Tag Archives: explicit

Putting Honey B., Sexual Consultant to bed

Honey2 Cover = OK

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

put something to bed

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

See also: bed, put

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You just never know.


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


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

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



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

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


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

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



KathleenK.com for vivid family fiction

KathleenK.xxx for rowdier readers

KathleenKBooks.com for complete catalog

#novelporn #sexotic #KathleenK

Tagged , , , ,

Bong Bowl 2014 – The energy of marijuana in a changing culture

Pot-Legal States Face Off in Super Bowl

I like weed and I’m a good person.

Companies woo the weed crowd with artful edgy ads.


COMMENTARY by indie author-publisher Kathleen K.

Pot may be legal in Colorado and Washington states but it isn’t as if you can run out and pick up a six-stick with a twelve-pack.  There is a whole lot more to regulating the cultivation and distribution of an intoxicant than people think.  The liquor industry is the closest model and that didn’t spring up wholly-formed after Prohibition, it still has some kinks.  Those bootleggers had the same problem with the banks and the insurance companies when they crossed from “illegal” to “legal” on paper but not in person.  Pot should be grafted on to this commercial model.  And then we need to tighten up on the intoxicant system overall.

This move to regulate marijuana is a wave of sentiment, a changing of priorities.  Grass is no better or worse than tobacco and alcohol.  Grown in the ground, smoked or eaten… naturally.  Synthetic marijuana is crack and crack is whack.  We have more important things to do than hound the pot-head stoners.

Getting high used to be a shady subculture, rarely mentioned among the straights.  There were repercussions for taking a liberal stance in public, because pot was illegal.  The mere possession of it was punishable.  In real jail.  Now getting high is featured in light-hearted pokes from the mainstream media (like the articles above).

That is the difference:  marijuana isn’t the scourge my parents thought it was as they drank their cocktails and puffed their cigarettes.  We old stoners knew legalization would happen, it took work but it was inevitable because the fact of the matter is that Mary Jane is a perky little weed with psychotropic properties.

Tokers are a good natured community overall, firing up a joint was a peccadillo among the regular people who aren’t overdoing it.  If you have a job, and a family, there’s only going to be about 45 minutes every once in a while for you to sit back and absorb the calming thought-provoking smoke.  Sacramental smoking with its rituals and mystic associations suits the impact of the drug.  It messes with perception and reaction.  In a good way.

You can set aside some serious bake time, pile on the herb, fire up the freak fuel… alone or with others.  This altered state is anti-gravitational thus not suitable for weighty decisions like driving or kid care.  It’s for having fun.

Well, for those who like it, it’s fun.  There are certain people who by chemistry or personality are not charmed by this herb.  They get shrill or paranoid, they fall inward; not only does this make them uncomfortable but it is a waste of good reefer.  Never encourage anybody to try it or, if they didn’t like it previously, to see if things have changed.  Getting high implies a willingness to let go which tilts some folks into an ugly orbit.  Respect that.

When I created the narrator of Stoner’s potcentric sexotic fictional memoirs it was to embody a moderate man in pursuit of pleasure.  His skill with women wasn’t a trick, it was a knowing.  Same so his cultivation of a righteous high.  He gets lyrical about both, witty and sharp, then meandering, mixing up the pace for us so we understand it all comes down to thoughtfulness.

Stoner’s Bone of Contention – EXCERPT              All rights reserved.

Toke and poke.  A certain country gal I knew had a fondness for the simplest sex, she lived on a ranch with her widowed ma and they worked hard all week.  On Saturday night she’d come over for a ritual stone and bone, take a drag and give a shag… any number of straightforward phrases for what she wanted to do with me.  Get high, get done… get home.  She had a habit of finishing her man quickly which I had to break her from doing with me.  My goal wasn’t to come quick, it was to come completely.  I admit it was hard to resist her hungry hole, she had a way of twisting around me and then clenching, the phrase that comes to mind is “bear down”.  I can’t think of a single endearing thing she said to me or about me, we liked each other well enough but that was not the criterion.  She knew me from long ago and, when we ran into each other at the Market, she wondered if I still had my old school connections for smokables.  I invited her over to sample some options and she became too wrecked to drive home.  I had a long tuxedo couch with pillows and throws, simple sturdy stuff; it was easy for an overnight guest to nestle in without feeling they’d caused me any trouble.  She reminded me that we’d done it a time or two back in the day and as she recalled it was quite satis­factory.  (I didn’t need reminding.)  She said she wasn’t involved with anybody at the moment and she wondered about my status.

My status?  Oh, shit.  I’m supposed to say in as few words as possible what stage of life I was in:  married, widowed, engaged, divorced, single, coupled… what was my status?  My fucking status?  My fucking status was what it always was:  there were people I liked and people I sexed and lots of other people completing the Venn diagram of my circles.  Mostly, I was available when a good-hearted, sweet breasted, fit as a fiddle filly pranced up to me and whinnied from that slice of the population that was both liked and sexable by me.


I don’t find high heeled shoes sexy; they were a distraction for me.  Women didn’t handle the spindly stilts well which seemed equiva­lent to hobbling themselves (not attractive) ((to me)).  Once in a while I could feel the organic balance of being with a strong large woman but mostly I was looking for a mid-sized ride with more sense than to try to walk propped up on twigs.


Having a country girl taught me about female power, she threw bales of hay, used a shovel several hours a week, squatted to tend to the little animals, stretched up to the tall ones.  She walked endless miles around the property; she ate well and worked it off, leaving her carved in work-a-day musculature.  There was meat on her bones but it wasn’t marbled with fat, it was firm and warm and thick enough to soften her strong-boned skeleton, the inner‑she.

I don’t think she gave her body enough credit as an enticement; she was dismissive of male flirts as being con-men gigolos.  We were doing it like we did it long ago, when it didn’t matter which made it valuable, we got buck stark naked and rubbed ourselves silly, kissing and writhing, doing what we were built to do, because it felt good.  Creationists and evolutionaries both stick on the purpose of passion, it’s an inducement, a reward, a trade-off for the reproductive risk.  Feel free to discuss.  Me?  I’m paying homage to this confluence of circumstances that lets me romp with authority.

I would guess many women would not see her appeal to me, she didn’t wear lipstick or color her hair; she wore well-fitting jeans and a V-neck cotton sweater when she came to town, emphasiz­ing her sturdy upper body and not disguising the energy in her hips and thighs when she walked, when she flexed one knee, likeable AND sexable indeed.


Her name?  She wouldn’t let me use it so I’m not giving it to you out of respect.  I called her Gal, Country Gal, Country Honey, Country Muffin, Country Cunt…





“Clockwork Orange.”

“Why would you say that?”

“You said Clockwork.  I said Orange.”

“It’s A Clockwork Orange.”

“What is?”

“The book… the movie.  A Clockwork Orange.”

“Why would you be thinking about that?”

“I wasn’t.  I was thinking these brownies hit like clockwork.  Forty-five minutes.  Bam.”

“Oh.  Where does the Orange come in?”

“Hand over that bong, you’re done.”


I got high and, before settling in to my project, I grabbed my handy-dandy cordless vac and ran it around my living room and kitchen, fighting the pine needles that devil my house.  I respect and admire the eighty-foot pines outside my door, their solid trunks rooted in my yard, but those needles are devilish enemies, they cling to things, they resist being scraped away on the door mat, they snuggle into carpet fibers.  I noticed I was over my tolerable allotment and I needed to re-establish equilibrium.  If I don’t stop them at the front rooms, they slip down the hall and into the bedroom and bath.  Not acceptable.

I like the trees, they are a good point of reference, they can be harried by wind and rain, boughs break with snow, yet they are deeply rooted in firm soil, not under­mined by flooding.  They shade me in the summer, filtering the light, ringed around the house (more accurately, the house was inserted into a small clearing) and I admire the soft carpet of needles beneath the trees.  I keep the patio as clear as I can, establish a needle-collector rug outside the door, but, still, the needles sneak in and set out invisible rootlets.

Once I’ve lured a goodly number of the bastards into the dust cup, I relax and get to work.


A well-rolled joint has certain characteristics, it is light-weight yet contains sufficient pot to get high; it can be re-lit easily and does not side-wind.  You don’t need a clip to hold it if you’re practiced in the art.

Kathie D. and I had a forever-challenge as to who would hit last on any joint we shared, who could hold the smallest portion that would still render a hit, and to be fair we became expert passers.  We lifted the still-lit bit on the extended index finger to be plucked in such a way as to be on the edge of the other’s thumb-index pincer, leaving the smallest channel of air to facilitate getting some smoke.  It was a friendly game, something that started out the first night we met and continued ever after.  If I saw her now, I’d still expect her to toke every last little bit.  Part respect, part greed.

She was married to a friend of mine which allowed her to act as my wingman in social situations, helping me see what I might ordinarily miss.  It is a learned technique, to evaluate your surroundings, to pay attention.  We humans are skimmers, we like to slip and slide forward, don’t bog us down with chores and obligations, give us lots of credit for even trying.

She helped me get better at giving women their due, to read deeper significance into what I’d often mistaken as a casual display.  Women were planners, they were trappers.  They were strategic when feigning weakness, over-confident at times.  I did some reverse-engineering on what it took to be a single kid-free female in my age bracket, how different the path than my own where bachelor­hood was envied, so many possibilities for the free male!  Mated men had given their final answer:  This One.  The rest of were FREE.

But the ladies were not as free to stay free, they were given harsher nicknames and worsening odds for mating at all, they were most valued for their youth which read as fertility; big girls could do their egg-count math and probabilities analysis.  I’ve heard it described so many ways but it comes down to a number, a fact that will or won’t be, they can’t will it to happen, they can try to deflect it, until it’s no longer possible to produce a child.

Men never think it isn’t possible.


To each his own.  I do my own fine.  This familiar chore is not always a party but I’m excitable while I do it and happy when I’m done.  Homage to the rutting desire, a combative tide of entitlement pushes me forward and lowers my voice, I confess to being a talker but only at the very end, when all systems are go, my body the bow for a shot triggered by a shout, some filthy odd thing I think of as I go over the brink.


The weightless joint story is true but physics tells us there is some measure of mass to weed and paper, and bioscience records a demonstrable reaction.  I have mentored a few rollers but it takes patience and practice and, sadly, some practice too much too soon.  It’s like any handicraft, there’s a technique you adapt to your liking; there’s a standard of worthiness in the product:  it has to smoke true and get a normal person off.  More likely it’s good for more than a single high but to qualify as complete it has to carry at least one good buzz.

I have a friend who says I’m like a “shot and beer back” guy, economical in my approach to weed like he is to booze.  For him, the beer is collegial, the shot is personal.  It’s an efficient delivery system for the desired payload of sustaining intoxication.  It isn’t that I have two components like he does but that we have our rituals, our methods, and our targets.  I’m an organic stoner; I don’t require anything more than some bud, papers and a light.  It’s my herbal version of a boilermaker, the intent is to raise a head of steam and we each have learned how we work best.


I’m higher than high sunk down in a chair on my back veranda, a book forgotten in my lap, thinking about a lot of things not seemingly related when an overly-loud thump and whirring of wings hit my lamp.  It’s a torchère perfect for night reading; an exposed bulb in an upturned glass fixture attracts a lot of bugs at night in the summer which are fun to watch but it is early spring and this is LOUD.  Surprisingly, it’s a small bird, battering itself against the hot bulb and reflective glass, so I reach out and turn off the lamp.  I’ve never seen one of these busy birds at night so I wonder if it had fallen from its nest somehow.  There’s one last frantic circle of flight careening around the dimmed fixture then the bird shoots up over the rim, flutter­ing wings barely keeping it aloft, until it sort of drifted down to the ground.  It sat there, not injured that I could see, but stunned and confused, maybe temporarily blinded by the intensity of the bulb. It hopped around a bit, trying to take off, but only managed about a foot of elevation which put it into the light from the window.  Drawn to that glow, the bird bumped its head on the glass a few times then slid down onto the sill.  It rested, shook itself a few times, but didn’t move.

I just stood there, wondering if it would be better for me to turn off the inside light since the bird was obviously fixated on it.  Anytime it gained flight it never turned away from the window, never moved toward the dark that led to freedom.  The problem was that the bird was on the window next to the door I’d have to use to get inside and dim the light.  I didn’t want to disturb it; I also didn’t want it to fly into the house.  And I was still high so the vision of a trapped bird really occupied my thoughts.

I finally slipped inside and could see him tight up to the glass, calming down, and I hoped after the lights went out that eventually some other source of light would catch its attention and it could try to find a way home.

I thought of the neighborhood cats and lurking raccoon who would have been delighted to meet up with a dazed bird in the middle of the night.  Lucky bird (for now) at least, but there was a lot of night left to get through.  For both of us.


“This is high-polluting pot.”

“…falutin… I think you mean highfalutin.  Show off, exaggerated.  This shit even smells strong, there’s nothing discreet about it.”

“I’m high and, yes, the air in this immediate vicinity is polluted.  You might be right about the falutin thing, though… you usually are.”

“But you’re always so close… like you say “andpersand” instead of “ampersand” for the and sign.  Most people mispronounce it ‘ampersam’ but you’re going in a whole other direction:  It’s charming and disarming.  Like your intention span.”

“My what?”

“I knew you meant to say ‘attention span’ the other night but you said ‘intention span’.  It might not be what you meant to say but I realized there is an ‘intention span’ on resolutions and other pledges.”

“Glad to oblige, Professor.  At least I know you listen when I talk.”

“Yep.  I also hear the unspoken.  For instance, the answer to your next question:  I’ve got another joint in my pocket.”



Over the years I’ve gotten better at understanding women when they talk, in part it helps that I’ve learned to maintain a steady pace, to not over-share too soon or try to hide what must come out.  The fact is I am suited to a certain subset of females in specific roles.  I’m not a husband or a father or a fiancé or a roommate or in any way paired to any one female.  We might have steady contact, we might share a world of our own, but we don’t go to each other’s family gatherings or show up at their place of business (unless that is where we met).  There is no shortage of pragmatic women cautiously peeking up over the fence, just looking to see if anything is greener.  My challenge is to discern if they’re cheating a peek or not.  Are they free to open the gate and step out into the world as an available person?  Do they have things under control in their daily life so as to afford some hours here or there for a personal life?  I work best with those strong-by-nature women, the ones who don’t flutter around, the ones who set their course and maintain it.  I’m a coherent addition to their life, I make sense to them; I’m not being shoved into some other purpose than the obvious one:  I like to make their life sweeter.

KathleenK.xxx – Spice up Valentine’s Day!!


#legalizepot #sexyerotic #ValentineGiftIdea

Tagged , , , , ,

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.


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