The lyric recollections of Stoner, a fictional memoirist capturing his quest for romance and reefer, are not confessions of a carouser. He’s a man with a plan to balance his work-a-day world with dreamy nights of possibility. He savors his moments, polishes them. His skill with women starts with his choice of woman: he goes for the sane ones, the wary not the paranoid; does she maintain a stable orbit – can they synchronize?
The pot thing is a natural element in his society, his filthy drug habit is mild compared to the pharmaceutical pleasure-pills and addictive opioids and brain-blowers like speedy acid. He rolls right along, not begrudging the drinkers and tobacco smokers their social acceptance. It’s only a matter of time before marijuana settles back where it belongs, like liquor and porn, responding to the marketplace. What? Him worry? He no think so.
These two potcentric sexotic Stoner books come highly recommended.
Written in a loose, free-wheeling prose that mimics the narrator’s lifestyle, the story glides from woman to woman and bong hit to bong hit without the burdens of plot or conflict.
… a memorable sexual escapade.
By Kirkus Reviews Dec. 2012 re: Stoner with a boner
He likes pot but he loves sex.
by Barry “Mandot” Messer
SAMPLE: Stoner’s Bone of Contention by Kathleen K.
I was indentured to a lady mechanic who promised to teach me how to maintain my own vehicle in exchange for driving her crazy from time to time. She was all business down at the shop, demonstrating how I could change my car’s oil, check the hoses and fuses, tighten the connections, loosen the throttle… stuff I knew in theory that she put into practice. I chained up my tires a few times, I replaced my headlamps. I mastered my vehicle for real.
Her actual name is unusual so I’m disguising her as Irina, vaguely Slavic in looks and manner, not as brash as an American, perhaps Canadian? Lovely to look at, Irina was enchanting to consider as a partner, in her fitted overall dungarees and tight ribbed long-sleeve tee-shirt. You notice her hands are tattooed, subtly, almost like henna but the markings pick up color as they cross up her wrists. She was shy to reveal her body to me, it was fully tattooed, sleeves on both arms, images twining up her legs to flower on her thighs. She asked me not to speak of them, not to her or to anyone who knew her (but said yes when I asked if I could include her here); etched into her skin was the work of many people, over a long time, badges of things I’d never be told. She’d show up at my door, as we arranged in exchange for the car stuff, and we’d share a bong before we doused the lights.
I understood what she wanted, she’d been able to explain how I fit in her bigger picture, that I wasn’t being used to make somebody else jealous, I wasn’t a substitute for a heart-wrenching love. She wanted to be held and felt and fingered and fucked and tucked into sleep in the dimmest of lights, she wanted me to know her shape, not her surface, to seize her pieces in my hands as if they were as ordinary and unmarked as any other.
Irina was soft in my hands, her bones well hidden in plump firm skin, her voluptuous shape pressed against me from all angles, contorting around me to maintain maximum skin time, my entire body engaged in containing her. Heavy globes with outsize nipples thrust forward from her chest, counterbalanced by her generous ass, looking firm but jiggling when she moved. She acted with a single aim to keep me interested, to hold my focus. She moved and I moved, I surrendered to her schedule but held my own when the time came. She was a shape in the dim to me; her movements were shadowed, still I felt their impact.
I was going through a phase in my life when I had withdrawn from the romantic arena. There was no fight left in me, I didn’t have fuel to ignite a connection so it took someone like Irina to note my utility as a toy. I had to be solid and knowable, set a low flame, a functioning male but lacking interest in being a sociable human. I had to be the kind of guy who would evaluate Irina’s offer and see she was talking about an exchange. She wasn’t giving me anything sexual, it was just the opposite; what she gave me was lessons on car maintenance, what she asked for was simple intercourse, spicy and hot, within a specified time frame.
I run into all kinds of deal-makers when out and about. Pot dealers. Sex dealers. It’s part of the fun of being free with my time.
“I cream for cash.”
“Let me check my wallet. Whip cream?”
I can’t say that I’m used to being naked. I get naked. I like being naked. I’m always aware I’m naked, I feel the air on me, I catch sight of stuff I don’t usually see, and I am at ease in the sense I’m fit for duty.
No, I’m not a nudist. It’s always going to heighten my senses to remove all my armor; it is an unsheathing of the weapon-temple-casing that is closest to the essential me.
When I see naked women I feel that same jitter, I’ve been intimate to varying degrees with a rich pool of females and can say that if they are naked or not naked is a defining moment. They can be disheveled, unbuttoned and unsnapped, even half-naked, still they are protected by fabric.
When everything falls away there is the strictest of taboos broken, it is a crossing over to an admission of your basic presentation. No high heels, no push-up bras, no shaping of any sort: being naked makes us feel vulnerable.
A few times, she beat me to it and I had the odd sensation of being (at least partially) dressed in the presence of a nude woman. She was stripped of something that I retained. I might join her sooner or later but for that moment we were not equally invested in the outcome. It would be easier for me to turn and walk away still clothed than for her to first have to dress before making an exit.
I never again would have not seen her naked.
After a hike we boiled up water for coffee or tea. We shared pot-nut bread for desert. We had each contributed some bud for our baker buddy to transubstantiate into some edible form, and we warned our guests to think clearly before we brought them to the camp site (because they sure wouldn’t after they got there). We were in the middle of a forest on a huge plateau, cushioned by good quality camping gear, with lanterns, flashlights, and spare flashlights. We were anchored there, having agreed that the cars’ keys would be locked in the tackle box then held by Darren, our designated straight guy. Nobody was going anywhere physical on this particular trip, it was all about our surroundings and each other, what we felt and thought.
Things got a bit blurry between sundown and moonrise but then at some point a stout woman backed me up against the trunk of a tall strong pine tree, I was caught up in the contrast of rough bark and her fluffy sexy self pressed against my front. Even as she knocked her crotch against mine, I whispered to her to tell me her name. Who was she? I knew what she was doing. I liked how she was doing it. I didn’t need her address. I needed her name so I could tell her what this all felt like, the woods and her hot honey scent mixing in my mind, my curiosity rising. Nothing more was going to happen, we were all overnighting as buddies, we were not pairing off, and as far as I knew I’d never get this close to her again. When we broke apart, sometime later but much too soon, I was thrilled that eventually I’d be in my sleeping bag under the stars bathed in moonlight with a simmering memory of this one particular woman, Jenny…. Jenny pushed me against the tree, Jenny whispered her own name to me, she gave a little shiver when I said her name, ohh, Jenny… you feel dreamy to me, delightful. You are magnificent tonight, sweet Jenny. A touch of aggression, a hint of compliance. Remarkable. I’ll think of you, I’ll think of this. I like who you are. Jenny.
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