Category Archives: Sample

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

Tagged , , , , ,

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

Tagged , , , ,

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

Tagged , , , , ,

The Erotic Engine – What Drove Me Today

The Erotic Engine: How pornography has powered mass communication, from Gutenberg to Google

by Patchen Barss

The title says it all.  Two hundred ninety-two pages of well-written history, linking Stanhope peepers to VHS amateur porn, carnal antiquities to mobile sex apps.  He tracks the facts of money, mood and media, charting public acceptance and demand.  He’s mindful of socio-tech movements and accurately lands on the pulse of our underground sexual delivery systems.  Good storyteller, lots of first-person observations from thoughtful experts.


COMMENTARY by indie-publisher of sexotic books for rowdier readers – Kathleen K.

How do I find books like this?  Like this:  be at the library when the doors click open on Saturday morning and beeline to the new books.  A mixture of fiction, fantasy, nonfiction books are lined up for inspection.  I grab six, semi-sort of randomly, it’s much about the cover and the title, a quick flip to the summary.  Yes or no.  Then I move to the Staff Picks which is another collector-distributor point for odd-lot selections.  These are proffered by staff readers as topical enthusiasts so you might see romance and fishing guides and soul music.  Today, The Erotic Engine.

The book was published in 2010; I would add my own note about publish-on-demand options in media now.  Through a vendor like, an author like me can produce book masters at a reasonable price and offer them for sale on the biggest marketplace ever:  For about $850, you, too, could publish a 250-page book that would become available to anybody at any time they demanded it.  (Co-creators, $425; 4-some $212.50).  I stockpiled ten sets of masters (print and Kindle).  Besides being fun, it is an investment in future inventory.  Best of all, it supplies me with the many personal copies I distribute to fans and sell, in spurts (!), online.  Available for review:

I am insinuating myself into the conversation about erotica, counterculture literacy, and gender dynamics.  I’m on the look-out for rowdier readers.  Sassy, intelligent, witty, explicit erotica is not for everybody.  If it just so happens you, yourself, have a curious disposition then please connect here.

The newest book, ARCHING OVER Collected Collections of Graphic Poetry is romantic and erotic, uncluttered and direct, fertile with images.  The voice in these poems is speaking to you, overtly… you are being called out, slither hither.  “You at the vertex, with me in the vortex.”  It is a four-stage journey:  distinctly voiced, annotating moments when “modifiers lose meaning, it gobbles it, there are no other words.”

Amorous, yearning, exultant.  Frisky.

SAMPLE — All Rights Reserved

no youngster ever fucked like that

… it took ten years of bad sex

and disappointment

to stoke the fires

to blast past mistakes and earn learning

the mature and thorough sex

of one who has hungered

* * * * *

dog-style and howling

that’s how we do it

so you can really see

and i can really feel it

you bark commands:  move!  don’t!  move!

and i wag my tail

* * * * *

my back seems balanced

on the tip of your prick

the twin-curved ass

a surrounding

your hands bridge me

hauling my hips back

so we clang

* * * * *

thick stick

lush tush

bit tit

come some

* * * * *

i fuck myself

with a pliable substitute

it’s a matter of balance

not hard enough to hurt

not fast enough to burn

but almost, almost

* * * * *

a glow

so hot it boils marrow

eyes steamed blind

and ears melted

i’m shrieking

but my mouth is sealed shut

stunning sex


* * * * *

your cock is putty

in my hands

i like it

soft and pliable

lo, the stages

from palmful

to mouthful


filling full

* * * * *

our eyes are closed

but what are we seeing?

to you, am i a pair of fluted lips,

swollen, slick and seeking?

like you, to me, are a probe

with a heated tip

searing your name inside

* * * * * *

i find myself


all over the bed

toes over the edge

fingers dug into the pillows

my legs so far apart

i feel my trunk unlatch

* * * * *

my pleasure drips from your chin

when you look up at me

but the crown of your head

is all i see

when your face is what i feel

* * * * *

thick bodied

wide smiled

hot cocked


* * * * *

you loom

then weave

… the fabric of love

made between us

* * * * *

nipples like littlest dicks

full to bursting, up, out, insistent

LôôK LôôK

Info/Buy Links for Kathleen K. Books

Tagged , , , , , , ,

HONEY B., SEXUAL CONSULTANT — BOOK II by indie author-publisher Kathleen K.

HONEY B., SEXUAL CONSULTANT – the continuation of a truer-than-true tale of commercial satisfaction by Kathleen K.

While the ARCHING OVER graphic poetry book moves through production (see earlier posts), I am beginning the final read-through of Book II of the HONEY B. collection of sexotic books for the rowdier reader due out in Late Fall 2013.  Here’s the gist of the review of Honey B., The Suite Life

An educational, arousing read about a woman who could be paid to do almost anything… and like it.

…a competent, novelized version of hard-core erotica.

by Kirkus Reviews  Oct. 2012

Honey’s style as a call-girl is not particularly nice, that’s not what she’s paid to be.  She is challenging, charming, and hard to con.  She sees the “suite life” period as field work.  She intends to understand what makes people do what they do (and don’t).  The first book establishes her street cred.  As the review indicates, we’ve got lively language and explicit acts to consider as she learns to make wishes come true.

As a sexual consultant, she has quit fucking around for a living.  Using a form of transactional analysis, Honey sets out to offer suggestions to people who seek her advice.  The “I’m OK, You’re OK” model wouldn’t work because the people came to her when they were Not OK.  On the other hand, the Parent-Child-Adult framework was a bit snug.  She trimmed the concept of “transaction” to the “choices” people made:  choices to please, to reject, to reward their own ideas.  The primary relationship was between the outspoken sexualist and the volunteer consultee.  She said she’d tell them the truth and she did.  She wasn’t too worried about them listening, that was one of many choices they could talk about if they ever chose to meet again.

SAMPLE – Honey B., Sexual Consultant

Having sized up the timid man across from me I was even more impressed that he’d come to see me.  Walter was about to lose his marriage and it propelled him to a desperate measure like seeing a sex advisor.  Under­neath the bickering about finances, family, and the world at large, there was a sexual vacuum.  It was the broken unspoken promise between him and his wife: he was supposed to be her lover and she his.  They weren’t even friends anymore.  There were no children because their sex was rare and poorly performed.  Their two sets of parents and a half dozen siblings took various positions on “their problem” but none was privy to the actual factual basis of the animosity.  This man and his beloved did not connect on any physical level.  Walter figured they were about to explode apart which gave him the burst of resolve to invite Inge to a consultation with me.  For old time’s sake.

Inge was cold, not just to Walter; she froze me out.  She wore an ice mantle.  Looking beyond that I saw only frustration.  Whatever was missing was vital to her, the lack of it wiped her out.  Her being at our appoint­ment had more to do with her sense of fairness than any hope the marriage could be revived.  She sat right up when Walter proposed they discuss the sex situation with me as a mediator.  Inge was speechless, so Walter started first and proceeded to describe the dismal state of affairs.  Inge was surprised to hear he had even noticed the lack of sex, being that he was, in her newly expressed opinion, utterly passionless.  Walter winced but listened as Inge described him as sexually passive (he thought he had been being polite), physically weak (gentle?), and impossible to satisfy (he was waiting for her…).

By the time she litanied her disappointments, Walter’s blood was up.  She thought he didn’t want her when sometimes he felt like cradling her to his chest like a rag doll?  WANT her??  He imagined throwing her onto the couch and tugging her dress up to her forehead.  They had a great big beautiful fight in my office, they rose out of their chairs and came face to face.  I didn’t have to say a word until the fireworks were over and they were sitting side by side on the couch.  They were not sure what to do next.  (As planned, that fight did break the marriage but, to their surprise, they prevailed together outside its former confines.)

I told Inge to stand with her back against the wall and I instructed Walter to walk slowly towards her until he was against her and to push forward one more step until they were tight to the wall; he was to stand against her as they kissed.  They stumbled out, dazed, a few minutes later.  Case closed.


Inge called later to thank me and to ask if I might talk to her sister.  This proved to be how I was to meet many of my consultees, through the others.

I needed personal references; advertising was out for obvious reasons.  I wanted people who were ripe.  I did not troll for trouble.  It came to me.


Hannah had decided she must be a lesbian because she hated sexual intercourse.  This admission was blurted out from a sense of economy since Hannah had only one hour’s fee filched from her grocery money.  I told her to relax, we’d call it a “session” and not watch the clock.  Her husband had been her only high school sweetheart.  She was a virgin when they married but he was not.  He explained to her that he’d done it with some hookers while he was in the service.  From Hannah’s description he took this to be sufficient for his sexual basic training.  Fifteen years later he adhered to the same technique.  It was boring, too quick and ultimately a discomfort for Hannah.  He ejaculated because it was his duty to do so, he could hardly have enjoyed the raspy ride in her reluctant vagina.  They had two children and she had no desire to destroy her family.  She wanted me to somehow teach her how to cope with the disastrous trick her marriage turned out to be.

Hannah’s husband would not be coming in to see me, nor would he see anyone else.  The few times she’d broached the subject of their love life he’d asked her, “What do you know about it?  Those kids are living proof of something, aren’t they, Madame Sex Expert?  Maybe it isn’t supposed to be a joy ride, did you ever think of that?  It’s not like that romance crap you read.  It’s a tired bricklayer and his tired wife.”  From his attitude, she figured maybe all heterosex was bland and business­like.  Did that mean her romantic ideas were truly self-indulgent fantasies, inexperienced silliness?  I showed her a twelve-minute movie of a husband and wife demonstrating four positions for intercourse, man on top, woman on top, side by side, and man standing behind.  Hannah leaned forward in her chair, hardly blinking; when it was over she remained perched forward, but her eyes were closed.

She had a good cry, moved by seeing two very ordinary humans make beautiful love.  Later, we also viewed a lesbian love scene but all she identified with was the tenderness.

Our combined conclusion was that it did not seem likely her husband would change.  But at least Hannah now knew her adult heart was not misleading her, there could be satisfaction between a man and a woman, between two women (thus, by extension, two men)…  She would be loyal to her husband as had been the plan all along.  The difference was that she could finally mourn her loss of sexual opportunity even as she celebrated her gain in insight.  Besides, who knew?  Maybe… someday… after all, now she knew, sexual love did exist!


I was absolutely no help to Phil.  Phil was a homely gnomish man.  He wanted to know if I’d make an exception and ball him in my office because, you see, the only thing he had to talk about was the fact he wasn’t getting any so if he got some from me there’d be nothing to talk about so we could use the hour to fuck, see?  Problem solved.  I allowed as it was seductive logic but it lacked foundation being as how there’d be none of that by me with him.  He was practiced at rejection.  Phil then nonchalantly proceeded to explain to me that “gals” just didn’t have their heads on straight.  Didn’t they under­stand about give and take?  How many times had he bought dinner for some “gal” and got the brush off (after dessert, naturally)… when he helped some “gal” move her furniture shouldn’t he get to romp on it with her at the new place?

It was my suggestion that he quit working the barter market and pay to play.  No way!  He wasn’t about to be suckered into that world.  I had to admire that in him, he knew that he wouldn’t be a winner in the sex trade.  Sadly, there was little in the way of advice I could offer.  As is often the case, Phil didn’t really have a problem.  He was living within the boundaries he felt comfortable with.  He was just blowing steam, seeing if this erotic consultation stuff was an avenue to acceptable sex.  It not being so, he did not return.  I’m sure he’s tried singles bars and adult education classes and joining a health club with the same result.


I have twin recliner swivel rocking chairs that I ordered at some expense from a Michigan company.  There are lock levers for all the sections so that once you work the chair into a good position you can relax.  The chair can be expected to maintain itself.  You can release all, or some, of the levers to tilt and/or twirl.  When I sit in mine, I most often remain upright but ease the leg rest out to avoid appearing stiff.  The client can sit in one of these chairs while I sit at the desk and they will not feel abandoned because of the way the furniture is arranged.  Alternatively, they can sit on the couch, or at the small table and chairs near the window.  Every place touches every other place in the room, but each is also a separate place.  If we share the table the rest of the room fades away, if we rotate the big chairs to face the view screen we lock in and focus straight ahead.  I paid extra for a window overlooking the water, at times people had to put a lot of space between themselves and their ideas.  They would seem to be talking through the glass, their backs to the room (to me).  It was an act of release, to set the words free from the tip of the tongue.

I heard many a confession in that room.

Tagged , , , ,

Hempfest – Seattle — Aug. 16-18: Can’t get to the fest? Fire up a doob, read this potcentric sexotic fictional memoir.

All Hail the Hemp.  Just be cool with it.

If you can’t make it out to Hempfest this year, consider throwing some green at a potcentric sexotic fictional memoir written for the rowdier reader, in two volumes (so far):

Stoner’s Bone of Contention (The Weightless Joint) 

Stoner's Bone of Contention

Stoner with a boner (It’s a Long Story)

Stoner with a Boner

Stoner is witty, wise, and provocative in his quest for reefer and romance.  He’s decided to explore the abyss between men and women by diving in.

Written in a loose, free-wheeling prose that mimics the narrator’s lifestyle, the story glides from woman to woman and bong hit to bong hit without the burdens of plot or conflict.

… a memorable sexual escapade.

                                    by Kirkus Reviews Dec. 2012

These oddly thoughtful books are smoking hot and tailored for the nightstand.  Consider them vintage Boomer porn with redeeming social significance.

SAMPLE – Stoner’s Bone of Contention

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)

a.   the primal chaos before Creation.

b.   the infernal regions; hell.

c.   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.

SAMPLE 2 — Stoner’s Bone of Contention

I loved her, I loved her spirit and her body and her attitude toward life, we always found a laugh and a sigh between us when we wanted to communicate beyond words.  She showed herself off to me, she stood naked before me for no other reason than she knew I liked to concentrate on the details of her shape and surface.  One night she handed me a tube of lipstick, a dark dull chocolate color that she had me apply to her nipples, instruct­ing me on how thick to apply it, how far beyond her areolas to make pronounced changes to her look.  She let it soak in for a few minutes, I then dabbed it off with a tissue, starting softly but rubbing roughly at the end so that the color that remained was locked into her skin, darkening the entire cap.  For me, her dark tips were an astounding aphrodisiac.

In health class we were taught that female nipples darken when nursing so baby-eyes can discern them against the paler skin of the breast.  It weirded me out back then to think about boobs working, about what they were for, beyond my boyish fascination that they were attached to breasts that grew on girls.

Nelly had always been generous with her bouncy bits, letting me lose myself in their weight and suck her nips hard and harder until she shuddered and squirmed.  With the centers so dark, her boobs took on a new prominence in the soft light, they were DIFFERENT and like most men I am entranced by DIFFERENT.  It’s the same reason I like to bind the breasts of my lover, to criss-cross ropes around and under her beauties so they jut out at a new angle, so the tips are under pressure.

When I rolled up on Nelly that night, I held myself up and away from her, entranced by her slutty knockers, smudged dark and deliberate, wanting to delay the first feel of her slit, knowing it would feel DIFFERENT.  She scooped her boobs together so I could see the throbbing pointers, the nubs seeming to solidify as I stared at them.  Unable to resist, I plunged inside with a single forward push, thrilled that she was wet and ready, that she strained forward to get me in deeper.  Breathy pleas for more and harder were answered by tattooing my needs inside her, making my mark, to her palpable satisfaction.  Inside, inside where she let me be, inside where her heart beat pulsed against my cock, inside where there was nothing between us, I pushed and pushed and pushed until I came, unloading the last drops of my joy.  Before I could withdraw, she put her fingers to her clit and came for me, clenching tight then quaking with aftershocks.

[Risk an investment in some dark lip stain and see if it works for you.]


The human dick is a bone of contention.  It can be the root cause of marital discord, romantic sputtering, and cyclical self-abuse.  It is a force, it houses energy, and it has presence.  It has the duty of perpetu­at­ing the human race by spewing spores.  It has that purpose but is not governed by the likelihood of success; it is the release of the spores, not their finding a target, that drives the dick.  In fact, when the spores are neutralized for conception by mechanical barrier, chemical suppression, or surgical intervention, many dicks happily shoot blanks.  Dicks are reckless drivers.  A dick will poke its head where it is not wanted.  Suffice it to say that what men do to their dicks in private reveals the relent­less nature of arousal and the energy required to combat it.  We spank that fucking monkey.

We’re not always good at expressing our sexual feelings, no matter how candid we are with the facts.  To explain what you need, why and when and where, reveals the yearning for context.  Sex should be carefree yet significant, unstructured and yet contained.  Men are trying to match their simple gear system to the mysterious hydraulics of women.  Our intellectual assignment of gender roles skips around the polarity between us; some of the differ­ence takes quantitative analysis.  Love|Sex is central to our behavior; we’re moved by instinct and encul­tura­tion.  We’re too quick to think we know what ticks inside our partners when we barely know our own triggers.  Sex disarms you… unless you’re part of the predator population in which case it is a weapon.  For most of us regular folk, the surrender of intercourse is complete and trusting, it is sharing and allowing and excusing the crazy ways our Sex|Joy busts out.

SAMPLE 3 – Stoner’s Bone of Contention

You do not have to be a smart man to love a smart woman:  you have to be a loving man.  I got smart enough to realize that trying to outsmart people is not smart.  I’m steady-on my mission to appreciate and meditate upon the complexity of people, specifically female people, and if it so happens that her brain works at twice the speed of mine then so be it.  There’s a probing that happens when smart people assess you, it’s nothing personal (which is why it’s uncomfortable).  You are examined through honed lenses; you may as well relax as they profile you.  It’s what they do.  It’s the smart thing to do.  I didn’t mind because I was curious myself as to their judgment.  If too smart for their own good, they dismissed others too quickly; I had my own sharpened talents available to the ones who knew how to spot me.

I wasn’t anybody’s Jethro, I didn’t dumb down by any means.  I wasn’t interested in being associated with problems, any kind of problems, the whole point was to link up, slink along, see if our charges attracted or repelled.  Cool.  Easy.  Kind.  Specific.  I like to keep carnal things well-defined, to heighten the expectations between us thereby allowing other barriers to fall.

I wasn’t a bully or a braggart; I wasn’t hiding a secret life.  I made a free and clear offer to meet face first, body to follow.  You were welcome to decline but if you considered accepting then we negotiated the limits.  It wasn’t a formula, not really.  I didn’t waste time shooting at scampering targets, this wasn’t ambush style for me, not as a grown man with a sincere desire to connect.  I could be a good companion to a woman who was ready to be herself:  either reclaimed from a bad relation­ship through time and self-assessment or naturally clear-headed on matters of excitement and desire.  We were going to get crazy together and for that we needed a solid foundation.

Like smoking the pot, some do and some don’t.  I’m not here to change their minds, just to assess which part of the playground is theirs.


The War on Pot is all but over, the stoners ignored the law and waited it out, and now it’s all about the paperwork, how much can you have, where can you get it?  It’ll be a few more years before you can buy a pack of reef at the liquor store.  I appreciate the laid-back law enforcement:  keep focus on the meth labs and pill factories.  The joke is that the only increase in legalized pot use will be old hippies who haven’t been able to buy a lid since 1978… the rest of us have been using an efficient commercial supply chain all these years.


“What did you say?”

“What did you hear?”


The definition of work:  paid to do what you would not do voluntarily in order to fund what it is you DO want to do.

≤÷≥ offers an online catalog of bedside readers for the adult mind.  Not suitable for some, appreciated by others.  This is not your Mommy’s porn.

Tagged , , , , , ,

Ding Dong! Fun with Phalluses.

Mind in the Gutter: Phallic Accidents Are Everywhere

Our Favorite “Accidental” Penises or Phallaccidents if you prefer

by Drew DiSabatino – July 25, 2013

After seeing a recent video of a news reporter accidentally drawing a penis on a traffic map, we started noticing dong-related mistakes were penetrating…erm, occurring in other photos and videos as well.

LINK to complete article.


COMMENTARY by indie author-publisher Kathleen K.

Jezus freaking Cheetos:  Lighten up, folks!   Get working on that pursuit of happiness already.  I’ve used my liberty to establish an indie publishing enterprise and am pleased to announce Book #9.  I used the silly dick pix like car companies use bikini models, to catch your eye.

ATTENTION, readers of odd books, this is writing on the wild side to, for and about you, and all your rowdy friends who may be coming (over) tonight.

Kathleen K. introduces the newest addition to a collection of bedside readers for the adult mind.

Stoner’s Bone of Contention (The Weightless Joint)

This potcentric sexotic fictional memoir is a statement piece on reefer and romance, exploring the abyss between the genders by diving in.  Available as a stand-alone sequel to the memorable sexual escapade Stoner with a boner (It’s a Long Story), this indie book joins other vintage Boomer porn available at


Dick.  Prick.  Cock of Ages.  So many variations, nicknames and shorthand, for the embodiment of male anatomy – all we people got butts, nips, pubes but only half get the stick.  The others get the goal.


My dick is quite insistent, there’s no point in suppressing its natural exuberance.  I’m a grown man so I’m not plagued with the errant stiffies of a rookie.  Suggestive ideas stir my mind as well as nudge at my physical barometer.  It thickens, it rests, I know how to hypnotize it if necessary.  Delay, not deny.

My friend Sally was the middle-aged widow of an old rich man.  She didn’t want to attract any attention to herself as lawyers worked out the details of her marital inheritance so she spent most of her time alone.  She wasn’t a gold digger; ten years ago she essentially agreed to be legal bedside companion to a nice dude on the high side of sixty.  She was his social shield and house manager; she had rights to dictate his medical care so there’d be no fuss in an emergency.  He didn’t need a nurse, not exactly, and he couldn’t stand the idea of dying unnoticed.  Once dead, he wanted to make haste to his cremation, over and done, no revenants.  It was a good life, he liked being alive, but there were no Pearly Gates ahead for him.  Life was a mysterious force that came to us and left us.  Inga was respectful of her employer and she lived in comfort alongside him in exchange for a promise of a post facto inheritance as her marital right.

She and I had been covert fuck-buddies long before she got married, and our sex had been dormant a decade to respect her dutiful vows.  We trusted each other to enjoy our full-body reunion to the max but keep it on the down low.  Her old man had died with dignity in his own home, with a friend at his side; that was a fact.  Another fact was she had to face the fact he was gone.  Everything was a swirl at the moment so I was invited to be at rest with her.  Lolling against me, she took comfort in being met with manly resistance; she fluttered up to and was captured by my gravitational pull.  I was solidly present in my body with the adult authority that had leaked away (naturally) from her husband.  The comfort of their casual contact was something she’d missed as her man got too frail even to hug.  She and I agreed to meet in a room at a nice hotel, never crossing paths in the lobby.  It was our intent to drop off the radar when we got together.  It was great to see her again, to know that she was safe, sound, facing forward.  Sally wanted me to conjure up our younger selves, the ones buried in memory, so we could encompass both grief and relief, and lots of hope.

I can fuck the hell out of a strong woman.  I get limp around the weak.

≤÷≥ –  Site Map

Tagged , , , , ,

Sex Science Enriches Vintage Boomer Porn by Kathleen K.

The woman who explained the female orgasm

By Thomas Maier, Special to CNN

updated 4:05 PM EDT, Fri July 26, 2013

(CNN) — Virginia Johnson once told me something surprising about her famous partnership with Dr. William Masters, which helped revolutionize America’s understanding of human sexuality.

Despite Masters and Johnson’s worldwide fame, “We were absolutely the two most secretive people on the face of the Earth,” she said. “There’s simply no one who knew us well. People have a lot of speculation, but they don’t know.”

On Thursday, as I read the obituaries about Johnson’s death at age 88, I was reminded of Virginia’s words. There’s a sense of marvel about her life story and how she managed to affect the lives and happiness of so many people, especially independent-minded women like herself who wanted to make their own decisions about sex outside the dictates of men.

Time would underline Johnson’s impact even more. Despite their guarded language, the first book documented the power of female sexuality, showing that women were capable of multiple orgasms — a veritable fireworks display — compared to most men’s single firecracker.

Their clinical evidence became part of the spark for America’s so-called sexual revolution of the 1960s and 1970s, reflected in everything from key feminist writings to Hugh Hefner’s Playboy magazine. Even the rosy women’s magazines, filled with recipes and homey bromides, began writing about sex, using the same clinical phrases that Masters and Johnson made acceptable in polite society.

Link to original article.


COMMENTARY by indie author-publisher of sexotic-erotic books Kathleen K.

Vintage boomer porn is a direct descendant of this liberation of sexual mechanics; we were able to articulate in specific language how men and women operate.  It was critical that a woman be part of this educational movement, Virginia Johnson incorporated a feminine sensibility back when it was even more so a man’s world.

What a fascinating playground for my novice novelist ideas to inhabit, roiling in the background as I moved through adolescence, bursting out just as I crested high school and hit college.  Women stood forward, spoke up, and unloosed the bosom!  Shifting the culture forward, female power was quantified to them, by them and for them.  This re-conception of sex as measurable made it all the more describable.  We ratcheted forward one complete revolution to make it ordinary for a single female of my age and station to have her own apartment, her own opinions, and her own income.  Like all golden ages, it would pass.  What remained was the presumption of participation for more people.

In that freer world I could form the dream of self-publishing and through the decades trust that I would retain my liberation.  It wasn’t a fluke of social unrest but an honest-to-goodness shift in emphasis enriching the culture beyond measure.  Boomer chicks aren’t airheads; they farmed communes and reshaped governments.  They got daddies in to the delivery room.  They integrated themselves into health care and finance at leadership levels (they’d always been there as front-line labor).

In this vibrant social whirl, women could move with grace and purpose, having a whole bunch of fun.  That put sexual congress on a new footing as people could seek mates of contrasting strength.  As a backdrop, beneath the surface, each of my books presents the storyteller with choices that define the outcome.  I’m all about the finitude.

Example sentences using the word finitude:

It is part of our finitude , but it should not be taken as the key marker of our humanity.

Finitude and limits give us something against which to define our existence.

To live in the consciousness of finitude and dependence means to look for help.

They mark the discovery of finitude in the experience of desire.


Coming.  Soon.  Dark Prince, Heed Thy Queen offers us a modern female narrator who can sum up her new relationship in this four-word volley:

“Spread ‘em.”

“Spread me.”


Watching Nathan mount a female fascinated me.  I didn’t waste time being jealous; I could do that later.  I wanted to see him do what I had felt him do.  I would not recommend this to the fainthearted; I was staggered by the feelings as I witnessed him giving his prick away to someone else.  I curdled inside when he reached around to her front, she was endowed with cherry-topped perfection, anybody could see she pleased him and also that he was pleasing her by the way he handled her generous body.

Nathan was a powerful fucker; he took the time to adequately prepare his partner so that she yielded her deepest acceptance.  When Nathan rolled that other woman onto her belly and lifted her by her hips so he could plug into her, I wanted to knock her out from under him and slide in.  How dare he do it my way with her?  I saw his dusky cock glisten with her happiness and it was a lesson to be learned.  Sex was bigger than just the two of us, no matter how primarily we were attached.  His body could work with her body; he had not lost his response to other women even as he committed more intimate acts with me.  He insisted we confine our sexual escapades to carefully orchestrated scenes like his balling some guy’s wife while the wife’s guy and I watched.  Her husband and I weren’t going to fuck this particular time; we were busy watching at the moment.


I’m not defending Nathan, I’m explaining him.  I consorted with this dog and thought he was a man (making me his bitch?).  The sad part is that Nathan was a man in many ways, in basic ways.  95% genetically similar.  5% canine/lupine.  (It’s less than 1% difference from human to chimp.)  I was used 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 affair.

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, skintimacy.

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 copse then we’d walk home hand in hand, acting innocent but looking smudged. for the rowdier reader for complete catalog

Tagged , , ,

“Legalize pot” is wrong slogan; it should be “Regulate pot”

Survey: 40% of adults in favor of marijuana legalization with tough laws

This year’s survey comes after two states, Colorado and Washington, legalized recreational use of marijuana in last November’s elections.

“The reality is that marijuana is now legalized for recreational use in the states of Colorado and Washington and it’s clear that society’s views on marijuana are evolving dramatically,” Steve Pasierb, president and CEO of The Partnership at, said in a statement. “The data bring to life the fact that parents — including the large number who favor legalization— have serious expectations that legal marijuana will be regulated and restricted to protect kids and teens. Those expectations far exceed how legal marijuana is being implemented.”

Link to original article from CBS News

COMMENTARY by indie publisher of pro-pot literature KATHLEEN K.

The Legalize Marijuana slogan got it wrong.  If only we’d said Regulate Marijuana.  The idea you could ban it is long past; it’s a commodity in the free marketplace.  A matter of taste and persuasion, we seek to exercise our specific rights as free citizens.  Regulation implies standardization and compartmentalization and all those good –ations we’ve put on alcohol and sleeping pills and cold medicine.  Get real and incorporate pot right where it belongs:  in the locked shelves with tobacco, at the special stores with distilled spirits,.  Even stoners “get it”… this isn’t ollie ollie oxen free.  Lots of things have to change.  Banking.  Property rights.  Crime prevention.  Public service costs like the lottery contributes to caution problem gamblers.

I don’t want underage users getting high, drinking alcohol, having guns (or driving in my neighborhood), but once they successfully complete those baby-years then all of the naughty things become choices for them like they are for us.

Still, it is landmark that so many voters understand the goal is not the promotion of pot but simply its re-codification from scourge on humanity to wacky tobacky (sticky icky icky).  This ain’t no hippie rebellion anymore; it’s a compromise like all grown-up enterprises must be.

To celebrate the lifestyle of the high and the happy, Stoner with a boner and Stoner’s Bone of Contention are witty and vivid reflections on reefer and romance.  He’s promoting stoner literacy and sexual thoughtfulness one rowdy reader at a time.

SAMPLE of Stoner’s Bone of Contention by Kathleen K.


Tripper hallucinates intruder and calls cops.  Awkward.


“Can people see in the kitchen?”

“I can see you.  You can see me.  Yes. People can see in the kitchen.”

“I mean, see into the kitchen.”

“Oh.  Maybe.  It never mattered before.  You know… what was there to see?”

“Well, it matters now.”

“I can close the blinds.”

“I didn’t ask for that… I just wondered, could somebody see us?”

“Would that be OK?”

“Would it be OK with you?”

“I don’t mind if somebody sees what I’m doing to you.”

“I don’t mind being seen having you do it.”

“Do it like this?”



Forget the pretty words when the time comes to unleash your passion, use the ageless vocabulary of pleas and urging.  It isn’t what you say but how you say it:  do you sound hungry, do you sound focused, do you sound eager and keen?

I like sass, tart and startling.

En garde!  Begin the fucking fencing.

Are you mine?  Can I have you?  Do I do you first?  What happens to that stuff if I pinch this stuff?  Have you met my little friend?


“I saw Davey with that girl…”

“What girl?”

“The girl… the girl with the hair.”

“Most girls have hair.”

“OK, fine, I won’t tell you.

“Re-lax.  So Davey’s with that girl, where?”

“Buddy’s Bar.  Sitting at a table just the two of them.  I drifted over there, you know, casual.”

“Is she as pretty as she looks on the billboard?”

“Close-up perfect.  So, like, they invite me to sit down and we’re talking, you know, yackety-yak and Davey’s buying us all shots, so I’m getting bold, you know how I do?  Teasing, we’re all laugh­ing and making jokes.  The conversation goes sideways sexy and I hear myself ask her if she’s interested in bondage.  And she says, get this, she says, real serious-like:  ‘I am very interested.  But he won’t let me tie him up.’”

“Come on!  What did he say to that?”

“Nothing.  Nothing at all.”

“Well, really.  What could he say?”


 Kathleen K. Books Site Map

Tagged , , , , ,

Ineffable Elements and Potentiators – words arranged by Kathleen K.

I am waiting for the second print-proof master of Stoner’s Bone of Contention to arrive, this could be IT.  Book #9 will be available online within weeks.  This is a potcentric sexotic fictional memoir about getting high then diving into that baffling abyss between men and women.

What’s at the heart of this book?  It celebrates sexual thoughtfulness with deft vignettes of Stoner’s philosophy in action.  Free-wheeling and oddly thoughtful, tender at times, cussedly candid at others.

SAMPLEI took a hop, skip and a jump through the book to isolate these particular musings of our narrator

I had no idea she was seeking a sexual consultant.  I had gone to enough of these sorts of grocer conventions to be careful around women on the road.  There was a wild, after-school feeling with so many out-of-towners in attendance.  It would be that freedom that led to my intimacy with Kalia, but only after we had both evaluated the suitability of the other.  There’s a moment when a woman makes her choice, insofar as she decides if it’s impossible to consider a physical tryst.  When that switch is off, it’s off.  It isn’t quite so definitive when it’s on, it being more of a dimmer switch than a single flip-to-the-on position.  A woman’s signal set includes pressure readings and ineffable elements, I’ve learned to watch and wait for as long as it takes for her to decide.  Arguing is fruitless, whining is unattractive; begging shouldn’t work.  Here is where the women have all the power.  Simple as that, write it down.  Her highest compliment is to accept a man within her, to take him up into her center, to grant him the privilege of uniting with her.  No matter how devalued commercial sex becomes, how tawdry and wasteful so much of our sex has devolved into, there is no doubting the primal urge between true lovers to blend.


The weirdest things conjure sex.

“I’m going to smoke some pole.”

I can’t remember when I first heard it; however, when you do hear it, you get the idea even if it doesn’t make sense objectively.  It’s a sharp description of a vital function reduced to verb + noun.

So many ways to say fellatio, clinical or coarse words conjure the same image, face at the groin.

Smoke it, suck it, lick it, all the words are begging to put the mouth to the penis, to bend to or kneel for then open wide and make it disappear.  Consume it.  Blow it away.  Finish it.  Empty it.  Take it all in, absorb what it is then ingest what it contains.  Surrender to conquer, spill it out as a show of acceptance even if it is, ultimately, an act of expulsion.  The threat of a missile is right before you launch it, after that there’s a countdown to its one and only detonation.  There may be other missiles, other launches, but this one is up, up and away.  Done for, once it’s started.


I think the fact that guys see getting tit as a mere way station on route to their one true goal means that they are missing a chance to experience a potentiator.  A potentiator enhances the perform­ance of another thing.  By exciting a woman with knowledgeable handling of her breasts you are heightening the vaginal reaction.  Don’t blast past the intimate hors d’oeuvre, a light bite whets the appetite.  Create fertile ground for the sexual feelings to root and grow by appreciating the amusing and arousing sample.  Women know they will get a reaction, some reaction, a definite reaction, to their breasts and it will most likely be delivered through the nipples, telegraphing the nether receptors to come awake and await further signals.

I leap from the sight of nipples to the facts of sex, to positions and angles and scooping up heat.  I run the endless loop of what the rest of me is doing as I pay homage to her succulence.  I have so many parts to offer, my hands and limbs, my torso, my chassis, all fired up from my little engine that could, my valiant libido pulling me up and up and up.  My mind races ahead even as I force my body to slow down and participate fully.  I hold the faith that if I invest my attention in her pleasure from the start then I am much more likely to share it in the end.  I can get myself off but I can’t fuck myself.


KathleenK.xxxSite Map

Tagged , , , , ,
%d bloggers like this: