Tag Archives: sexual thoughtfulness

Women are not single fuse firecrackers content with the same old bang

The conversation on women’s appreciation of sexotica continues:  Porn for women: Real people having a real good time (Guardian)

It’s not that women don’t like porn. It’s that they don’t like most of the porn that actually gets made, and they’re doing something about it, according to the U.K. Guardian.

COMMENTARY by counterculture author-publisher Kathleen K.

There is a gender distinction in sexual expression that needs to be blended together for a mixed audience to appreciate.  Putting the focus on “women producing porn” grabs the headlines but, in fact, females have been present in the industry as writers and arrangers and directors all along.

What we didn’t have was the old-boy network that got work produced and distributed.

One key to women’s participation in the Sexpression Business is indie freedom, made possible by digital distribution and online communities.  The idea that women don’t like porn fails to note the fact that porn is shorthand for male-dominated imagery… it is a brutal close-up of ram-jamming ferocity.

It doesn’t help to flip the presumption and imagine that women want soft-focus kissy-face.  Women appreciate preparation, it underlies the truth that it takes females longer to “get ready” whether it’s for a picnic or the prom.  Sexually, we’ve got more moving parts and our sex receptors are configured differently within our gender.  See this review of Vagina to appreciate the complex design of female response.  Women are not single fuse firecrackers content with the same old bang.  Men brag they can be turned on and off like a switch and fail to appreciate that women have so many more ineffable elements to their arousal.

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It has been my experience that women are just as curious about the workings of sex between imaginary characters as men are, but they prefer more spin on the players before starting the game.  Don’t believe it’s that fundamental?  Consider the glory hole.  That’s a man’s world.

As a writer of erotic-sexotic books, I make the distinction for “sexotica” because some folks just don’t like to get overly-involved in the actual action but are most curious about the factual options.  Sexotica is colloquial, direct and specific, it uses the vernacular.  The reader stays one step removed.

Erotica engages the reader’s egocentric core, it draws energy to their own desires and incorporates them into the action.  Erotica is designated so by the reader(s) response; sexotica qualifies on content alone.

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Dark Prince, Heed Thy Queen
(In the Realm of Roles and Reversals)                SAMPLEComing.  Soon.  September 2014

I’m not defending Nathan, I’m explaining him. I consorted with this dog and thought he was a man. The sad part is that Nathan was a man in many ways, in basic ways. 95% genetically similar. 5% canine-lupine. (It’s only a couple of percent difference for human to chimp.) I was accustomed 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 entanglement.

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, careless intimacy.

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 thicket then we’d walk home hand in hand, acting innocent but looking smudged.

One Halloween I went full-on French Maid then attended a party with Nathan. I was told to clean a man’s dick and was handed a warm soft cloth; he was wearing leather chaps and not much else… naughty party. This was a sensational moment with a check on emotions. No one presumed to ask me why I was engaged in this particular behavior. Such was Nathan’s power that he would know which man would accept and act on his offer of my tender tending. The costume “hid” me, objectified me, removed me from a sensible realm. Smart. Nathan knew how to work us all.

I didn’t care if the men “liked” me or not as long as Nathan had faith in me. I had given myself utterly and I understood his need for these sexual tableaus. When we were alone and made love, which was the way we did it most of the time, I felt the direct effect of his reliving those scenes. I know it pleased him that I could encompass more than one situation as long as I held true to my desire for him.

“I remembered a video I saw long before I met you, I got a copy for you to watch tonight. I’ll be back around ten. The second lead actress is a lot like you, in attitude, I mean. You have a similar shape, her ass isn’t as fine but you both have insane knockers. Flat on her back, she gets the same dreamy look you get when we ball. Notice what she does, and do that for me when I get back.”

He was not fanciful, he was effective. I was eager enough to supply the requisite smoothness to our affair, I overlooked things that really weren’t important when I compared them to our ardor. I forgot the clock when he was late, I didn’t complain if he wasn’t groomed or if he expected me to feed him first one time and ignored my food the next.

Whatever it took, I did. He was there for a sexual reason and I would work to discover that reason. It might start at the door with a quick deep feel or his move might not come until after we watched TV and ate our take-out food. The few times he put me off sexually (when we were in an otherwise active phase) it was only to build up for the next time. I’d be patted on the rear and told to put on a specific dress at a certain time – then he’d throw me a pair of crotchless panties to wear to his mechanic’s open house. I’d be sent to buy items at the drugstore, bubble bath and K‑Y Jelly. Peach flavored douche and a rectal thermometer. Condoms galore, every texture and color (all being the same basic shape) and dozens of surgical gloves.

I once let a deputy sheriff fondle me in the back seat of his cruiser while Nathan stood look-out on the side of the back country road. Another time I let Nathan disrobe me and rub my entire body, including the cracks, with oil. It so happened we were in an adult motel room with the drapes wide open to the private courtyard. Nathan used those kinds of memories to goad himself into incredible feats of sexual possession when we were alone together. The essential, core energy might have used outside forces as propellants but my man and I were coupled only to each other and only in our private realm.

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I suppose we do learn the hard way or we’d all be smarter sooner.

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In Praise of High Spirits. 420 2014

Pot can make you dangerously stupid but that’s more about you than about pot.  You’re the puking drunk outside the casino, you scream on E when everybody else just dances it off.  I’m not talking to you here.

Some folks like pot for the jovial let-it-be vibe that comes from biochem reality, the expansive mood is caused by neuroreceptors recepting THC.

Why do we have THC receptors in the human brain?

Here in Washington State there is the tacit admission that we voted for stoner emancipation, permitting it not just in the medicinal marketplace.  My word to the tribe:  keep it precious.  Don’t waste weed greasing the every-day duties of your life.  Savor it, have a ceremony, prepare yourself to be free to enjoy it.  Then, flip, flop and fly!  Let yourself go.  This too shall pass.  It’s the same as a shot of Bailey’s in your Saturday morning coffee; it’s a bit of a kick.  A little jolt.  Zing-a-ding.

Drugs in general and weed in particular are in opposition to productivity and accomplishment.  The solution to that problem lies in the whole moderation thing.  Not too serious, not too silly.  Just right.  Put yourself in vacation mode for most effective marijuana mind-alteration.  Gear down to the basic you, clear the decks, put on your comfy pants, find that certain blue cap that feels so good on your head.  Set your scene, collect your props.  Imbue the moment with mood before you fire up the pipe and grok potcentric.

______________________________

pot-face

The Stoner books are richly written, layering in suggestive references and witty word play, covertly overt.  We chase the ideas of this freewheeling sex & drugs exposé because there’s more going on than a literal toke-and-poke manifesto.  This man “gets” women.  He “gets” high.  He’s promoting stoner literacy and sexual thoughtfulness by inhaling and exhaling simple truths.  Stoner shares his point of view with such precision that he elevates the format to “a memorable sexual escapade”…

These two books create a grassroots oasis in my Private Publications of erotic and sexotic books for the rowdier reader by espousing a lifestyle of tolerance toward the high, the unhigh and the diff-high.  They were written before the legalization movement actually notched any states who would go further than medical pot, and many still don’t even do that.  The social value has shifted on the medical issue which blurs the line on the recreational aspects.  Once you have the substance in the hands of users, they’ll dose themselves with more and less success.  Just like some people enjoy an evening of poker from time to time and others get their fingers broken in a Vegas alley.  (Moderation.)

4/20 Video Recommendation

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

Stoner’s Bone of Contention (The Weightless Joint)

#potcentric #420 #RowdierReader #marijuana.com

 

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Adulterated Love. Sex + Drugs. Prepare for 420 2014

The lyric recollections of Stoner, a fictional memoirist capturing his quest for romance and reefer, are not confessions of a carouser. He’s a man with a plan to balance his work-a-day world with dreamy nights of possibility. He savors his moments, polishes them. His skill with women starts with his choice of woman: he goes for the sane ones, the wary not the paranoid; does she maintain a stable orbit – can they synchronize?

The pot thing is a natural element in his society, his filthy drug habit is mild compared to the pharmaceutical pleasure-pills and addictive opioids and brain-blowers like speedy acid. He rolls right along, not begrudging the drinkers and tobacco smokers their social acceptance. It’s only a matter of time before marijuana settles back where it belongs, like liquor and porn, responding to the marketplace.  What?  Him worry?  He no think so.

These two potcentric sexotic Stoner books come highly recommended.

Written in a loose, free-wheeling prose that mimics the narrator’s lifestyle, the story glides from woman to woman and bong hit to bong hit without the burdens of plot or conflict.

… a memorable sexual escapade.

 By Kirkus Reviews Dec. 2012 re: Stoner with a boner

He likes pot but he loves sex.

__________________________________________________

After pg 104   by Barry “Mandot” Messer

SAMPLE: Stoner’s Bone of Contention by Kathleen K.

I was indentured to a lady mechanic who promised to teach me how to maintain my own vehicle in exchange for driving her crazy from time to time. She was all business down at the shop, demonstrating how I could change my car’s oil, check the hoses and fuses, tighten the connections, loosen the throttle… stuff I knew in theory that she put into practice. I chained up my tires a few times, I replaced my headlamps. I mastered my vehicle for real.

Her actual name is unusual so I’m disguising her as Irina, vaguely Slavic in looks and manner, not as brash as an American, perhaps Canadian? Lovely to look at, Irina was enchanting to consider as a partner, in her fitted overall dungarees and tight ribbed long-sleeve tee-shirt. You notice her hands are tattooed, subtly, almost like henna but the markings pick up color as they cross up her wrists. She was shy to reveal her body to me, it was fully tattooed, sleeves on both arms, images twining up her legs to flower on her thighs. She asked me not to speak of them, not to her or to anyone who knew her (but said yes when I asked if I could include her here); etched into her skin was the work of many people, over a long time, badges of things I’d never be told. She’d show up at my door, as we arranged in exchange for the car stuff, and we’d share a bong before we doused the lights.

I understood what she wanted, she’d been able to explain how I fit in her bigger picture, that I wasn’t being used to make somebody else jealous, I wasn’t a substitute for a heart-wrenching love. She wanted to be held and felt and fingered and fucked and tucked into sleep in the dimmest of lights, she wanted me to know her shape, not her surface, to seize her pieces in my hands as if they were as ordinary and unmarked as any other.

Irina was soft in my hands, her bones well hidden in plump firm skin, her voluptuous shape pressed against me from all angles, contorting around me to maintain maximum skin time, my entire body engaged in containing her. Heavy globes with outsize nipples thrust forward from her chest, counterbalanced by her generous ass, looking firm but jiggling when she moved. She acted with a single aim to keep me interested, to hold my focus. She moved and I moved, I surrendered to her schedule but held my own when the time came. She was a shape in the dim to me; her movements were shadowed, still I felt their impact.

I was going through a phase in my life when I had withdrawn from the romantic arena. There was no fight left in me, I didn’t have fuel to ignite a connection so it took someone like Irina to note my utility as a toy. I had to be solid and knowable, set a low flame, a functioning male but lacking interest in being a sociable human. I had to be the kind of guy who would evaluate Irina’s offer and see she was talking about an exchange. She wasn’t giving me anything sexual, it was just the opposite; what she gave me was lessons on car maintenance, what she asked for was simple intercourse, spicy and hot, within a specified time frame.

≤÷≥

I run into all kinds of deal-makers when out and about. Pot dealers. Sex dealers. It’s part of the fun of being free with my time.

“I cream for cash.”

“Only?”

“Best.”

“Let me check my wallet. Whip cream?”

“Double cream.”

≤÷≥

I can’t say that I’m used to being naked. I get naked. I like being naked. I’m always aware I’m naked, I feel the air on me, I catch sight of stuff I don’t usually see, and I am at ease in the sense I’m fit for duty.

No, I’m not a nudist. It’s always going to heighten my senses to remove all my armor; it is an unsheathing of the weapon-temple-casing that is closest to the essential me.

When I see naked women I feel that same jitter, I’ve been intimate to varying degrees with a rich pool of females and can say that if they are naked or not naked is a defining moment. They can be disheveled, unbuttoned and unsnapped, even half-naked, still they are protected by fabric.

When everything falls away there is the strictest of taboos broken, it is a crossing over to an admission of your basic presentation. No high heels, no push-up bras, no shaping of any sort: being naked makes us feel vulnerable.

A few times, she beat me to it and I had the odd sensation of being (at least partially) dressed in the presence of a nude woman. She was stripped of something that I retained. I might join her sooner or later but for that moment we were not equally invested in the outcome. It would be easier for me to turn and walk away still clothed than for her to first have to dress before making an exit.

I never again would have not seen her naked.

≤÷≥

After a hike we boiled up water for coffee or tea. We shared pot-nut bread for desert. We had each contributed some bud for our baker buddy to transubstantiate into some edible form, and we warned our guests to think clearly before we brought them to the camp site (because they sure wouldn’t after they got there). We were in the middle of a forest on a huge plateau, cushioned by good quality camping gear, with lanterns, flash­lights, and spare flashlights. We were anchored there, having agreed that the cars’ keys would be locked in the tackle box then held by Darren, our designated straight guy. Nobody was going anywhere physical on this partic­ular trip, it was all about our surroundings and each other, what we felt and thought.

Things got a bit blurry between sundown and moonrise but then at some point a stout woman backed me up against the trunk of a tall strong pine tree, I was caught up in the contrast of rough bark and her fluffy sexy self pressed against my front. Even as she knocked her crotch against mine, I whispered to her to tell me her name. Who was she? I knew what she was doing. I liked how she was doing it. I didn’t need her address. I needed her name so I could tell her what this all felt like, the woods and her hot honey scent mixing in my mind, my curiosity rising. Nothing more was going to happen, we were all overnighting as buddies, we were not pairing off, and as far as I knew I’d never get this close to her again. When we broke apart, sometime later but much too soon, I was thrilled that eventually I’d be in my sleeping bag under the stars bathed in moonlight with a simmering memory of this one particular woman, Jenny…. Jenny pushed me against the tree, Jenny whispered her own name to me, she gave a little shiver when I said her name, ohh, Jenny… you feel dreamy to me, delightful. You are magnificent tonight, sweet Jenny. A touch of aggression, a hint of compliance. Remarkable. I’ll think of you, I’ll think of this. I like who you are. Jenny.

≤÷≥

END SAMPLE

 

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

Twitter.com/KathleenKxxx

KathleenKBooks.com       Fan Page

#sexybook #potcentric #RowdierReader #420

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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.

KathleenK.xxx   

Not Suitable for some.  Appreciated by others.

THE LUNARIUM

One man’s memories of  the watchers and the watched

Click to Look  Inside

SWEET TALKERS

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

Click to Look  Inside

 

ARCHING OVER

Collected Collections   of Graphic Poetry

Click to Look Inside

 

 

 

STONER WITH A BONER

(It’s a Long Story)

Click to Look  Inside

 

 

STONER’S  BONE OF CONTENTION

(The  Weightless Joint)

Click to Look  Inside

 

 

HONEY B., THE SUITE LIFE

A Truer-than-True Tale of Commercial  Satisfaction

Click to Look Inside

#ValentineGiftIdea #sexybooks #erotica

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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.

**

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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

SAMPLE

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.

Stonerwithaboner.com

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