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Putting Honey B., Sexual Consultant to bed

Honey2 Cover = OK

The second Honey B. book in the sexotic quintet about a retired sex professional has been put to bed.  That means I am done writing it and even done correcting it for publication.  As with the first volume, Honey B., The Suite Life, this is a frank and detailed consideration of sexuality.  Explicit, informative, oddly thoughtful.  This is book #11 in the Private Publications of Kathleen K., independent author and counter-culture commentator.

put something to bed

Fig. to complete work on something and send it on to the next step in production, especially in publishing. (From put someone to bed.) This week’s edition is finished. Let’s put it to bed. Finish the editing of this book and put it to bed.

See also: bed, put

McGraw-Hill Dictionary of American Idioms and Phrasal Verbs. © 2002 by The McGraw-Hill Companies, Inc.

SAMPLE – for mature audiences only – for the rowdier reader at KathleenK.xxx

Honey B., Sexual Consultant  — Truer-than-True Tale of Commercial Satisfaction

I give Frank advice about Dick.  That’s the perfect take on my attitude:  an obvious message, a twist of wit.  These tête-à-têtes rustle past the social facts and get to the frustration.  Sex consultations are a forum for direct language and tart dialog about physique and technique.  I am not going to force people forward since that doesn’t work, I am going to beckon to them, I’m up ahead here… just for now, come this way.

Cocks and cunnies and the abyss in between.  Men have such peculiar beliefs about what happens when they unsheathe their phallic arsenal:  I have to tell them women will not swoon simply because Dick Ball-Ball bobbed into view; I have to tell them that women have a wide-focus view on a man’s sexuality with the groin area central but not supreme.  When women want to please a man they are goal-directed as suits his nature but when seeking their own gratification the action is progressive.

I have to tell women that men do not, as a rule, care about what women care about so that is not a viable avenue of exchange in the boudoir.  Women, oh… dear.  It is so much more direct than your magazines are telling you.  You have got to HANDLE your man.  Get your mitts on him.  Grope the guy.  Men don’t work on a figurative level for sex, it’s corporeal (the exact word for having physical substance), actions matter.  Women need to translate their dramatic-romantic fantasies into tangible gestures applied directly and repeatedly.  Men have trained their dicks by vigorous spanking, it takes a sustained effort to achieve liftoff; cooing and coaxing won’t work, you have got to bang it out.

We talk about pity fucks, and get-off-already sex; we talk about really really good sex where you’re slippin’ and slidin’, and crazy primal sex which usually involves an unexpected pairing.  There is something sexually galvanizing when a person previously considered unsuitable-unattainable is doing it with you.  Doing it.  It’s humping in a bathroom at a house party, it’s being picked up in a bar and renting a room-by-the-hour because neither of you had ever done that.  Unfettered by the usual connections, these episodes flare in our imaginations, they set the bar for sexual events that follow.  Their unpredictability is part of their value.  You just never know.

You just never know.


Brandy fantasized about dropping to her knees in front of a man and liberating his cock from his pants so she could conquer it with her face, run it along her cheek, knock it against her lips, until it was bursting, juicy, and at the moment of ejaculation the man would fall back, satiated, but she would still have the cock in her mouth, it would stretch and stretch as he fell away.


Brandy wanted to drive to the bus station nearest the nearest minimum security prison because she knew that parolees were dropped there as their last official act in the system.  Only bona fide sponsor relatives could pick you up at the gate, but she wasn’t thinking of a guy with a family.  She wanted to give a lift to a newly freed man with no place special to go.  She wanted to be driving and feel his need shimmer between them.  She would pull over to the side of the road and tell him he had five minutes to lick and tickle but he’d have to wait for the rest.  She’d wear something easy to get his hands into, a loose skirt, a tight shirt with only two buttons.  She’d have on a garter belt, obviously, and no panties, naturally, and she’d come on his thumb when he cupped her crotch the way she liked.

Contrary to the simplistic idea that the man would insist on getting his penis inside her immediately, she was convinced it was more important that someone acknowledge his appeal to women  That he wanted her was obvious, he wanted to see her want him.  He’d kept this side of himself hidden in prison, locked away even from his own realization for the most part, and here was someone celebrating his glorious hard on, coaxing his groans.  She was sure he’d come, a messy scream of semen and success:  he was free, it was happening!  He’d come his heart out for her.  Because she’d do the same for him



Several women have complained to me about their breast implants, either as the main topic or in asides when relating details of their sexual lives.  It isn’t bad enough they didn’t like their original boobs, they found the fake ones stuck out fine but otherwise were troublesome.  These things never rested!  They jutted out at all times no matter what position the body assumed.  Many men think they look fine but are less impressed by their relentless buoyancy.  Faux tits don’t spread like the real thing when you are chest to chest, they don’t jiggle when they bounce, they are like balloons full to bursting (boing boing not bobble-wobble).  My opinion is that the body has made it clear it dislikes foreign substances and in the main you should stick to original parts unless the alternative is no part: reconstruct after loss, sure, but leave the outward appearance to your tailor not your surgeon.  People who see you naked should see the real you, the rest of the world can see the mask and costume.

I advocate removal of implants when possible, you can tuck up the extra skin and be thankful for the memories.  Women who agree to this have made peace with their adventure to Bazooms’R Us and not coincidentally also have sex partners who love more than just the cup size of their bras.  Newer methods of bust enhancement produce a more lifelike imitation but this is where one’s ethics or common sense comes in.  My scientific sense says stay out of the operating room for your cosmetology.


Barney didn’t care what Carol’s tits felt like, he rarely touched them.  He looked at them.  He stared at them.  He asked her to walk bare-chested around the house.  He bought her dozens of bras which he loved to watch her take off.  If he entered her body from the back it was in front of a mirror so he could see her titties, if he was on top he was lifted above her so he could look down at her nips.  He fell into a trance, mesmerized by watching her knockers bounce and sway, which extended his stamina to pleasing lengths.  Carol had surprised him by scheduling herself for a modest breast augmentation in honor of his 40th birthday.  She didn’t mind this insignificant aspect of their love life.  She got plenty of attention, sufficient stimulation and honest appreciation.  He was a tit man.  It worked to make him frisky, that’s all she knew.  (She decided to have them tightened and gently rounded, nothing ostentatious.  Fine tuning, not a renovation.  See, not everybody does what I suggest but I concede Carol had the right idea for them.)

They were buying erotic artwork through me, the breast info came up when we were discussing the purchase of a painting I thought they’d like: a frontal nude.  Carol said, oh, no, she wasn’t going to have Barney staring holes through the canvas, and I realized that although the female breast was featured in many of their choices it was the swell from the side, the strain against fabric, with the crown never fully revealed.  For Barney’s fiftieth birthday she assembled a collage of twenty-five female frontal nudes and mounted it on a reversible frame, the other side featured an art print.  She wrapped it so he exposed the neutral print first, then asked him to turn it around and hold it up so she could see it, and there were the fifty tits right in front of his eyes!  Big, small, dark, light, round, oblong, puffy, upturned, jutting!  Carol and Barney used the hanging as a signal, boob side out when they were home alone and sex was in the air.



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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 KathleenK.xxx


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.


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