Tag Archives: legalize pot

You have to tell the truth about booze to face the facts about pot.

Liquor is not the problem in the same way that guns are not the problem.  It’s about people.  Many people don’t drink at all.  Most drinkers like the buzz, they use it to celebrate and commiserate.  Then there are the ones who overdose themselves to sickness and death.  Pot will have the same mix of users but at its worst it is still safer than alcohol because it is highly unlikely you would overdose on it.

The second tier of impact is what happens to others in the presence of a drinker or a toker.  Drinkers brawl; stoners laugh at each other.  Drinkers drive aggressively, repeatedly, while potheads creep along, paranoid and over-thinking. The heart of our lies about alcohol pertain to drunk driving.  We allow carnage rather than face the facts.  We have repeat offenders being excused and nobody can explain why that is.

If you factor booze into domestic violence and sexual assaults you arrive at the conclusion that drinking is an accelerant like gasoline on emotions.  Pot is a gentle stimulator, breezy and befuddling.  You can mess up on either but not all trouble is created equal.

We’re talking about intoxicants with no other purpose than to alter biochemistry.  At that level, alcohol and recreational marijuana are the same.  It is a lifestyle choice just like playing cards or tossing horse shoes (you know, you can kill somebody with a horse shoe).  That’s the main reason I believe herb should be regulated like any other grown-up feel-good stuff.  Most of us will be fine, some may need to curtail consumption, and, yes, there will be addicts.  That’s the truth about drinking and toking.  It’s that freedom thing, to associate and to worship, to live your life within local community standards or face shunning (prison).  Hoist a few, blaze up, but keep your hands to yourself and yourself off the road.

 After pg 24         Barry “Mandot” Messer

SAMPLE — For high-spirited readers

from the potcentric sexotic fictional memoirs of Stoner

Not suitable for some, appreciated by others.

Drinking just ain’t for me.  I went down that path a ways, and must say the neighborhood tavern provided me some wonderful evenings.  At first, you think you’re drawn to the people but eventually you realize it’s the fog you like, drunk is drunk varying only in degree.  I was a different “me” after a few beers, plus I was emboldened by the others’ inebriation.  Besides, it says something when you meet a person in a tavern:  it isn’t church, it isn’t work, and it isn’t home.

I got sponsored into one tavern’s in-crowd by a lady I knew.  She lived alone in a tall skinny house about three blocks from the bar.  I learned this location was critical to her plan to avoid a second DUI.  She intended to be impaired when she left the neighborhood bar (about 11:15 p.m.), that was the point of her drinking after all.  She wanted to get convivial, boozy, but leave before the mood turned at midnight.  She didn’t pay attention to the road when in that frame of mind and, since she wasn’t going to quit drinking any time soon, she found a way to drink and not drive.  We’d stroll the short distance home, still jazzed by the interaction down at the tavern, old enough to know how to attain and maintain intoxication.

Donna and I made a good pair, she had a wry and biting wit that kept me on my mental toes.  She was tart without being bitter.  She had yellow hair and royal blue eyes that turned black in the moonlight.  I thought of Nordic maidens when I became familiar with her body.  Her shoulders and hips were in proportion with a long sturdy torso between them.  Her skin was the color of sunshine on a white rose, glowing with the feel of pink.  She liked to burrow against my body wearing only a bra and panties, me confined only by my underwear.  Tactile stimulation: her rounded thighs resting against my leaner ones, the scent of her neck distinct from the ever-clean smell of her hair.

Donna didn’t get naked with the lights on.  Period.  She had to gentle herself down when in the maddening grasp of the male.  It flipped switches in her so we learned to let the agitation drain away.  She explained to me how often men rejected her because they didn’t want to wait until she relaxed.  Unlike me, they failed to sustain the arousing sensation of body contact without advancing their own agenda.  I’d while away the time thinking sensuous thoughts and suppressing my own impetuous sexuality to reach for a deeper, more mystical approach.  She was slow to warm but then she held her heat.

She had installed one of those clapper switches on her love lamp, the specific light she kept on so she wouldn’t get naked until she was good and ready.  It cast a flattering light on us both, just enough illumination to see her nipples thicken against the fabric of her bra.  She especially liked to touch my cock while I was still wearing my underwear.  It made me feel anonymously explored, palpitated.  Donna was assessing strength and flexibility, the weight and length of me.  She was dull-minded from the liquor wearing off and half-lulled to sleep by our quiet cuddling, she slipped into a sexual mood like a drip gathers itself to drop.

Her lovemaking style was passive, she placed herself in my hands.  I’d learned to tell her when to move, and she always did when I told her to, but she didn’t move if I didn’t say so.  She had told me about her first husband’s teasing her overeager humping but it was so long ago she couldn’t remember if he was right about that.  She didn’t want to know.  Her pleasant acceptance of our shared sensations kept our lovemaking from becoming passionate.  She was grieving her second husband, a man rendered impotent by advanced diabetes, a suicide (by morphine overdose) ((no one ever admitted to supplying him the needle, the drugs, but I was convinced Donna hadn’t done so, I came to believe it was his brother who thought it was love to let him go)).  To capitalize on the tender side of their marital love but diminish the frustration she remained in her panties and bra with him when they slept together.  He said he couldn’t bear to see her naked, it would be a feast set in front of a man with his teeth wired shut.  In the dark he could pet her to orgasm, in the dark he could liberate her breasts; still, even in the dark, he could be overcome by a lack of physical fulfillment that broke both their hearts.  No kick.  All these years later, she didn’t give her nakedness to me because it had been denied to her true lover.

The tavern Donna and I frequented served unsalted peanuts and low salt pretzels, the eating was not to stimulate your thirst (the camaraderie did that).  It is congenial to snack from a shallow bowl of simple food chased by cold beer.  It was the bar’s habit to order food in about eight o’clock, we rotated through Italian, Chinese, Deli, Fish’n Chips that we ate family style.  The bartender got free eats for organizing the order.

It was important to Donna that “her tavern” was not dark and hopeless, it wasn’t filled with sodden drunks smelling vaguely of piss (perhaps because it dribbled on their shoe tops).  This place entertained people who played pool, or cards, they provided music for the sound system and would play guest selections if the majority didn’t object.  The newspaper was pulled out, and far-reaching discussions ensued.  They always hoisted one after reading first the births, then the weddings, finally the obituaries, out loud.

Donna had never slept with one of the guys from the tavern, it would have changed her whole “sister” dynamic.  She didn’t want to reveal herself to any specific one of them, it was important to her that her man be seen as an import, with no history of his own with these people.  In the first place, she and I could agree to presenting a certain face of our relationship, it appeared to others that I was in pursuit of her while the fact was I’d been drawn into the situation by Donna’s invitation.  I played the woo-er, the beau, so that she could tease me for the benefit of our crowd. A drinking crowd.

After a few hours visiting with them, the edges of the room disappeared and all the action seemed to center around our tables.  We’d have sudden death double-solitaire game crowding out the beer mugs on one table, at another the ashtray might be filled with bottle tops we were saving to flip against the curb later.  (The various twists and warps of the cap added a high degree of difficulty — they weren’t uniform like pennies for pitching.) Donna would sit with one leg thrown over mine, or her hand on my thigh, physically connected with me in a proprietary way; our relationship served some purpose in the group, lent her substance as an individual by being the member of a pair.  I was loyal and true to her, it would have been a sacrilege to eye other women when we were in our little world.

I was smoking dope on my own, she didn’t mix pot with beer.  Once in a while somebody would bring in a joint and I’d step outside to take a few tokes to be sociable but then it wasn’t really like getting stoned all the way, it was a head-topper.  In a sense, I was appreciated for “being myself” when I wasn’t being me at all.  I was playing the role of Donna’s man friend.

Donna was more the pill type than I expected, she loved to slip into a downer drowse, timing herself to get home before the serious lassitude struck her limbs.  It wasn’t my kind of high (low) to share but I didn’t mind her enjoying herself in this way.  She’d be too out of it to really take care of herself, I’d have to guide her to the bathroom and wait outside the door calling out reminders of what to do next; once I piloted her back to bed I’d solemnly explain what I hoped to achieve sexually and she’d nod along earnestly but then she forget and seemed surprised – every time – when my hand slid between her legs.

Even relaxed to a literal hover, she still didn’t want to be naked with the lights on and I respected this.  The lights were out before the underwear came off.

The room would not be pitch black, moonlight could creep in, there was a streetlight on the next lot, once in a while she’d allow a small candle to flicker.  It forced me into a tactile dimension where I had to imagine her ass by its contour and her snatch by its scent.  I knew her nipples were large and dark, dense.  Breasts low-slung with a pleasing uptilt.  Her hips were fleshed over and smooth but still perceptibly forming a basin for her compact pussy.  It seemed her clit was snuggled up to her pussy, barely covered by her shallow mound.  It was easy to involve that nub in our lovemaking.

She did let me nudge her butt cheeks open when she was on downers, once in a while she’d relax enough to let me prod at the hole there incidentally/accidentally for a few minutes but she was adamant there’d be no actual butt sex.  She indulged my request for this type of arousal because I was so cooperative about the lack of visual nudity.

At her request, I wore a leather blindfold one night so she could see me in the mirror naked and fucking her.  I helped her set up.  I felt foolishly excited by this concept:  used by her, serving her.  Once readied, I couldn’t see a thing, no sliver of movement, no shadow shapes.  I especially liked when she got astride me and I felt her swivel so I knew she was looking back over her shoulder at the mirror to watch her backside plunging on me and off me.  I could imagine what it looked like from what it felt like for me to be her platform.

I reached up and pressed her breasts back against her ribs, holding her there, she had solid-feeling flesh that filled my palms.  She’d lift herself into my hands, shoving her belly down tight against me and arching her back so I had the sensation of capturing her in flight.  I’d thumb her nubby nipples until I felt it in her pussy.


I went through one-hitter pipes every few months, doing minimal maintenance, until the active one got too sticky to use.  I dropped it into some pipe cleaner and brought out another one, same shape and weight, fresh.  I double-tap the bowl, sucking up the high, alone at home.  I wander around, touching talismans, blowing dust off framed moments.   This was my place, it held my things, it welcomed my visitors, and anchored me in the deepest way.  I had freedom in this refuge, I was myself here.

Getting high before my walk meant I’d have to plan ahead, avoid distractions, stay true to the mind-altering I’d instigated, savor it.  From my den to my door to the sidewalk then toward the residential section, away from the bakeries and bars and quickie marts and all those hellos.  I was one of many people feeling at ease moving through a friendly neighborhood.  I welcomed my thoughts against a backdrop of family life, toys on the lawn, grill on the back porch; all these other people were acting out the scenes I remember as a kid.  I don’t feel the need to pass this knowledge down to another generation, not like these others who are doing so every day.  I’m glad ‘community’ exists and I can trust it to endure, it’s our successful adaptation to tribal politics.  I’ve got a clan, I pledge allegiance to the flag, I accept the modern way of life.  I’m a frequent flyer in the head-osphere.  I’m just as good at landing as I am at getting off.


“I am major mellow, Captain Cooked.”

“It’s a creeper weed.  Sneaks up on you, it needs time to ripen.”

“Ripe sounds good.  I’m baked.  Toasted.  Completely completed.”

“As long as you’re not wasted.”


I was surprised how many women expected me to start mooching once we were intimate.  Evidently, lots of men slip this way.  Since I believe each adult should have a way to sustain their own life, I was not in need of a “boost” from the budget of a lover.  It would have offended me if I was expected to “assist” in the living expenses of someone else, whether or not it was for sexual access.  That’s part of the here-and-now for me.  I can observe mooching as a fact but can’t “feel” it for myself.  It didn’t bug me when I kicked in money for a new roof for my cousin’s house because it was a tenth anniversary present.  They could use their own hard-won roof savings for a surprise weekend honeymoon… that’s how my family helps its people.  Lift one burden.  Wipe out one worry.  Expect them to handle the rest.

I adopted a neighborhood nursing home and tithed to its general fund.  It wasn’t hard to explain to myself why I thought this was due… if those that could help did help, we’d eliminate some stresses on all of us. The donated ten percent seemed easy to calculate and was rooted in my idea of a worshipping society.  I wasn’t going to be attending any sermons soon but it didn’t mean that I was exempt from good works.  There are amenities not funded through Medicare that can make life easier for our seniors.

Would I be so generous if I didn’t have the money?  I am frugal by nature and legally unencumbered so it wasn’t hard to relax into the comfort of sending in some off the top, like it was taxes, it made me feel like a citizen, not just a voter.  If I earned less, I’d still tithe.

When I examine my character I know that this is a profound part of my value system, a basis for my other decisions.  I don’t know how other people feel but it is apparent that many of us compare ourselves to what we think we ought to be and seek peace in our choices.  At times I sit in my place and feel so right-with-the-world that it’s risky to acknowledge it (jinx it).  My extended family respects my contributions to our lives together as living acts of commitment, I am there for them, with them. They’re with me.  This is what you do to build family links that last.  I invest my time in them.   Same so the other loves of my life.  Because they matter.  To me.


If you, like me, like sex and, like me, like drugs, you may like sex on drugs, like me.  Or you might not.  And that’s cool too.



#erotica #stonerliteracy #KathleenK #indaclub

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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

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Foggy Friday Night – Potcentric Sexotic Bedtime Reading

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

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

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

SAMPLE – All Rights Reserved.

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

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

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


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

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

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


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

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


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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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



#legalizepot #pot-positive #HempFest #Stonerwithaboner

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

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

By Elisha Fieldstadt, NBC News

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

Link to complete article


 “Movie and a Doobie Afternoon”

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

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

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

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

Link to complete article


COMMENTARY by indie author-publisher Kathleen K.

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

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

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

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

Stoner’s Bone of Contention (The Weightless Joint)

KathleenK.xxx – for the rowdier reader.

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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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It turns out pot is not the gateway to hell.

Marijuana’s march toward mainstream confounds feds

By ALICIA A. CALDWELL and NANCY BENAC, Associated Press Updated: Jun 29, 2013 at 2:11 PM PDT

COMMENTARY from indie publisher and counterculture writer KATHLEEN K.

Bottom line: government has to get into the weed business or get out of the booze business.  They are both intoxicants with no constructive purpose which when consumed in moderation serve their biochemical function to loosen behavioral constraints within tolerable limits.  Constitutionally removing the no-no-no on pot edges the argument into freedom of choice, of religion and assembly, of fundamental liberty to BE self-determined.  Besides, we already know prohibition not only fails to control access to [whatever], it spawns a criminal class designed to elude the prohibitors (or worse, they collude).

I believe in sin tax, charging extra for the risky stuff like getting loaded, gambling, and guns, if it means we use those funds to provide tax-free diapers and affordable over-the-counter remedies for seniors.  Citizens want law enforcement money to combat real crime — violent and predatory offenses.  We agree we need to stop the stupid drivers whether influenced by alcohol, cannabis, prescription drugs, emotions, electronics, or insufficient cerebral resources.

Law abiding stoners are not the problem.  Let it be!

The Stoner series of books is lighthearted and passion-positive, celebrating the naughties:  getting high and hooking up.  Witty, wise and wicked, it’s a rambling narrative told by a guy with a decent job and a sense of the absurd.  The books promote sexual thoughtfulness and weed conservation through appreciative consumption.  He’s a voice for moderation, observing a culture shift in progress, but what he remembers is the peace and the love.

As explained in the news article above, states legalizing pot have unsettling implications as far as the FDA and DEA and NIMH and AMA are concerned.  Not only are the bureaucrats faced with professional judgments to make about who is allowed to do what (and design the official forms that encode these options), as we all age the backdrop is no longer Reefer Madness.  That myth is busted:  pot is not the gateway to hell.  It’s a weed, it grows in the ground, and is like tobacco with a sustaining wave of well-being and affability.

We may not be able to explain why pot helps cancer patients but we can observe it.  Whether it is a placebo or not, patients believe a little weed helps them eat, and eating keeps them alive while under assault by barbaric-but-mainstream “treatments” like radiation and chemo.  Once you crack the medical access to marijuana, the recreational use is not far behind.  It’s ancient, it’s herbal, it’s not going away.  Graft a pot clause on the existing liquor laws and be done with it already.

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