Tag Archives: erotica

Welcome to the .World .Wide .Wonderful — KathleenKBooks.com gets a makeover


Being an independent publisher means the websites that support the business have to be in my control; I patched together a workable online catalog long before most users were @anywhere.

I revolutionized my thinking over this one weekend.  See KathleenKBooks.WordPress.com.

I took the beautiful toolbox provided by WordPress.com and re-assembled my catalog in a simple outline format that translates well through the WordPress “themes” offered for free.  So far, I’ve tried Ryu, Oulipo, McKinley, Shaan, Twenty Twelve, Chunk, Forever, Suits.  Since I organized the pages along their simple principles, it’s a single click to change themes.  That’s cool!

I will do the higher tech work of redirecting my own domain traffic to this setup later this week but, really, it’s a great feeling of relief and progress to put the website into a much more adaptable framework.

Kevin Hart, the comedian, famously says:  “Everybody wants to be famous, but nobody wants to put the work in.”  I get that.  It’s why “I put the work in” this weekend polishing my website.

I love making books; hopefully this overhaul helps you rowdier readers find and appreciate them!

#KathleenKBooks #puttheworkin #KevinHart

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

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

hires_frontcover             hires_backcover

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

until he thanks me a lot; multi-listeners through

both connections, all scatter when talker departs;

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

fuck, needs wide hipped, deep cunted female, loves

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

of hours, tie on bed for pics but stuck thermometer

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

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

wasn’t a man who seduces women for their money

or prestige… reassured her he was wrong.


and re-created phone calls like this:

“I’m back, it’s me, Steve.”

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

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

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

“That turn you on?”

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

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

on my body.”

“Jamie, get on your back, OK?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I’d just stroke you.”

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

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

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

you can see it, feel it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

lifting off the bed, you zoom in closer…”

“Ohhh, yeahhh, I zoom in closer…”

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

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

face, I can feel you come.”

“Such a pretty pussy, she likes you.”

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

was perfect.”

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

you’re watching videos, OK?”

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


and commentary like this:

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

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

then, yes, lovers are talked to this way.

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

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

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

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

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


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

 “I read it one-handed.”

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

“Filthy.  Positively filthy.  Thank you!”

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

KathleenK.xxx for rowdier readers


#erotica #phone-sex #sexysexy

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Calling all rowdier readers: Inventive, intelligent erotica for mature audience only

As an independent producer of books, it was heartening to hear that people still read; it is easy to say that video has taken over but that is actually a form of distraction for the folks who wouldn’t have been reading anyway.

The erosion at the border between readers and non-readers isn’t significant as long as overall we continue to prize the time-travel peculiar to writing.  Visual media transcends language, I can’t argue that the complexity isn’t alluring.  It cannot replace the building of impressions word by word, crafted to communicate the subtleties (or brash facts, or whatever) in the common language of writer-reader.  That’s why translators reweave the fabric of the story because it cannot be done word for word or “out of sight, out of mind” in English becomes “blind and crazy” on a foreign page.  That’s why declaring sexy writing as graphic is a fact but calling it erotic is a matter of judgment.  So many words… so many meanings.

Story telling is tribal, it invokes a common lexicon, known characters with specific motivations:  the big bad wolf, and the fairy-elf-pixie chastising the goblin-imp-troll.

Up next for my readers is the second in a quintet of sexotic books about a retired call girl turned erotic advisor.  Honey B. tells a truer-than-true tale of commercial satisfaction.  She gives Frank advice about Dick.


Honey B., Sexual Consultant (Book II of V) – EXCERPT    (All rights reserved.)

People want to want and be wanted, they consider desire an exciting state if it leads to contact and painful if there is no resolution for this urge towards another.  Many times I’ve had couples discover that what bugged one was that the other “let” them have sex but never initiated sex, or offered service, or accepted service, never broke whatever routines they’d attached to their coupling.  It’s the sexy underwear debate, not only that you wear it but that you put it on of your own accord.  Men imagine women stripping, selecting the flimsies, sliding them on, showing them off.  It is partly how it looks and partly what it means to elect to look like that.  Men appreciate GO signals.  Inter-male contact relies a lot on signs and context: you can punch a guy in the boxing ring but not on the football field, rump slapping is not an element of chess.

When their female partner trumpets a sex call, the male can respond with enthusiasm.  Once in gear they’ll usually go all the way.  Much of their frustration in a given situation lies not in the fact they didn’t get sex but that it took so long for them to understand they weren’t going to get sex.  They stoked the fire for an engine that was never going to leave the garage.  Men’s inventions and machines offer red lights, warning flags, most men would benefit from forthright sex signals.  Not getting it is bad enough, you see, but thinking you might, maybe, then realizing not, that just aggravated them.


Jane was the epitome of plainness.  She was plain plain.  Nothing about her was plainer than any other thing, she was of medium height, average build, even featured, yet inside her sizzled a slutty bitch.  Nothing seemed more incongruous than to frame her unremarkable face in a feather mask or to stick tassels on the tips of her 34B bosom.  She thought she should be a more successful dominatrix but it wasn’t happening.  She had the necessary accessories, the right attitude but – fizzle.  I told her to donate that stuff she was wearing to a poor whore’s home and get some button-down-the-front dresses, a few drab wigs, and a selection of common household items like wooden spoons, a belt, a yard stick.  I was of the opinion some men didn’t think they deserved an exotic mistress, to perform slave service for plain Jane was to face the true unworthiness of a miserable dick.

To our way of new thinking, since she had to work so hard to appear exotic, she might turn about-face and step a bit deeper into the verbal works for stimulating her clients.  She could learn to talk nasty instead of wasting time decorating her plain exterior.  We brainstormed various patters for her, these were sex speeches she could build on.  She distinguished herself from the common practitioner of this art by mesmerizing them without a shiny exterior.  She slapped them for calling her beautiful because it was so obviously a lie.  How could a lower life form expect a beautiful woman to notice him?  Even plain Jane wouldn’t touch him unless he paid.  Her pussy was just a hole; her tits two humps with bumps, nothing deluxe about them.  Don’t even think Jane gave a shit if you enjoyed yourself.  If you paid, you played.  She enjoyed your money.  Every pathetic excuse for a man who could raise the price could get his face licked or kicked, she’d twirl a cucumber in your ass as nonchalantly as she bent forward to be fucked (never ever fucked face to face, she didn’t like to be “close” when she took it from a john).  She would dismissively shake her head at a guy even as she yanked an ejaculation out of his cock, proving he was nothing but a cum-cow, milked by a sullen maid; next?

Jane and I enjoyed a fruitful collaboration, we found it easy to discuss her prostitution, it was obvious I didn’t consider it odd that the soul of a sexual dominant had come plainly wrapped.  Why not?  I’ve met many hot-looking women with cold hearts.  Jane was willing to do her best but there is so little advice available to a pro when her methods are stale.  She discovered sex work was easier when you were honest.  She never liked the habitual, stereotypic response of her customers, she didn’t let them get away with their mundane play acts.  Where else but at my place was she going to have time to work this out for herself?


Ollie did not like having his penis touched by other people: not by their hands, their lips, their vaginas, their butts.  It gave him the creeps.  He didn’t like to masturbate.  He did not consider himself “ill” or “dysfunctional” but he did want me to tell him, honestly, was it possible he was just naturally not a sexual person.  I said I thought the “creeps” were a response, if he was truly asexual he’d be unresponsive to stimulus.  Did it give him the creeps to have his hand touched?  His elbow?  His shoulder?  His chest?  No.  No.  No.  No.  Would a gloved hand fondling him be better than a bare one?  Never thought of it.  Probably not.  Condom-covered cock?  Didn’t know, hadn’t tried.

I told him, honestly, he was demonstrating an aversion that I would call a “mis-function” in that he invested special energy resisting such typical contact.  Did he dislike touching others?  In general, no, he did not dislike touching people; he, for instance, could square dance but, specifically, sexually, nope, he didn’t want to touch them any more than he desired to be touched.  I suggested this aversion might be compensation for whatever deeper peculiarity of circumstances engendered this anti-sexuality in him.  It would not be necessary to seek the roots of that personal quirk as long as he considered it as such.  If he ever felt it was intruding on what he wanted from life then it would have escalated to the status of a problem and would then deserve attention of a personality specialist.

Ollie went out my door, back to his neuter world of engines and gizmos, satisfied with the idea he could ignore the harping of his sisters to get involved with someone.  They didn’t like his long-term bachelorhood, they expressed disapproval of his solitude, didn’t all people who grew up in a family want a family?  If you didn’t, did that mean you were repudiating your family?  And your family’s families?  Not to Ollie.  He was paying his bills, keeping his yard mowed.  He attended all family functions, belonged to the VFW and went monthly to their socials (socializing, not hoping to “meet someone”).  He always was glad he’d gone because he felt he should go, he’d talk to people, trade assessments of local events and developments:  he liked the mall, he didn’t think the town needed a third topless joint.

I became Ollie’s other monthly outlet, for him our conver­sations were a personal foray.  Whether by genetic chance or social conditioning Ollie lacked motivation to couple but he was curious about coupling.  He was not missing information, he knew precisely how and what sex was but in earlier self-examination had determined he did not like it.  He always ended up hurting the feelings of his partner because he could not attain an erection.  Of those who stayed around long enough to hear his explanation that it wasn’t her he didn’t want touching it, he didn’t want any one, any woman, any man, anybody, to touch his genitals, too many of the women forged ahead figuring surely SHE could “fix” him.  He finally gave up dating.  The women he knew were either married so he couldn’t pal around with them, or single but considered him eligible – for which he disqualified them…  Contrary to the social myth that women don’t want sex, it had been his experience that when a man and a woman are together often enough even if the man makes no move whatsoever sooner or later the woman will move against him.  Then he has to say no, thank you, how kind… but, really, no.  No.  NO.

Sooner or later I thought he would run into a companion but it didn’t happen.  Ollie was attractive, solvent, a good conversationalist, handy around the house.  He had tried forewarning new lady friends that he would not pursue the sex angle but somehow they mostly thought he was using reverse English to learn her sexual potential.  The more he protested, the more they yearned to learn why.


Sense memories play a part in sexual exploration, not all arousing input comes from touch and sight so we close our eyes and reach for the subtler signals:  what is the sound of ejaculation, the scent of orgasm, what does ready seem like?

Lots of talk of physique and technique, but I was not a surrogate providing hands-on education.


Penny and Brand were in a sex slump.  Their jobs were familiar and nothing was going exceptionally right or wrong between them.  How could they spice up their love life?  They weren’t seeking more personnel or anything “odd” but I seized on the fact they found the identity of participants crucial.  When we discussed fantastic sex, setting wasn’t men­tioned, equipment not noted, for them sex was about people.  Perhaps they could rent costumes, slip away from the mundane and approach each other as a knight might circle a queen, like Romeo dogged Juliet, reaching forward and backward in time so as not to be confined in love matters to the daily reality of being outwardly middle-aged, middle-of-the roaders.  Shedding their current “skin” might allow them to act differently, they might act like actors!  Action!

They looked at each other and laughed.  I could not have known they’d actually met in a college play and first kissed while dressed as a butler and a maid (off script).  They considered costumes a great idea, stunningly on-point in our first meeting.  How does this happen?  Intuition?  Practice? Combo?  I struck a chord with them, they played their parts.


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



#erotica #sexybook #KathleenK

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

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

Highly recommended.

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wow, that’s an interesting image.”

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


Stonerwithaboner.com promoting stoner literacy and sexual thoughtfulness

KathleenK.xxx for the rowdier reader

KathleenK.com for vivid family fiction

#regulatepot #legalizeweed #rowdierreader

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I give Frank advice about Dick. — Kathleen K.

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

It comes down to craft.

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

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

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


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

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

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



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Northwest author Kathleen K. named to Kirkus Reviews’ Best of 2013

The Lunarium (One man’s memories of the watchers and the watched) was Named to Kirkus Reviews’ Best of 2013 spotlighting the inventive and intelligent erotica for rowdier readers available at KathleenKBooks.com or Amazon.com.  This bedside reader for the adult mind provides vignettes of voyeurism, Things to think about, titled and enumerated from one to sixty-nine:

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             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


Provocative, orgiastic snippets from a sexual voyeur’s social life.

Written with verve and a contagious sense of exhibitionism, K’s first-person narrative is divided into 70 “things”: brief chapters that descriptively chart [the narrator] O’Donahue’s carnivalesque adventures at risqué live theater performances.

A wild, steamy story with erudite sex-as-art undertones.

By Kirkus Reviews March 2013

Kirkus Reviews is a professional assessment service for books.  What an unexpected honor to be included in their Best of 2013.  I didn’t “apply” to be considered for the Best Of list… it evidently happened in the ordinary course of their reviewing year.  I spent the summer and fall scheming and dreaming how to promote my vintage Boomer porn book business while The Lunarium moved from stack to stack at Kirkus, hand to hand… etched on a final draft.  Included!

Sassy, sexy, comical erotica is not for everybody.  Explicit narratives have been a scandalous collectors-only genre that seems tame against the turgid murky sea of Internet porn.  Yet, when constructed with a deft hand, sexotic writing leads you to the infrequently discussed basic instincts, using those words that were supposed to be drowned in soap.  To invite this counterculture statement piece about the hidden side of exhibitionism to stand forward with more traditional romance, crime and intrigue is meaningful to alternative book builders and the readers we serve.

The Lunarium  is available at KathleenK.xxx alongside other plainspoken books about phone sex, stoners with boners, sexual consultants, and dark princes heeding their queen.   Sex is mammalian, much deeper than the civilized veneer of socialized humans.  Specific to the riotous viewpoint of love∞sex is some humor and a splash of snarkiness to temper the jolting discovery that we are designed to connect.  We can argue designed by whom but can’t argue designed for what.  It doesn’t take higher brain function to procreate but thoughtless sex is not the answer for long-term satisfaction.

Fans say the books are lively, informative, oddly thoughtful and uber-naughty.  Readers catch the drift, ride the wave, they take the book on as it is meant to be ingested:  word by carefully chosen word, deceptively freewheeling.  Erotic writing requires a higher-than-average number of human encounters to move the plot along so venue is all-important.  The Lunarium is a fantasy landscape, a solarium at night, where complicated sexual tableaus alternate with that same old coo-coo-ca-choo we know and love.  There is the simple intent to have a good time, all the time.


#erotica #bestof2013 #KathleenK

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Penis size is a fact, what matters is a judgment.

Does penis size matter?  Objectively, it has a numerical value that can be plotted on a Bell curve which means most men are clustered in the center gradually declining on either side of average.  There is a concentration of measurements between 5 and 7, gradually thinning at the 4’s and 8’s, plummeting down to 3’s and 9’s.  Men are overly sensitive when it applies to their own dot in the matrix.


Why don’t we talk about what a penis weighs?  Would that be twig and berries?  Full or empty?  It’s a very small number compared to overall body weight and yet its presence preoccupies the male ego.

Underlying the significance of this obsession is the confusion about what “satisfies” a female.  Men have a release mechanism that tells them when they are finished but women… oh, no… it’s way more complicated than that.  The politically correct response about penis size emphasizes quality and not quantity.  Women can feel the difference in size, not only inside her but when it plops against her leg and when it stiffens in her hand.  Size is just one of many elements that create her experience.

The mythic big dick of fantasy is on a magical quest for a properly sized target.  It is a hand-in-glove fitting that should make women obsess about the size of their own vaginal endowment.  A survey of literature and science indicates that isn’t a real big concern.  It would be just as far out on a Bell curve for a woman’s vaginal capacity to be extremely tight or loose, short or long.  Women don’t talk as much about that because it doesn’t matter, not really.  That’s not how you measure the complicated workings of the sex-birth canal.

I will tell you this based on my research of the science and the literature: there is no reasonable way to increase the size of a penis.

There is some evidence you can change your attitude.

What is obvious in the literature is women’s desire to be gentle with the fact there is a real world impact-linked difference in their reaction to any object approaching and/or broaching their genitals.  There are so many words for what women feel when somebody insinuates something into them.  How wide is your tongue?  How long is your finger?  How big around is your thumb?  Do you worry about those numbers?

More important factors in sexual satisfaction include the level of honesty between couples discussing the physics of their love life.  If you can’t say you’d like to feel more meat then you’re unlikely to get to suggest there are products that could make any specific piece of meat feel bigger.  This means not only that she wants bigger but that she knows you may want to give her bigger.  You don’t have to be small to want to be bigger.

It doesn’t take much time to establish the actual parameters of your one and only penis.  Other than periodic rechecks, spend no more time assessing the size.  Really.  Work on your whole body’s significance to you and to others.  Women loathe a puny heart and dismiss a shriveled spirit but are adept at adapting to the cock at hand.  What women want is EFFORT, sincere and sex-specific courting.  For that you don’t need to bang a big woodie around.  You need confidence without boasting.

As an independent provider of high-end erotica in print and Kindle books, I promote a simple theme of sexual thoughtfulness.  Whether in a pothead’s quest for romance and reefer or the advice of a retired call girl now serving as a sexual consultant, there is variety, ingenuity, creativity.  That’s what readers want, it seems.  They like to hear their options.  They benefit from diversity in their fantasies.  Reading erotica gives specific fleshly details to collect like triggers; wicked words are hoarded as sexplosives to be detonated later.

I keep the tone light, the language frothy; there’s always a deep well of feelings available in any moment of a story.  It might be set as stark and sweaty, or rich and sweet, but you “see” the give and take. Sex positivity is an attitude, let’s say it together:  It’s all good.  [What, me worry?  Me no think so.]  There are facts of your life such as penis size and date of birth, don’t get hung up on those when presenting yourself for intimate consideration.  Put down that ruler so you have two hands free to offer what you do have.

Have a good time, all the time.  [This Is Spinal Tap]

In my books, the sexy vignettes tumble together so you can pick and choose, mix and match.  I present a kaleidoscope of frank sexuality and sly innuendo because I trust the reader to compose their own view.  Not suitable for some, appreciated by others means if you’re a queasy reader, pass on by.

This excerpt from Honey B., Sexual Consultant isn’t about size but it advocates a straightforward approach to sexual honesty in the interest of effective communication:


Bubba was a mother of a man.  Scary.  Born big, lived large.  I wasn’t sure my office suite was sturdy enough to contain him.  His wife Marletta brought him to me, desperate to find somebody besides her to tell Bubba his come did not taste good.  Making him come with her mouth wasn’t about flavor… it was about power surging. It was about him feeling good, her satisfaction achieved by causing it not experiencing it…  It wasn’t like intercourse which was its own reward; you give French, you don’t take it… it was only in the heat of the moment that she could accept his ejaculate in her mouth.  She couldn’t lick it up later; she couldn’t convince him that her refusal didn’t mean she didn’t love him.  Lots of women focus on the coming, not the cum.  He was wrecking an otherwise wonderful sex life with boyish demands that she savor his taste.  Marletta didn’t, and she couldn’t pretend she did.

If you think doctors and other traditional counselors would find this kind of information difficult to tell a person, multiply it by the Bubba factor.  Hundreds of pounds of male presence.  Bubba didn’t ask to be so tall, so broad, but he did wear his hair long and his boots black.  I could feel the heat when he realized what was going on.  He was furious that she told this personal information to me, a stranger.  “Oh, was she supposed to explain all this to someone they knew?”  This was their most private business and I was truly disinterested in their bedroom habits in general.  We talked specifically about what bothered her so much she thought such advice was needed.

Marletta knew Bubba could snap her like a twig, she also knew he wouldn’t.  If he would do something like that, he wouldn’t be Bubba.  His belief in love treated it like solace in a hostile world.  Love was who shared your bed and who spent your time.  It was his privilege to have Marletta to love.  That was the noble side of it.  In daily practice, Bubba was not getting the message from Marletta about sex details.  He clutched his erotic fetishes closely, he didn’t experiment or tolerate change well.  Within the limited scope of what he thought husbands and wife did together, he was comfortable.

Our first meeting had hinged on one question:  I asked Bubba, “If she isn’t eating you for the flavor, why is she eating you at all?”  He didn’t know… he wasn’t sure.  Maybe he ought to ask her.  More likely, she’d already told him but he hadn’t attached significance to that information.  Marletta liked the feel of him hardening, he knew that because she often started blowing him when he his penis was soft, letting it grow into her mouth.  He knew she reacted to his excitement, sometimes he never laid a finger on her and she got sharp-nippled and soft lipped just doing it to him.

I told them favorite blow job stories.  A junior executive working in a high rise building carefully locked his office door and closing the louvers for the “relight” window to the hallway… his wife knelt in front of him behind his desk and sucked him, window washers creaked into sight and caught them at it.  Or this one – impertinent man asks woman if she eats dick, she says sure, loves to, just get her a knife and fork.  She could eat a dozen in a day.  Did you hear about the singer who uses knowledge gained in classical singing class to control her throat so she can swallow the choral master’s cock?

I took Bubba aside and instructed him to swallow a spoonful of his own cold cum, garnished with a single curly pube, in private, don’t make a big deal about it, don’t tell Marletta.  If that didn’t change his mind, come on back.

*** End excerpt ***


If, on the other hand, you appreciate sexual candor then please click on through.

KathleenK.xxx for rowdier readers

Stonerwithaboner.com for potcentric sexotic fictional memoirs

KathleenK.com for vivid family fiction

#sizematters #sexy #erotica

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Bras in Space – Boobs in Government – Presumptions and Surprises

Playtex took bra-smarts and created workable astronaut suits – an example of perspective determining outcome.  While the military-type contractors made prototype rigid suits of moon-armor, the BODY DRESSERS understood the challenge was to engineer fabric to support and protect a moving person in a hostile environment.

Gender dynamics push and pull the story forward.  Why is it surprising that seamstresses held the answer to the precision construction of space uniforms?  Why is it not surprising that Playtex didn’t play Uncle Sam’s Procurement Roulette very well?  The astro-military complex needed something more organic than their unyielding smash and crash protection; they needed to enfold the astronaut’s body layer by layer weaving strength from disparate pieces.

There were men at Playtex, this isn’t a Jack v. Jill story; it is about presumptions and surprises.  Most important is the notion of fair evaluation of the competing products and ideas, of the actuality, no matter who created it.  The demonstrable fact was Playtex had the expertise and the workforce to tailor safety suits for outer space, and the bureaucrats were smart enough to (eventually) accept that.

COMMENTARY by indie author Kathleen K.

The tug of war over gender dominance is a male theory, as if it was axiomatic that competition exists between men and women.  That’s a man thing.  Women see it more as teaming, us against whoever is against us.  Women don’t have illusions about what male domination means:  assault, rape, and murder.  Check the stats on who is harming and who is harmed.  No effective leader-class dismisses the contribution of half its population, so whatever design flaws in the male-model world result in pollution, crime, and slavery cannot be separated from their flagship belief they are “masters”.  Women are not blameless, but we’ve never been in charge.

Feminism is not the answer, not if it merely reverses the polarity of judgment.  The genders are complementary by design.  We are not the same, but we are equal.  That’s a premise in my books.

FAMILY:  Love v. Money examines the emotional foundations of two female narrators.  It’s a two-for-one book with Baby Girl Battersea telling the story of a fatherless heir to a family fortune in the hands of her selfish uncle.  You, Drive North puts us in the driver’s seat of an accountant’s hijacked car as she tries to figure out what makes this intruder tick and how fast he is ticking.

Woven into these stories is the impact of being female, the intrinsic plus-minus of gender presumption set against the family-social background.  Neither story is a strident call for change; the observations articulate the tilt of being born female.

“There certainly is one way women are superior to men.
They are better at being women.”

from Stainless Mary by Kathleen K.

I like men, it is obvious in my writing; I married one; I raised one.  I appreciate and applaud them as individuals.  I’m not distracted by their pretensions of ascension as a group over women as a group.  One on one we’re even.  Each of us is given unique parts of the human whole:  we laugh, we weep, we dance, we sleep.  That’s the underlying discord for me:  that a seemingly sane person thinks the presence of his twig and berries specifically confers… intelligence, bravery, worthiness… beyond my own second-sex aspirations.  As a matter of fact.  No.  If men en masse embodied the acumen to actually run the show, they would make a world of balance and beauty to survive and thrive.  Theories of communism and humanism speak to our shared souls; practicalities of capitalism and territoriality overstuff the greedy.

The focus of males on male dominance is an entitlement mentality that undercuts the true power they have to lead and mold their own lives with allies of all sorts.  Instead, they follow the baying of the brethren who they trust beyond reason to lord over lesser beings:  females, children, weaker men, animals, crops, the land itself.  Even Space is a man’s world (so say the men).

We can abandon the male supremacy argument because in the race to quantify their superiority they muddied the water and polluted the air which is not a high-side outcome.  Given the percentage of children living in poverty versus percentage of politicians not living in poverty it is fair to say that men take care of themselves before their children which is tribal self-defeat.  Not all of them but enough of them disrespect their mates and disregard their offspring to use their selfishness as a meaningful character marker.  They abuse their mates with misdirected aggression (sorry, doll, bad day at the office), rising specifically from their hunger for “presence”.  They have to noticed, to be accommodated, to be obeyed, to be feared, they believe it is their right and therein lies the danger.

Luckily, women aren’t asking men to change the shape of their pelvises or give up team sports… simply cut back on the chest-thumping and dick-waving.  We get it.  You have an immature need to pronounce yourselves better than us.  Go ahead.  It doesn’t make it true and in a way it proves it false.


#erotica #KathleenK #goodread

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A Musing on Sexy High Heels and Female Strategy: It’s not the shoe, it’s the choice of shoe.

COMMENTARY by Honey B., Sexual Consultant (see Bibliography below) written by Kathleen K.

It’s not the shoe, it’s the choice of shoe.  If the shoe makes you teeter and totter about, if you walk like there are marbles under your feet, if your big toe is not the dominant structure of your inner foot due to disfiguring bunions, then I question your good sense.  Oh, and toes aren’t supposed to cross.  Fashion pushes us a bit, but to misunderstand the mechanics of the high heel and a narrow toe box involves considerable denial.

The fashionable heel height of shoes goes up and down, what remains is the step and glide of a person in their own world.  If you perch on Lucite stripper wedges then you exhibit not only execrable fashion sense but complete disregard for anatomy.  If you clop across a tile floor at the office, you are not being looked at for your leadership quality.

Walk strong and sure no matter the environment; it isn’t cute to self-mutilate with footwear beyond your body’s capacity to tolerate.  You look good when you move with grace.  Flip-flops don’t have a heel at all (part of their problem) but are just as likely to make you shuffle and slap as you pass by.

I’m not saying you can’t wear high heel shoes and still use your brain but I do know there’s a connection between an over-emphasis on fashion and a lack of self-assurance.  An eye-catching shoe on a confident woman works, what doesn’t work is the delusion any shoes can fool others (for long) into thinking you are taller, thinner, stronger or hipper than you are.  Irony:  your tortured feet aren’t attractive after those crazy shoes come off… when you might actually be sending a direct sexual signal.

There is a weight-height ratio when matching bodies and shoes, figure yours out and show you are well centered in all aspects.  Then establish your style within that range, take a stance you can sustain so you look and feel good.

There are uses for extreme footwear:  ski boots and summer sandals and boudoir kitten heels.  Shoes are platforms.  Test the function, that’s all I am saying.  Can you go up and down stairs in a reasonable amount of time in an emergency?  I am asking you, please, stop mincing around.

Adj.  mincing — affectedly dainty or refined, niminy-piminy, prim, twee


Is this really your message, do you like this logo for yourself?

Hobbling yourself is not a demonstration of power; it marks you for weaker contender-males who are reassured you are influenced by peer pressure.  You strap on stereotypic “girlie girl” shoes and are surprised people judge you for that.  We judge each other constantly.  We just don’t agree on the point system.  For many of us “fashion” translates:  Dress like a [clown], be treated like a [clown].  The first function of your wardrobe is to protect and enhance, to present you to the world… and help you move through it.


KathleenK.xxx brings you books for the rowdier reader

Truer-than-True Tales of Commercial Satisfaction – Sexotic Fiction by Kathleen K.

Honey B., The Suite Life


Available now

Honey B., Sexual Consultant


available early 2014

Honey B., Erotic Advisor


available SUMMER 2014

Honey B., The Buzz


Written; not yet scheduled for production

Honey B., Happy Endings


Written; not yet scheduled for production

This is vintage Boomer porn with redeeming social significance written for the rowdier reader.

Not suitable for some, appreciated by others.


#erotica #sexy #KathleenK


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Illusions – Stupid Ass Selfies – Spanky Talk – Literate Erotica

This link to Three Illusions that Will Destroy Your Brain” is worth sharing to enrich two-minutes of your day.  Hopefully it can help erase the stupid ass selfies that currently plague the web.

COMMENTARY by indie author Kathleen K.

I don’t know why we are so overt with our images (Google: rectal thermometer fetish) but shy in our words.  I write high-end erotica and sexotica for the rowdier reader.  I caution people it is Not Suitable for Some, Appreciated by Others.  Still, even with good reviews and a strong web presence, I have not yet crossed past the stigma that “nice people” don’t read this stuff.  (Please help me prove them wrong.)  Fifty Shades of Grey opened the discussion once again:  why does romance flourish but erotica struggle?  That book took the romance formula of masterful man (in commerce, in bed) and the female waiting to be educated by him (ergo, we start with a coed) and spun in some spanky talk.  Indisputably, it was eFingered by millions of eReaders.  The Fifty Shades trilogy wasn’t considered well written… but it trounced other “smarter” books in the marketplace.

Sassy, sexy, comical, intelligent erotica is not for everybody.  What I’m producing is not your mommy’s porn.  Enjoy the counterculture imagery from a cast of sharp characters:  a pot-positive memoirist, an organized voyeur, a fictional pay-to-play girl (retired) turned sexual consultant, a nonfictional pay-to-say girl who wrote the cult classic Sweet Talkers.  I seek sophisticated readers who can go highbrow but appreciate the low down.  I label the books bedside readers for the adult mind because they are tailored for the nightstand.  Deliciously explicit.  Using vignettes, free-wheeling prose, and snatches of conversation, I create scenarios for you to fill in, stimulating your imagination, fertilizing your fantasies.  It’s a great way to slip away from the real world as you gear down for sleep.  (Note:  I prefer print book to screen reader at night given what we know about visual stimulation before bed.)

This format lets you dip in and out of the books, not needing to remember plot details, or get to any particular stopping point; mix and match to suit the mood you’re in or the mood you’re cultivating.  Skim past what doesn’t interest you this time, you might run across it in a different mood and find it more meaningful.  There is a specific sex-positivity and good cheer in all my work, I find glory and humor in all the things we do to “feel” connected.  I’ve been called “competent” at novelizing hardcore erotica: begrudging praise for being literate in a stigmatized arena.  What can I say?  Lighten up, you erudite reviewers, I write “good reads” – that’s the whole point.  Quit counting commas, tell your targets was is it worth the time and money to read?  Don’t dissect the plot… share your unique judgment on the experience of reading it.  That is much appreciated by author and reader.

I have a standing offer to send you a free book if you review one of my other books.  I keep prices low to encourage spur of the moment purchases ($6.66 to $9.99).  I believe fans are the BUZZ.  Echo back, would you?  I’m easy to find if you can remember my name:  KathleenK

KathleenK.xxx – for the rowdier reader

KathleenK.com – Vivid family fiction for those who read between, around and beyond the words.


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