Tag Archives: regulate pot

FREE Stoner Matchbook – $1 or $2.50 for two

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

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

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

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

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

Make your choices, take your chances.

#readmore

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Adulterated Love. Sex + Drugs. Prepare for 420 2014

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.

__________________________________________________

After pg 104   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.”

“Only?”

“Best.”

“Let me check my wallet. Whip cream?”

“Double 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.

≤÷≥

END SAMPLE

 

I have a standing offer to my fans for review copiesAPRIL 2014 LIMITED OFFER for free book.  Let me know if you’re curious.  Act now to have smokin’ hot reading material on hand for 420.   Info@KathleenKBooks.com

Twitter.com/KathleenKxxx

KathleenKBooks.com       Fan Page

#sexybook #potcentric #RowdierReader #420

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

Pot-Legal States Face Off in Super Bowl

I like weed and I’m a good person.

Companies woo the weed crowd with artful edgy ads.

_______________________________________________

COMMENTARY by indie author-publisher Kathleen K.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

≤÷≥

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

≤÷≥

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

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

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

≤÷≥

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

≤÷≥

“Clockwork.”

“Orange?”

“What?”

“Clockwork Orange.”

“Why would you say that?”

“You said Clockwork.  I said Orange.”

“It’s A Clockwork Orange.”

“What is?”

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

“Why would you be thinking about that?”

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

“Oh.  Where does the Orange come in?”

“Hand over that bong, you’re done.”

≤÷≥

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

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

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

≤÷≥

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

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

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

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

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

Men never think it isn’t possible.

≤÷≥

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

≤÷≥

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

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

≤÷≥

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

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

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

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

≤÷≥

“This is high-polluting pot.”

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

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

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

“My what?”

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

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

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

“Uncanny.”

≤÷≥

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

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

Twitter.com/KathleenKxxx

#legalizepot #sexyerotic #ValentineGiftIdea

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