Tag Archives: Stoner with a boner

HempFest – 25th Anniversary of a Protestival in Seattle – Welcome, weedies.

kathleen_k_stoner_with_a_bonerRead this:  https://www.amazon.com/Protestival-Seattle-Hempfest-Year-Retrospective/dp/B005JTK6QU

The medical liberation of marijuana truly matters but please don’t downplay the silly blaze prized for its own grace.

Consider the slow and steady grind to pot legalization, the States are rolling up pot with the liquor and tobacco in spite of the FDA’s wrong-headed categorization of weed as dangerous.  Instead of listing it as herbal and worth study; they implement this idea with our money to frustrate our legitimate inquiry.  We all “know” weed works somehow with the brain and mostly the effects are positive.  The fact is the more we know then the better we dose: some pot strains take the floaty-head stuff out and leave the pain relief, others go for sustaining waves of synapse jazz.

Marijuana enables some to lower dosages of more powerful pain meds, it can enhance an expansive hopeful attitude to buoy the spirit in times of illness, even if only by a strong social association with peace, love, and rock and roll.

In the spirit of HempFest weekend, when minds roam free, here’s something to think about since the Pot War is over.  Love∞sex, anyone?

https://kathleenkbooks.com/2015/03/23/too-much-porn-not-enough-sex-learn-to-ride-the-tide/

 

 

 

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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.

**

Twitter.com/StonerInfo

#legalizepot #pot-positive #HempFest #Stonerwithaboner

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Ineffable Elements and Potentiators – words arranged by Kathleen K.

I am waiting for the second print-proof master of Stoner’s Bone of Contention to arrive, this could be IT.  Book #9 will be available online within weeks.  This is a potcentric sexotic fictional memoir about getting high then diving into that baffling abyss between men and women.

What’s at the heart of this book?  It celebrates sexual thoughtfulness with deft vignettes of Stoner’s philosophy in action.  Free-wheeling and oddly thoughtful, tender at times, cussedly candid at others.

SAMPLEI took a hop, skip and a jump through the book to isolate these particular musings of our narrator

I had no idea she was seeking a sexual consultant.  I had gone to enough of these sorts of grocer conventions to be careful around women on the road.  There was a wild, after-school feeling with so many out-of-towners in attendance.  It would be that freedom that led to my intimacy with Kalia, but only after we had both evaluated the suitability of the other.  There’s a moment when a woman makes her choice, insofar as she decides if it’s impossible to consider a physical tryst.  When that switch is off, it’s off.  It isn’t quite so definitive when it’s on, it being more of a dimmer switch than a single flip-to-the-on position.  A woman’s signal set includes pressure readings and ineffable elements, I’ve learned to watch and wait for as long as it takes for her to decide.  Arguing is fruitless, whining is unattractive; begging shouldn’t work.  Here is where the women have all the power.  Simple as that, write it down.  Her highest compliment is to accept a man within her, to take him up into her center, to grant him the privilege of uniting with her.  No matter how devalued commercial sex becomes, how tawdry and wasteful so much of our sex has devolved into, there is no doubting the primal urge between true lovers to blend.

≤÷≥

The weirdest things conjure sex.

“I’m going to smoke some pole.”

I can’t remember when I first heard it; however, when you do hear it, you get the idea even if it doesn’t make sense objectively.  It’s a sharp description of a vital function reduced to verb + noun.

So many ways to say fellatio, clinical or coarse words conjure the same image, face at the groin.

Smoke it, suck it, lick it, all the words are begging to put the mouth to the penis, to bend to or kneel for then open wide and make it disappear.  Consume it.  Blow it away.  Finish it.  Empty it.  Take it all in, absorb what it is then ingest what it contains.  Surrender to conquer, spill it out as a show of acceptance even if it is, ultimately, an act of expulsion.  The threat of a missile is right before you launch it, after that there’s a countdown to its one and only detonation.  There may be other missiles, other launches, but this one is up, up and away.  Done for, once it’s started.

≤÷≥

I think the fact that guys see getting tit as a mere way station on route to their one true goal means that they are missing a chance to experience a potentiator.  A potentiator enhances the perform­ance of another thing.  By exciting a woman with knowledgeable handling of her breasts you are heightening the vaginal reaction.  Don’t blast past the intimate hors d’oeuvre, a light bite whets the appetite.  Create fertile ground for the sexual feelings to root and grow by appreciating the amusing and arousing sample.  Women know they will get a reaction, some reaction, a definite reaction, to their breasts and it will most likely be delivered through the nipples, telegraphing the nether receptors to come awake and await further signals.

I leap from the sight of nipples to the facts of sex, to positions and angles and scooping up heat.  I run the endless loop of what the rest of me is doing as I pay homage to her succulence.  I have so many parts to offer, my hands and limbs, my torso, my chassis, all fired up from my little engine that could, my valiant libido pulling me up and up and up.  My mind races ahead even as I force my body to slow down and participate fully.  I hold the faith that if I invest my attention in her pleasure from the start then I am much more likely to share it in the end.  I can get myself off but I can’t fuck myself.

 ≤÷≥

KathleenK.xxxSite Map

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It turns out pot is not the gateway to hell.

Marijuana’s march toward mainstream confounds feds

By ALICIA A. CALDWELL and NANCY BENAC, Associated Press Updated: Jun 29, 2013 at 2:11 PM PDT
___________________________

COMMENTARY from indie publisher and counterculture writer KATHLEEN K.

Bottom line: government has to get into the weed business or get out of the booze business.  They are both intoxicants with no constructive purpose which when consumed in moderation serve their biochemical function to loosen behavioral constraints within tolerable limits.  Constitutionally removing the no-no-no on pot edges the argument into freedom of choice, of religion and assembly, of fundamental liberty to BE self-determined.  Besides, we already know prohibition not only fails to control access to [whatever], it spawns a criminal class designed to elude the prohibitors (or worse, they collude).

I believe in sin tax, charging extra for the risky stuff like getting loaded, gambling, and guns, if it means we use those funds to provide tax-free diapers and affordable over-the-counter remedies for seniors.  Citizens want law enforcement money to combat real crime — violent and predatory offenses.  We agree we need to stop the stupid drivers whether influenced by alcohol, cannabis, prescription drugs, emotions, electronics, or insufficient cerebral resources.

Law abiding stoners are not the problem.  Let it be!

The Stoner series of books is lighthearted and passion-positive, celebrating the naughties:  getting high and hooking up.  Witty, wise and wicked, it’s a rambling narrative told by a guy with a decent job and a sense of the absurd.  The books promote sexual thoughtfulness and weed conservation through appreciative consumption.  He’s a voice for moderation, observing a culture shift in progress, but what he remembers is the peace and the love.

As explained in the news article above, states legalizing pot have unsettling implications as far as the FDA and DEA and NIMH and AMA are concerned.  Not only are the bureaucrats faced with professional judgments to make about who is allowed to do what (and design the official forms that encode these options), as we all age the backdrop is no longer Reefer Madness.  That myth is busted:  pot is not the gateway to hell.  It’s a weed, it grows in the ground, and is like tobacco with a sustaining wave of well-being and affability.

We may not be able to explain why pot helps cancer patients but we can observe it.  Whether it is a placebo or not, patients believe a little weed helps them eat, and eating keeps them alive while under assault by barbaric-but-mainstream “treatments” like radiation and chemo.  Once you crack the medical access to marijuana, the recreational use is not far behind.  It’s ancient, it’s herbal, it’s not going away.  Graft a pot clause on the existing liquor laws and be done with it already.

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