But I Do Smoke

But I Do Smoke 

Introduction
My favorite all time smoking fetish story is "But I Don't Smoke". I love 
the simplicity of the plot and have often aspired to come up with something 
half as creative. The temptress mom who would have her daughter smoke 
before quitting herself is a real phenomenon. I've actually known of 
several but the story lines have been mundane. The daughter complies 
readily. 

A woman who once worked for me related how her mother told both of her 
daughters that she absolutely forbade them to smoke before they were 
sixteen, turned a completely blind eye as they began at thirteen, and then 
had the audacity to feign shock at their accomplished status on their 
sixteenth birthdays as she welcomed them to her definition of adulthood. A 
true story but simply not clever. 

What I appreciate about "But I Don't Smoke" is that it's more a seduction 
of an innocent than an exploitation of a co-conspirator and as such is the 
only "corruptive mom" story that has some real semblance of creativity. 
Failing to devise a tale of equal elegance, I've attempted to honor that 
story instead by providing an encasement for it. Here's my thank you. 


The Story

I was uncommonly relieved to see the light turn red fifty yards ahead. 
Distracted and inadvertent, minutes earlier I'd tossed my purse into the 
back seat along with my backpack while leaving the office and now I could 
finally reach back and rectify that egregious error. By the time the light 
turned green I'd successfully excavated a recently opened cigarette pack, 
extracted one, and then placed the pack reassuringly near on the console 
but was still scrounging desperately for my mischievous lighter. 

The cool leather touch of my purse precariously perched twixt my mostly 
exposed thighs pleased but in no measure offset my nicotine depletion 
distress. As I drove with my left hand, I continued to explore every hidden 
little crevice with my right. I'm sure this maneuver had been a core tenet 
in Drivers Ed, hadn't it? Nearly resigned to give up and await yet another 
red light or maybe even pull to the side of the road, my fingers 
welcomingly caressed the serrated wheel end of my Bic. 

Tossing the bag back onto the passenger seat, a quickly sparked flame, and 
the Benson and Hedges Menthol 100 that had been dangling from my hungry 
lips for the past several frustrating blocks was lit and delivering the hit 
of nicotine that a two hour hiatus so desperately demanded. With such an 
unwelcome gap since lunch break at work and a two hour final in Clinical 
Psychology 436 fifteen minutes on the horizon, this would be my only island 
of relief. I triple tripled, reveled in the ricocheting cloud of my own 
making, and sanity once again reigned. 

Normally I would have lit up somewhere between the office entrance and the 
parking lot but today I was dually distracted. Seldom had I been less well 
prepared for an exam and even less frequently had I so well prepared to 
find a guy so disarming. Bret was leaving the building as I was and we 
chatted amiably en route to our cars. I was normally completely uninhibited 
in my smoking but uncharacteristically not quite so much this time. For 
some reason I was willing to take measure here before exposing my 
addiction. I couldn't recall the last time that had happened. 

Still double pumping and even anticipating perhaps chaining to a second to 
build up my reservoir, I relaxed at the final stoplight before campus. I'd 
make it to class with five minutes to spare. Anticipating a necessary lane 
change amid a deep and intensive inhale, I nonchalantly exhaled glancing to 
my right. Nonchalance evaporated instantly though as I met Bret eyeball to 
eyeball in the outside lane. Well of course you idiot - he too was heading 
to campus where he was nearing completion of his Ph.D. program. He winked 
at me with a beguiling smile and then staring forward released a smoky 
exhale himself. 

This was the kind of information that I had been afraid to even dream of. 
After all, no one with the sense God gave a goose smoked anymore, did they? 
I'd certainly been shunned by enough possible suitors to feel like a leper 
- my addiction labeled an affliction. Buoyed by this encounter however and 
without further reflection, I did chain immediately into a fresh second 
cigarette, parked within a few spots of Bret on campus, and walked toward 
Howard Hall with him, my cigarette still wanding and wafting lightly about. 
Nothing was said and that said everything. 

Approaching Howard Hall, I unabashedly took one last lung saturating drag 
and then crushed out my cigarette on the sidewalk beneath my wedge heel in 
a matter-of-fact fashion that subtlety reflected much practice. With 
nothing more eloquent emerging, I innocuously queried Bret, "You in the 
office tomorrow?". He nodded affirmatively while continuing to stare at me 
like crème brulee. I had sensed him noticing me before, but it had never 
felt like this. No one had ever taken measure of me quite like this. 

He smiled, hesitated, nodded, hesitated again, and then began ambling off 
toward the Econ building sans the pressure I was about to endure. Before I 
had even reached the first step though he spun around and shouted back at 
me, "Good luck on your final" and then continued "could I coerce you into 
joining me for a celebratory drink after?" Now down to two minutes and yet 
the need for a quick facility stop, I offered two thumbs up and barked out 
my cell. "Call and leave me details" I concluded as I slipped into the 
building. 

Pulling out my blue book, I did my damndest to vanquish Bret from my 
thoughts and replace him with Freud. This was my final quarter as an 
undergraduate and I was loathe to embarrass either myself or the graduate 
school acceptance committee - the good folks who had already welcomed me 
for fall term with open arms and significant loot to boot - with a subpar 
performance. The first two questions were slam dunks and I felt like I 
pretty much held my own on the final two. This might not be my normal A+ 
work but it wouldn't be an inexcusable blemish on my record either. 

Handing in the exam a few minutes early at ten to five, my mind overflowed 
with pleasant thoughts of an 80 degree Palo Alto afternoon, an expected 
rendezvous with Bret, a forthcoming summer without school but with income, 
and, most immediately, an anxiously needed cigarette. I'm not fond of two 
hour abstinences and here they were back to back. Skipping down the steps 
with again a welcome Benson and Hedges Menthol 100 dangling loosely from my 
lips, my just igniting lighter was pre-empted by another ... with Bret on 
the extending end. Dragging deeply and no longer at all self-consciously, I 
smiled, exhaled, and said in my coquettish best, "This beats the hell out 
of voicemail," and with that lightly took hold of his arm. 

Bret fired up a Marlboro Red as we strolled casually across the Stanford 
campus - heading somewhere or nowhere or who-cares-where. The trip is an 
afterthought when you've already reached the true destination. He did seem 
to have some plan in mind though as we eventually crossed El Camino and 
ambled down University Avenue. There were a plethora of culinary options 
available but only outdoor cafes were closely inspected for the most 
evident of reasons. While even some al fresco spaces no longer welcomed 
smokers, we uncovered one whose few scattered ashtrays suggested we might 
not be received as social pariahs. 

So here's a little background. I had been working at the outpatient clinic 
since sophomore year but Bret was a relative newcomer. He'd joined the 
staff in early spring. Before today our conversations had been, at least 
ostensibly, professionally focused. He had shared over the water cooler one 
day his academic progress and I in turn shared mine. Beyond some smiles and 
hellos, that's the sum actual knowledge we had of each other. Somehow 
though there was more. I had felt his eyes upon me more than once and 
recognized I'd been similarly guilty. As he pulled my chair out, I smiled 
to myself that this was really not a matter of if, just a matter of when. 

Ruffling through my oversized bag once again - an activity predictably 
amusing to most guys - I eventually located my cigarettes and lighter and 
tossed them onto the wrought iron table while shuffling around for a 
comfortable position in the matching wrought iron chair. Apparently that 
little smile persevered since he asked me what I found so amusing as he 
extended his lighter. 

I laughed instead of inhaling and exhibited all of the savior faire of a 
twelve year old dweeb as smoke spurted in seven random directions. Still 
giggling, but rectifying immediately, I took second deep drag, popped my 
best snap inhale, and let out a long leisurely jet before responding. "I 
was simply thinking," I continued, "that this meeting was probably 
inevitable. It's not like we hadn't kind of checked each other out 
already." 

It was now Bret's turn to chuckle and he agreed. "I started collecting G2 
on you from the day I arrived knowing that I was interested. About the only 
missing data point was whether or not you were a smoker. I asked a couple 
of folks but they didn't seem to know. Either that or they presumed that it 
would be a turn off and they flew cover for you. You likely have already 
noticed that wouldn't have been needed. When you went speeding by me with a 
dangling cigarette I delightedly reached for one of my own just to put the 
issue to rest. In truth I seldom date non-smokers." 

"Well I'll be damned," I replied. "Like you, I too generally date smokers 
but maybe for a different reason. Non-smoking guys begin by tolerating my 
smoking but eventually they can't help themselves and they turn all 
preachy. `How can I be doing that to my body? Don't I know that I'm killing 
myself? Wouldn't I love to quit?' and then I have to tell them to reset 
their sights - instead of fucking me they should go fuck themselves. It's 
happened just like that repeatedly ever since high school - but then I 
guess you totally understand." 

"I do and I don't," Bret responded. "I do in the sense that it's nobody's 
business what you do with your body but your own but I don't so much from 
the addiction angle. I seldom smoke more than two packs a week and 
frequently go several days without. For me it's more that I admire the 
reckless abandon of smoking and those who make that choice. It takes more 
than a little courage to follow pleasure - to swim upstream and light up a 
cigarette in a world where smoking is more politically incorrect than 
necrophilia." 

"Well, I must say Mr. Eddington that your perspective lays on the cusp of 
crazed and cool. As committed a smoker as I am, I'm maybe not out that far. 
I was even cautious about smoking in front of you but, at the risk of being 
too forthcoming, you were the rare guy where I actually gave a shit. If I'd 
known my smoking would have been turning you on, I probably would have lit 
up topless on your desk the day you arrived. As for addiction, I seldom 
smoke less than two packs a day and never go more than minutes without by 
choice. We clearly do differ there. Moderation isn't my long suit and 
certainly not when it comes to smoking." 

"You don't mind if I just close my eyes and dwell on that desk fantasy do 
you?" he countered, "and the revulsion of moderation as well." For the next 
several minutes we suppressed hormones while sipping chardonnay together as 
he told me a great deal about his studies and aspirations. He'd toggled 
back and forth between academic and practitioner paths for several years 
but a fellowship at Harvard a year from this fall quelled the argument. 
Quick math told me that the gestation period for this smoldering romance 
was then only fifteen months. With some former liaisons not lasting fifteen 
days, that didn't seem problematic. 

Somewhat disarmingly he ferociously watched me smoke. With every inhale and 
exhale, I could feel his eyes upon me, almost inside of me, but instead of 
being creepy it was clearly some kind of testimonial. This guy loved to 
watch me - let's be honest, probably almost any reasonably attractive women 
- smoke and he was unabashed about it. I was his "smokin' muse". 

This brought out what residual showmanship I had and I found myself for the 
first time in years consciously executing many of the moves mom had 
consciously or unconsciously taught me nearly a decade earlier. Other than 
enduring physically painful five hour transcontinental flights, I still 
found those lessons and this habit more of a blessing than a curse and 
never - absolutely never - more so than today. 

It was now my turn to share my story and I of course reprised the water 
cooler tale of being at the beginning rather than the end of my graduate 
studies and I would be back again at Stanford in the fall. He seemed 
impressed with that. It's tough enough getting into Leland's institution as 
an undergraduate but the psych graduate school was killer. They took less 
than 2% of all applicants. He clearly gave me points for that as if I 
needed more at this juncture. A second glass of wine went the way of the 
first and then Bret asked if dinner here would be okay or would I prefer 
something more upscale. "Here's perfect," I replied. "What could be 
better?" and a friendly drink had morphed seamlessly into a more than 
friendly first dinner date. 

Clean ashtrays replaced the originals and a paycheck-busting, late 80's, 
Chateau Neuf du Pape astonishingly appeared tableside accompanied by a 
brief note - "To two students who reinforce my choice of career path." 
Confused we looked around only to see Dr. Galvany, the chairman of our 
department, sharing dinner with his wife and characteristically exhibiting 
his Freudish cigar. We waved our thanks and he "hands down" signaled "no 
need to come over". One night and some folks already had us as an item. 
Count me high on that list. 

Five thirty drinks turned into seven o'clock dinner and then morphed into 
nine o'clock dessert and Dubonet. Bret finally had a second cigarette while 
I effortlessly emptied my second pack. With his attentive gaze and ready 
lighter, there simply were no barriers. I hadn't been around a guy who 
didn't mind me smoking since junior high school and that's because he was 
getting a hand job ... speaking of which. 

Opposing chairs had become adjacent over the course of the evening and hand 
holding had evolve to some light thigh touching. Third date expectations 
were old hat realities at the close of hour three. Whatever else might 
transpire as night fell remained to be seen but I had little intention of 
being an inhibitor. The check, gallantly dispensed with by Bret, 
disappeared and I was stowing away my nearly depleted second cigarette pack 
of the day only to find "friendly fire" - the dear not deathly sort - once 
again evidenced. Oh well I thought and sucked deeply in yet another for the 
stroll back to campus. This was probably all a dream so I might as well 
enjoy it before that nefarious alarm would inevitably re-invoke reality. 

Hand-in-hand we walked back down University Avenue and then arm-in-arm once 
we crossed the Royal Road to reach campus. Our first kiss came within the 
first hundred yards and we were nearly undressing each other by the time we 
reached the parking lot. He engulfed me against my car door and his firm 
crotch told the whole story. "Your place or mine," we said in unison and 
then simultaneously responded "mine" and then "either". If we hadn't, the 
answer would have been "here in the bushes". 

I told him to follow me. My roommate finished finals yesterday and should 
be gone by now. Unlike earlier, locating my cigarettes and lighter on the 
drive home weren't so much the problem but steadying my uncommonly shaken 
hand for the light was. I hadn't been this giddy - and yes, this hot and 
truly bothered - in many a moon, maybe ever. Only once had I bedded a guy 
the night we met and that was after three Long Island Teas. I never saw him 
again - or if I did at least I didn't remember him - and for that I was 
thankful. 

I flip on the radio on and Lady Antebellum's "Need You Now" is playing. I 
take a deep drag and then another and sing along to the lyrics. At "I'm a 
little bit drunk" my body begins shaking and I then realize that I'm having 
an honest to God orgasm in my car. My panties are drenched as I gasp for 
air knowing this not to have been masturbation but rather foreplay with 
Bret as integral as if he'd been there licking my pussy. I simply can't 
imagine what lies ahead ... but I'm willing to try. 

I toss the initial butt out the window and erratically light a second as we 
pulled into the parking lot. I knew he wouldn't mind - actually I knew he 
would mind if I didn't. Reaching the apartment, Sheila was packed and long 
gone which was excellent news. This way we could fuck almost anywhere and 
not worry about disturbing anyone. As we settled quickly in I asked if he'd 
like a beer or something else to drink but the way he looked at me I knew 
what he wanted to consume - and boy was I good with that. I'd never been so 
ready to be the main course. We couldn't get naked fast enough. 

Let's be honest. First time sex is not usually all that pretty. We need to 
get to know our partners and they need to get to know us. Forget that! 
There wasn't a button that I have that he didn't push instinctively - and 
some that I didn't know that I had - and I did pretty well by him too. Hey, 
I'd watched Deep Throat as an educational video. We fucked three or four 
times and got each other off a couple of other ways as well. To call the 
night insanely orgasmic would simply be factual reporting. 

Around two a beer did sound okay and I poured a couple of Gordon Biersch as 
we continued to cuddle and fondle. Defying gravity, his prick rose once 
again. In honor I lit a fresh Benson and Hedges, double pumped and took his 
gloriously gifted endowment down deep, smoke seeping out around the edges 
of his warmly encased manhood. Glancing up as best I could from that 
visually compromised position, I experienced an adorational look surpassing 
anything any guy had ever bestowed upon me before. Licking, sucking, and 
out of necessity now exhaling through my nose, he was fully shrouded as my 
throat experienced his warm, grateful, and gelatinous deposit. It then took 
a mere couple more deep drags to clean him up properly. Talk about a kid in 
a candy shop. Rock hard candy. 

We'd move from couch to bed to floor and back again but now finally 
appeared settled in for the night. I set my alarm for 6:30 knowing that I'd 
need more time than usual to put on my makeup and even more to wipe the 
silly grin off my face. I suspected he too would need a quick trip home to 
at least get a fresh set of clothes - his today's wardrobe still strewn all 
over my apartment. We drew ourselves tight as I doggedly resisted the "L" 
word until he whispered in my ear, "How about doing your second year at 
Harvard?" 

"I'd love to," I responded, guiding him in for yet one more encore - the 
gentlest yet perhaps most emotionally evocative act of the night. 

I arrived at work a few minutes before eight and managed to look more 
rested than I felt. Sexual energy is a great substitute for sleep. Sylvie 
took one look at me and said outright, "You got fucked good last night, 
didn't you?" and I could do nothing but giggle. There was no denying my 
glow. Fifteen minutes later Bret walked in, gave me as discreet a nod as 
two lovers who had drawn out of bed an hour earlier can pull off, and 
headed back to his office. Sylvie, missing nothing, said, "Why you little 
minx. Good work girl." 

So began the love of my life. If anyone at the clinic didn't know about our 
hook up by nine that morning they were deaf or absent. We came to work 
together, we left work together, and we spent every free moment - breaks 
and lunch - together. Bret was always there to light my cigarettes and I 
was always self-servingly there to enjoy his company and, of course, to 
indulge his fetish. The summer was idyllic. No school to distract me and 
just one weekly seminar he needed to attend - but, truthfully, seldom did. 
He had me to attend to. I'm not sure what the prime ages for sexual 
activity are but if we were any indication I'd volunteer just shy of 22 and 
pushing 26 are superior candidates. 

One evening that summer in our postage stamp backyard over that night's 
first glass of an affordable Cotes de Rhone, Bret said there'd been one 
thing he was dying to ask me. "Hadn't I said something about having smoked 
for like a decade and wouldn't that have made me still a child?" I laughed 
and said that indeed I had been smoking since pre-pubescence and I guess 
you could say that I was still then a child. Of course he wanted more so I 
related the following tale. 

My dad and mom were high school sweethearts and very much in love. I was 
born when they were both quite young - younger than we are today as a 
matter of fact - and unmarried. Mom was corseted in for the Senior Prom and 
was eternally thankful for the forgiving girth of her graduation gown. With 
single parenthood less prevalent than it is today, they had a quickie, 
though not shotgun, wedding since they'd intended to marry anyhow. Dad was 
going to school and working two jobs trying to keep the family running and 
mom was also continuing her education as well. Many days I spent with one 
grandma or the other and I'm still exceptionally close to both of them 
today. 

One night when I was barely two, mom had just put me to bed when the phone 
rang. There had been a robbery at the gas station where dad was working and 
three people had been shot. Dad was one of them. He survived the first 
surgery and the second and the third but the truth was that he was a 
paraplegic and would be for the rest of his life. As it turn out the rest 
of his life wasn't that long as one infection after another ravaged his 
body and he finally simply broke. At 21, with a three year old, mom was a 
widow. 

Mom had completed her associate degree but was a full two years from her 
Bachelors. She found some office temp work and clerked at various stores 
off and on over the years but she never quite had the impetus to go back to 
school. She dated occasionally but she was very protective of me. I'm sure 
more than one relationship ended for that reason. As I got older she spent 
as much time with me as she could even if that meant curtailing her work 
schedule. We were always a team. 

Mom eventually settled upon work as an Avon representative. She liked the 
products and enjoyed - was tremendously good at - the personal interaction 
and it provided enough money for us to get by. That was because we did have 
a bit of a nest egg. Both of my granddads had passed by that time and they 
had left us with a tidy little bankroll. We weren't rich but we weren't 
going to starve either. 

Mom, like both my grandmas and me I added faux sheepishly, had no other 
obvious vices but she was a pretty heavy smoker. One day, while making 
deliveries, she had a car accident while attempting to light a cigarette. 
Actually her story, our story, I guess really my story - has been published 
as "But I Don't Smoke". You should read it but let me recap it for you now. 

The aftermath of mom's accident left her squeamish behind the wheel - and 
particularly in respect to lighting up a cigarette - so when she was 
finally up to resuming deliveries, she still had some demons. I was just 
past thirteen - the accident had actually occurred on my birthday - and I 
had the summer off so I was fine with helping out some. She'd always pay me 
a bit here and there and even when she couldn't, we actually did like each 
other's company so that was okay. Having only each other, I think 
eliminated a lot of the crap that most mothers and daughters encounter. 

The first day out we're heading toward the freeway and mom decides she 
needs a cigarette. The problem is that she's still spooked by driving and 
lighting up so she asks me to do it for her. Well this is peculiar because 
I don't smoke and she, of course, knows that. Oh I may have taken a puff or 
two but I'd certainly never actually lit a cigarette myself. When mom 
suggests that I give it a go anyway, I figure why not. One cigarette isn't 
going to kill me - especially if all I'm doing is lighting it up and 
blowing out the smoke - so I agree. It seems like a reasonable request. 

Well my premise was true - one cigarette wasn't going to kill me - but as 
it turned out we weren't talking about one cigarette - we were talking 
about a lot more. Each trip out could mean five or even ten light-ups over 
the course of a long afternoon. Like I said, mom was not a casual smoker. 
As it turned out, neither was I. 

If nothing else, I'm a perfectionist and from the beginning I could see a 
drastic difference between mom's long and firm exhales versus my little 
puffies. If I was going to light mom's cigarettes, I was determined that 
I'd do it right. Accordingly, I watched her more and more intently and with 
each passing day I began to imitate her moves more and more closely. I've 
always been an excellent student and this just seemed like another academic 
exercise. 

Well within a month or maybe even less my puffies were being replaced with 
nice little snap inhales of my own followed by exhales - perhaps more 
modest than mom's but then not so dissimilar either. Occasionally, catching 
my reflection in the car mirror, it was quite obvious to me that I no 
longer sucked at sucking. I was becoming pretty good at it. Need I say 
there was some pride in that. 

Here's the strange part though - or what I thought was strange at the time 
- I wasn't simply beginning to enjoy the act of smoking, I was beginning to 
enjoy the effects of smoking. Some days I began to feel like I kind of 
needed a cigarette - and this was just after a very few weeks. I looked 
forward to our outings and with each cigarette the experience initially 
seemed a little less distasteful and then gradually began being more and 
more enjoyable. It should have been clear to me where this train was 
heading even then but hey, I was a thirteen year old. I hadn't a clue about 
addiction. 

I saw myself as playing it pretty cool but I guess I wasn't quite as 
discrete as I thought I was because one day mom looked at me and asked if I 
liked to smoke and if I wanted my own cigarette. This really jarred me. 
While at some level I certainly did want to smoke - and did want to smoke 
my own cigarette - I couldn't say that to her because I wasn't ready to 
even fully admit it to myself. I might be sort of smoking but I certainly 
wasn't a smoker - or so I still tried to believe. The thought that "I might 
need to smoke" was simply unfathomable. 

Over the following couple of weeks though, the identity became increasingly 
difficult to deny. I wanted a cigarette, craved a cigarette, whenever mom 
had one but was only entitled when playing my role in the car. I grew to 
hate being home with mom and desperate to be out making deliveries. One 
day, as we were about to depart, she remembered that she'd left behind some 
of her supplies and returned to the house. I had already lit a cigarette 
for her and there I was alone in the car. After hesitating briefly I smoked 
that whole sucker down and then pretended like it never happened. She 
seemed to buy that but the end was clearly in sight. I knew that I knew it 
but didn't know that she did. 

A couple more times again the next week, she offered me my own cigarette, 
but refused to share hers. I struggled but didn't give in. Then one night 
six weeks in I couldn't sleep and when I got up around midnight, mom 
suggested that what I needed was a cigarette. I was too tired to argue and 
didn't really want to anyhow. While I'd been denying it, I knew full well 
that it was true but it just still seemed so preternaturally weird - but 
twenty minutes and two cigarettes later there was no turning back and no 
further denying. I was now a smoker whatever the hell that meant and I was 
still a month away from eighth grade. Here I am an A student, model child, 
devoted daughter - and smoker. Way too confusing. 

That's how I thought it all happened then but mom was a lot more culpable 
than I then realized. She knew full well where the road was leading and 
she's the one who led me there. I think for those first few months she 
remained in some level of denial but eventually she copped to it. As I 
certainly now know too well, smokers feel sort of lonely in today's society 
and they're always looking for companionship. Mom had a perilous choice to 
make. She could enroll me or she could risk me turning on her smoking. She 
wasn't willing to risk it and risked me instead. I could be resentful but 
frankly I'm not. Her habit made her do it. I can't say I wouldn't have 
done, or even might do, the same thing. Temple Nicotine has its demonic 
aspects. 

Mom had created a Frankenstein of sorts, though. Here I was, as I said, a 
model child and straight A student, entering eighth grade - as a smoker. It 
didn't compute for many. Fortunately I'd never been an athlete so it wasn't 
as if my sports future had been ruined but there was really nowhere for 
accommodating "goody two shoes" smokers. I certainly wasn't ready to hang 
with the pond scum across the street from the school. 

Feeling some degree of guilt from the git go, mom had promised "to get me 
through the issues my habit might endure" - and she did honestly try her 
best. I'd have coffee and a couple of cigarettes with her in the morning 
and another on the drive to school. Lunch break was similar as she'd pick 
me up at school. I'd have one traveling each way and a couple more in 
between a sandwich. School's end was easiest because there were no 
restrictions for the remainder of the day. I was a thirteen year old eighth 
grader with a fifteen a day cigarette habit and notably, increasingly 
self-satisfied with my addiction. The persona "smoker" felt right at home. 

Mom had long been - still is for that matter - a Salem 100 girl - so that's 
of course where I began and for the first two years that's where I remained 
as my smoking was exclusively with her. That doesn't mean, however, that 
others didn't begin to realize that I was a smoker. While I certainly 
didn't advertise it to begin with, I could be seen lighting up in the car 
routinely and occasionally sharing a few cigarettes with mom when out for 
dinner. That turned more than a few heads. Even then I kind of knew that 
not everyone was disapproving but I never expected to meet someone quite 
like you. So anyway, a few places objected - ones which we quit patronizing 
- but most just looked the other way. In the process I'd inadvertently 
become a "larger than life" figure to more than a few of my schoolmates - 
and that wasn't altogether displeasing. 

Sophomore year brought some positive changes. While most all of the other 
girls who smoked in junior high school were as you would kind of expect 
sort of slutty, by sophomore year some of the smarter and more social girls 
were experimenting. One thing that smoking certainly had done for me over 
those past two years is elevate me from goody-goody to cool and 
sophisticated almost overnight - and I began to like and live that role. 

My grades never suffered one iota but I gradually became more aware of my 
personal presentation. Mom had no problem spending a few bucks on nice 
clothes and the increasingly chic heels I'd pick out. As I grew to 5'8" and 
filled out if you will, boys began noticing and, with some at least, the 
incongruity of top student and smoker just enhanced the mystery. I was 
pretty much one of a kind and increasingly comfortable being so. 

Mom got an expanded route and management responsibilities that year which 
curtailed her role as chauffer a lot and sent me scrambling. I'd have to 
dash over to the nearby drive-in restaurant counter and place a lunch order 
to then after be able to enjoy a couple of "hold me over `til afternoon" 
cigarettes. I would have welcomed some companionship but few knew exactly 
what to make of me so they tended to keep their distance. Early in the year 
most of the other smokers were still too icky for me to associate with. 

After school I would of course light up barely fifty feet off the premises. 
Reporting me to my mom would obviously be a farce. Two girls from my 
advanced lit class lived in my direction and it wasn't long before they 
both were cadging smokes. When I first casually offered, they demurred but 
within a couple of weeks they were begging. That was fine by me. As I've 
already said, smokers are always looking for smoking friends because 
non-smokers are presumably the enemy. 

Ashleigh and Michelle soon began following me all the way home and we'd 
smoke, drink cokes, and talk about boys. As it turned out Ashleigh's mom 
smoked too and within weeks not only did Ashleigh have permission to smoke, 
but also her own supply. Enter Benson and Hedges Menthol 100's, her mom's 
brand, into my life. Michelle was not so fortunate - if you consider 
permission to smoke fortunate - and she soon was forbidden from joining us. 
She did even the score with her mom though later that year by getting 
pregnant. I suspect that suddenly a few cigarettes didn't seem so 
rebellious. 

"Had enough for the night?" I asked Bret and he said, "Ya, enough of your 
story but not enough of you," and that was a perfect response. I promised 
to continue on but not until we got it on. With the apartment mine alone 
for just another three weeks, our summer of bliss was drawing to a close. 
Bret had been living with me for the past seven weeks and there was no way 
I was trading him back in for a platonic roommate. For that matter he 
simply wasn't about to be trade in material ever. 

We'd been together about 51 nights by best reckoning and had skipped sex 
precisely once. Averaging more than three orgasms per night, my lifetime 
total had increased tenfold in this brief nirvana. Tonight I wanted him to 
fuck me `til sunrise and I wasn't disappointed. Bret did have staying 
power. I could blow him, jack him off, or put him in my pussy and he'd just 
keep on keeping on. Then again he could say something similar about me. I 
knew him to be my first true love; I didn't quite know yet where I stood 
with him. 

Morning came too soon which was seldom a problem we encountered. As a 
matter of fact we spent an eternity coming that morning. Tantric studies 
have their place. Thank God and Buddha for Saturdays. Bret felt like a day 
at the beach to celebrate my twenty second anniversary on the planet so we 
bundled up for the ever frigid Half Moon Bay. Two bottles of wine, two 
packs of B&H, a picnic lunch and I was prepared. We found some privacy 
behind a rock formation and chose to celebrate the remainder of the day 
sans clothes. While not a nude beach per se, this one was seldom patrolled. 

We have this issue of simply not being able to keep our hands off of each 
other and this day was no exception. He buried all but my face, my toes, 
and my triangle in the sand and then, lodging in his sizable member, had 
his way with me. I made every effort possible to remain motionless as he 
thrust again and again - and discovered an even newer level of spirituality 
as orgasms transcended my body more as electrical impulses than physical 
ripples. Stillness was the new form of ecstasy. 

Where there's post coital there's sure to be my Benson and Hedges Menthol 
100s and this was no exception. It was even deserving of the occasional Red 
for Bret. The one overarching remaining mystery for me was how anyone could 
possibly be so seemingly enraptured with smoking yet so personally 
indifferent. I'd been addicted in minutes and he likely never would be. I 
sometimes was unsure which of us I envied more. 

Hunger, though so yesterday, soon followed but then occasionally there's 
nothing wrong with yesterday. We opened the wine, broke bread, and upon my 
completion cigarette, Bret begged that I go on with my personal tale and I 
agreed to comply if he'd let me slip onto his mighty member for my oratory. 
Objections were not registered. 

There really didn't seem so much more to say. The first two years were the 
prodigal smoker while the ensuing seven have been mostly nondescript. 
Smoking in high school by junior year was close to passé - particularly as 
I created my posse - and in college it was decidedly so. Few noticed and 
fewer care. Of course as I've already said it was a turn off to some guys 
but my take was the guys it turned off turned off me. Enough said. 

High school boys were actually more forgiving in many ways. As long as 
their dick was down your throat, they didn't care if you belched, farted, 
or for that matter, shit. College guys sometimes began that way but seemed 
to become more lecturous as they became less lecherous. I wearied of it all 
and had chosen my cigarettes over romance for the past year or two. At 
least I knew where I stood with them. They'd kill me eventually on their 
terms but without rejoicing in the process. Definitely a preferable call to 
a public stoning. 

And then some deity or devil - I really don't care which - delivered you. 
You light my smokes and you light my fire even more. Until you tire of me 
which I'm hoping is never, you're who I want to build my life around. My 
application for Harvard a year from now has been submitted so it looks like 
I'm not going away. I babbled on and on and I knew that some words were hit 
and miss but what he couldn't miss was love. What he also couldn't miss is 
that seven minutes of sliding up and down his cock had ramifications. He 
suddenly exploded. 

First gasping then chuckling - with me, not at me - I assumed, he pushed 
the B&H hard pack towards me and I got the hint that maybe I should slow 
down. I reached in for my umpteenth cigarette of the day but plucked out a 
diamond instead. There would be no more babbling. I now knew where I stood 
and loved even more where I still sat.