panties to wear to his mechanic’s open house. I’d be sent to buy items at the drugstore, bubble bath and K‑Y Jelly. Peach flavored douche and a rectal thermometer. Condoms galore, every texture and color (all being the same basic shape) and dozens of surgical gloves.

I once let a deputy sheriff fondle me in the back seat of his cruiser while Nathan stood look-out on the side of the back country road. Another time I let Nathan disrobe me and rub my entire body, including the cracks, with oil. It so happened we were in an adult motel room with the drapes wide open to the private courtyard. Nathan used those kinds of memories to goad himself into incredible feats of sexual possession when we were alone together. The essential, core energy might have used outside forces as propellants but my man and I were coupled only to each other and only in our private realm.


I suppose we do learn the hard way or we’d all be smarter sooner.


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Sweet Talkers: the seminal voice of indie-author Kathleen K.

My first book was published in New York City in 1994, brokered by a real literary agent, back when this was the only route to readers.

hires_frontcover             hires_backcover

Sweet Talkers (Words from the Mouth of a Pay-to-Say Girl) was an outspoken chronicle of an actual phone-sex business and the masturbatory fantasies it was based upon.  The book went to paperback in 1997 then slipped out of print.  It has been an online collectible for over fifteen years.

Jamie is the narrator, the alter-ego who runs the tele-erotic business meaning she trains the operators and works the line and interviews potential talent by getting frisky to see if they can follow.  She is the seminal voice (how could I resist?).  The dual punch of literal call diary excerpts like this:

Noon to 4 p.m. on a Wednesday in February

12:02 Relieve Helen; 12:04 silent; 12:06 silent; 12:16

silent;; 12:29-30 how’s your pussy?; 12:32-33 silent;

12:42 silent; 12:59-1:08 interview style, graphic

technique; 1:??-12 do you do girls? same caller,

slow to interact; 1:13 silent; 1:19-26 5’10”, 165#, has

girlfriend, masturbation; 1:28-29 new caller, couple

of questions; 1:30-31 b.j.; 1:34-35 background

a-hems to a provocative but discreet come-on from

me; 1:36-40 1st call, kind of different, might like a

moaner; 1:47-56 hard to hear, either ‘what sex’ or

‘butt sex’; 1:57-2:03 Hawaii, lucky there, sexy talk

until he thanks me a lot; multi-listeners through

both connections, all scatter when talker departs;

2:10-19 young, kissing style, sensuous, lots of girls,

good body, work out (well-defined), great “cut

up” stomach, 5’9”, 165#, 8% body fat, bone hard,

likes long sessions, quickies OK; 2:20-27 no jack

off, problem is he likes sex, gets too wound up, b.j.

standing up, doesn’t eat out unclean crotch, bathe

in oils to massage; 2:34-43 creeeeeeek, silent!; 2:36-

43 hello, sexy talk with listeners, let’s all scream

together?; 2:44 hello, click; 2:49-58 called back, love

dog, use images later, big dick is a problem (9”), likes

to listen; 2:59-3:08 fuck scene, big dick, relate to real

fuck, needs wide hipped, deep cunted female, loves

to hear about big cunts (hand fit the glove); 3:27-

?? silent; 3:18-25 pretend to be wife being eaten by

someone else since he won’t BUT THEN HE DOES;

3:29-33 one talker, not much feedback, 2 silent; 3:34

someone still on??; 3:35-37 cock in hand, would

gladly feed it to me; 3:??-28 silent or hangup; 3:53-

4:02 was male model for bachelorette party, six gals,

6’2”, blond, 180#, 25-30 year old “audience,” couple

of hours, tie on bed for pics but stuck thermometer

in his prick, didn’t hurt at all (!?), (bride-to-be didn’t

play); 4:00 Sybil arrives, what’s a gigolo, caller said it

wasn’t a man who seduces women for their money

or prestige… reassured her he was wrong.


and re-created phone calls like this:

“I’m back, it’s me, Steve.”

“Hi, buddy. What’s happening in the video now?”

“The redhead is on her knees sucking the black dude while the

white guy fingers her ass, she’s got great tits, bouncy.”

“That turn you on?”

“Oh, yeah, three-somes! It’s my all-time fantasy.”

“Pretend I look like the redhead if you like, imagine your hands

on my body.”

“Jamie, get on your back, OK?”

“OK, hold on, yeah, I’m on the bed, on my back. I’m naked.”

“Lift your knees and spread them, wide, real wide, until it

almost hurts, yes, spread ‘em, I just want to look at your pussy, I

stop the video at the cunt shots, I love women!”

“I’ve got a muscular pussy, pink-lipped, large and well-defined,

with a thick patch of black pubic hair I keep trimmed.”

“I could play with you for hours, like we could watch videos and

I’d just stroke you.”

“I get so wet, Steve, sticky-sweet and sexy. Run your finger

down the slit, right into my secret hole, the one I dare to show

you… think of my hands on my thighs spreading wide for you so

you can see it, feel it.”

“I fast-forwarded to a cum scene, Jamie, I’ve watched it a million

times, she’s masturbating on her back with her knees open, the

camera is right there! You can see her whole body get rigid, she

gets so close… I know what she’s feeling!”

“Imagine me just like that with you as the camera, you are

filming it for your imagination, you can see me open and inviting

you closer, my cunt-hole is dripping I’m so excited, and my fingers

are shoving my mound around, making my clit throb, my hips are

lifting off the bed, you zoom in closer…”

“Ohhh, yeahhh, I zoom in closer…”

“You see it happen, you have captured it forever…”

“I watch it, close up, tight, you come in my face, right in my

face, I can feel you come.”

“Such a pretty pussy, she likes you.”

“Ohh, I can’t thank you enough, especially that zoom-thing, it

was perfect.”

“Darlin’, you can direct me anytime. Remember me when

you’re watching videos, OK?”

“You bet, Jamie, you bet I will. Bye, ‘till next time.”


and commentary like this:

People will ask me if I talk like this to my lovers. Repeat after

me, people: Jamie is a character, and, as part of her character,

then, yes, lovers are talked to this way.

Only one caller has admitted to having a “love doll,” a life-size

plastic surrogate love-object, and I didn’t hear that until after I’d

worked over 1,000 hours on the line. He said it was no good on

top, no pressure, but was OK to lay on top of and hump into… it

wasn’t as if he TALKED to it, after all.


earned the book critical praise and reader enthusiasm.  Here’s what readers have told me:

 “I read it one-handed.”

“Wore it out.  Bought a replacement (and a spare).”

“Filthy.  Positively filthy.  Thank you!”

“This isn’t a book, it’s   a film-treatment with dialog included.    If you can cast the right Jamie, everybody else plays a cameo.””

“It’s a bedside reader for sure; I keep mine in the nightstand   with the toys!”

“So many hilarious beautiful words pinpointing that singular   feeling of passionate release.”

“Loved it, didn’t think I would but I   very much did!”

“I want to recommend it but I’m not   sure who to, it’s really steamy and kind of sweet.”

I’m 20 pages in and can’t put the book down. This is getting me all   kinds of wild!


Spurred on by the moderate success of this non-fiction porn book, I authored over a dozen books while trying to figure out a gateway to rowdier readers.  Publish-on-Demand is the answer for me.  It takes about 90 days to bring a finished manuscript to book form including cover design and interior proofs.  I’ve got book #11 in production now. allows me to “bank” book masters for print and Kindle while I promote the collection of adults-only and all-age narrative fiction.  Priced to share.

Jamie lives on in all the books, she’s sassy and wise and oddly thoughtful.  She channels all those guys who told her what they wanted, what they really really wanted, was for somebody to want them. for rowdier readers

#erotica #phone-sex #sexysexy

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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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Smoke Signals – A Social History of Marijuana for those who want to KNOW

SMOKE SIGNALS – A Social History of Marijuana – Medical, Recreational and Scientific by Martin A. Lee

Highly recommended.

This book is a study of marijuana, it is an amazing compendium of political-social-psycho-pharmaceutical information.  The struggle to regulate pot has been long and ugly, ignoring the will of the people who repeatedly argued they feared drunks more than stoners and meth-heads most of all.

This book is a great bedside reader, you can throw it open to any page and find something interesting.  We have to track marijuana alongside the other just-for-fun stuff we allow ourselves (alcohol, tobacco, fat and sugar) to be fair.  We failed on the booze and food or so our statistics on drunk driving and national BMI indicate.  It turns out the one naughty thing quietly present in lawful society, pot, was vilified as felonious behavior against all evidence to the contrary.  Better yet, weed turns out to have demonstrable medicinal value.

Getting high is not the gateway to hell, you don’t have dangerous stoner brawls; weed doesn’t make you want to scratch your face off.  Reefer has been casually available for decades to those who want it.  Admittedly there is crime and violence at the upper levels of distribution but that is more about money and ego than the underlying commodity.  Tweakers are dangerous at all levels.  And those pill poppers?  They are everywhere!  Driving on Ambien, working on Paxil, but that’s OK:  doctor said so.

Yet, when doctors said medical marijuana helped their patients, the regulators weren’t so cooperative, not like they were for the politically-active (campaign funding) drug companies.  Colorado and Washington states have the right mix of voters to open the gateway to regulated access to pot.  Regulated.  Controlled availability, legislated and taxed alongside the booze and the cigs.  For grown-ups.  Sensibly.  Like many of us have for quite a while.  We press our individual liberties through our states’ rights to reshape federal policy.  Other states can observe the wisdom of shifting law enforcement energy and court time to actual crime and injustice.  They can also see how complicated it is to inaugurate a new business model with insurance and banking and taxation and health groups adapting their policies to fit.

The will to decriminalize marijuana is the marketplace talking to the politicians:  get into the pot business or out of the booze business.  Do your jobs and sort out a distribution system then let it be.  Folks will vote with their dollars.  I predict brisk sales of pot-laced edibles and bagged-up bud.  Dude, it’s botanical.  Still, the underground delivery system thrives for now (whew).

I had a friend who called it Merry Jane and I couldn’t say he was wrong.  At its chemical root, cannabis serves to change the brain along known pathways, to bind itself at key locations, to cause a relaxation response.  We likee.


Stoner with a boner (It’s a Long Story) – Potcentric Sexotic Fictional Memoir — EXCERPT

I don’t usually blow a joint in the car, and certainly not in a strange neighborhood, but I had agreed to help grandma-sit a friend’s live-in relative for four days while they went on a cruise. The old lady, Grace, was losing her mind and filling up the empty spaces with foul racist images, she was on the waiting list for her church’s nursing home although they blanched when she visited there. She had a pleasant voice and clear expression on her face as she described the mailman donging the neigh­borhood dogs and the Chinee whore up the street pretending to run a laundry so men could take off their underpants behind the counter and she’d clean their behinds with her face. I got my own three hours of “respite care” from a paid nurse each day and I dashed to my vehicle, my privacy, my silence, and even that didn’t wash her away.  She’d been a music teacher, raised a fine family, now she estimated penis size of “bucks” on TV. (She never slept.)

I drove around their section of town, getting used to the traffic flow, then picked a quiet neighborhood to slide through; kids were at school, folks were at work. I don’t excuse lighting the joint in the car, it was crazy-stupid, but what can I say? I’d been horrified listening to Grace’s world view after one day. My friend and her husband must have needed Thorazine to function.

I looked to the left as a car pulled up next to me at the intersection and it was a cop, he looked me over, noticed the doobie in my hand and shot his eyes back to my face. What could I do? I shut my mouth and nodded my head, crumbling the joint out the window so he could see it was destroyed. He deliberately looked at his watch, narrowed his eyes and shook his head at me. This was bad! I was saved because it was lunch time. He bleeped his siren at me just to see me jump then he wheeled left and drove away.

That is the absolute closest I’ve felt to being busted. And I didn’t care. If Grace’s fate lay at the end of the rainbow, I wanted to reconsider my long-range plans. It was a stroke that re-wired some of her circuits, she wasn’t a whole person any more, her linkage slipped and she wan­dered around verbalizing reptilian thoughts.


Busted! I’d feared it so often I grew bored with the idea. As my life solidified, I knew I’d have one golden chance to “go into treatment” for my anti-social behavior. I looked good on paper. Domiciled. Employed. Solvent. Rational. As long as I didn’t traffic except for personal use I was under the DEA radar. My value as a snitch wasn’t even a complete rung up the distribution ladder as my current “dealer” was a househusband who got his own pot free by middling $100 transactions. His wife would let him smoke if it didn’t cost them any money and if she didn’t have to see it, smell it or hear about it.

It’s hard to be considered an outlaw over such mild consequenc­es. Don’t give me the stepping-stone-to-heroin argument (gate­way drug). I don’t buy it. Having a beer doesn’t lead to Skid Row for everybody, not even for the majority. Drug classifications are a bureaucratic thing, misplacing marijuana near heroin rather than nico­tine, at the same time allowing alcohol to flow through society with dis­astrous impact. Don’t get me going on use and abuse of prescription psychopharmacology. Either ban it all or allow it all, but the hypocrisy blunts any attempt to resolve the questions of “pursuit of happiness” and “right to privacy”.

I valued my privilege to associate with whom I selected, to worship life as I saw fit, to speak of my beliefs openly— simple freedoms of a fully functioning citizen of the United States. I knew my leaders made mis­takes, I read about them daily, I knew they didn’t have particular insight into the human condition when it came to sex, drugs, rock and roll, or military might. They were wrong about pot and it made this element of my life inconvenient but not impossible. If you think about it, it’s a chummy distribution system at my level.

The movie “Midnight Express” killed any fantasy I had of dealing as a way to avoid working. Working was easier than jail. Work was only 1/3rd of 5/7th of the week, jail was 100% of the time.


My work-neighbor Ming told me she met a woman at a Japanese grocery. Ming said that the contact between them was electric. They talked in the parking lot for forty-five minutes before going out to dinner. Julie was French, adrift in her life. They were a world unto themselves. Julie was bi-curious and brought much of the heterosexual world into bed with them. Ming confided that Julie liked to fuck her, and especially liked to make her come that way. It was almost like a trick on all the men who longed for such a treasure and here, now, Julie possessed it with a flick of her wrist and a twitch of her lip…

For Ming, this was more than she’d ever dreamed of experienc­ing. It was so intense she was moved to speak to me of it, fearing it was unnatural to feel such pangs of desire.  She’d lose time remembering Julie’s lips on her nipples, the first such suckling ever! Ever! And the pinches!! Twisting!!! How cruel that nature indulged in extremes… passion was cresting in her.

“Ming, everybody is suspicious of their sex feelings. It doesn’t mat­ter why Julie makes you feel hot. She sees it in you, she brings it out. There is nothing for you to worry about. You’re telescoping many major events into a single affair. Your first deep kisses, your first petting, your first fingering.”

“I had nothing to confess before this. I may never have this again, it is the richest reward for following my fate. Julie is one kind of luck. Your friendship is another kind of luck.”

“It’s your time to flower, Ming. It’s exciting to watch. I thought I’d be jealous if you found somebody to love but I’m thrilled for you. It makes you even more beautiful.”

“Here’s something weird. Julie wants to play doctor and test the temperature in my vagina.”

“Wow, that’s an interesting image.”

“I think so too. Where do I get a hospital gown before Tuesday?”

_____________________________________________________________ promoting stoner literacy and sexual thoughtfulness for the rowdier reader for vivid family fiction

#regulatepot #legalizeweed #rowdierreader

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I give Frank advice about Dick. — Kathleen K.

How does a writer distinguish their work in the minds of the reader?

It comes down to craft.

I give Frank advice about Dick. Word play, puns, simply capitalizing some words changes an adjective to a noun and simple nouns to proper ones.  Bonus double entendre.  Those words come from a fictional sexual consultant so they’re better than clever, they’re truer-than-true!

Erotica and sexotica require structure and function.  Erotica is judged on its impact; sexotica qualifies on content alone.  You must engage the reader sufficiently for them to open their minds and allow the words to flow across their complex receptors.  Pacing and texture work together to engulf the reader, accepting for those moments that the words will work like incantations if followed carefully.

These lines from my books are said back to me (more or less accurately) by fans and reviewers. I know why I hear them again and again: they rang right to me when I arranged them.


“Spread ’em.”
“Spread me.”
I want your fingerprints on me
they’ll be like no one else’s.
You at the vertex
with me in the vortex.
My mother was honored for her role
but not respected for her performance.
Slither hither.
I love you as much as I ever have.
She’s allergic to responsibility.
How do you trust a creature that can bleed for a week and not die?

I am careful to note that “words are arranged” by me and not to claim that I am specifically doing anything new. Like the final sample, said in the context of a man with pre-wedding jitters, fits perfectly even if it isn’t “original.”  It’s apt.  There are layers of references and winky-wink inside stuff to fertilize the imaginations of rowdier readers. Rowdier than WHOM? If Fifty Shades sounds like scandalous writing to you, best you pass on by this vintage Boomer porn.

This is collectible sexotica, it glories in the plain-speaking approach to physique and technique à la Masters and Johnson as spiced up by The Happy Hooker. Those were the days when an excerpt of fiction in Playboy could turn into a steamy bondage movie remembered decades later; and if I said “Pass the butter.” like Brando famously did, a Parisian scene of sex with an asshole flashed in front of you. Three words!! That’s craft!!!

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