Tag Archives: erotic

eFingered and Eyed by Devotees: Erotic writer’s fantasy

As an indie publisher of erotic and sexotic books, it is my fantasy to have my books Eyed and eFingered by readers who “get” me; I like surprising them with a treasure trove of lush language and tart dialog.  It’s all about sex, deft and explicit.

KathleenKBooks.com has a simple business plan: wicked good reads at reasonable prices. Between $5 and $10, print and Kindle. I appeal to impulse buyers (their feelings move them to action) who read for fun.  Counterculture themes don’t unnerve them if the story holds.  They like it spicy.

Rowdier readers are hard to target because they camouflage their interests out of social pragmatism… erotica is still stigmatized. That’s where the Kindle comes in. For your eyes only. The print versions are tailored for the nightstand, constructed vignette style so you can read a little or read a lot. I surrender digital versions to my stealth fans who suppress the deliberately-designed front-spine-backs into a hard-shell anonymizer.

That’s OK, the contents can stand unadorned on a glowing screen and still you move word by word, seeing through the eyes of the narrator, looking behind the words to discern the meaning. No hurry but plenty of rush.

These bedside readers fit in a rich niche of sex lit tradition:  bawdy and wry in colloquial language.  Vignette collections are the most inclusive of erotica based as they are on multitudes of moments with infinite points of connection.  Not suitable for some, appreciated by others.  I give a lot of latitude to the reader.  I’ve been told that sassy, sexy, smart erotica is not for everybody but, then again, I’m not reaching out to everybody… I am seeking the well-read, the voracious consumers of sexy books that offer compelling word choices and adroit emotions.

PP Native Cover.4539172.indd

SAMPLE from Honey B., Sexual Consultant

I helped a young man create a beautiful collage of Polaroids he’d taken of himself making love with his young woman. I was to consider how she might feel about various poses he’d captured. He wanted to pick the best blend, not just the ones that appealed to him. I did yank a few of his choices, either because they were repetitive or because, for example, he loved one image of his lips at her nipple so didn’t notice her ass looked a mile wide. We cropped that photo which led to him reducing other snapshots to essential elements. He was glad he’d asked me to help because I included four photos he had dismissed as unfocused but I felt they lent relief from his graphic choices. I suggested he put the collage against the headboard in front of his kneeling blindfolded wife and, after inserting himself into her luscious cunny, remove the blindfold and let her see what he “saw” when he thought of this very thing, their loving, their fucking, their sex.


I often assisted people in composing ads for swinger magazines. People on the verge of swinging are quite likely to benefit from a visit with me. Formerly formless fantasies are crossing into reality. They are ready to engage in a subculture that trips their deepest triggers.

Swingers are generally law-abiding, employed, vehicle-equipped and middle class. They do not want to pollute their daily lives with sexual intrigue but still they wish to indulge themselves in private interludes of sexual adventure. What better way than to meet the proverbial stranger, a stranger organized enough to join a club and get a code number, and have an address and pen-paper-envelope-postage. Dismissing the straight personal ads because they featured people who don’t want to admit they’re primarily motivated by sexual rather than social longings, like‑minded individuals turn to contact magazines that cut to the chase.


Single female insists on big brain, long fuse and common sense in a mannered man. See picture. Write letter. Save time, don’t lie.


He: 6’2″, 195#, 30-something. She: 5’7″, 140#, 25-ish, shaved. Watchers welcome. Pictures for trade. No hands-on.


Does anyone out there remember the zipless fuck? Forget the flowers, bring the condoms. W/F married but swinging alone. 33. 38-28-41.


Teacher seeks pupil. Instruction available in all aspects of service to your teacher. Please realize your letter will be graded for both content and form (neatness counts). There will be oral exams.


Big-assed bitch with bountiful tits wants bad boy in bed. Single men only, sneaks need not apply.


We seek physically fit couples for sexual sports. J. (with beard) is 40, 5-10, 170. A. (with breasts) is 45, 5-10, 135. Watch/be watched.




It takes an independent publisher to stockpile inventory with no meaningful sales to offset the cost of production – no corporate board would tolerate that. I flipped the math around, once I paid for a book master it was done, any money that came back was a bonus. Making the books was an act of faith at my own expense. I’d find something to do with them all, once they were actualized: finalized: commercialized.

I have crafted eleven books with more to come. There is a deep sense of pleasure in offering these as an indie author because each is a holistic act from conception through delivery.  Guaranteed Committee-free.  The stories boiled and bubbled in draft form for years as they were sharpened and pruned, spruced up, subdivided and reunited. One by one the books crystallized. They are hand-fashioned ornaments meant to enchant. There isn’t a trick to writing erotic-sexotic literature, it is knowing the value of anticipation and complete release.

I am reaching out, rowdier readers, inviting you to echo back.  I have a standing offer to my fans for review copiesAPRIL 2014 LIMITED OFFER for free book.  Let me know if you’re curious.  Info@KathleenKBooks.com


#erotica #RowdierReader #KathleenK

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Not Suitable for some.  Appreciated by others.


One man’s memories of  the watchers and the watched

Click to Look  Inside


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

Click to Look  Inside



Collected Collections   of Graphic Poetry

Click to Look Inside





(It’s a Long Story)

Click to Look  Inside




(The  Weightless Joint)

Click to Look  Inside




A Truer-than-True Tale of Commercial  Satisfaction

Click to Look Inside

#ValentineGiftIdea #sexybooks #erotica

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How do your books make the reader feel?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Spread ‘em.

Spread me.

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


#erotica #sexy #KathleenK

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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 Slate.com 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:  KathleenK.com

Vintage Boomer Porn:  KathleenK.xxx

#Erotic #Poetry #AdultsOnly

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Foggy Friday Night – Potcentric Sexotic Bedtime Reading

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

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

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

SAMPLE – All Rights Reserved.

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

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

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


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

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

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


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

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


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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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



#legalizepot #pot-positive #HempFest #Stonerwithaboner

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Movie and a Doobie Afternoon + Hempfest Aug 16-18 Seattle

Seattle’s ‘Hempfest’ will feature munchies courtesy of the cops

By Elisha Fieldstadt, NBC News

For the times, they are a-changing.  — Bob Dylan 1964

Link to complete article


 “Movie and a Doobie Afternoon”

10 Trippy Movies for StonersI forgot to share this for 4/20… glad it came back around.

Posted April 19th, 2013, 11:04 AM by Andy Hunsaker

In celebration of the growing legality of marijuana use in the United States and its unofficial holiday of 4/20, most people churning out these lovely little lists across the interwebs would likely give you a list of stoner comedies, with your usual Cheech & Chong, Harold & Kumar or Seth Rogen selections. However, in the interest of the mind-expanding powers of brain chemistry alteration, how about we cobble together ten films that would be really cool to watch while baked – ones that may not have anything to do with actual weed enthusiasts. With that in mind, here are ten very trippy movies for stoners of all kinds. Okay, most kinds. I’m leaving Pink Floyd’s “The Wall” off the list because any self-respecting stoner already knows that one. You may ask how much a recreational drug user could really respect themselves, but then again, maybe you should keep your moral judgments to yourself, huh? You stole fizzy lifting drinks! Good day, sir!

Wait… what was I doing? Oh, yeah. Freaky movies!

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COMMENTARY by indie author-publisher Kathleen K.

Most pot smokers won’t be at Hempfest, they don’t do Bumbershoot, they skip the fireworks.  Most of them are regular ordinary people who live and work among us.  Those rowdy potheads that travel in packs to such festivals and carnivals are not the core of the marijuana movement.  What turns the tables culturally is when Dr. Sanjay Gupta notes, uh, missed the memo on pot, I guess it isn’t the gateway to hell after all.  Whoopsie.

There are real-world concerns about regulating pot:  how much is too much?  The two Stoner books counsel a sacramental approach:  to actually love the bud, respect the high, confine your antics to private spaces.  Then let it fly.

Please don’t dismiss the fictional memoirist Stoner as some silly ass aimlessly spilling his seed.  This guy has a brain, and a heart, and a sense of adventure.  He’s sociable, plays well with others.  He exploits the liberty of looking ordinary to slide through life.  He’s just a guy, not too tall, not too loud, not too nosy.  No wonder readers “get” him, they are him, or know him; he’s a part of the culture.  He’s tidy with his time, work is work and play is not work.  He isn’t complicated.  He abides by the rules during the day so he can break them at night.  Stoner isn’t at all conflicted about it; he’s found the surest route to reasonable freedom.  Support yourself; then indulge yourself.

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

Stoner’s Bone of Contention (The Weightless Joint)

KathleenK.xxx – for the rowdier reader.

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The Lunarium – an orgiastic peek at a voyeur’s secret social life.

The Lunarium: One man’s memories of the watchers and the watched.

Available on line at KathleenK.xxx – for rowdier readers.

Sixty-nine vignettes of voyeurism presented as “things” to think about. Not suitable for some, appreciated by others.

ADULTS ONLYAmateur readers may not be amused.

The Ninth Thing >< Procrastination

I’ll tell you about this later.

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

Do the watchers want to be watched? Can’t answer for all, but for this one, under some circumstances, yes, the risk of being seen is an element in the excitement.

I had a mild affair, years ago, with a woman who was married to a gay athlete (they were best friends). She was especially affectionate (starved?) and we found it exciting to fool around in the car. The catch was, I could only see her during the day so it was a challenge to find a place we would not be interrupted. One of our favorite places to go was the lakefront drive, it had small two-spot parking areas along the road, under leafy trees, and we’d find a place with one empty car in it hoping it belonged to somebody busy fishing. My friend would drape a car blanket from her shoulders to her knees and I’d slide my right arm over to her side of the car, under the blanket, and explore her body. She would lay back with her eyes closed, lips moved by murmurs.

Cars went past in both directions but the canopy of leaves always provided shade cover. I would feel my lover’s legs fall apart and discover the crotch had been cut out of her panty hose: she didn’t just snip in a slit, she’d remove the entire cotton panel so I could get my hand at her. She had a juicy pussy, she knew I liked that. I could prod at the mound and work my way along the closed lips to the place her ass rested on the car seat. She would brace her legs on the floor and tilt her hips up so I could get more of her. The angle of my approach was dictated by our side-by-side position, I had my elbow toward her far hip and my hand snaked over her thigh palm-side to her cunt, thumb up. My left hand would have been more maneuverable but it would have meant my turning in the seat and making our actions obvious. As we were, to the cars zipping past, we gave an impression of two people facing forward in a car. Perhaps one was napping? Nothing cuddly or outwardly intimate about it.

My fingers would become the focal point of my mind, I closed my eyes and felt this woman, I’d trace the curl of her pussy lips and feel the first creaming of her excitement. She talked while I touched her junction, she talked about getting caught, a cop coming to our car door, the three of us mutually aware of our relative positions, she being “interfered with”, and the cop watching, and me… nasty appreciative me willing to risk even that to get her scent on my fingers.

I, too, thought of being seen. I would be seen shoving her face-down onto the trunk lid of my car, I’d be seen yanking my zipper open and freeing my beast, witnessed slamming up into her, showing she was ready for me, I’d put a kink in every dick that drove by ‑‑ monkey see, monkey want to do. [I’d seen this face-the-trunk position in a movie once and, truth, I considered it a fantasy. It seemed so selfish/macho with the power of the vehicle (to escape) and the facing-away female like she was one in a nameless line. I didn’t want to do it that way, I wanted to think of doing it that way.]

Our actual affair was brief, but long after we quit having intercourse my friend would still meet me for a drive to the lake. For my entertainment, she’d masturbate to climax — something she had never done when we were still having sex (or before). The strain I felt in my cock was good, yearning for the days when this woman would have permitted full body contact with her. The fact I still did the lakeside thing with her was partially because it gave me time to gather my erotic thoughts. Sex deserved contemplation. I’d be nudging at my friend’s clit with the tip of my middle finger, hearing the impact in her voice as she whispered to me about being seen, being watched, being the show.


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