Tag Archives: vintage boomer porn

National Poetry Month – Don’t deny yourself the clarity of poetry

Don’t deny yourself the clarity, power and beauty of poetry based on an ugly introduction to it in school (you probably didn’t appreciate asparagus back then either).  Poetry is the essence of communication, even when heavily symbolic.

Poetry can speak in headlines, or let rhythm determine content (haiku), it is in our songs, in our pledges.  Poetry flashes meaning at you, it summarizes or deconstructs (or both).  There are many forms of poetry, go ahead and peek into a few books.  If you don’t find something you like in a couple of pages, or by skipping around, that book is not talking to you.  And that’s OK.  Try again.

I earlier argued the point that Tweet-sized thinking is poetry:  Few Words, Much Feeling.  This is not intended to diminish the craft and word-work of our collective lyric soul.  Once you sample a few poets, close your eyes and grab for the after-glow of your favorite.  Somebody arranges words in a way that appeals to your thought-constructs.

ARCHING OVER (Collected Collections) is graphic.  Whether it is erotic is up to you.  This collection revels in reduction:  getting to the base/bone/blood of sexual connection.  Yearning.  Triumphant.  Exultant.  It is not without love.  “Look Inside” link for Kindle sample.

______________

sailing on the sensuous breezes

of a moon-swept sea

creatures of a planet

that binds us by gravity

yet we learned how to fly

it limits our life span

but lets us love forever

______________

#eroticpoetry #poetrymonth #poetryspeaks

Advertisements
Tagged , , ,

Sex Science Enriches Vintage Boomer Porn by Kathleen K.

The woman who explained the female orgasm

By Thomas Maier, Special to CNN

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

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

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

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

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

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

Link to original article.

________________________________________________________________________________

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

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

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

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

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

Example sentences using the word finitude:

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

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

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

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

_________________________________________________________________________

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

“Spread ‘em.”

“Spread me.”

SAMPLE

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

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

øøø

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

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

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

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

KathleenK.xxx for the rowdier reader

KathleenKBooks.com for complete catalog

Tagged , , ,

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.

Tagged , , , , ,

The Lunarium – an orgiastic peek at a voyeur’s secret social life.

The Lunarium: One man’s memories of the watchers and the watched.

Available on line at KathleenK.xxx – for rowdier readers.

Sixty-nine vignettes of voyeurism presented as “things” to think about. Not suitable for some, appreciated by others.

ADULTS ONLYAmateur readers may not be amused.

The Ninth Thing >< Procrastination

I’ll tell you about this later.

The Tenth Thing >< In the Car, in the Day

Do the watchers want to be watched? Can’t answer for all, but for this one, under some circumstances, yes, the risk of being seen is an element in the excitement.

I had a mild affair, years ago, with a woman who was married to a gay athlete (they were best friends). She was especially affectionate (starved?) and we found it exciting to fool around in the car. The catch was, I could only see her during the day so it was a challenge to find a place we would not be interrupted. One of our favorite places to go was the lakefront drive, it had small two-spot parking areas along the road, under leafy trees, and we’d find a place with one empty car in it hoping it belonged to somebody busy fishing. My friend would drape a car blanket from her shoulders to her knees and I’d slide my right arm over to her side of the car, under the blanket, and explore her body. She would lay back with her eyes closed, lips moved by murmurs.

Cars went past in both directions but the canopy of leaves always provided shade cover. I would feel my lover’s legs fall apart and discover the crotch had been cut out of her panty hose: she didn’t just snip in a slit, she’d remove the entire cotton panel so I could get my hand at her. She had a juicy pussy, she knew I liked that. I could prod at the mound and work my way along the closed lips to the place her ass rested on the car seat. She would brace her legs on the floor and tilt her hips up so I could get more of her. The angle of my approach was dictated by our side-by-side position, I had my elbow toward her far hip and my hand snaked over her thigh palm-side to her cunt, thumb up. My left hand would have been more maneuverable but it would have meant my turning in the seat and making our actions obvious. As we were, to the cars zipping past, we gave an impression of two people facing forward in a car. Perhaps one was napping? Nothing cuddly or outwardly intimate about it.

My fingers would become the focal point of my mind, I closed my eyes and felt this woman, I’d trace the curl of her pussy lips and feel the first creaming of her excitement. She talked while I touched her junction, she talked about getting caught, a cop coming to our car door, the three of us mutually aware of our relative positions, she being “interfered with”, and the cop watching, and me… nasty appreciative me willing to risk even that to get her scent on my fingers.

I, too, thought of being seen. I would be seen shoving her face-down onto the trunk lid of my car, I’d be seen yanking my zipper open and freeing my beast, witnessed slamming up into her, showing she was ready for me, I’d put a kink in every dick that drove by ‑‑ monkey see, monkey want to do. [I’d seen this face-the-trunk position in a movie once and, truth, I considered it a fantasy. It seemed so selfish/macho with the power of the vehicle (to escape) and the facing-away female like she was one in a nameless line. I didn’t want to do it that way, I wanted to think of doing it that way.]

Our actual affair was brief, but long after we quit having intercourse my friend would still meet me for a drive to the lake. For my entertainment, she’d masturbate to climax — something she had never done when we were still having sex (or before). The strain I felt in my cock was good, yearning for the days when this woman would have permitted full body contact with her. The fact I still did the lakeside thing with her was partially because it gave me time to gather my erotic thoughts. Sex deserved contemplation. I’d be nudging at my friend’s clit with the tip of my middle finger, hearing the impact in her voice as she whispered to me about being seen, being watched, being the show.

 

Tagged , , , , ,
Advertisements
%d bloggers like this: