Tag Archives: sexotic

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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Putting Honey B., Sexual Consultant to bed

Honey2 Cover = OK

The second Honey B. book in the sexotic quintet about a retired sex professional has been put to bed.  That means I am done writing it and even done correcting it for publication.  As with the first volume, Honey B., The Suite Life, this is a frank and detailed consideration of sexuality.  Explicit, informative, oddly thoughtful.  This is book #11 in the Private Publications of Kathleen K., independent author and counter-culture commentator.

put something to bed

Fig. to complete work on something and send it on to the next step in production, especially in publishing. (From put someone to bed.) This week’s edition is finished. Let’s put it to bed. Finish the editing of this book and put it to bed.

See also: bed, put

McGraw-Hill Dictionary of American Idioms and Phrasal Verbs. © 2002 by The McGraw-Hill Companies, Inc.

SAMPLE – for mature audiences only – for the rowdier reader at KathleenK.xxx

Honey B., Sexual Consultant  — Truer-than-True Tale of Commercial Satisfaction

I give Frank advice about Dick.  That’s the perfect take on my attitude:  an obvious message, a twist of wit.  These tête-à-têtes rustle past the social facts and get to the frustration.  Sex consultations are a forum for direct language and tart dialog about physique and technique.  I am not going to force people forward since that doesn’t work, I am going to beckon to them, I’m up ahead here… just for now, come this way.

Cocks and cunnies and the abyss in between.  Men have such peculiar beliefs about what happens when they unsheathe their phallic arsenal:  I have to tell them women will not swoon simply because Dick Ball-Ball bobbed into view; I have to tell them that women have a wide-focus view on a man’s sexuality with the groin area central but not supreme.  When women want to please a man they are goal-directed as suits his nature but when seeking their own gratification the action is progressive.

I have to tell women that men do not, as a rule, care about what women care about so that is not a viable avenue of exchange in the boudoir.  Women, oh… dear.  It is so much more direct than your magazines are telling you.  You have got to HANDLE your man.  Get your mitts on him.  Grope the guy.  Men don’t work on a figurative level for sex, it’s corporeal (the exact word for having physical substance), actions matter.  Women need to translate their dramatic-romantic fantasies into tangible gestures applied directly and repeatedly.  Men have trained their dicks by vigorous spanking, it takes a sustained effort to achieve liftoff; cooing and coaxing won’t work, you have got to bang it out.

We talk about pity fucks, and get-off-already sex; we talk about really really good sex where you’re slippin’ and slidin’, and crazy primal sex which usually involves an unexpected pairing.  There is something sexually galvanizing when a person previously considered unsuitable-unattainable is doing it with you.  Doing it.  It’s humping in a bathroom at a house party, it’s being picked up in a bar and renting a room-by-the-hour because neither of you had ever done that.  Unfettered by the usual connections, these episodes flare in our imaginations, they set the bar for sexual events that follow.  Their unpredictability is part of their value.  You just never know.

You just never know.


Brandy fantasized about dropping to her knees in front of a man and liberating his cock from his pants so she could conquer it with her face, run it along her cheek, knock it against her lips, until it was bursting, juicy, and at the moment of ejaculation the man would fall back, satiated, but she would still have the cock in her mouth, it would stretch and stretch as he fell away.


Brandy wanted to drive to the bus station nearest the nearest minimum security prison because she knew that parolees were dropped there as their last official act in the system.  Only bona fide sponsor relatives could pick you up at the gate, but she wasn’t thinking of a guy with a family.  She wanted to give a lift to a newly freed man with no place special to go.  She wanted to be driving and feel his need shimmer between them.  She would pull over to the side of the road and tell him he had five minutes to lick and tickle but he’d have to wait for the rest.  She’d wear something easy to get his hands into, a loose skirt, a tight shirt with only two buttons.  She’d have on a garter belt, obviously, and no panties, naturally, and she’d come on his thumb when he cupped her crotch the way she liked.

Contrary to the simplistic idea that the man would insist on getting his penis inside her immediately, she was convinced it was more important that someone acknowledge his appeal to women  That he wanted her was obvious, he wanted to see her want him.  He’d kept this side of himself hidden in prison, locked away even from his own realization for the most part, and here was someone celebrating his glorious hard on, coaxing his groans.  She was sure he’d come, a messy scream of semen and success:  he was free, it was happening!  He’d come his heart out for her.  Because she’d do the same for him



Several women have complained to me about their breast implants, either as the main topic or in asides when relating details of their sexual lives.  It isn’t bad enough they didn’t like their original boobs, they found the fake ones stuck out fine but otherwise were troublesome.  These things never rested!  They jutted out at all times no matter what position the body assumed.  Many men think they look fine but are less impressed by their relentless buoyancy.  Faux tits don’t spread like the real thing when you are chest to chest, they don’t jiggle when they bounce, they are like balloons full to bursting (boing boing not bobble-wobble).  My opinion is that the body has made it clear it dislikes foreign substances and in the main you should stick to original parts unless the alternative is no part: reconstruct after loss, sure, but leave the outward appearance to your tailor not your surgeon.  People who see you naked should see the real you, the rest of the world can see the mask and costume.

I advocate removal of implants when possible, you can tuck up the extra skin and be thankful for the memories.  Women who agree to this have made peace with their adventure to Bazooms’R Us and not coincidentally also have sex partners who love more than just the cup size of their bras.  Newer methods of bust enhancement produce a more lifelike imitation but this is where one’s ethics or common sense comes in.  My scientific sense says stay out of the operating room for your cosmetology.


Barney didn’t care what Carol’s tits felt like, he rarely touched them.  He looked at them.  He stared at them.  He asked her to walk bare-chested around the house.  He bought her dozens of bras which he loved to watch her take off.  If he entered her body from the back it was in front of a mirror so he could see her titties, if he was on top he was lifted above her so he could look down at her nips.  He fell into a trance, mesmerized by watching her knockers bounce and sway, which extended his stamina to pleasing lengths.  Carol had surprised him by scheduling herself for a modest breast augmentation in honor of his 40th birthday.  She didn’t mind this insignificant aspect of their love life.  She got plenty of attention, sufficient stimulation and honest appreciation.  He was a tit man.  It worked to make him frisky, that’s all she knew.  (She decided to have them tightened and gently rounded, nothing ostentatious.  Fine tuning, not a renovation.  See, not everybody does what I suggest but I concede Carol had the right idea for them.)

They were buying erotic artwork through me, the breast info came up when we were discussing the purchase of a painting I thought they’d like: a frontal nude.  Carol said, oh, no, she wasn’t going to have Barney staring holes through the canvas, and I realized that although the female breast was featured in many of their choices it was the swell from the side, the strain against fabric, with the crown never fully revealed.  For Barney’s fiftieth birthday she assembled a collage of twenty-five female frontal nudes and mounted it on a reversible frame, the other side featured an art print.  She wrapped it so he exposed the neutral print first, then asked him to turn it around and hold it up so she could see it, and there were the fifty tits right in front of his eyes!  Big, small, dark, light, round, oblong, puffy, upturned, jutting!  Carol and Barney used the hanging as a signal, boob side out when they were home alone and sex was in the air.



KathleenK.com for vivid family fiction

KathleenK.xxx for rowdier readers

KathleenKBooks.com for complete catalog

#novelporn #sexotic #KathleenK

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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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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.”

“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.”



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!!


#legalizepot #sexyerotic #ValentineGiftIdea

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Calling all rowdier readers: Inventive, intelligent erotica for mature audience only

As an independent producer of books, it was heartening to hear that people still read; it is easy to say that video has taken over but that is actually a form of distraction for the folks who wouldn’t have been reading anyway.

The erosion at the border between readers and non-readers isn’t significant as long as overall we continue to prize the time-travel peculiar to writing.  Visual media transcends language, I can’t argue that the complexity isn’t alluring.  It cannot replace the building of impressions word by word, crafted to communicate the subtleties (or brash facts, or whatever) in the common language of writer-reader.  That’s why translators reweave the fabric of the story because it cannot be done word for word or “out of sight, out of mind” in English becomes “blind and crazy” on a foreign page.  That’s why declaring sexy writing as graphic is a fact but calling it erotic is a matter of judgment.  So many words… so many meanings.

Story telling is tribal, it invokes a common lexicon, known characters with specific motivations:  the big bad wolf, and the fairy-elf-pixie chastising the goblin-imp-troll.

Up next for my readers is the second in a quintet of sexotic books about a retired call girl turned erotic advisor.  Honey B. tells a truer-than-true tale of commercial satisfaction.  She gives Frank advice about Dick.


Honey B., Sexual Consultant (Book II of V) – EXCERPT    (All rights reserved.)

People want to want and be wanted, they consider desire an exciting state if it leads to contact and painful if there is no resolution for this urge towards another.  Many times I’ve had couples discover that what bugged one was that the other “let” them have sex but never initiated sex, or offered service, or accepted service, never broke whatever routines they’d attached to their coupling.  It’s the sexy underwear debate, not only that you wear it but that you put it on of your own accord.  Men imagine women stripping, selecting the flimsies, sliding them on, showing them off.  It is partly how it looks and partly what it means to elect to look like that.  Men appreciate GO signals.  Inter-male contact relies a lot on signs and context: you can punch a guy in the boxing ring but not on the football field, rump slapping is not an element of chess.

When their female partner trumpets a sex call, the male can respond with enthusiasm.  Once in gear they’ll usually go all the way.  Much of their frustration in a given situation lies not in the fact they didn’t get sex but that it took so long for them to understand they weren’t going to get sex.  They stoked the fire for an engine that was never going to leave the garage.  Men’s inventions and machines offer red lights, warning flags, most men would benefit from forthright sex signals.  Not getting it is bad enough, you see, but thinking you might, maybe, then realizing not, that just aggravated them.


Jane was the epitome of plainness.  She was plain plain.  Nothing about her was plainer than any other thing, she was of medium height, average build, even featured, yet inside her sizzled a slutty bitch.  Nothing seemed more incongruous than to frame her unremarkable face in a feather mask or to stick tassels on the tips of her 34B bosom.  She thought she should be a more successful dominatrix but it wasn’t happening.  She had the necessary accessories, the right attitude but – fizzle.  I told her to donate that stuff she was wearing to a poor whore’s home and get some button-down-the-front dresses, a few drab wigs, and a selection of common household items like wooden spoons, a belt, a yard stick.  I was of the opinion some men didn’t think they deserved an exotic mistress, to perform slave service for plain Jane was to face the true unworthiness of a miserable dick.

To our way of new thinking, since she had to work so hard to appear exotic, she might turn about-face and step a bit deeper into the verbal works for stimulating her clients.  She could learn to talk nasty instead of wasting time decorating her plain exterior.  We brainstormed various patters for her, these were sex speeches she could build on.  She distinguished herself from the common practitioner of this art by mesmerizing them without a shiny exterior.  She slapped them for calling her beautiful because it was so obviously a lie.  How could a lower life form expect a beautiful woman to notice him?  Even plain Jane wouldn’t touch him unless he paid.  Her pussy was just a hole; her tits two humps with bumps, nothing deluxe about them.  Don’t even think Jane gave a shit if you enjoyed yourself.  If you paid, you played.  She enjoyed your money.  Every pathetic excuse for a man who could raise the price could get his face licked or kicked, she’d twirl a cucumber in your ass as nonchalantly as she bent forward to be fucked (never ever fucked face to face, she didn’t like to be “close” when she took it from a john).  She would dismissively shake her head at a guy even as she yanked an ejaculation out of his cock, proving he was nothing but a cum-cow, milked by a sullen maid; next?

Jane and I enjoyed a fruitful collaboration, we found it easy to discuss her prostitution, it was obvious I didn’t consider it odd that the soul of a sexual dominant had come plainly wrapped.  Why not?  I’ve met many hot-looking women with cold hearts.  Jane was willing to do her best but there is so little advice available to a pro when her methods are stale.  She discovered sex work was easier when you were honest.  She never liked the habitual, stereotypic response of her customers, she didn’t let them get away with their mundane play acts.  Where else but at my place was she going to have time to work this out for herself?


Ollie did not like having his penis touched by other people: not by their hands, their lips, their vaginas, their butts.  It gave him the creeps.  He didn’t like to masturbate.  He did not consider himself “ill” or “dysfunctional” but he did want me to tell him, honestly, was it possible he was just naturally not a sexual person.  I said I thought the “creeps” were a response, if he was truly asexual he’d be unresponsive to stimulus.  Did it give him the creeps to have his hand touched?  His elbow?  His shoulder?  His chest?  No.  No.  No.  No.  Would a gloved hand fondling him be better than a bare one?  Never thought of it.  Probably not.  Condom-covered cock?  Didn’t know, hadn’t tried.

I told him, honestly, he was demonstrating an aversion that I would call a “mis-function” in that he invested special energy resisting such typical contact.  Did he dislike touching others?  In general, no, he did not dislike touching people; he, for instance, could square dance but, specifically, sexually, nope, he didn’t want to touch them any more than he desired to be touched.  I suggested this aversion might be compensation for whatever deeper peculiarity of circumstances engendered this anti-sexuality in him.  It would not be necessary to seek the roots of that personal quirk as long as he considered it as such.  If he ever felt it was intruding on what he wanted from life then it would have escalated to the status of a problem and would then deserve attention of a personality specialist.

Ollie went out my door, back to his neuter world of engines and gizmos, satisfied with the idea he could ignore the harping of his sisters to get involved with someone.  They didn’t like his long-term bachelorhood, they expressed disapproval of his solitude, didn’t all people who grew up in a family want a family?  If you didn’t, did that mean you were repudiating your family?  And your family’s families?  Not to Ollie.  He was paying his bills, keeping his yard mowed.  He attended all family functions, belonged to the VFW and went monthly to their socials (socializing, not hoping to “meet someone”).  He always was glad he’d gone because he felt he should go, he’d talk to people, trade assessments of local events and developments:  he liked the mall, he didn’t think the town needed a third topless joint.

I became Ollie’s other monthly outlet, for him our conver­sations were a personal foray.  Whether by genetic chance or social conditioning Ollie lacked motivation to couple but he was curious about coupling.  He was not missing information, he knew precisely how and what sex was but in earlier self-examination had determined he did not like it.  He always ended up hurting the feelings of his partner because he could not attain an erection.  Of those who stayed around long enough to hear his explanation that it wasn’t her he didn’t want touching it, he didn’t want any one, any woman, any man, anybody, to touch his genitals, too many of the women forged ahead figuring surely SHE could “fix” him.  He finally gave up dating.  The women he knew were either married so he couldn’t pal around with them, or single but considered him eligible – for which he disqualified them…  Contrary to the social myth that women don’t want sex, it had been his experience that when a man and a woman are together often enough even if the man makes no move whatsoever sooner or later the woman will move against him.  Then he has to say no, thank you, how kind… but, really, no.  No.  NO.

Sooner or later I thought he would run into a companion but it didn’t happen.  Ollie was attractive, solvent, a good conversationalist, handy around the house.  He had tried forewarning new lady friends that he would not pursue the sex angle but somehow they mostly thought he was using reverse English to learn her sexual potential.  The more he protested, the more they yearned to learn why.


Sense memories play a part in sexual exploration, not all arousing input comes from touch and sight so we close our eyes and reach for the subtler signals:  what is the sound of ejaculation, the scent of orgasm, what does ready seem like?

Lots of talk of physique and technique, but I was not a surrogate providing hands-on education.


Penny and Brand were in a sex slump.  Their jobs were familiar and nothing was going exceptionally right or wrong between them.  How could they spice up their love life?  They weren’t seeking more personnel or anything “odd” but I seized on the fact they found the identity of participants crucial.  When we discussed fantastic sex, setting wasn’t men­tioned, equipment not noted, for them sex was about people.  Perhaps they could rent costumes, slip away from the mundane and approach each other as a knight might circle a queen, like Romeo dogged Juliet, reaching forward and backward in time so as not to be confined in love matters to the daily reality of being outwardly middle-aged, middle-of-the roaders.  Shedding their current “skin” might allow them to act differently, they might act like actors!  Action!

They looked at each other and laughed.  I could not have known they’d actually met in a college play and first kissed while dressed as a butler and a maid (off script).  They considered costumes a great idea, stunningly on-point in our first meeting.  How does this happen?  Intuition?  Practice? Combo?  I struck a chord with them, they played their parts.


Lady readers, close your eyes and slowly squeeze the muscles of your pelvic floor, clench it tight then shift it forward.  Imagine a man in the room, a finger in your hole, a prick pushing forward.  Men, imagine that.



#erotica #sexybook #KathleenK

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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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Kathleen K. answers five more questions about writing for rowdier readers

Five More Questions about writing erotica.  See 21 Questions for indie author Kathleen K.

Kathleen, do you think the arts and entertainment world are becoming more sexually open or less?

Exaggerated sexuality splashes over music and video, film and advertising.  It deadens the impact of the rare and real opportunities we have to consider passion in our lives.  The wedding industry corrupts the ceremony of private pledge to everlove.  Fashion parades itself on stick-thin models who diminish the confidence of the consumer they claim to embody.  I do think pandering to the lowest common denominator is all twisted up in commerce and culture, and not to our benefit.

Erotica flourishes underground, taking a sacramental approach to the magic words of desire. Shamed by the religious-civil morality police for celebrating sex, the average reader lacks the confidence to judge for themselves when offered explicit verbalizations of natural lovemaking.  People can get hot under the collar with a banned book in hand.  I think it is the personal reaction to erotica that proves its power.  We’re thrown in the salty sea of commercial sexuality without a defense, it is just there on the screen, on the billboard.  Written erotica demands you move yourself ahead one word, one sentence, one paragraph at a time.

As in any form of literature, there are standards and conventions in erotica that distinguish it from porn.  Basically, is the writing all and only sex (porn) or were there connectors via dialog and scene setting to qualify as “artful”.  Our vocabulary is wide open; our acknowledgement of the basic interconnection options available to us is presumed.  Erotica is deliberate.  Using deliberate to mean considered, judged, evaluated, meditative.  Erotica straddles the reader.

Porn-adgraphy is deliberate too… deliberately thrust into view not to celebrate the deeper powers of soulful attraction but to sell whiskey, motor oil, and web domain names.

Have sexual attitudes in this country changed over the past 10-20 years and therefore, such views are reflected in our books and entertainment, or is it that our literature and entertainment have pushed the envelope and the public’s views have followed along?

We’ve polluted ourselves sexually, like we do the air and water (we’re sloppy), it shows in the decline of our bodily health.  Overtly sexual messaging dulls the receptors, it is as simple as that.  If you want to prize the images of intimacy then you must make some choices about what you watch by choice and what you absorb passively like the beer commercials on a tavern’s TV.

This oversaturation is part of the video culture that came of age as the century turned and settled.  We were doing fine with our Y2K cable TV and our mobile telephones which were not high-speed interactive processing centers.  You flipped it open and made a call; you flipped it closed until you wanted to talk on it again; it didn’t talk to you.  Even with that primitive communication system, we were meeting and mating and procreating.  Exponential growth in what you can see on your own screen, what you can pipe into your ears has some relation to the need for Viagra and scientific sperminating.  We brag about our hip appreciation of sex more than we experience its true glory which is by definition a private act.

We’ve got a bit of monkey-see, monkey-do left in us so the shiny objects and pounding music of visual input are hypnotic.  If I drink that potion, I will drive that car; if I smell like something other than my own self, I have a better chance of connecting with a partner who disguises their scent too.

Books take an investment from the reader and thereby carry additional impact.  My bedside reader books are tailored for the nightstand.  Like all intoxicant-stimulators, dosage matters.  Some folks need one simple good-night vignette, some want a couple to mix and match.  There are changes in tone, in personnel, in subjective objectives that let the reader skip past any that don’t ring right (at the moment).  Unlike Fifty Shades of Grey where you must appreciate the dominant male and subordinate female motif, my books shift focus to all sorts of scenarios.  There is value in variety, allowing each reader to find parts of the book that work for them without begrudging that some pages go to those of other interests.  It’s about thinking about sex.

Do books lead the way in terms of influencing and commenting on sexual mores — or is that role being usurped by film or cable TV or other forms of art?

Books remain the hidden asset of our influential thinkers, there are few true intellectuals who ever forsake reading.  Reading closes down those other sources of input in order to drop into a world of words.  People can read amidst distraction, on a bus, with the dishwasher chugging away.  Some reading is snatched a page or two at a time; other times you set up survival supplies, kick back the recliner and enter a COVE away from everything else.

Of course video impacts reading, because it represents a separate stream of info.  Before TV… before even radio… cultural significance was given to magazines or books.  Publishing is controlled by restricting access to presses and paper and distribution points.  What was available to read fifty, a hundred, two hundred years ago, was “richer” on a per-volume basis due to scarcity of choices.  It wasn’t better or worse but it had more impact on the individual since they saw so little of it. Video is the EXTRACTION OF WORDS which means the message is accessible by a less invested audience.  Telegraphing visuals through the eyes floods the mind, reading a word at a time teases it forward (wayward).

How do your books make the reader feel?

Squirmy sometimes… mostly grateful.  They stress how smart the books are.  For those who do enjoy sensuous writing, I provide them ardent landscapes.  I have collated so many perspectives that the reader has been able to grasp essential details about what is truly attractive to them.  You say you like boobs?  Perky upturned titties or heaving bosoms with dark crowns?  Pert bottom or a big fat can?  Saucy talk is impish, almost elven.  Erotica works best when it carries the reader forward, sets the pace as part of the out-of-control indulgence in savoring luscious language about sex.

There’s some consternation about my book Sweet Talkers in particular because it is nonfiction.  This upfront chronicle of running a phone sex business includes so much “unspeakable” dialog to and from the callers that it defies an easy dismissal.  This isn’t dirty, it’s rude – in a dare-you-say-you-don’t tone.  It was first published in 1994 and went to paperback in 1997.  That experience set me into a rich niche of collectible erotica.  I understood I was counterculture for the times but I also had faith that the times, they were a-changing.

Readers feel the possibilities that parade through the books, they are curious about the situations that percolate and escalate.  They are surprised that it is inventive and intelligent, frank and explicit, oddly thoughtful, successfully riding the fine line between not quite enough and a little too much.

As a woman, do readers relate to you differently when you are writing erotica than if you were a man?

I have been told readers “forget” that a female is writing my books because the male characters are so strongly drawn… as if men haven’t been strongly drawing female characters into our myths and fiction all along.  There is always a little kick when women enter a sex-based exchange:  any woman, any time.  Overall there is such a strong sense of humanism in the books that I hope it dulls the gender-skewed perspective on sex.  [He complains he’s doing it just three times a week, she complains he wants it every other day.]

Readers are engaged and aren’t overly concerned with the gender of the mechanic providing the linkage as long as the proverbial vehicle moves them along.

Spread ‘em.

Spread me.

My most economical phrasing of sexual dominance.  Who is fuckin’ who?  [You don’t know fuckin’ if you remember to say “whom” here.]  Bing-bang-boom.  It’s sweet and snarky, hot and hotter.  Choosing to provoke those reactions isn’t gender based, we’ve had our naughty bawds male and female, straight and gay, all along.  My gender has colored my late-Boomer childhood, my white American experience.  We’ve each got our finitude to contend with.  My day job is in IT so that’s another boy-land I’ve invaded… even there I am counterculture.  Gender rules culture… I try to counter that.


#erotica #sexy #KathleenK

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The Art of Tweet-sized Poetry: Few Words, Much Feeling

The Art of Tweet-sized Poetry: Few Words, Much Feeling

Marianne Moore was never so confounding as when she dabbled in simplicity. In The Complete Poems of Marianne Moore, published in 1967, the 80-year-old poet had ruthlessly pared down “Poetry” from 29 lines to three:

I, too, dislike it.

Reading it, however, with a perfect contempt for it, one discovers in

it, after all, a place for the genuine.

Quoted from Slate.com by Jennifer Szalai


COMMENTARY by Kathleen K., indie author and publisher

Poetry has been taken out of the hands of most readers, sadly denying them the fun of discovering writers who are wringing out the distractions and conveying the message.  Erotica poetry has the double-burden of being naughty and nerdy.  Don’t flip it off so fast, it might fertilize your fantasies.

Arching Over (Collected Collections of Graphic Poetry) assembles four small books of erotica poetry into a compendium of oddly thoughtful words about love∞sex.  The book has been professionally assessed by Kirkus Reviews:

[This] collection of erotic poetry offers a cavalcade of love affairs, focusing on the narrator’s moment-to-moment fantasies and experiences.

A sprawling collection… that intriguingly lays out a dance of seduction in all of its conceivable steps.


I invite you to consider the following samples, out of context, to discover if perhaps Tweet-sized poetry is one way to yank your mind around.


resurrect the words

that have been drowned in soap

i’m not supposed to like hearing them

any more than you are supposed to like saying them


want to feel you again against me

wrapped around your wishes

want to know the commotion

at the center of your sensual self


120 smiles:

run tongue

from clit down slit

to slot

and back up


repeat     repeat


10 repetitions, 4 sets


serial jack off

first, me for you

then you on me


i didn’t lie

those are my own pinch marks…

i missed you so


the goal is to go over

the edge

teetering teetering

finally tottering


from behind me

your hands curve

and cover my breasts

like my own do



i sit up

you stand back

we connect

male plug

female receptor

alternating currents


It is your own hand that brings you off

but it is my voice in your ear

as you crest, as you peak,

you at the vertex

with me in the vortex.



Vivid Family Fiction:  KathleenK.com

Vintage Boomer Porn:  KathleenK.xxx

#Erotic #Poetry #AdultsOnly

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Foggy Friday Night – Potcentric Sexotic Bedtime Reading

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

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

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

SAMPLE – All Rights Reserved.

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

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

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


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

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

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


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

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


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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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



#legalizepot #pot-positive #HempFest #Stonerwithaboner

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The Erotic Engine – What Drove Me Today

The Erotic Engine: How pornography has powered mass communication, from Gutenberg to Google

by Patchen Barss

The title says it all.  Two hundred ninety-two pages of well-written history, linking Stanhope peepers to VHS amateur porn, carnal antiquities to mobile sex apps.  He tracks the facts of money, mood and media, charting public acceptance and demand.  He’s mindful of socio-tech movements and accurately lands on the pulse of our underground sexual delivery systems.  Good storyteller, lots of first-person observations from thoughtful experts.


COMMENTARY by indie-publisher of sexotic books for rowdier readers – Kathleen K.

How do I find books like this?  Like this:  be at the library when the doors click open on Saturday morning and beeline to the new books.  A mixture of fiction, fantasy, nonfiction books are lined up for inspection.  I grab six, semi-sort of randomly, it’s much about the cover and the title, a quick flip to the summary.  Yes or no.  Then I move to the Staff Picks which is another collector-distributor point for odd-lot selections.  These are proffered by staff readers as topical enthusiasts so you might see romance and fishing guides and soul music.  Today, The Erotic Engine.

The book was published in 2010; I would add my own note about publish-on-demand options in media now.  Through a vendor like CreateSpace.com, an author like me can produce book masters at a reasonable price and offer them for sale on the biggest marketplace ever:  Amazon.com.  For about $850, you, too, could publish a 250-page book that would become available to anybody at any time they demanded it.  (Co-creators, $425; 4-some $212.50).  I stockpiled ten sets of masters (print and Kindle).  Besides being fun, it is an investment in future inventory.  Best of all, it supplies me with the many personal copies I distribute to fans and sell, in spurts (!), online.  Available for review: KathleenKBooks.com

I am insinuating myself into the conversation about erotica, counterculture literacy, and gender dynamics.  I’m on the look-out for rowdier readers.  Sassy, intelligent, witty, explicit erotica is not for everybody.  If it just so happens you, yourself, have a curious disposition then please connect here.

The newest book, ARCHING OVER Collected Collections of Graphic Poetry is romantic and erotic, uncluttered and direct, fertile with images.  The voice in these poems is speaking to you, overtly… you are being called out, slither hither.  “You at the vertex, with me in the vortex.”  It is a four-stage journey:  distinctly voiced, annotating moments when “modifiers lose meaning, it gobbles it, there are no other words.”

Amorous, yearning, exultant.  Frisky.

SAMPLE — All Rights Reserved

no youngster ever fucked like that

… it took ten years of bad sex

and disappointment

to stoke the fires

to blast past mistakes and earn learning

the mature and thorough sex

of one who has hungered

* * * * *

dog-style and howling

that’s how we do it

so you can really see

and i can really feel it

you bark commands:  move!  don’t!  move!

and i wag my tail

* * * * *

my back seems balanced

on the tip of your prick

the twin-curved ass

a surrounding

your hands bridge me

hauling my hips back

so we clang

* * * * *

thick stick

lush tush

bit tit

come some

* * * * *

i fuck myself

with a pliable substitute

it’s a matter of balance

not hard enough to hurt

not fast enough to burn

but almost, almost

* * * * *

a glow

so hot it boils marrow

eyes steamed blind

and ears melted

i’m shrieking

but my mouth is sealed shut

stunning sex


* * * * *

your cock is putty

in my hands

i like it

soft and pliable

lo, the stages

from palmful

to mouthful


filling full

* * * * *

our eyes are closed

but what are we seeing?

to you, am i a pair of fluted lips,

swollen, slick and seeking?

like you, to me, are a probe

with a heated tip

searing your name inside

* * * * * *

i find myself


all over the bed

toes over the edge

fingers dug into the pillows

my legs so far apart

i feel my trunk unlatch

* * * * *

my pleasure drips from your chin

when you look up at me

but the crown of your head

is all i see

when your face is what i feel

* * * * *

thick bodied

wide smiled

hot cocked


* * * * *

you loom

then weave

… the fabric of love

made between us

* * * * *

nipples like littlest dicks

full to bursting, up, out, insistent

LôôK LôôK

Info/Buy Links for Kathleen K. Books

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