Tag Archives: potcentric

Interview with the Voice of Sexotica for the Rowdier Reader


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


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.



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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.


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Summon the thunder of ideas

(CNN)States that have legalized marijuana for managing chronic pain have significantly fewer deaths from prescription painkiller overdoses each year, according to a new study published Monday in JAMA Internal Medicine.

COMMENTARY by indie-author Kathleen K.

As the facts roll in, the placement of marijuana in our herbal kit bag is making more sense.  There is evidence aplenty that it is a beneficial plant.  Now they’re in the lab trying to eke the pain-reliever parts away from the getting-high parts.  Fine.  I see that distinction as valid.  Go, Science!  What we shouldn’t forget is that pot isn’t “only” medicinal.  It’s convivial, it’s mind-altering.  Think cold beer on a hot day… or a hot toddy in the snow.  Summon the thunder of ideas!

What is a vowel?

For all you word/sound lovers out there, here’s something interesting about human vocalization.  Consider the difference between spoken consonants and vowels in terms of air flow through the nose and mouth.  Poets, singers, editors: these are the mechanics of our screams and whispers.  Ohhh…. Ahhh.

(Slate) — When you make a consonant sound, you create a blockage or a point of turbulence in the airflow, somewhere between your vocal cords (or vocal folds) and your lips. Where and how this blockage and turbulence happens is what distinguishes one consonant from another (/s/ creates turbulence at the roof of your mouth, just behind your teeth; /n/ is made at the same place, but the air comes out your nose instead). Vowels, however, are sounds that don’t have any blockage or turbulence in the airflow at all. An easy rule of thumb is that a vowel is any sound you can hold while singing (like Whitney Houston) and everything else is a consonant.

#stonerliteracy #readmore

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Your brain on weed… Kathleen K. invites you to read (Index of Posts)

Your brain on weed.  It ain’t just the THC, there is an “entourage” effect with all its ingredients.

When Mechoulam’s team identified the first known endogenous cannabinoid, a chemical actually made by the brain itself, he named it “anandamide.” In the Sanskrit language, ananda means “supreme bliss,” which gives us some insight into what Mechoulam thinks of cannabinoids overall.

Marijuana Chronicles  As author of the Stoner series, I promote cultivating the culture.  We don’t all agree which makes it a good topic of conversation.

Pot Power & Politics

Plenty of buzz out there about marijuana.  We’re still far from it being “conformed” into legitimate commerce but we’re on our way.  The ugly truth is some are going to misuse it, like all the fun stuff, and that isn’t reason enough to deny the majority of regular users a substance equivalent to alcohol in terms of being an intoxicant with measurable impact on the body.  The medical argument is persuasive but that’s not what we’re aiming for… not in Colorado.  Not in Washington State.  Let the true value of the plant establish itself in our free society.

The medical facts are astounding, it’s an important reason to create distribution channels, but there remains the “blissful feeling” of getting high.

Marijuana can be a natural remedy for anxiety and sadness for some people which is no more sinister than diabetics needing insulin, a bit of a biochemical boost on the order of a supplement.  The test is the rest of your time.  If things are going to hell in a hand basket then maybe pot is clouding your vision.  If the job is OK and the housing is pleasing and amenities are available then hitting the bong before bed can be clarifying.  Like a glass of fine wine.  Grapes v. Leaves.

Bewitched, bothered and bewildered.  [Extra points if you can identify the reference.]  Pot is supposed to unsettle you, why else bother?  A shot and a beer back is a known mood-changer.  Same so the allure of any intoxicant:  remove the safety.

A few rules:  Don’t operate complex equipment.  Keep away from children.  Don’t prove yourself unworthy.

Excerpt from Stoner’s Bone of Contention available in print and Kindle formats.

I don’t need a lot of laws to control my behavior: don’t drive stupid, don’t act stupid, and don’t perpetuate stupid. I don’t need laws against variations of drunk driving, distracted driving, reckless driving… it’s all stupid driving. The stupider the infraction, the more distressing the payback assigned. Drug laws are no different, too much detail in the no-no-no. If we apply the Stupid Standard, then the drug isn’t illegal, the Stupid is.


“You gotta change the bong water, man.”

“It’s not just the water, the whole pipe’s gunked up.”

“You got any others?”

“… I actually do.”

“So, … are you going to go get one?”

“I’ll have to put water in it first.”

“No, first you have to go get the pipe.”

“Then I put the water in.”

“That’s right. Then give it to me because I don’t think you need any more smoke.”



#legalizeweed #stonerliteracy #KathleenK


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A Musing on BJ’s and Big Betties — Reading Erotica — Vintage Boomer Porn

For those of you reading this web log with a discerning eye, you see a playful construction of hints and glimmers cloaked by a breezy freewheeling attitude.  The style is colloquial.  Idiomatic.  Inclusive language supports the narrative sense that this is a story being told to you with native fluency.  It’s fun to read because it rolls along then STOPS, turns and returns.

frontcover    backcover

The books are naughtier than they look… the covers are deliberately modified to mask the sharp images inside.  Discretion without deception.  The tagline for The Lunarium is “One man’s memories of the watchers and the watched.”  The reader puts the spin on it.  Watching who, watching what?  This kaleidoscope of frank sexuality and sly innuendo was Named to Kirkus Reviews’ Best of 2013 because of its verve.

1.  creative enthusiasm: enthusiasm, energy, or spirit, especially in the expression of artistic ideas

2. vitality: lively vigorous spirit

Synonyms: vitality · energy · dynamism · vigor · vim · dash · spirit · life · animation

All these erotic-sexotic-graphic books share that same layered flavor; smart and sassy and chill.  Authoritative voices are offhand and intimate to reach a cross-section of people.  Writers and readers have to share the translation table quickly in order to connect.  These books do that with provocative charm.

Stoner is a two-part fictional memoir of reefer and romance.  Counterculture all the way but reverent and sacramental too.  There may be “wham”, there may be “bam”, but there is way more than just a “thank you, ma’am.”  Smokin’ Hot.  Not suitable for some, appreciated by others.


    Reader Discretion is advised.

BJ after sex?  Rare enough to deserve its own section.

When the sex acts meld together and go from kissing to fingering to facing to dicking to facing to fingering to dicking again then the totality of that exchange is reabsorption.  You taste of each other, mixed and heated; you’ve given over all of it, every bit of it, in exchange for the same surrender.  There’s something daring about trusting each other with the grimaces of pleasure, the hissy rasp of sexual demands:  ordinary words sound dirty by their inflection.  There’s a challenge and response volley, an escalating verbalization, when body language isn’t enough.

In the best sex, it all churns together, my taste, her smell, the intimate grunting, aware that underlying it all is the sharing of your everything, your every naked heaving thing, rubbed in under the skin, spurted inside, dripping out, mingling.

The feel of her just-fucked cunt on this man’s face evokes an understanding of what we’ve done, how I’ve battered the gateway and thrust into her, resulting in a slick swollen slot.  Her copious wetness required a dab of a towel, a swiping away of the excess, so as to treasure the sheen left behind, the ferocious glory of secrets shared.  This is what she really feels like, really tastes like, really looks like, when she’s fully and totally aroused.  We’re way beyond flirtation here, beyond the guessing game of will we?  We have, we are, we do.  We can.  Will we ever.


Penis fracture




Candles through cascading amber teardrops throw seven spots of light in a dark living room.  I’m fixated on the light so I could gather my thoughts, I’m higher faster than I expected, and I recalibrate my expectations.  The stone came on full-bodied and bemusing (which sounds a whole lot better than discombobulating, and adds a shade of humor when at the time it felt herky-jerky.)

I’d been fed a spicy Thai dinner served by my sometimes friend LaLinda, my college love, my young adult goddess.  These many years later she’s still my tokin’ buddy.  Alone together in her living room in the soft light l felt how loaded we were, how gloriously strong and enduring our attraction, that our sexing hadn’t only been about our new skin and carefree hearts.  It turned out to be stronger than that, whatever it had been still existed between us.  I had no idea what was going to happen next which was OK with me since I’d expressed a seismic thought:  it really was forever for us.  Not forever passion, nor forever cold, deeper still was the source and that would not die between us, we were hooked up that way by our natures.

There’s a certain “one for the road” feeling to our love that night, we were in an oasis with clear margins, out of time, like we like to think we were back when we all thought everything mattered so very mucho much.  Older now, we know what matters is the moment because those moments power the world.  LaLinda had topped her high with two shots of tequila, giving her a loose abandoned attitude, so when she pulled out her Big Betties I wasn’t surprised.  She had to be drunk to talk like that, I’d seen this side of her on rare occasion so I knew to turn off the auto-pilot and use my instru­ments for the landing.  She beckoned me from across the room and even from that distance I could tell that she was ready for me.  I’m making the maximum contact with her when I understand we’ll always come down to this, I notch in deeper and press for more:  she’s tangy sassy with a dash of told-you-so, my favorite flavor.

Her attitude toward the Betties was hilarious:  she obviously considered them planted on her chest like man-beacons.  She would ask me, gee, what could she do to hide them?  Look how they rose up in her blouse, surged out of her bra, and once bared were aquiver.  It was immodest of her to point out their solid nubs but she was right, they were very… nubby.  I thrilled at her response to my touch, I trusted her body to tell me what she felt comfortable with, she knew I’d do anything to please her including stopping what displeased her.  She asked if I’d mind if she knelt at the edge of the bed, her panties pulled up with her back bare.  I undercupped her breasts and then pulled her up just a bit, to change the angle of her bottom, then I stopped and she remained on display, I felt her in my arms against my body, but I was still outside of her, still up against her undies until she told me to pull them down.

With her heart in my hands, I let loose my admiration of her every crevice, we were entwined for that specific purpose, we agreed to appreciate simple physical achievements so I prodded her with toys, and swatted her with my cock, we were having a great time for old time’s sake.  She’d be moving on the next day so I loaded her up to the best of my ability.  I gave her tender bites and deep tissue internal massage, I told her how gorgeous she felt in my hands, ripe and rich and oh so ready.

It’s what she liked, what I’d ascertained she liked, and so I gave that to her when she signaled for it.  Usually we were more matter of fact but when she wanted praise and stamina I’d have an extended opportunity to DO stuff to her, I never ever tired of that.


“I never thought you’d do that.”

“I thought you’d never ask.”


“I thought you’d never do that.”

“I never thought you’d ask.”


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KathleenK.xxx bedside readers for the adult mind

Kathleen K. at Amazon.com

#erotica #sexybook #legalizeweed

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Calling Covert Cupids – Erotica – Valentine’s Day Gift Idea

Sassy, sexy, informative, witty and wry:  Bedside Readers by Kathleen K. Books

There’s plenty of time to order up a Valentine’s surprise.  Consider these, please, and don’t forget to invest in yourself.  Priced to share, the printed books are $6.66-9.99 and Kindle $4.99-6.66.

The graphic poetry of ARCHING OVER is provocative, yearning and exultant… couples could read favorite parts alone, back and forth, or together, silently or out loud.  Singletons, treat yourself to a sweet retreat with wayward words to remind and inspire you.  Be pervicacious about your joy, you deserve it.  There is a difference between celibate and dormant.

Consider vignettes of voyeurism in The Lunarium, named to Kirkus Reviews’ Best of 2013, as a treasure trove of stirring sexual details.  Things you didn’t know, things you forgot you knew; intelligent and inventive, constructed for the sophisticated consumer of high-end erotica without mucking it up for the straightforward love-the-naughty readers.

For the rowdiest readers, Sweet Talkers (Words from the Mouth of a Pay-to-Say Girl) is raw and immediate, a nonfiction chronicle of a phone sex business including call diaries, training bulletins, re-created calls and Top Ten Fantasies.  Now in its 3rd edition as an on-line collectible, it marks the Twenty-Fifth Anniversary of the business that inspired it.

If you like sex, and you like weed, you might like Stoner.  Or you might not, and that’s cool too.  Balance the legalize-weed political agenda with a high spirited sexotic fictional memoir.  It’s an oddly thoughtful look at reefer and romance from a man cloaked by his ordinary day job and unremarkable appearance.  He’s the guy you want to come to your party, he’s your cousin in Ohio, your son-in-law, you.  Women trust him because his lovemaking is not a trick, it is a knowing.

Honey B., Sexual Consultant is the second in a quintet of books from a retired call girl turned erotic advisor.  Frisky and brisk, in a cavalcade of intermingle-for-hire encounters, she shows that you can’t get what you want until you know what you want.  Kirkus Reviews called it “novelized… hard-core erotica”.

So, Covert Cupid, why not take this step toward sensual scenarios and explicit descriptions of the watchers and the watched?  If you are a typical modern American, your sex receptors are exhausted by unrelenting video stimulation and audio intimations of sex.  Overt and subliminal ping-ping-pings hit us high and low, a hint here, a grunt there, much of it thoughtlessly absorbed so that we aren’t enchanted by a hint of cleavage anymore.  A simple trip to the grocery exposes you to magazine covers that leave nothing to the imagination no matter your mood, the exaggerated breasts and bums are there in your face.   It dulls you.

Dismiss the streams of “content” that blare their message:  get off the roller coaster and follow me to ride the teacups.  You know what I mean – slow down, snuggle in, and prepare to shift your weight around in response to the same forces as the coaster but without the screaming.  Reading is intensely personal, a deliberate pursuit of information presented letter by letter… no splashing or flashing… the barest elements of emphasis are available yet epic tales are told.  It’s evocative to give over to those tingles of memory and desire stirred by lush language.

Sex-specific detail is always tricky, how little or much c/w/should you say if for some reason you had an actual opportunity to talk about your love life?  If I asked you to submit anonymously a 100- or 1000- word statement about what you do in bed and who you’re doing it with, what would you say?  How different would it be if the statement had your name on it?

Help yourself remember and imagine passion and confluence; conjure the sweet slick sense of entry to a hard-wired carnival of physical response and emotional reaction.  Open the book, close off the world, think about sex.  Take a slow-roasted approach to your passion and call forth a similar appreciation in your partner.

Take your time when sharing your excitement, be considerate; since sex always ends the same way, the variation in the experience must come at the beginning.


Not Suitable for some.  Appreciated by others.


One man’s memories of  the watchers and the watched

Click to Look  Inside


Words from the Mouth  of a Pay-to-Say Girl

Click to Look  Inside



Collected Collections   of Graphic Poetry

Click to Look Inside





(It’s a Long Story)

Click to Look  Inside




(The  Weightless Joint)

Click to Look  Inside




A Truer-than-True Tale of Commercial  Satisfaction

Click to Look Inside

#ValentineGiftIdea #sexybooks #erotica

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

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

Highly recommended.

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wow, that’s an interesting image.”

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


Stonerwithaboner.com promoting stoner literacy and sexual thoughtfulness

KathleenK.xxx for the rowdier reader

KathleenK.com for vivid family fiction

#regulatepot #legalizeweed #rowdierreader

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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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Hempfest – Seattle — Aug. 16-18: Can’t get to the fest? Fire up a doob, read this potcentric sexotic fictional memoir.

All Hail the Hemp.  Just be cool with it.

If you can’t make it out to Hempfest this year, consider throwing some green at a potcentric sexotic fictional memoir written for the rowdier reader, in two volumes (so far):

Stoner’s Bone of Contention (The Weightless Joint) 

Stoner's Bone of Contention

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

Stoner with a Boner

Stoner is witty, wise, and provocative in his quest for reefer and romance.  He’s decided to explore the abyss between men and women by diving in.

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

These oddly thoughtful books are smoking hot and tailored for the nightstand.  Consider them vintage Boomer porn with redeeming social significance.

SAMPLE – Stoner’s Bone of Contention

There is not a mere gap between the genders, there is an abyss.

a·byss   [uh-bis]   – noun

1.   a deep, immeasurable space, gulf, or cavity; vast chasm.

2.   anything profound, unfathomable, or infinite: the abyss of time.

3.   (in ancient cosmogony)

a.   the primal chaos before Creation.

b.   the infernal regions; hell.

c.   a subterranean ocean.

You have either been in the abyss or you have not.  You might have approached it, examined its edges, sniffed its presence, licked its periphery, but in fact you have either been taken into the abyss between ♂ ♀ or you have not.  Virgin or not.  We’ve held to that distinction in our life experiences for recorded history.  Then we invented all sorts of words to specify how far from virgin you become over time.

SAMPLE 2 — Stoner’s Bone of Contention

I loved her, I loved her spirit and her body and her attitude toward life, we always found a laugh and a sigh between us when we wanted to communicate beyond words.  She showed herself off to me, she stood naked before me for no other reason than she knew I liked to concentrate on the details of her shape and surface.  One night she handed me a tube of lipstick, a dark dull chocolate color that she had me apply to her nipples, instruct­ing me on how thick to apply it, how far beyond her areolas to make pronounced changes to her look.  She let it soak in for a few minutes, I then dabbed it off with a tissue, starting softly but rubbing roughly at the end so that the color that remained was locked into her skin, darkening the entire cap.  For me, her dark tips were an astounding aphrodisiac.

In health class we were taught that female nipples darken when nursing so baby-eyes can discern them against the paler skin of the breast.  It weirded me out back then to think about boobs working, about what they were for, beyond my boyish fascination that they were attached to breasts that grew on girls.

Nelly had always been generous with her bouncy bits, letting me lose myself in their weight and suck her nips hard and harder until she shuddered and squirmed.  With the centers so dark, her boobs took on a new prominence in the soft light, they were DIFFERENT and like most men I am entranced by DIFFERENT.  It’s the same reason I like to bind the breasts of my lover, to criss-cross ropes around and under her beauties so they jut out at a new angle, so the tips are under pressure.

When I rolled up on Nelly that night, I held myself up and away from her, entranced by her slutty knockers, smudged dark and deliberate, wanting to delay the first feel of her slit, knowing it would feel DIFFERENT.  She scooped her boobs together so I could see the throbbing pointers, the nubs seeming to solidify as I stared at them.  Unable to resist, I plunged inside with a single forward push, thrilled that she was wet and ready, that she strained forward to get me in deeper.  Breathy pleas for more and harder were answered by tattooing my needs inside her, making my mark, to her palpable satisfaction.  Inside, inside where she let me be, inside where her heart beat pulsed against my cock, inside where there was nothing between us, I pushed and pushed and pushed until I came, unloading the last drops of my joy.  Before I could withdraw, she put her fingers to her clit and came for me, clenching tight then quaking with aftershocks.

[Risk an investment in some dark lip stain and see if it works for you.]


The human dick is a bone of contention.  It can be the root cause of marital discord, romantic sputtering, and cyclical self-abuse.  It is a force, it houses energy, and it has presence.  It has the duty of perpetu­at­ing the human race by spewing spores.  It has that purpose but is not governed by the likelihood of success; it is the release of the spores, not their finding a target, that drives the dick.  In fact, when the spores are neutralized for conception by mechanical barrier, chemical suppression, or surgical intervention, many dicks happily shoot blanks.  Dicks are reckless drivers.  A dick will poke its head where it is not wanted.  Suffice it to say that what men do to their dicks in private reveals the relent­less nature of arousal and the energy required to combat it.  We spank that fucking monkey.

We’re not always good at expressing our sexual feelings, no matter how candid we are with the facts.  To explain what you need, why and when and where, reveals the yearning for context.  Sex should be carefree yet significant, unstructured and yet contained.  Men are trying to match their simple gear system to the mysterious hydraulics of women.  Our intellectual assignment of gender roles skips around the polarity between us; some of the differ­ence takes quantitative analysis.  Love|Sex is central to our behavior; we’re moved by instinct and encul­tura­tion.  We’re too quick to think we know what ticks inside our partners when we barely know our own triggers.  Sex disarms you… unless you’re part of the predator population in which case it is a weapon.  For most of us regular folk, the surrender of intercourse is complete and trusting, it is sharing and allowing and excusing the crazy ways our Sex|Joy busts out.

SAMPLE 3 – Stoner’s Bone of Contention

You do not have to be a smart man to love a smart woman:  you have to be a loving man.  I got smart enough to realize that trying to outsmart people is not smart.  I’m steady-on my mission to appreciate and meditate upon the complexity of people, specifically female people, and if it so happens that her brain works at twice the speed of mine then so be it.  There’s a probing that happens when smart people assess you, it’s nothing personal (which is why it’s uncomfortable).  You are examined through honed lenses; you may as well relax as they profile you.  It’s what they do.  It’s the smart thing to do.  I didn’t mind because I was curious myself as to their judgment.  If too smart for their own good, they dismissed others too quickly; I had my own sharpened talents available to the ones who knew how to spot me.

I wasn’t anybody’s Jethro, I didn’t dumb down by any means.  I wasn’t interested in being associated with problems, any kind of problems, the whole point was to link up, slink along, see if our charges attracted or repelled.  Cool.  Easy.  Kind.  Specific.  I like to keep carnal things well-defined, to heighten the expectations between us thereby allowing other barriers to fall.

I wasn’t a bully or a braggart; I wasn’t hiding a secret life.  I made a free and clear offer to meet face first, body to follow.  You were welcome to decline but if you considered accepting then we negotiated the limits.  It wasn’t a formula, not really.  I didn’t waste time shooting at scampering targets, this wasn’t ambush style for me, not as a grown man with a sincere desire to connect.  I could be a good companion to a woman who was ready to be herself:  either reclaimed from a bad relation­ship through time and self-assessment or naturally clear-headed on matters of excitement and desire.  We were going to get crazy together and for that we needed a solid foundation.

Like smoking the pot, some do and some don’t.  I’m not here to change their minds, just to assess which part of the playground is theirs.


The War on Pot is all but over, the stoners ignored the law and waited it out, and now it’s all about the paperwork, how much can you have, where can you get it?  It’ll be a few more years before you can buy a pack of reef at the liquor store.  I appreciate the laid-back law enforcement:  keep focus on the meth labs and pill factories.  The joke is that the only increase in legalized pot use will be old hippies who haven’t been able to buy a lid since 1978… the rest of us have been using an efficient commercial supply chain all these years.


“What did you say?”

“What did you hear?”


The definition of work:  paid to do what you would not do voluntarily in order to fund what it is you DO want to do.


KathleenK.xxx offers an online catalog of bedside readers for the adult mind.  Not suitable for some, appreciated by others.  This is not your Mommy’s porn.


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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.


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


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.


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