Tag Archives: sexy vignettes

You have to tell the truth about booze to face the facts about pot.

Liquor is not the problem in the same way that guns are not the problem.  It’s about people.  Many people don’t drink at all.  Most drinkers like the buzz, they use it to celebrate and commiserate.  Then there are the ones who overdose themselves to sickness and death.  Pot will have the same mix of users but at its worst it is still safer than alcohol because it is highly unlikely you would overdose on it.

The second tier of impact is what happens to others in the presence of a drinker or a toker.  Drinkers brawl; stoners laugh at each other.  Drinkers drive aggressively, repeatedly, while potheads creep along, paranoid and over-thinking. The heart of our lies about alcohol pertain to drunk driving.  We allow carnage rather than face the facts.  We have repeat offenders being excused and nobody can explain why that is.

If you factor booze into domestic violence and sexual assaults you arrive at the conclusion that drinking is an accelerant like gasoline on emotions.  Pot is a gentle stimulator, breezy and befuddling.  You can mess up on either but not all trouble is created equal.

We’re talking about intoxicants with no other purpose than to alter biochemistry.  At that level, alcohol and recreational marijuana are the same.  It is a lifestyle choice just like playing cards or tossing horse shoes (you know, you can kill somebody with a horse shoe).  That’s the main reason I believe herb should be regulated like any other grown-up feel-good stuff.  Most of us will be fine, some may need to curtail consumption, and, yes, there will be addicts.  That’s the truth about drinking and toking.  It’s that freedom thing, to associate and to worship, to live your life within local community standards or face shunning (prison).  Hoist a few, blaze up, but keep your hands to yourself and yourself off the road.

 After pg 24         Barry “Mandot” Messer

SAMPLE — For high-spirited readers

from the potcentric sexotic fictional memoirs of Stoner

Not suitable for some, appreciated by others.

Drinking just ain’t for me.  I went down that path a ways, and must say the neighborhood tavern provided me some wonderful evenings.  At first, you think you’re drawn to the people but eventually you realize it’s the fog you like, drunk is drunk varying only in degree.  I was a different “me” after a few beers, plus I was emboldened by the others’ inebriation.  Besides, it says something when you meet a person in a tavern:  it isn’t church, it isn’t work, and it isn’t home.

I got sponsored into one tavern’s in-crowd by a lady I knew.  She lived alone in a tall skinny house about three blocks from the bar.  I learned this location was critical to her plan to avoid a second DUI.  She intended to be impaired when she left the neighborhood bar (about 11:15 p.m.), that was the point of her drinking after all.  She wanted to get convivial, boozy, but leave before the mood turned at midnight.  She didn’t pay attention to the road when in that frame of mind and, since she wasn’t going to quit drinking any time soon, she found a way to drink and not drive.  We’d stroll the short distance home, still jazzed by the interaction down at the tavern, old enough to know how to attain and maintain intoxication.

Donna and I made a good pair, she had a wry and biting wit that kept me on my mental toes.  She was tart without being bitter.  She had yellow hair and royal blue eyes that turned black in the moonlight.  I thought of Nordic maidens when I became familiar with her body.  Her shoulders and hips were in proportion with a long sturdy torso between them.  Her skin was the color of sunshine on a white rose, glowing with the feel of pink.  She liked to burrow against my body wearing only a bra and panties, me confined only by my underwear.  Tactile stimulation: her rounded thighs resting against my leaner ones, the scent of her neck distinct from the ever-clean smell of her hair.

Donna didn’t get naked with the lights on.  Period.  She had to gentle herself down when in the maddening grasp of the male.  It flipped switches in her so we learned to let the agitation drain away.  She explained to me how often men rejected her because they didn’t want to wait until she relaxed.  Unlike me, they failed to sustain the arousing sensation of body contact without advancing their own agenda.  I’d while away the time thinking sensuous thoughts and suppressing my own impetuous sexuality to reach for a deeper, more mystical approach.  She was slow to warm but then she held her heat.

She had installed one of those clapper switches on her love lamp, the specific light she kept on so she wouldn’t get naked until she was good and ready.  It cast a flattering light on us both, just enough illumination to see her nipples thicken against the fabric of her bra.  She especially liked to touch my cock while I was still wearing my underwear.  It made me feel anonymously explored, palpitated.  Donna was assessing strength and flexibility, the weight and length of me.  She was dull-minded from the liquor wearing off and half-lulled to sleep by our quiet cuddling, she slipped into a sexual mood like a drip gathers itself to drop.

Her lovemaking style was passive, she placed herself in my hands.  I’d learned to tell her when to move, and she always did when I told her to, but she didn’t move if I didn’t say so.  She had told me about her first husband’s teasing her overeager humping but it was so long ago she couldn’t remember if he was right about that.  She didn’t want to know.  Her pleasant acceptance of our shared sensations kept our lovemaking from becoming passionate.  She was grieving her second husband, a man rendered impotent by advanced diabetes, a suicide (by morphine overdose) ((no one ever admitted to supplying him the needle, the drugs, but I was convinced Donna hadn’t done so, I came to believe it was his brother who thought it was love to let him go)).  To capitalize on the tender side of their marital love but diminish the frustration she remained in her panties and bra with him when they slept together.  He said he couldn’t bear to see her naked, it would be a feast set in front of a man with his teeth wired shut.  In the dark he could pet her to orgasm, in the dark he could liberate her breasts; still, even in the dark, he could be overcome by a lack of physical fulfillment that broke both their hearts.  No kick.  All these years later, she didn’t give her nakedness to me because it had been denied to her true lover.

The tavern Donna and I frequented served unsalted peanuts and low salt pretzels, the eating was not to stimulate your thirst (the camaraderie did that).  It is congenial to snack from a shallow bowl of simple food chased by cold beer.  It was the bar’s habit to order food in about eight o’clock, we rotated through Italian, Chinese, Deli, Fish’n Chips that we ate family style.  The bartender got free eats for organizing the order.

It was important to Donna that “her tavern” was not dark and hopeless, it wasn’t filled with sodden drunks smelling vaguely of piss (perhaps because it dribbled on their shoe tops).  This place entertained people who played pool, or cards, they provided music for the sound system and would play guest selections if the majority didn’t object.  The newspaper was pulled out, and far-reaching discussions ensued.  They always hoisted one after reading first the births, then the weddings, finally the obituaries, out loud.

Donna had never slept with one of the guys from the tavern, it would have changed her whole “sister” dynamic.  She didn’t want to reveal herself to any specific one of them, it was important to her that her man be seen as an import, with no history of his own with these people.  In the first place, she and I could agree to presenting a certain face of our relationship, it appeared to others that I was in pursuit of her while the fact was I’d been drawn into the situation by Donna’s invitation.  I played the woo-er, the beau, so that she could tease me for the benefit of our crowd. A drinking crowd.

After a few hours visiting with them, the edges of the room disappeared and all the action seemed to center around our tables.  We’d have sudden death double-solitaire game crowding out the beer mugs on one table, at another the ashtray might be filled with bottle tops we were saving to flip against the curb later.  (The various twists and warps of the cap added a high degree of difficulty — they weren’t uniform like pennies for pitching.) Donna would sit with one leg thrown over mine, or her hand on my thigh, physically connected with me in a proprietary way; our relationship served some purpose in the group, lent her substance as an individual by being the member of a pair.  I was loyal and true to her, it would have been a sacrilege to eye other women when we were in our little world.

I was smoking dope on my own, she didn’t mix pot with beer.  Once in a while somebody would bring in a joint and I’d step outside to take a few tokes to be sociable but then it wasn’t really like getting stoned all the way, it was a head-topper.  In a sense, I was appreciated for “being myself” when I wasn’t being me at all.  I was playing the role of Donna’s man friend.

Donna was more the pill type than I expected, she loved to slip into a downer drowse, timing herself to get home before the serious lassitude struck her limbs.  It wasn’t my kind of high (low) to share but I didn’t mind her enjoying herself in this way.  She’d be too out of it to really take care of herself, I’d have to guide her to the bathroom and wait outside the door calling out reminders of what to do next; once I piloted her back to bed I’d solemnly explain what I hoped to achieve sexually and she’d nod along earnestly but then she forget and seemed surprised – every time – when my hand slid between her legs.

Even relaxed to a literal hover, she still didn’t want to be naked with the lights on and I respected this.  The lights were out before the underwear came off.

The room would not be pitch black, moonlight could creep in, there was a streetlight on the next lot, once in a while she’d allow a small candle to flicker.  It forced me into a tactile dimension where I had to imagine her ass by its contour and her snatch by its scent.  I knew her nipples were large and dark, dense.  Breasts low-slung with a pleasing uptilt.  Her hips were fleshed over and smooth but still perceptibly forming a basin for her compact pussy.  It seemed her clit was snuggled up to her pussy, barely covered by her shallow mound.  It was easy to involve that nub in our lovemaking.

She did let me nudge her butt cheeks open when she was on downers, once in a while she’d relax enough to let me prod at the hole there incidentally/accidentally for a few minutes but she was adamant there’d be no actual butt sex.  She indulged my request for this type of arousal because I was so cooperative about the lack of visual nudity.

At her request, I wore a leather blindfold one night so she could see me in the mirror naked and fucking her.  I helped her set up.  I felt foolishly excited by this concept:  used by her, serving her.  Once readied, I couldn’t see a thing, no sliver of movement, no shadow shapes.  I especially liked when she got astride me and I felt her swivel so I knew she was looking back over her shoulder at the mirror to watch her backside plunging on me and off me.  I could imagine what it looked like from what it felt like for me to be her platform.

I reached up and pressed her breasts back against her ribs, holding her there, she had solid-feeling flesh that filled my palms.  She’d lift herself into my hands, shoving her belly down tight against me and arching her back so I had the sensation of capturing her in flight.  I’d thumb her nubby nipples until I felt it in her pussy.


I went through one-hitter pipes every few months, doing minimal maintenance, until the active one got too sticky to use.  I dropped it into some pipe cleaner and brought out another one, same shape and weight, fresh.  I double-tap the bowl, sucking up the high, alone at home.  I wander around, touching talismans, blowing dust off framed moments.   This was my place, it held my things, it welcomed my visitors, and anchored me in the deepest way.  I had freedom in this refuge, I was myself here.

Getting high before my walk meant I’d have to plan ahead, avoid distractions, stay true to the mind-altering I’d instigated, savor it.  From my den to my door to the sidewalk then toward the residential section, away from the bakeries and bars and quickie marts and all those hellos.  I was one of many people feeling at ease moving through a friendly neighborhood.  I welcomed my thoughts against a backdrop of family life, toys on the lawn, grill on the back porch; all these other people were acting out the scenes I remember as a kid.  I don’t feel the need to pass this knowledge down to another generation, not like these others who are doing so every day.  I’m glad ‘community’ exists and I can trust it to endure, it’s our successful adaptation to tribal politics.  I’ve got a clan, I pledge allegiance to the flag, I accept the modern way of life.  I’m a frequent flyer in the head-osphere.  I’m just as good at landing as I am at getting off.


“I am major mellow, Captain Cooked.”

“It’s a creeper weed.  Sneaks up on you, it needs time to ripen.”

“Ripe sounds good.  I’m baked.  Toasted.  Completely completed.”

“As long as you’re not wasted.”


I was surprised how many women expected me to start mooching once we were intimate.  Evidently, lots of men slip this way.  Since I believe each adult should have a way to sustain their own life, I was not in need of a “boost” from the budget of a lover.  It would have offended me if I was expected to “assist” in the living expenses of someone else, whether or not it was for sexual access.  That’s part of the here-and-now for me.  I can observe mooching as a fact but can’t “feel” it for myself.  It didn’t bug me when I kicked in money for a new roof for my cousin’s house because it was a tenth anniversary present.  They could use their own hard-won roof savings for a surprise weekend honeymoon… that’s how my family helps its people.  Lift one burden.  Wipe out one worry.  Expect them to handle the rest.

I adopted a neighborhood nursing home and tithed to its general fund.  It wasn’t hard to explain to myself why I thought this was due… if those that could help did help, we’d eliminate some stresses on all of us. The donated ten percent seemed easy to calculate and was rooted in my idea of a worshipping society.  I wasn’t going to be attending any sermons soon but it didn’t mean that I was exempt from good works.  There are amenities not funded through Medicare that can make life easier for our seniors.

Would I be so generous if I didn’t have the money?  I am frugal by nature and legally unencumbered so it wasn’t hard to relax into the comfort of sending in some off the top, like it was taxes, it made me feel like a citizen, not just a voter.  If I earned less, I’d still tithe.

When I examine my character I know that this is a profound part of my value system, a basis for my other decisions.  I don’t know how other people feel but it is apparent that many of us compare ourselves to what we think we ought to be and seek peace in our choices.  At times I sit in my place and feel so right-with-the-world that it’s risky to acknowledge it (jinx it).  My extended family respects my contributions to our lives together as living acts of commitment, I am there for them, with them. They’re with me.  This is what you do to build family links that last.  I invest my time in them.   Same so the other loves of my life.  Because they matter.  To me.


If you, like me, like sex and, like me, like drugs, you may like sex on drugs, like me.  Or you might not.  And that’s cool too.



#erotica #stonerliteracy #KathleenK #indaclub

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

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

frontcover    backcover

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

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

2. vitality: lively vigorous spirit

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

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

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


    Reader Discretion is advised.

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

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

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

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


Penis fracture




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

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

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

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

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

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


“I never thought you’d do that.”

“I thought you’d never ask.”


“I thought you’d never do that.”

“I never thought you’d ask.”


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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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Penis size is a fact, what matters is a judgment.

Does penis size matter?  Objectively, it has a numerical value that can be plotted on a Bell curve which means most men are clustered in the center gradually declining on either side of average.  There is a concentration of measurements between 5 and 7, gradually thinning at the 4’s and 8’s, plummeting down to 3’s and 9’s.  Men are overly sensitive when it applies to their own dot in the matrix.


Why don’t we talk about what a penis weighs?  Would that be twig and berries?  Full or empty?  It’s a very small number compared to overall body weight and yet its presence preoccupies the male ego.

Underlying the significance of this obsession is the confusion about what “satisfies” a female.  Men have a release mechanism that tells them when they are finished but women… oh, no… it’s way more complicated than that.  The politically correct response about penis size emphasizes quality and not quantity.  Women can feel the difference in size, not only inside her but when it plops against her leg and when it stiffens in her hand.  Size is just one of many elements that create her experience.

The mythic big dick of fantasy is on a magical quest for a properly sized target.  It is a hand-in-glove fitting that should make women obsess about the size of their own vaginal endowment.  A survey of literature and science indicates that isn’t a real big concern.  It would be just as far out on a Bell curve for a woman’s vaginal capacity to be extremely tight or loose, short or long.  Women don’t talk as much about that because it doesn’t matter, not really.  That’s not how you measure the complicated workings of the sex-birth canal.

I will tell you this based on my research of the science and the literature: there is no reasonable way to increase the size of a penis.

There is some evidence you can change your attitude.

What is obvious in the literature is women’s desire to be gentle with the fact there is a real world impact-linked difference in their reaction to any object approaching and/or broaching their genitals.  There are so many words for what women feel when somebody insinuates something into them.  How wide is your tongue?  How long is your finger?  How big around is your thumb?  Do you worry about those numbers?

More important factors in sexual satisfaction include the level of honesty between couples discussing the physics of their love life.  If you can’t say you’d like to feel more meat then you’re unlikely to get to suggest there are products that could make any specific piece of meat feel bigger.  This means not only that she wants bigger but that she knows you may want to give her bigger.  You don’t have to be small to want to be bigger.

It doesn’t take much time to establish the actual parameters of your one and only penis.  Other than periodic rechecks, spend no more time assessing the size.  Really.  Work on your whole body’s significance to you and to others.  Women loathe a puny heart and dismiss a shriveled spirit but are adept at adapting to the cock at hand.  What women want is EFFORT, sincere and sex-specific courting.  For that you don’t need to bang a big woodie around.  You need confidence without boasting.

As an independent provider of high-end erotica in print and Kindle books, I promote a simple theme of sexual thoughtfulness.  Whether in a pothead’s quest for romance and reefer or the advice of a retired call girl now serving as a sexual consultant, there is variety, ingenuity, creativity.  That’s what readers want, it seems.  They like to hear their options.  They benefit from diversity in their fantasies.  Reading erotica gives specific fleshly details to collect like triggers; wicked words are hoarded as sexplosives to be detonated later.

I keep the tone light, the language frothy; there’s always a deep well of feelings available in any moment of a story.  It might be set as stark and sweaty, or rich and sweet, but you “see” the give and take. Sex positivity is an attitude, let’s say it together:  It’s all good.  [What, me worry?  Me no think so.]  There are facts of your life such as penis size and date of birth, don’t get hung up on those when presenting yourself for intimate consideration.  Put down that ruler so you have two hands free to offer what you do have.

Have a good time, all the time.  [This Is Spinal Tap]

In my books, the sexy vignettes tumble together so you can pick and choose, mix and match.  I present a kaleidoscope of frank sexuality and sly innuendo because I trust the reader to compose their own view.  Not suitable for some, appreciated by others means if you’re a queasy reader, pass on by.

This excerpt from Honey B., Sexual Consultant isn’t about size but it advocates a straightforward approach to sexual honesty in the interest of effective communication:


Bubba was a mother of a man.  Scary.  Born big, lived large.  I wasn’t sure my office suite was sturdy enough to contain him.  His wife Marletta brought him to me, desperate to find somebody besides her to tell Bubba his come did not taste good.  Making him come with her mouth wasn’t about flavor… it was about power surging. It was about him feeling good, her satisfaction achieved by causing it not experiencing it…  It wasn’t like intercourse which was its own reward; you give French, you don’t take it… it was only in the heat of the moment that she could accept his ejaculate in her mouth.  She couldn’t lick it up later; she couldn’t convince him that her refusal didn’t mean she didn’t love him.  Lots of women focus on the coming, not the cum.  He was wrecking an otherwise wonderful sex life with boyish demands that she savor his taste.  Marletta didn’t, and she couldn’t pretend she did.

If you think doctors and other traditional counselors would find this kind of information difficult to tell a person, multiply it by the Bubba factor.  Hundreds of pounds of male presence.  Bubba didn’t ask to be so tall, so broad, but he did wear his hair long and his boots black.  I could feel the heat when he realized what was going on.  He was furious that she told this personal information to me, a stranger.  “Oh, was she supposed to explain all this to someone they knew?”  This was their most private business and I was truly disinterested in their bedroom habits in general.  We talked specifically about what bothered her so much she thought such advice was needed.

Marletta knew Bubba could snap her like a twig, she also knew he wouldn’t.  If he would do something like that, he wouldn’t be Bubba.  His belief in love treated it like solace in a hostile world.  Love was who shared your bed and who spent your time.  It was his privilege to have Marletta to love.  That was the noble side of it.  In daily practice, Bubba was not getting the message from Marletta about sex details.  He clutched his erotic fetishes closely, he didn’t experiment or tolerate change well.  Within the limited scope of what he thought husbands and wife did together, he was comfortable.

Our first meeting had hinged on one question:  I asked Bubba, “If she isn’t eating you for the flavor, why is she eating you at all?”  He didn’t know… he wasn’t sure.  Maybe he ought to ask her.  More likely, she’d already told him but he hadn’t attached significance to that information.  Marletta liked the feel of him hardening, he knew that because she often started blowing him when he his penis was soft, letting it grow into her mouth.  He knew she reacted to his excitement, sometimes he never laid a finger on her and she got sharp-nippled and soft lipped just doing it to him.

I told them favorite blow job stories.  A junior executive working in a high rise building carefully locked his office door and closing the louvers for the “relight” window to the hallway… his wife knelt in front of him behind his desk and sucked him, window washers creaked into sight and caught them at it.  Or this one – impertinent man asks woman if she eats dick, she says sure, loves to, just get her a knife and fork.  She could eat a dozen in a day.  Did you hear about the singer who uses knowledge gained in classical singing class to control her throat so she can swallow the choral master’s cock?

I took Bubba aside and instructed him to swallow a spoonful of his own cold cum, garnished with a single curly pube, in private, don’t make a big deal about it, don’t tell Marletta.  If that didn’t change his mind, come on back.

*** End excerpt ***


If, on the other hand, you appreciate sexual candor then please click on through.

KathleenK.xxx for rowdier readers

Stonerwithaboner.com for potcentric sexotic fictional memoirs

KathleenK.com for vivid family fiction

#sizematters #sexy #erotica

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