Category Archives: vintage Boomer porn

Human Penis Info: Putting it in… perspective

kathleen_k_writer_erotica_sexotica_books_poetryNothing new about the meat market!

Let’s toss some science and evolution into the endless contemplation of the human penis and its role in history.  Since comparative measurement is at the heart of much of the angst about the human penis, perhaps instead of comparing them to each other, we can cross species and be glad for the tool granted to all the human brethren.  You’re hanging huge among the placental mammals, dudes.  Relax.

“…the human penis is larger than that of any other primate, both in proportion to body size and in absolute terms.”  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Penis

Why Don’t We Have a Better Condom?  Good question, discussed here.

Australians Working on Better Condom

Scientists from the University of Wollongong are designing ultra-durable condoms they claim could feel even better than nothing at all.
The contraceptive is made with hydrogel, a strong and flexible solid which can be made to feel and act like human tissue.
The groundbreaking design will eventually offer functions like self-lubrication, topical drug delivery, and even electric conductivity, dramatically changing the capacity of male contraception, reports Science Alert.

We can also investigate erecting the barrier from the inside out:  female condom news.

We’re getting the science right but the emotions are still all over the map.  The extreme penis enlargement done by this guy shows his lack of understanding of the purpose and functionality that underlie the existential value of the organ.  He’s outsized it, literally.  It cannot fit anywhere it was intended to fit.  It is on constant display as a rupture in his ego, more so than those huge boob-balloons which to be fair do not prevent sexual connection.  What burbles beneath our preoccupation is the general tension over penis endowments.  Women worry less about the size of a man’s penis than she does about his own assessment of that size and how it affects their relationship.

For whatever reason(s), men resist the obvious truth that they have the normal amount of stuff to work with, are in competition with similarly-sized males, and whatever it is they do have is prized by their partner.  My message:  physique and technique.  Assess what you have, make peace with it.  Then, learn to put it to good use.  Many women don’t actually experience all that many men, so you can narrow your sample size.  It isn’t you amongst the millions, it is you and the select how-many-ever-but-not-likely-millions she accepted before, during and after you.  Make your time together memorable and you’ll loom large in her dreams.

#readmore

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Sexotica is the rundown and roundup of options in the carnal markets

Fifty Shades of Grey is a stand-in phrase for sexually explicit writing and now a racy movie about power and pain… in high places.  Very beautiful people playing with sex gadgets and tensioners, oh! so extreme.  It’s a big shift from having incidental sex (spies, cops, criminals doing it between ‘important’ plot-advancing activity) to a film using the sex as a character, an energy.

I have always focused on the appetite for E.L. James’ trilogy rather than the taste level of it… wildfire sales gave me hope as an indie author-publisher that people remain curious in this video-porn-saturated world; they want romance and intrigue and details of seduction with illustrative outcomes of any such contact.

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Intriguing image from dreamstime.com

The problem with designating this or any other work “erotica” is that it requires a subjective sense of engagement to be moved by words.  Sexotica qualifies on content alone:  specifically, information about options and alternatives is presented.  Turning you on isn’t the objective, increasing your knowledge and appreciation of sexuality is.  Humans like to learn about things we’d never do (suck toes, chase a cheetah, fly a rocket…) but we are extra shy about our non-essential sexual curiosities.  Remember, sodomy used to mean anything that didn’t make a ‘legitimate’ baby which disallowed pre-marital, extra-marital, anal, oral, manual and masturbatory release.  It seems unseemly to ask for details on precisely how not to do those things specifically.

One reason the Fifty Shades movie will disappoint some viewers is because they won’t give over to it in a crowded theater.  Put it online and it will go-go-go.  Pretty pretty sex… in oh-so-faux perilous situations.  Contrast it with Fatal Attraction making it dirty by framing sex in a dingy elevator and against a sink full of dishes.  The beautiful and arch expression of peak physicality in the actors themselves puts a shine on a common enough man+woman encounter, statistically speaking.  Maybe not at the sink but it isn’t about the sink.

I’m beckoning rowdier readers to request a sample book in exchange for a reviewOnly you can give us your reaction to the books.  I write for folks who like the vernacular, the language is freewheeling.  Focus remains on the inventiveness of the physiques and techniques in these mucho many vignettes and scenarios: the rundown and roundup of specificities in general.  


If the idea of smart and sexy language sets you a’Twitter:  @KathleenKxxx

I rode that sweet cunny like a desperado heading for his hide-out: crazy-wild getting there and unleashed when I knew I made it home.


For rowdier readers  kathleenk_sexotica_honey_b_sexual_consultant     ADULTS ONLY – SAMPLE

from Honey B., The Buzz   (Coming. Soon. Summer 2015)  Honey B. is a sexual consultant who tells truer-that-true tales of a retired pay-to-play girl who turned to giving Frank advice about Dick.  Sassy, sharp and seriously experienced, Honey advances the belief that sex is about learning.  In Book IV of the quintet, it is the consorts and cohorts who tell us stories about her, what it meant to meet her, to interact, to (pretend) to dominate, to (actually) submit.  Told in alternating explanations about the impact of her sexual intervention, and quicker snippets of encounters with an inventive, intelligent sex⇔love partner, The Buzz is another oddly thoughtful look at choices and strategies in the carnal markets.

Honey B., The Suite Life – Book I available now

Honey B., Sexual Consultant  – Book II available now

Honey B., Erotic Advisor – Book III written, not yet in production

Honey B., The Buzz – Book IV in production

Honey B., Happy Endings – Book V written, not yet in production

_____________________

She had her way with me, I presented myself for her ministrations without a single limiting request… who was I to tell a sexual artist what she must do to please me?  I was not shy with my body but my feelings were sheltered deep inside.  Piece by part by portion, she blended the tactile rush of her educated fingers with the whisper-kisses of entreaty.  I withstood the call of her sex so she could push against my boundaries, the ones unspoken and thus most feared.

I cannot give away her secrets but I can share this moment:  She’d got me standing at the edge of the bed upon which she is prone, her face at my groin, panties at her ankles.  And she did this for me!

_____________________

I never met an investigative reporter before, I hope this book idea works out because the world is full of surprises and Honey is one of them. I had lived half my life in a fog and one woman blew me clear into a whole new life. Opening my eyes to the desire for sex gave me a new outlook on existence.

I expected to go to yet another counselor with my husband Tony and try to figure out why we weren’t making our marriage work. I loved him and he loved me, and yet we bickered and fought over every little thing. We had done so much sensitivity training that we could hardly brush past each other in the hallway without attaching interpersonal significance to it, we had sex every night and worked at it doggedly until we were mutually satisfied.

Honey said, “For god’s sake, take a break. Quit fucking so much, you’re ruining your love life. You need more sleep and less sex.”

Tony’s jaw dropped. We were not used to being criticized for our sexual endurance. Most counselors reassured us that our continued sessions of orgasmic-at-all-costs intercourse held us together. Honey disagreed because we spent too much time at it. We were in a sexual rut. I thought marriage was symbolized in sex and that our commitment to daily exchange of sex would ward off all evils that threaten marriage. What Honey did was simple as pie. She let us see ourselves differently. We went on a sex diet.

For three days in a row we went to bed, kissed goodnight, and rolled over. The extra hour of sleep helped us start the day easier. We could take time to have breakfast together and plan the day. The fourth night we made love so fast that we didn’t miss much sleep. Three more days without sex and we planned a feast. We took a bath together, we ate each other to orgasm, we had dinner, we made love.

I hadn’t been so horny in a long time. We had broken our old pattern after two weeks of this and then Tony suggested to try two days off, one on, because the rapid-after-waiting sex was intensely exciting for him. He loved how quickly I got ready for him to enter me, I was flattered that the first sight of my body aroused him. We feasted on each other on Friday nights, and sometimes we snuck a fuck on Saturday afternoon but we were being naughty then and it didn’t take much to knock us out.

The other counselors did not understand sex as well as Honey did and although these other people offered reasonable methods for improving our interpersonal communications, it took a sexualist like Honey to give us a boost toward truer love and deeper sex.

Once we got past our scheduling problems, we looked more closely at the components of our pleasure. I was re-taught how to handle Tony’s penis by watching him whack himself off.  I learned to close my hand around it like a tube, not intended as a vise; visualizing the pliant vagina for which it longed; I learned to get rhythmic and repetitive so he could focus on the sensation and intensify it mentally – I had been changing my strokes too often and too radically. I quit laying next to him to do it (the angle was all wrong). I sat on the edge of the bed and he stood before me, I used two hands to scoop his cock and balls into an orgasmic storm so he could splash my chest with his cum.

Tony took pointers on eating me; we discovered I preferred to include a dildo in the act because I loved the penetration. As eager as he was to tongue me, and as much as I liked to be nuzzled as foreplay, in fact it took a thick stick to fill me the way I wanted. I got so wet from this that it was embarrassing to me at first until I understood that the lubrication was sexy to Tony, he thought of me slicked up for his dick.

I thought I’d never think about sex again after Tony died, we had been so in tune and it was such a physical love – then I took out our dildo and I filled myself with memories. I didn’t realize how good it was for me to do this until I started weeping after my orgasm: I was wide open, like I used to be, like Tony encouraged me to be. Like Honey presumed we intended to be all along.  I remembered our love was expressed through desire and I could still feel that.

_____________________

The cleft of her ass started at her nape and moved along her supple spine, punctuated by two little dimples notched like thumb-holds at her hips.  Even now I can position my hands as if hauling her back up against me, remembering her fleshy ass yielding to the command in my fingers.  I could just about control myself when she was facing away, her fine rump bumping me back.  Still couldn’t face her, didn’t think I ever would.  This dog style humping was all I deserved.

#readmore

I fabricate books.

I fabricate books. Books are printed on paper and bound, most often with a cover that wraps around it, usually hand-held but can be propped on table or lap, requiring repetitive mechanical finger action to advance pages.

Bedside readers for the adult mind… erotic & sexotic

kathleenk_erotica_books_dark_prince_sexotic HoneyB I 7174296_cover  PP Native Cover.4539172.indd

frontcover Stoner-cover copy imageStoners_bone_of_contention_cover

hires_frontcover  ARCHING Cover Memorial+3 pre-FINAL cover_rough0003a

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Vivid family fiction for those who read

between and beyond the words.

frontcover   FAMILY cover front harvest from PDF

Stainless Mary BookCoverImage   LentHand frontcover-medium

eBooks are pale iterations lacking body, they are not tactile, they do not show wear or tear of handling, they don’t have cracked spines or bent corners. Overly-tidy for my taste.  War and Peace is the same “weight” as Love Story on an eReader but put side by side in print telegraph their scope (comparing file sizes just isn’t the same).

I render digital versions for convenience.  It’s a low-cost way to get my stories into people’s minds.  I would like to see less “bad faith returns” meaning if you do eRead the book, don’t eReturn it.  It is just as low-class to wear something once and take it back.  You know you’re wrong.  eBooks have “Look Inside” previews and reviews so it isn’t a pig in a poke, and MAYBE you might go wrong 10% of the time.  You also don’t have to “like” the book meaning if the ending bummed you out that isn’t reason to reject the book purchase/reading experience.


I am grateful for Print on Demand as it allows me to create book masters for one fixed cost and then produce copies as needed.  I imagine it runs much like a busy port using containers to mix shipments of feathers and bowling balls by creating stack-able units no matter the content.  POD publishers have lots of ‘containers’ ready to roll. My graphic poetry is stacked on my Stoner fictional memoirs next to the Honey B.’s.  Mixed in with the sexotic-erotic-graphic containers are the family-driven narrative fiction products ready for reading by those who don’t want all the folderol of overt sex yet expect passion, drama and engagement.

#readmore

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Giving Away Erotica – The Lunarium

Using the wonderful features of GoodReads.com, I have launched my third book Giveaway.

kathleenk_erotica_the_lunarium_voyeurism_sexotic    The Lunarium GiveAway    Share the link!

Ten copies of The Lunarium will be awarded on November 30th and, I promise, mailed out the next day.

This collection of sixty-nine vignettes of voyeurism was Named to Kirkus Reviews Best of 2013 which is a great thrill to an indie author-publisher who appreciates when the big wide world takes notice.

The Giveaway program at GoodReads.com encourages publishers to facilitate book reviews.  They don’t claim the Giveaway winners are chosen entirely at random; they factor in the number of books in your listed collection, the number of reviews you’ve completed plus ineffable factors because they, too, want to reward and encourage reader feedback.  (I hope they throw in a few truly random selections, though, to keep things fresh.)

Good luck, and contact me directly if you want to discuss providing other reviews:  Info@KathleenKBooks.com


The Lunarium – Table of Things

About Things

Things are not chapters, episodes, or other specifically divisible increments of thought as parsed into expression.  There are all sorts of things that go on on paper  and this is some of that. Things will never be the same, they say, and that may be true – for them. I prefer to think of things my own way.

The First Thing  >< The Lunarium

The Second Thing ><   Voyeurs’ Cave

The Third Thing  ><   In the Mirror

The Fourth Thing  ><   Rear View

The Fifth Thing  ><   We’re Not Alone

The Sixth Thing  ><   SLIDE open the door QUIETLY

The Seventh Thing  ><   You Asked for It

The Eighth Thing  ><   Live Nude People

The Ninth Thing  ><   Procrastination

The Tenth Thing ><   In the Car, in the Day

The Eleventh Thing  ><   Rockets Away

The Twelfth Thing  ><   View with the Room

The Thirteenth Thing  ><   Lysergic Acid Diethylamide

The Fourteenth Thing  ><   Lean Over and Brace Yourself

The Fifteenth Thing  ><   Two-fold Twins

The Sixteenth Thing  ><   Sodom Community Theater

The Seventeenth Thing  ><   Close Your Eyes.  See What I Mean?  He Is the Pilot, She Is Flying.

The Eighteenth Thing  ><   Stripping vs. Disrobing

The Nineteenth Thing  ><   Men Put Their Hearts into It

The Twentieth Thing  ><   Women Elude Me

The Twenty-First Thing  ><   Fancy Meeting You in the Mirror

The Twenty-Second Thing  ><  Lunarium Redux

The Twenty-Third Thing >< I Said Fuck Me

The Twenty-Fourth Thing >< Virginia Woolf in the Buff (I’m Afraid)

The Twenty-Fifth Thing  ><  Male Role in the All-Girl Revue

The Twenty-Seventh Thing >< Late Night with James O’Donohue

The Twenty-Eighth Thing  ><  Rough Before Smooth

The Twenty-Ninth Thing  ><  Exquisite Angel

The Thirtieth Thing >< Wrestling a Bra

The Thirty-First Thing  ><  I’ve Seen Some Really Bad Sex

The Thirty-Second Thing >< Dues Due

The Thirty-Third Thing  ><  Yin and Yang in Black and White

The Thirty-Fourth Thing  ><  White Women on Leashes

The Thirty-Fifth Thing >< Fantasies Come True

The Thirty-sixth Thing  ><  Kiss My Irish Ass

The Thirty-Seventh Thing  ><  Tit Talent Show

The Thirty-Eighth Thing >< She Eats Cock with a Knife and Fork

The Thirty-Ninth Thing  ><  Her First, Then Me, Said She

The Fortieth Thing >< No Homo

The Forty-First Thing >< Panties For Sale

The Forty-Second Thing >< Luck of the Irish Boy, A Lass

The Forty-Third Thing >< Love-chafed

The Forty-Fourth Thing >< Make Me Take It, Let Me Have It (Doggie Wanna Bone?)

The Forty-Fifth Thing >< Sex Radio

The Forty-Sixth Thing >< Whose Tongue in Which Cheek?

The Forty-Seventh Thing >< Mr. Phyllis

The Forty-Eighth Thing  ><  I Learned in the Laps of the Masters

The Forty-Ninth Thing  ><  (title restricted)

The Fiftieth Thing  ><  Virgin Orgy

The Fifty-First Thing  ><  Staged Kiss Off

The Fifty-Second Thing  ><  Are You Good?

The  Fifty-Third Thing  ><  The Lunarium by Daylight

The Fifty-Fourth Thing  ><  Masturbating with Jeanelle

The Fifty-Fifth Thing  ><  Animals Doing It with Animals (the only one for the only now)

The Fifty-Sixth Thing  ><  Professor Wright Teaches Sex

The Fifty-Seventh Thing  ><  Hypocritical Exhibitionists

The  Fifty-Eighth Thing  ><  Bawdy versus Raunchy

The Fifty-Ninth Thing  ><  Me Being Man; You Being Not Man

The Sixtieth Thing  ><  The Super-fluous Bowl

The Sixty-First Thing  ><  Four-some, More-some

The Sixty-Second Thing  ><  Ejaculometers

The Sixty-Third Thing  ><  Tele-erotic

The Sixty-Fourth Thing  ><  How Could You Not Want to Watch?

The Sixty-Fifth Thing  ><  Door Frame Dancing

The Sixty-Sixth Thing  ><  Confronted with Chastity

The Sixty-Seventh Thing  ><  Exacting Equipoise

The Sixty-Eighth Thing  ><  At the Edge of a Live Volcano (At the Very Lip of Love)

The Sixty-Ninth and Final Thing  ><  Can You Face It, James?

The Seventieth Thing  ><   Always Give a Little Extra (or, The Ninth Thing  ><  Procrastination – Older Than Me When It Counted)

#erotica #readmore #voyeurism #sexotica #orgiastic

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.

kathleenk_fiction_erotica_books_gender_dynamics

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.

kathleenk_erotica_fiction_dark_prince_heed_thy_queen_maroon_moons

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.

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

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Hempfest 2014. We’d win the weed war.

Happy Hempfest 2014.  For most of  us, there’s no need to scurry down to the Sculpture Park to buy a little buzz… seasoned Stoners knew this day would come:  we’d win the weed war.

The Stoner series of potcentric sexotic fictional memoirs elevates toking time to a sacramental endeavor.  The books twine reefer and romance through the eyes of a mild guy with a wild side.  He’s the guy you want to come to your party.  His way with women is not a trick, it is a knowing.  Same-so his cultivating a righteous high.  He pays special attention to both.  Because they matter.  To him.

kathleenk_books_erotica_fiction_stoners_bone_of_contention

SAMPLE — Stoner’s Bone of Contention (The Weightless Joint)

I’m an old Stoner.  This dealer is young, proud of his scale-disguised-in-a-CD-case, so I politely hmm and umm as he explains it is precise to fractions of a gram.  Ahh.  As he talks I take a paper and crease it along the unglued edge so that about a quarter of the paper is folded lengthwise.  I tap my tongue along this edge, and the paper separates cleanly when pulled.  In the three-quarter paper, I sprinkle some of what he’s brought that I’ve carefully picked apart.  The joint is thin, a pinner.  I roll another.

I let him get a few hits ahead and then I mention there’s a better way to smoke this joint, while I pinched off the wet end so the smoke could move through.  He is to balance the joint between his thumb and forefinger, not mash it, he should position it so that the smoking-end of the j is not quite to the face-facing edge of this bridge.  Hold it only as tight as required to maintain control.  Use those arched fingers to ferry the lit joint to your lips.  The outer three fingers will curl up and away from the burning end.  You sip in air through (and around) the joint, leaving it dry.  This method makes that caricature of pot smoking, the pursed lip inhale.  I notice few of this Bong Generation have any idea how to roll a good doobie, or what to do when handed one.

I toss the other joint onto his scale and it registers 0.0.  He cocks his head to the side, silent.  I take it off and hand it to him.  It’s the same size as the one we’ve burned through so we both know it holds at least two highs.  He pokes the scale and the display changes.  He lets it reset then places the slender joint on the scale.  0.0

“Is that a weightless joint?”

“It’s your scale.”

“It weighs something.  I mean, just the paper weighs something.”

“A wisp, a few sprinkles of pot… not enough to register.”

“But it does register.  It registered on me.  If we just got high on nothing, then wouldn’t your pot last forever?”

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?”

“It must add up.”

“What?  All those zeros add up to what?  A big fat zero?”

“That’s a whole lot of nothing, dude.”

#stonerliteracy #sexualthoughtfulness #Hempfest2014

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Putting The Dark Prince to Bed…

Thunder and lightning breaking a heat wave tonight… it was a sultry day thus perfect to review this frank and frisky take on seduction.  The first move comes when you convince yourself you have a chance and you dareDark Prince, Heed Thy Queen is the twelfth book from my Private Publications available September 2014 in print and Kindle at KathleenKBooks.com.

Inside Title Page Image by Brian Quinn

Inside Title Page Image by Brian Quinn

There’s another post in this series that describes completing a manuscript, Putting Honey B., Sexual Consultant, to Bed, which I reference here in its entirety.  Each book is another statement piece for my rowdier readers.

This tart tale of indulgence lurked in my work pile for twenty years; I worked on it in 1994, 2001, 2006, 2009, 2010 and 2014.  I had the foundation of it in two lines of dialog:

      “Spread ‘em.”

      “Spread me.”

The title coalesced when I got closer to the motivation of the narrator:

      Dark Prince, Heed Thy Queen (In the Realm of Roles and Reversals)

      He might plan the battles but she was winning the war.

SAMPLE – for illustrative purposes only.  Amateur readers may not be amused.

 

His name was Nathan, provocative Nathan… Nathan, my Dark Prince.

[][][][][][][]

Nathan is dense and dreamy, he fills out his jeans, he has square shoulders and a powerful torso, his face is unremarkable but his emotions use that blankness to telegraph messages to people. He projects himself at you; you are shown what he wants you to think he is feeling. He stays on tight focus when he is being intimate but otherwise he’s on wide broadcast. People know when such a man is in the vicinity because nature makes it so. You hear his walk, you catch his body language. He asserts himself without challenging others.

His hair is thick and curly, he can make it behave when he wants to but he doesn’t always want to. It will droop in his eyes when he’s thinking. He has a beard, a rough-looking scruff outlining his face, not overly manicured. It grows the way it does to fit the face he has, it emphasized his lips and the strength of his temperament.

[][][][][][][]

 

“Nathan, do you think we need to know more about each other?”

“More than what we taste like, more than what we feel like?”

“How about knowing an emergency number, in case you have a heart attack?”

“9-1-1.”

[][][][][][][]

 

I didn’t know where Nathan got his money. It didn’t matter to me, I didn’t rely on it. I had my own money. He had his living quarters, I had mine. Ours was not a relationship built on facts from “real life”. We were lovers and our world was our own.

“Nathan, who is your friend?”

“He’s not my friend. You’re getting your picture taken.”

“He doesn’t have a camera.”

“Wear that spangly bra and the red leather mini-skirt. Bring out some toys.”

“Who’s knocking at the door now, Nathan… a driver without a car?”

“Probably the crew. With this man’s cameras. And lights. And the other models.”

“Oh.”

[][][][][][][]

 

I couldn’t let that man go. I would, from time to time, contrive to avoid him. As a gentleman, he took the hint and laid low. I’d do my best to be busy, or relaxed, or whatever plan I had for a particular bout of leave-taking. It was always me that called him, he honored my decisions better than I did.

“Nathan, it’s me.”

“You always will be.”

“Have you found somebody else?”

“I wasn’t looking.”

“I can’t let you go, Nathan.”

“You’ve certainly tried.”

“You know I have. I just want our time back.”

“Do you remember that blue dress with the black belt… you wore it to a cowboy bar one night?”

“I do remember that dress.”

“Wear that dress for me.”

“Nothing but me underneath. Just like at the cowboy bar.”

“One difference. You’ll be performing for an audience of one tonight.”

[][][][][][][]

#readmore #erotic #sexotic

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Stoner Thanks WA State Voters for Giving Peace a Chance

Seattle’s only legal pot store ran out of weed, it closed until it could get some more.  There were no riots, nobody panicked.  Weather reports indicated the sun was due up the next day as usual.  Clue:  pot is readily available here and has been for some time.  Not at the grocery but certainly in the neighborhood.  Everybody’s got a brother-in-law who knows a guy, or has a crazy Aunt Ginger with the shady girlfriend.  For details about the world of home-grown dreams, check out Stonerwithaboner.com, gateway to “a memorable sexual escapade” introducing a mild man with a wild side seeking reefer and romance.

The regulation and commerce of weed continues to advance across the nation, tendrils of this freedom creep outward from WA and CO, edging up to medical pot and then softening the rest of the No-No-No.

Peaceful revolution, overall.  You’ll always have your fringe users blowing up their garages during marijuana extraction experiments but you also have a guy who lit his house on fire trying to kill a spider with a lighter and some spray paint.  Message here, keep it simple:

  • “There are safer, more effective ways to kill a spider than using fire,” Moore said. “Fire is not the method to use to kill a spider.” As for the spider, Moore said: “I’m pretty sure the spider did not survive this fire. The whole wall went.”

Don’t judge the majority by the antics of the stupid and deluded.  We’re swinging a pendulum here, easing up on the possession of pot but tightening up on impaired drivers no matter the source of impairment:  liquor, drugs, rage, selfishness.

Raise a toast.  Pass the doobie.  Let the pendulum swing.

Life Plan:  Support yourself then indulge yourself.

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Free e-reader – Vintage Boomer Porn – You do or you don’t, you will or you won’t: click here.

#readmore #stonerliteracy #regulatepot

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Running a Phone Sex Business Gave Me the “Credentials” to Write Erotica

Twenty-five years ago I was living the merry life of a hippie poet and counterculture writer when my work life took an unexpected turn. I was a member of the independent arts community in Seattle and took office temp jobs to keep myself in typewriter ribbons and used books.  I’d written and hosted a sex-and-drugs radio comedy show for a season (très risqué), I ran a poetry-erotica bookstore for several years, and was co-publishing an alternative magazine for edgy poets and artists .  An opportunity to run a phone sex business arose in 1987 as the 976-TALK industry exploded.  It sounded like sex radio to me.  This was no-contact sex work, fantasy on both sides.  The job offered me a good salary for office duties like payroll and expense tracking, with an additional profit motive for me to lead by example on the live line, acting as the Head Mama.  I trained the staff and I set the tone.  This was a 24×7 relay situation and job-skill #1 was being on the line ready to talk when scheduled.

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Celebrating the 25th Anniversary of the business that inspired the book.

My knack for writing erotica gave us an upper hand on the “ohh-baby-ohh-baby” simulations of our competition, and I first turned this skill on the operator-applicants.  If they couldn’t talk to me on the phone, then they’d never make it live with a customer.  Plain-spoken naughty talk, directed and specific, familiar and profane.  Most people are surprised at the enthusiasm of disembodied arousal.  Phone fantasy females don’t do all the talking, the callers had plenty to say.  Operators worked from home part-time and were earning slightly more than generally skilled office workers with no commuting, no wardrobe expense, no fix-your-face time, and the fun of a weekly paycheck.  We provided the headset and they were to provide a quiet environment, connecting to the per-minute-party line through a restricted non-billing number.  Housewives and pregnant strippers and moonlighting waitresses agreed to do this because I convinced them that they would never ever meet the callers (who it turned out were just like the men they already knew).  They didn’t hustle for call-backs, they didn’t upsell videos, and they didn’t have to take any crap beyond the usual crap associated with men in pursuit of excitement .

We named the business Sweet Talkers to set a civilized tone for a commercial interactive sex fantasy party-line paid for by-the-minute.  It was just as bawdy and naughty as you’d expect. The men felt entitled to hot talk for their dollars, but they often stuttered and stumbled around the purpose of their call .  Mostly it was average guys talking about their need to get some satisfaction.  Nobody else seemed to understand their stalwart dick and its relentless need for relief.  Venting some penile steam wasn’t a big deal to them, it was an almost daily indulgence.  How much more fun with a disembodied female voice encouraging him to tell her what he wanted, what he really, really wanted.

That oddly intimate exposure to men’s actual fantasies continues to add authenticity to the sexy dialog and details of physique and technique in my erotic and sexotic books.  Please understand that the callers weren’t making love to themselves, they were spanking that f’ing monkey.  Consider these facts:  Guys like sex.  Guys like coaches and cheerleaders .  Phone sex is orgasmic coaching and cheering.  Accept the business is about masturbating, and it makes perfect sense that real voices intensified fantasy.

Conjure up the world pre-Internet.  Back then, phone sex was the wildest thing a regular guy could do anonymously.  He was alone at home on the phone doing something he was going to do anyway.  VHS moved porn to the living room, explicit magazines flourished.  Turns out that friendly phone at home could connect you to various voices yet set you free with the twitch of a switch.  The freedom to make the call paled in significance to the opportunity to hang up… shut it down mid-sentence, dismissed !

Sweet Talkers was shuttered after a year.  The industry was moving from an anonymous per-minute item on the monthly phone bill toward a credit-card system with fees and fraud flourishing.  Phone sex is a touchy subject because we prefer not to consider that men are so sex-hungry they’ll pay to talk to a stranger.  On the upside, they want to talk, they pay to talk.  It’s anonymous but not impersonal.

I knew that there was a book lurking in those crazy exchanges.  I wanted to capture the essence of phone sex so I opened my call diary and recreated faceless conversations: the racy ones, the silly ones, the mean ones and the duds.  Then, to justify the accuracy of the re-creations, I added some of the diary pages.  I incorporated training bulletins that I had written to deliver with the weekly pay envelopes.  (The only quickest way to teach someone to describe a blow job is to describe a blow job.)  I provided information on sex toys, girl-on-girl, dildo vs. vibrator, ritual domination, cross-dressing, and pee pee a deux so the operators had details to offer but they had not been handed a script.  I linked up this background  info on the business with commentary on the callers in the same freewheeling language that crackled on the line.

The result was a forthright first-person account, Sweet Talkers (Words from the Mouth of a Pay-to-Say Girl), which qualifies as pornographic nonfiction curiosa and is as one reader said, “Filthy.  Positively filthy.  Thank you.”

Against all odds the book got off the slush pile at a literary agent’s office and was sold a few years later to a small-house erotic publisher.  It was received as a raw yet charming chronicle of life in a jack-off factory.  It did well enough to go to paperback but then fell out of print when I backed off promoting it.  I got diverted into Mommyhood and went underground as a wicked-wording writer in deference to the power of the PTA .  It was the confidence I gained from Sweet Talkers, both on the line and in print, which fueled my production of high-end erotica.  That book became a cult collectible, giving me hope that if I did it once, I could do it again.  Living family style wasn’t a good time to promote my writing but it turned out to be the perfect time to write over a dozen books.  I founded KathleenKBooks.com in 2011, after completing my front-line custodial kid care, to produce libertine literature for rowdier readers.   Phone sex is still a “thing” but it isn’t what it was in 1987 any more than TV stayed the same.  What hasn’t changed is the emotional commotion of voicing sex secrets out loud… or finding them written down in a book that straddles your imagination.

#sexybook #phonesex #KathleenK

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Stoner’s Bones – my masculine inverse with a twist

Read or Write before Sleeping
Before bed your mind needs time to wind down. The National Sleep Foundation recommends engaging in a calming activity like reading or writing in the last hour or so before bed in order to help slowly shift your mind into sleep mode. Kathleen K. suggests you drop the “screen” and get your hands on a printed book or a journal or some colored pencils and a sketch pad. Give the diodes a rest, go analog and tactile.

Something learned (or remembered) today:  when inanimate objects look like people [to people] (pareidolia)

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http://bitsandpieces.us/2013/05/17/naked-hanging-man-orchid/

Stoner’s Bones

The Stoner potcentric sexotic fictional memoir series is meant to be a trilogy about a smart guy with a naughty habit. I always knew that this counterculture reefer and romance diary was going to fuse back into the Kathleen K. Books collection once pot was no longer taboo. The voice of Jamie in Sweet Talkers is closest to my own, of course; that’s non-fiction. Stoner is closest to my heart. Stoner would love me, that’s what I realized. I’d be his dream female. I didn’t understand that when I wrote the books, not in those words, not with that impact, but, in fact, that character is my masculine inverse with a twist.

So, I bequeath to him this blog and all its linkage to temporarily stand-in as Book III of his (our) potcentric sexotic fictional memoirs presented as rambling narratives. Posting here is the au courant version of his inner monolog. Not coincidentally, this is the 60th post, this is my 60th year… Steeping is not just for tea, it works on character too. We’re “late Boomers”, Stoner and I, born in the second wave of the early 50’s, and I know we had our trail blazed by the true believers in peace and love and understanding who rebelled against war.

I hate to even whisper that Stoner is already dead for fear he’ll overhear me. I do want it understood that he lives on the pages and he will survive them; he is my ever-love. What the ongoing posts do is champion his causes: stoner literacy and sexual thoughtfulness. What can I say? Now he knows everything.

kathleenk_books_erotica_potcentric_stoner's_bone_of_contention_2heads

SAMPLE – Stoner’s Bone of Contention (The Weightless Joint)

I got a weed grinder, a cylinder of compartments. The top comes off so you can fill the grinder cup with clumps of pot, that container has small open-holes interspersed with grinder-bumps, those bumps work against the bumps inside the lid when you screw them together then twist them back and forth. A middle compartment caught the rough-ground pot. There was a screen to shield the third chamber if for some reason you wanted to sift the contents. I like it rough cut so I don’t over-work it. Rustic.
≤÷≥

There is tribal unity in Ganga Land, the pot is still illegal but now we’re allowed to buy our paraphernalia in tobacco stores; however, we have to pretend our quirky tools are intended for something other than their purpose-designed function… who needs an alligator clip with a feather on it, really? Water bongs? Dozens of brands of rolling papers? Grinders? Since the pot accessories are offered in an adults-only venue of cigarettes, cigars, pipes, etc., there isn’t much community resistance to pot any more. Our brothers smoke it, our neighbors, our grandma. Law enforcement has been told to let it go so they could concentrate on getting the thieves and muggers and killers out of the way of the rest of us.

Getting high was still underground, not a topic of conversation, off-limits like money and sex, to each his own except in private or when in mutual pursuit.
≤÷≥

Another epidemic of mating and procreating swept through my crowd and once again I studied it to strengthen my defenses. Familyhood altered every single friend of mine who experienced it. You promised to give parts of yourself to others, to blend with them, to take on their burdens in exchange, to gain momentum with their help. Very complicated. Decades in the doing, never really done.

We singleton are marked too, we’re more and more ourselves, richly spiced with our long marinade in personal choices. We live where we fit in, we can drive a small car, lift our own credit score, without worrying about the ricochet on a partner. Singlehood is a sleek social vehicle, I’m not tethered.

Aside from the arrangements, it’s still all “living”, if you think about it. I got problems. You got problems. My problems at this point are trivial compared to the sorts of misfortune that careen through the population. Can’t judge your problems, I‘ll never understand them like I do my own. We each have our own sticky thinking, forever reassessing the ordained choke points. It’s true I could be better, as well as much much worse.
≤÷≥

“I’m freaking out about this wedding, man.”

“Probably so, but that’s no reason to hog the high.”

“Finish it. I, I gotta tell you, this is HUGE. I’m leaving Man Land.”

“I hear it’s a bitch.”

“SEE! You don’t hear that word on Married Island.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“That’s what I’m saying. I’m going into a new world, with this one guide, one partner, forever. How can I promise that?”

“Do you trust her?”

“Can you ever trust something that can bleed for a week and not die?”

“Harsh!“

“It’s an old joke. Females are alien to us at a primary level. I’m a guy, I think that’s funny. How am I going to live the rest of my life thinking that’s not funny?”

“It’ll be easier to resist laughing after you’re married… because she’s not going to allow you to get high any more, right?”

“Now, that’s harsh.”

“I’m just saying…”

… heard you, man. Let it go.”
≤÷≥

I fashioned my own DeGunkerator using a stout glass jar with a solid lid. It was big enough for pipe parts and was filled with the leftover chemical solvent I’d used on other, larger resin-clogged parts. It’s science after all and scraping is ridiculous. I like clean stems and bowls; I don’t want my finger to stick to the carburetor.

Love the carburetor. In some pipes, there is a vent that is covered while the bowl is lit then released for the inhale, jetting smoke and air, to be covered when not in use. It’s a fuel mixer, letting you adjust the strength and speed of intake. Misuse often causes that sputtering throat-freeze of an over-blow, when you’ve taken in more than you can handle. Over-hitting is not about ego: it’s about lung capacity and bio-mechanical stuff. Amateurs clamp their lips shut even as the throat is closing which makes them feel they’re suffocating resulting in spewing the mouthful of smoke out in a phlegmy cough. (Not cool.) Find a way to divert the thought of releasing the pressure and hold in that high. Force those capillaries to OPEN for access to the bloodstream. Don’t swallow air, sip it in with quick gasps, and distract your gag reflex with air rushing up and over your lifted tongue. Misdirect the nose with that rush on the roof of your mouth. The pot is expanding so make room in your head; you know you’re on Launch Sequence. Pot uncurls in your body then does something to your thought processing center. Choke smoke down and absorb it, you can’t beat a hit like that. Finessing this recovery does serve to separate the weenies from the dogs.
≤÷≥

French Toast is a perfect post-stone meal. It’s easy to make well, scalable from two or twenty, seeming indulgent but actually just bread-eggs-milk (±cinnamon) (±vanilla) quick-fried in hot butter, crisp on the outside, steaming on the inside.

Syrup? Too sweet for me, probably why I add the cinnamon. It’s more savory that way, still rich. Coming off a good long stone, it’s time to refuel. Not motivated toward anything elaborate to make but demanding something satisfying to eat.

I find that chronic herbal use eliminates the munchies, those attacks of hunger associated with a drop in blood sugar, when taken to extreme can cause a drowsy stone. You get a flash of heat when your body signals you’re going too far down and need to eat NOW. I consider that lazy (poor planning).

I expect a dip in blood sugar so I pair pot with a beer (carbs), or sweet creamed coffee, or ice-cold juice. Then I stop and let my body reach its equilibrium. I don’t slam quick drinks because I’d be tilting my metabolism the other way. I’m nudging my chemistry. Not fire-hosing my head.
≤÷≥

Lola was married when I met her, one of a group of hikers volunteering to clear the trails after a long hot summer. The day was perfect for light-duty preening of a semi-natural forest. When the walkway was inspected closely, we could see the stream of visitors had squashed edge-plants and scattered litter in the oddest places (tucked in tree branches, under a rock but still clearly visible). We were part of a trio working about ten feet in from the edge and we treated it to a preening, careful to prepare for the coming winter. Next spring would be more fruitful if we took some time with it in the fall.

Lola wasn’t married when I met her again, in an intersection downtown, as far from the forest as she could be, out of context. I finally slotted the info correctly and reversed my direction to accompany her to the curb so we could talk. We made a date for drinks the next night.

I like the wait for a date. I want to anticipate the possibilities of this person, and of the person I happen to be at the time. I appreciate things I’d have scoffed at when I was younger; I forgot more than I remembered about the bad times. Instead, I was filling up with memories of excitement and kindness. No drama. Friendly games, formal quests, to be her bedmate, to have a play date. To hold her tight then let her go. Roger that.
≤÷≥

She offered her honor.
He honored her offer.
The rest of the night,
he was on her and off her.

That cracked me up when I was a kid, carefully crafted to sing-song innocently, simple words like “on her” and “off her” burst into sublime imagery in my sex-obsessed head. I was still snickering at the idea I’d actually ever have the opportunity to do it, do it all night long.

The amazement remains, that any of us can connect to another of us like that, with the odds stacked against us logistically and socially, and requiring emotional balance on top of that… how do we dare do it?

Some people make it hard to tell if they’re available: inexperience or game-playing are the same to me, I veer off, dampen my signal, pull back. This is the Prime Directive, avoid Crazy. Innocent or sly are out on the edges of the natural curve of common women. The Bell curve that puts most women in the middle. Those are my people, not a princess or general among us, no NFL or WNBA, we’re in the mainstream. As we rush along our own river of circumstance, each tending to their own busy business, we share rhythms of the work week, the month end, the school year. There’s the challenge of arranging our activities, sleep work play, so often complicated with intertwining schedules of the mated and the replicated. When I find a woman with her own calendar, I rifle my open agenda in response, like ruffling feathers. If you’re not single, I’m not interested “that way”. If you lie about being single, I’m not interested at all. I keep it simple so I don’t lose my head when tempted by temptation. I don’t need to be making moves on somebody to enjoy getting to know them. There’s so much more to them than sex, and knowing that makes sex all the better.

 

#sexotic #potcentric #KathleenK

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