Tag Archives: sexotic literature

Human Being vs. Human Doing – Authenticate Yourself

Thank You to The Voice television competition for jump-starting my discussion on LIFE, considering purpose and method, because not enough time is spent on the philosophy of existence when we are distracted by politicized values expressed by the “-ism”  (racism, sexism, genderism, patriotism, capitalism) and its cousin “-istic”.  Coach Alicia Keys and Season 12 winner Chris Blue invoke this concept during The Knockout Premier of Season 14.  The show producers were smart enough to edit that in, to include that moment, which to the discerning viewer demonstrates intelligence all around.  This bit of banter between the two struck a nerve with me, enough to pause and open this post with high expectations.  Immediately below is a moment captured in time…


Or you can hop to http://kathleenkbooks.com or http://kathleenk.com to see this philosophy enacted.  I feel alive when I work on my books, on my poetry, on my blogging and my Tweeting because reading and writing galvanize me.  It is the thrill of the hunt for the proper word or powerful phrase and the artful juxtaposition of them that please me.  Not my own work alone, I am an avid reader as many writers are (and you can tell); there is a bit of borrowing like in all arts, but the end result reflects one execution.

Blog-in-Support of erotic, sexotic, romantic, graphic words
arranged and rearranged by Kathleen K.
Click for archive  – NSFW –
but work is only 1/3 of 5/7 of the week

A young medical professional at my doctor’s office remembered me as a writer and I gave her one of my cards.  Like the information above, the card was crafted deliberately to push an agenda. The card background looks like ruled paper with a red left-margin line; there’s heading type, subheading type, a logo… and each piece was considered alone and with the rest.  As with the blurb above, it is jam-packed with a double-down link to augment the flat print statement of availability.   That underscores the restatement in the title of this post, I am the writer of this because I made the effort to draft, refine and produce twelve books, etc., manifest in fact by deed then to support that with other channels.

This discussion was spontaneous and will ring for her because she’s at a stage (and state) of being, reaching for meaning to mix in with the facts of her job, her home, her family, her friends, her own heart and soul and hopes and dreams and fears and TIME, when is it TIME?  We all have to apportion our time.  It’s an unknown quantity, much like our talent and our will and our circumstances.  It’s part of living to allocate resources, and art to assess them one against the other.  More time or more money, which is needed more?  More sleep or more sex… which will be appreciated more?  There are two choices below, the third choice is neither, the fourth would be both. the Bonus is exactly that…





BONUS:  https://kathleenkbooks.com/2014/09/06/erotic-sexotic-author-seeks-book-bloggers-seeking-content/

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Sex Science Enriches Vintage Boomer Porn by Kathleen K.

The woman who explained the female orgasm

By Thomas Maier, Special to CNN

updated 4:05 PM EDT, Fri July 26, 2013

(CNN) — Virginia Johnson once told me something surprising about her famous partnership with Dr. William Masters, which helped revolutionize America’s understanding of human sexuality.

Despite Masters and Johnson’s worldwide fame, “We were absolutely the two most secretive people on the face of the Earth,” she said. “There’s simply no one who knew us well. People have a lot of speculation, but they don’t know.”

On Thursday, as I read the obituaries about Johnson’s death at age 88, I was reminded of Virginia’s words. There’s a sense of marvel about her life story and how she managed to affect the lives and happiness of so many people, especially independent-minded women like herself who wanted to make their own decisions about sex outside the dictates of men.

Time would underline Johnson’s impact even more. Despite their guarded language, the first book documented the power of female sexuality, showing that women were capable of multiple orgasms — a veritable fireworks display — compared to most men’s single firecracker.

Their clinical evidence became part of the spark for America’s so-called sexual revolution of the 1960s and 1970s, reflected in everything from key feminist writings to Hugh Hefner’s Playboy magazine. Even the rosy women’s magazines, filled with recipes and homey bromides, began writing about sex, using the same clinical phrases that Masters and Johnson made acceptable in polite society.

Link to original article.


COMMENTARY by indie author-publisher of sexotic-erotic books Kathleen K.

Vintage boomer porn is a direct descendant of this liberation of sexual mechanics; we were able to articulate in specific language how men and women operate.  It was critical that a woman be part of this educational movement, Virginia Johnson incorporated a feminine sensibility back when it was even more so a man’s world.

What a fascinating playground for my novice novelist ideas to inhabit, roiling in the background as I moved through adolescence, bursting out just as I crested high school and hit college.  Women stood forward, spoke up, and unloosed the bosom!  Shifting the culture forward, female power was quantified to them, by them and for them.  This re-conception of sex as measurable made it all the more describable.  We ratcheted forward one complete revolution to make it ordinary for a single female of my age and station to have her own apartment, her own opinions, and her own income.  Like all golden ages, it would pass.  What remained was the presumption of participation for more people.

In that freer world I could form the dream of self-publishing and through the decades trust that I would retain my liberation.  It wasn’t a fluke of social unrest but an honest-to-goodness shift in emphasis enriching the culture beyond measure.  Boomer chicks aren’t airheads; they farmed communes and reshaped governments.  They got daddies in to the delivery room.  They integrated themselves into health care and finance at leadership levels (they’d always been there as front-line labor).

In this vibrant social whirl, women could move with grace and purpose, having a whole bunch of fun.  That put sexual congress on a new footing as people could seek mates of contrasting strength.  As a backdrop, beneath the surface, each of my books presents the storyteller with choices that define the outcome.  I’m all about the finitude.

Example sentences using the word finitude:

It is part of our finitude , but it should not be taken as the key marker of our humanity.

Finitude and limits give us something against which to define our existence.

To live in the consciousness of finitude and dependence means to look for help.

They mark the discovery of finitude in the experience of desire.


Coming.  Soon.  Dark Prince, Heed Thy Queen offers us a modern female narrator who can sum up her new relationship in this four-word volley:

“Spread ‘em.”

“Spread me.”


Watching Nathan mount a female fascinated me.  I didn’t waste time being jealous; I could do that later.  I wanted to see him do what I had felt him do.  I would not recommend this to the fainthearted; I was staggered by the feelings as I witnessed him giving his prick away to someone else.  I curdled inside when he reached around to her front, she was endowed with cherry-topped perfection, anybody could see she pleased him and also that he was pleasing her by the way he handled her generous body.

Nathan was a powerful fucker; he took the time to adequately prepare his partner so that she yielded her deepest acceptance.  When Nathan rolled that other woman onto her belly and lifted her by her hips so he could plug into her, I wanted to knock her out from under him and slide in.  How dare he do it my way with her?  I saw his dusky cock glisten with her happiness and it was a lesson to be learned.  Sex was bigger than just the two of us, no matter how primarily we were attached.  His body could work with her body; he had not lost his response to other women even as he committed more intimate acts with me.  He insisted we confine our sexual escapades to carefully orchestrated scenes like his balling some guy’s wife while the wife’s guy and I watched.  Her husband and I weren’t going to fuck this particular time; we were busy watching at the moment.


I’m not defending Nathan, I’m explaining him.  I consorted with this dog and thought he was a man (making me his bitch?).  The sad part is that Nathan was a man in many ways, in basic ways.  95% genetically similar.  5% canine/lupine.  (It’s less than 1% difference from human to chimp.)  I was used to men as house pets but then along came this hound.  I was feeling sexually adversarial at that point in my life; I was tired of being nice.  Acting sweet didn’t get me over the rainbow.  I needed a commanding male|mate against whom I could struggle.  The last thing in the world I wondered about was his bank book (since I wasn’t showing mine).  I was far too busy sifting impressions of a most searing affair.

I didn’t want somebody to love.  It was more selfish than that, I wanted somebody to enjoy my body with me.  Screw me joyfully, with wit and daring.  Seduce me, not entrap me.  I wanted to feel the maleness of a man, dagger unsheathed for drawing blood to the pelvis… fluids rush, nerves tingle, the move is on.

Nathan might choose to be erotic spectator, director, participant, reviewer.  He reserved the right for each of us to adopt roles in our love life.  He was not to be considered a dick; his was not always central to our pleasure (nor was my box).  He commandeered my whole body.  He needed me for himself.  He needed me for his friends.  I got off on pleasing him, and his friends.  I had dropped my guard, all the gates were down, I accepted my lover, Nathan, as a man.  He could have been a frontiersman, an astronaut, a fisherman.  External objects didn’t signify to me, it was a time of voluptuous indulgence, outrageous comfort, skintimacy.

My involvement was pure; I had no thought of paining anybody.  I didn’t mind a secret love life because how could I have explained these sexotic games to people I worked with, or to people at my health club?  My family said I was looking fit.  It was true I’d rather have sex than eat, I’d walk bra-less in short shorts for two miles with Nathan six paces back watching people watch me walk.  He’d hump me standing behind a park bench in a secluded copse then we’d walk home hand in hand, acting innocent but looking smudged.

KathleenK.xxx for the rowdier reader

KathleenKBooks.com for complete catalog

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Stoner with a boner (It’s a Long Story) – potcentric sexotic fictional memoir

Stoner-cover copy image                         ADULTS ONLY

Witty and explicit, Stoner with a boner is vintage Boomer porn.  Back then, grass was cheap and VD was curable.  Stoner’s been called a bad boy with good manners.  His desires are simple:  stable job, good pot, succulent  women.  The title is polarizing:  You get it or you don’t.  There’s a guy, he likes to party.  This is his story (so far).  Visit KathleenK.xxx — an online catalog of bedside readers for the adult mind.

“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


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 many 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.


The Stoner story continues in a second volume:  Stoner’s Bone of Contention (The Weightless Joint) available July 2013.


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