Tag Archives: fictional memoir

Interview with the Voice of Sexotica for the Rowdier Reader

kathleen_k_sexotica_erotica_indie_author

Reader of Novels – Art in the Public Domain

It was my great fortune to be noticed by a lively blog for authors and people who work with them, orchestrated by a bona fide “resource” in the book business.  This compendium voices book-community interests.  I recommend it for indie author-publishers, and book consumers no matter age or station.

Interview with the Voice of Sexotica for the Rowdier

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I’ve included a bit of sexotic text below, just by way of example.  This is an excerpt from Stoner’s Bone of Contention (The Weightless Joint) intended for mature audiences with open minds.  Potcentric, sexotic fictional memoir.


The double-tub with jets and shower hoses was a statement piece, hidden elements like thick insulation and sound baffling were part of the simple luxury of the bedroom suite, the one-armed long couch had crisp fitted slipcovers of washable fabric, there were area rugs (suited to bare bottoms) sitting on top of room rugs (suitable for bare feet) offsetting easy-mop hardwoods and tile pavilions. There were two double bedrooms, four guest beds, because even with one guest there can be the sex bed(s) and the sleep bed(s), there is the option to stop one phase and begin another without the mundane chore of immediate cleanup.

Janna drank sips of bourbon all night long, while I sucked up little hits of pot. It was not our intention to get wasted because the sex was too good to blur. We took breaks, replenished ourselves, we readjusted our framework. Janna gave as good as she got, we overheated from time to time, so ardent that we added too much fuel to the fire. I’d see her eyes glaze and realize I’d been pounding into her with my own eyes closed for a long long time before I looked down and saw her stunned and finished. I eased up, backed off, made the sad decision to disengage and shoot it like a firework.

That private retreat was the only single family dwelling I owned in the city, it was maintained by a different contractor and not part of my property management business. Part of my decision about Janna took this into consideration because I had not allowed these two elements to cross. My party life was my own, I withdrew from the work-a-day world reassured my real stuff had been insured, monitored, was waiting for me. Lead me to the luxurious linen and sturdy furniture. Layers of window coverings from sheer to blackout: I had designed window shades that snapped to the sill. Each bedroom and the smoking den were ventilated by silent fans, with slim radiators featuring artsy dials setting low to high, and dimmers on the light switches; this was a polypurpose place.

The availability of four double beds led to many combinations of guests so the rooms were filled with sensual memories. Someone like Janna meant so much more because she shared it with me and turned it to her advantage. She understood how cute she looked tummy-down on the ottoman so I could stare, stupefied, at her flaring ass then track the crack to her darkness. Eventually she’d lean on her forearms, straightening her legs to rise then bending her knees to settle in for round two of teasing. More of her hints were exposed but nothing… tangible. I felt her promise.

She put this show on in the smoking den, so I could toke along, phases settling one atop another until she grabbed her own ass cheeks and pried them open, pulled them up-out-back to show me my ultimate target, commanding me to take aim.

She wanted what I wanted, good hot balling, letting the carnal rule, laughing when I growled up into her pussy as I twisted her tits, feeling her buck and knowing I’d be mounting her soon, not yet, but soon, so I was all the more serious about heating her up. Nothing gleams like a wet cunny, weeping with the desire to be filled, crying for cock. Not all women ever get to feel that reckless joy but Janna had no qualms about sharing this most extreme hunger for sensation. She didn’t care if it wasn’t pretty, because it was so fucking real. We got off on each other, on our slamming tight and rocking back, we had matching parts and similar intent. She meant to control me through my cock and I intended to let her.

She did me, she let me and made me and prevented me, forestalled and goosed me, those were just her ways of communicating to my preverbal brain to stay on task, this was not about me coming but about me fucking her and riding her and turning her over to re-enter from some other angle. I knew I would come, later, I would spill into her waiting void, but not yet, and not just once.

 

#readmore

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FREE Stoner Matchbook – $1 or $2.50 for two

kathleenk_erotica_sewxoticaotcentric_Stoner_with_a_bonerIt’s Merry Marijuana Day, so I am offering keepsake matchbooks to rowdier readers, while supplies last and/or when supply is replenished.  Info@KathleenKBooks.com

The matchbooks could fit perfectly well into a stash box or might act as a conversation starter…  or be used to light votive candles down at the church, that’s cool too.

Stoner is a two-part potcentric fictional memoir of reefer and romance, with a third volume Stoner’s Bones (High Is Heaven) woven through this blog in his honor.  It’s a freewheeling sexual escapade, voiced with a wry twist of wit.

Another year of pot-regulation under our national belts and we move purposefully toward defining something that is in part ineffable by design.  What does pot “do” to-with-for-against you?  How do we measure impairment if the high wears off in hours but the molecules remain behind for days and weeks?  Banking and insurance still wobble because there are true outlaws involved and its hard to bridge the gap.  The newness is rubbing off and solutions are being tried, assessed and modified.  Not always correctly but why should this be any different than the other imperfect systems we have for health care, justice, and resource allocation?

Regulating pot competes with other agenda items:  race and gender bias, violence, systemic inequity.  It’s all part of the same puzzle, the lies told about marijuana were set against a racist, sexist, elitist society and enforced through a war-like philosophy.  Central to this was a Men-in-Charge theme (the ‘white’ is implied), encoding distrust in citizens not fitting the favored form.  This is a re-balancing movement, removing private choice from public censure, along the lines of free assembly, and the sanctity of your right to have your own religio-social thoughts.  Smoking pot isn’t to be segregated from ceremonial wine and Friday night boilermakers and whatever pills or potions you take to find relief.  It’s for grown-ups.  It is to be a sensible and measured element in a productive life.  It’s just stuff.  Green and leafy.  It doesn’t make you a criminal, or a saint, it’s about your finitude after all.

Make your choices, take your chances.

#readmore

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Stoner Thanks WA State Voters for Giving Peace a Chance

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

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

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

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

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

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

Life Plan:  Support yourself then indulge yourself.

Stoners_Bones_KathleenK_erotica_potcentric_stashbox

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

#readmore #stonerliteracy #regulatepot

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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.

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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?”

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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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Ding Dong! Fun with Phalluses.

Mind in the Gutter: Phallic Accidents Are Everywhere

Our Favorite “Accidental” Penises or Phallaccidents if you prefer

by Drew DiSabatino – July 25, 2013

After seeing a recent video of a news reporter accidentally drawing a penis on a traffic map, we started noticing dong-related mistakes were penetrating…erm, occurring in other photos and videos as well.

LINK to complete article.

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COMMENTARY by indie author-publisher Kathleen K.

Jezus freaking Cheetos:  Lighten up, folks!   Get working on that pursuit of happiness already.  I’ve used my liberty to establish an indie publishing enterprise and am pleased to announce Book #9.  I used the silly dick pix like car companies use bikini models, to catch your eye.

ATTENTION, readers of odd books, this is writing on the wild side to, for and about you, and all your rowdy friends who may be coming (over) tonight.

Kathleen K. introduces the newest addition to a collection of bedside readers for the adult mind.

Stoner’s Bone of Contention (The Weightless Joint)

This potcentric sexotic fictional memoir is a statement piece on reefer and romance, exploring the abyss between the genders by diving in.  Available as a stand-alone sequel to the memorable sexual escapade Stoner with a boner (It’s a Long Story), this indie book joins other vintage Boomer porn available at KathleenK.xxx

SAMPLE

Dick.  Prick.  Cock of Ages.  So many variations, nicknames and shorthand, for the embodiment of male anatomy – all we people got butts, nips, pubes but only half get the stick.  The others get the goal.

≤÷≥

My dick is quite insistent, there’s no point in suppressing its natural exuberance.  I’m a grown man so I’m not plagued with the errant stiffies of a rookie.  Suggestive ideas stir my mind as well as nudge at my physical barometer.  It thickens, it rests, I know how to hypnotize it if necessary.  Delay, not deny.

My friend Sally was the middle-aged widow of an old rich man.  She didn’t want to attract any attention to herself as lawyers worked out the details of her marital inheritance so she spent most of her time alone.  She wasn’t a gold digger; ten years ago she essentially agreed to be legal bedside companion to a nice dude on the high side of sixty.  She was his social shield and house manager; she had rights to dictate his medical care so there’d be no fuss in an emergency.  He didn’t need a nurse, not exactly, and he couldn’t stand the idea of dying unnoticed.  Once dead, he wanted to make haste to his cremation, over and done, no revenants.  It was a good life, he liked being alive, but there were no Pearly Gates ahead for him.  Life was a mysterious force that came to us and left us.  Inga was respectful of her employer and she lived in comfort alongside him in exchange for a promise of a post facto inheritance as her marital right.

She and I had been covert fuck-buddies long before she got married, and our sex had been dormant a decade to respect her dutiful vows.  We trusted each other to enjoy our full-body reunion to the max but keep it on the down low.  Her old man had died with dignity in his own home, with a friend at his side; that was a fact.  Another fact was she had to face the fact he was gone.  Everything was a swirl at the moment so I was invited to be at rest with her.  Lolling against me, she took comfort in being met with manly resistance; she fluttered up to and was captured by my gravitational pull.  I was solidly present in my body with the adult authority that had leaked away (naturally) from her husband.  The comfort of their casual contact was something she’d missed as her man got too frail even to hug.  She and I agreed to meet in a room at a nice hotel, never crossing paths in the lobby.  It was our intent to drop off the radar when we got together.  It was great to see her again, to know that she was safe, sound, facing forward.  Sally wanted me to conjure up our younger selves, the ones buried in memory, so we could encompass both grief and relief, and lots of hope.

I can fuck the hell out of a strong woman.  I get limp around the weak.

≤÷≥

 KathleenKBooks.com –  Site Map

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Ineffable Elements and Potentiators – words arranged by Kathleen K.

I am waiting for the second print-proof master of Stoner’s Bone of Contention to arrive, this could be IT.  Book #9 will be available online within weeks.  This is a potcentric sexotic fictional memoir about getting high then diving into that baffling abyss between men and women.

What’s at the heart of this book?  It celebrates sexual thoughtfulness with deft vignettes of Stoner’s philosophy in action.  Free-wheeling and oddly thoughtful, tender at times, cussedly candid at others.

SAMPLEI took a hop, skip and a jump through the book to isolate these particular musings of our narrator

I had no idea she was seeking a sexual consultant.  I had gone to enough of these sorts of grocer conventions to be careful around women on the road.  There was a wild, after-school feeling with so many out-of-towners in attendance.  It would be that freedom that led to my intimacy with Kalia, but only after we had both evaluated the suitability of the other.  There’s a moment when a woman makes her choice, insofar as she decides if it’s impossible to consider a physical tryst.  When that switch is off, it’s off.  It isn’t quite so definitive when it’s on, it being more of a dimmer switch than a single flip-to-the-on position.  A woman’s signal set includes pressure readings and ineffable elements, I’ve learned to watch and wait for as long as it takes for her to decide.  Arguing is fruitless, whining is unattractive; begging shouldn’t work.  Here is where the women have all the power.  Simple as that, write it down.  Her highest compliment is to accept a man within her, to take him up into her center, to grant him the privilege of uniting with her.  No matter how devalued commercial sex becomes, how tawdry and wasteful so much of our sex has devolved into, there is no doubting the primal urge between true lovers to blend.

≤÷≥

The weirdest things conjure sex.

“I’m going to smoke some pole.”

I can’t remember when I first heard it; however, when you do hear it, you get the idea even if it doesn’t make sense objectively.  It’s a sharp description of a vital function reduced to verb + noun.

So many ways to say fellatio, clinical or coarse words conjure the same image, face at the groin.

Smoke it, suck it, lick it, all the words are begging to put the mouth to the penis, to bend to or kneel for then open wide and make it disappear.  Consume it.  Blow it away.  Finish it.  Empty it.  Take it all in, absorb what it is then ingest what it contains.  Surrender to conquer, spill it out as a show of acceptance even if it is, ultimately, an act of expulsion.  The threat of a missile is right before you launch it, after that there’s a countdown to its one and only detonation.  There may be other missiles, other launches, but this one is up, up and away.  Done for, once it’s started.

≤÷≥

I think the fact that guys see getting tit as a mere way station on route to their one true goal means that they are missing a chance to experience a potentiator.  A potentiator enhances the perform­ance of another thing.  By exciting a woman with knowledgeable handling of her breasts you are heightening the vaginal reaction.  Don’t blast past the intimate hors d’oeuvre, a light bite whets the appetite.  Create fertile ground for the sexual feelings to root and grow by appreciating the amusing and arousing sample.  Women know they will get a reaction, some reaction, a definite reaction, to their breasts and it will most likely be delivered through the nipples, telegraphing the nether receptors to come awake and await further signals.

I leap from the sight of nipples to the facts of sex, to positions and angles and scooping up heat.  I run the endless loop of what the rest of me is doing as I pay homage to her succulence.  I have so many parts to offer, my hands and limbs, my torso, my chassis, all fired up from my little engine that could, my valiant libido pulling me up and up and up.  My mind races ahead even as I force my body to slow down and participate fully.  I hold the faith that if I invest my attention in her pleasure from the start then I am much more likely to share it in the end.  I can get myself off but I can’t fuck myself.

 ≤÷≥

KathleenK.xxxSite Map

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Stoner is the guy you want to show up at your party.

pot-face

Stoner is a good egg; you hope he shows up at your party.  He isn’t flashy but he does do that trick with the hot knives and hash.  He’s the kind of guy you wish your sister-in-law could meet because (a) it would give her something to do besides hang around your house and (b) that chick needs a tune-up and Stoner has the air of an ace mechanic.  You’ve watched him working the women so you know he’s a straight shooter; he’s attentive without being a dog about it.  There’s no backlash on his hookups, there’s not even clear information on when-where-how these things have happened, if they have… [I choose to believe].  He’s got charm, yeah, sure, but it is not some superficial slick that skids you past the details.  He’s through-and-through true.

He shows up with some of the most dazzling dope in town, head-banging shit that defies the limits of what you thought high could be.  Even the steady tokers are careful around his stash.  Respect.  It’s like that country song where some bad-ass party band will never smoke weed with Willie again.  Stoner is our Willie Nelson, not so old but with that same ethereal solidity.  He’s a rock-hard hippie, and glad to be.  He’s hitting on grass grown closer to heaven.  Superior pot and lots of it.  Sweet Mary Jane!  Our own pot is seductive, Stoner’s pot fucks. you. up.

Stoner is releasing a new book.  Count me in.  The first one saved my marriage.

He convinced me to smoke less pot.  I got his book from a friend who was giving them out as Christmas stocking stuffers to her weedie buds.  You’d think his loving descriptions of marijuana would stimulate toking but it refined my use.  I had been wasting a lot of my stash getting buzzed then doing nothing.  Too much blazed gaming for sure.  I turned toking into a sacrament.  I learned to PLAN my highs, more rare and much more productive.  The wasted hours were redeployed into fitness and yard work — my wife loved that!

This got me thinking about Stoner’s ease with women.  What I got out of the book was the thoughtfulness.  I admit I picked up some technical details too.  I read the sexy pages out loud while my wife relaxed in the bath then we’d try to implement those exact notions.  We started to percolate again, we learned how to maintain a simmer and when to reach a boil.  The crazy ups and downs of our mismatched newlywed rhythms settled into a livable life together.

The first book didn’t change my life, I did that.  The book hit me just when I was thinking maybe I ought to change my life.  That long story of his convinced me I could.

Stoner with a boner (It’s a Long Story).  Seriously funny.  Smokin’ hot.  Potcentric sexotic fictional memoir.

Stoner’s Bone of Contention (The Weightless Join) is due for publication in July 2013.

KathleenK.xxx for the rowdier reader.

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