First Time | |
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First Time by The Lurker My "first time" story has three parts to it, and involves three different women. Each one made a lasting impression on me, each in her own way. Here are their stories: Lois As our community continues to grow, common threads emerge, including the realization of a "special" identification with women smokers that seems to predate our knowledge of the sex act. I have maybe a dozen foggy little snips that date back to my earliest conscious memory: the sight of a pack of cigarettes, an ashtray, a blonde woman who visited my mother when I was maybe 3 or 4, whom I never knew, but remembered smelled of smoke, and so on. These little snips I call "floaters", and I am unable to put a fix on them, because they are imperfect, lost in the developing consciousness of a small child's mind. That said, though, there is one very specific moment when for me, at least, the penny dropped. Shortly after I began Kindergarten, in 1955, there was a fire in our town, and some people were burned to death. My teacher, a lovely blonde girl of perhaps 20, decided that a little discussion about playing with matches and so on was in order. I never played with matches, so to tell you the truth, I wasn't really that interested, but later in the discussion she got around to forest fires, and that's when it happened. "It was last summer", she said, "and I was driving up north in the car with my father. I finished my cigarette and threw it out the window without even thinking. My father got so mad at me that he pulled the car over and made me get out and search until I found that cigarette butt and put it out in the car ashtray where it belonged!" The words hit me like a hammer, and for the rest of the day, all I could think about every time I looked at her was that she had held a cigarette in those beautiful hands, and touched it with her lips, and that her father knew that she smoked, even though she wasn't much older than my older brother, and that he let her smoke in front of him in the car, and that in that one perfect second I had fallen absolutely, completely, head over heels in love with her. The moment is seared forever into my brain, and even today, 42 years later, I can still hear the words as clearly as if she had spoken them only a second ago. It was later that year, walking down the hall, that I passed the teachers' lounge, it's door ajar, and saw her sitting in a chair, her hand elegantly upward, the unfiltered cigarette casually between her fingers. I stood for a moment and watched as she watched her put it to her lips and drew slowly, finishing with a perfect French pop. I watched her breasts rise under the pink sweater as she pulled the smoke deep into her lungs, and then she saw me, smiled and gave me a wave. I smiled and waved back, and in that second, the plug went into the wall for me. It would be almost 40 years before I would be able to share my secret with others, but I didn't know that then. All I knew that was Lois Wilson smoked, and for that reason alone, she had captured my heart. Cora Fast forward to 1968, what my American friends would call my junior year in high school. These were heady days boys, the beginning of long hair, and new ideas, and smoking dope and being able to have sex with your friends. Not that I would know, of course, because at the tender age of 18, I was still very much a horny virgin, and there was no real relief in sight. My friends were all in the same boat, of course. We weren't nerds, exactly, but we were the kids who played music and painted and had ideas that we were going to write novels for a living, and never had to study for exams or justify our behavior that much. Nobody DISLIKED us, but we weren't exactly the frat crowd either, and we mostly kept to ourselves. Out of the bunch of us, my best friend (whom I'll call "Bob", for the purpose of this story) seemed to have the loftiest prospects. He had been dating a robust, red-headed girl named Cora, whose father owned grocery stores. Cora's family had some bucks. She had great clothes, and a nice car, and Bob I hadn't really spoken to her that much, (they were pretty coupled up), but to me at least, there was something that wasn't just quite right. Here was Bob blowing all this money, and couldn't even get a kiss, yet there was something about this girl that told me that kisses were available, and probably just for the asking. All it would take was to ask in the right way at the right time. I know what you're thinking, but you have to believe me when I tell you that the thought of betraying my friend was the farthest thing from my mind, and besides, Cora didn't smoke, so I was not attracted to her in the slightest. Period. It was a Saturday afternoon in the spring. My parents had gone away for the weekend, and a few of us guys had gotten together for drinks and tokes at my house. We were feeling pretty good, listening to music and so on, when there comes a knock at the door. It's Bob and Cora, on their way to somewhere expensive. Bob decides to stay and have a drink. (We were only 18 mind you, but we were good about drinking, and most of our parents were OK about it, as long as we didn't drive or puke on the couch or anything.) Bob gets a rum and Coke, and goes down into the basement with the others. I'm expecting Cora to follow him, but instead, she sits up on the kitchen counter beside the sink, leans back and looks at me. "I'll have one of those." she says, gesturing toward the Bacardi bottle. "If you don't mind." "Not at all", I said, grabbing a glass. "I didn't know you drank." Then she looks at me. "There are a lot of things that you don't know about me." Bingo. Bells go off in my head. I've heard those magical words thousands of times in my life, and now I know exactly what they mean, but there in my parents' kitchen in 1968, the very first time anyone ever said them to me, they sounded better than they ever have since. I give her the drink. She takes a long swallow, and leans back some more. "Do you have a cigarette? I really want a cigarette." Oh boy. More bells. I'm a pretty tough teenager, smoking unfiltereds at this time. Player's, if you want to know the details, and it takes me exactly one second to pull out the pack and offer one to Cora. She takes the smoke and bangs the end of it on the counter like she has been doing it for a thousand years, and then places it between her lips, never taking her eyes off my face, not for a second. Even then, I carried a Zippo, and I could hear that tobacco hiss and pop as I lit her up, something my older brother had always told me that you do for a lady. Cora put her head back, pulling hard, and then inhaled without removing the cigarette from her mouth. Her hands went down to the hem of her skirt and she began to inch it up. I'm watching her hands, and watching that awesome dangle as the smoke just pours out of her mouth and nose, and then she says, really softly, right there in the kitchen. "Come here." So I did. The rest is kind of a blur, mostly because I was scared shitless that somebody (like Bob!) would come upstairs, or that my parents would come home, but I do remember that she smoked that Players hands free while I made love to her, my first time, while she sat back on my parents' kitchen counter with her legs wrapped tightly around my ass, and when we were done, she handed me the rest of the cig, pulled down her skirt and smoothed it out, picked up her drink, kissed me once gently on the lips and went down to the basement without so much as a backward glance. We never spoke a single word after that. As a matter of fact, I never even saw her again after that day, and she dumped my friend Bob a few months later. I've never told my friend, even to this day, because he carried a pretty big torch for her for quite a while after, and I think he would have been pretty disillusioned if I had let him know that his girlfriend didn't wear any underwear, and that she was not adverse to enjoying the occasional cigarette. Sylvia Fast forward again, only for a year this time, and now I'm a senior, thinking about going off to music school, and still a virgin. (Well not really, in light of the above, but I might as well be, since I can't tell ANYONE about it, and besides, whatever it was that happened with Cora, it doesn't seen likely that it's gonna happen again anytime soon, and whatever power I thought that I might have over the fair sex appears to exist only in my imagination.) Our classes are huge this year, as the first wave of boomers begins to hit high school, and there are over 200 seniors in the big study hall for English class on this first real, official day of the school year. I'm sitting with my friends Bill and "Bob" (see above), just watching the girls and wondering if this, finally is going to be the "year that we get it". Suddenly my friend Bill pokes me in the ribs, I turn around and see the most beautiful pair of breasts I've ever laid eyes on. They are attached, also to the most beautiful girl I've ever laid eyes on. I've never seen her in our school before, and there is something about her that tells me that she's not from anywhere around here. She has a bearing and a look that says that she is much older and much more sophisticated than her years. Her long blonde hair is perfectly cut, and her nails are very long and very clean, and she is dressed to kill, in a leather skirt and expensive looking leather boots. Never mind that she wouldn't go out with me in a million years, she looks like she wouldn't go out with Brad Pitt if he asked her. (I was thinking "James Bond" actually, back then, but I thought that 60's subtlety might be lost here, in light of Austin Powers and all.) She had already found a friend, too, another absolutely gorgeous girl with raven black curls and huge eyes, model skinny and very bratty looking. I'd never seen her, either, but I can tell you that they made an excellent pair. It was weeks later that I finally found out that the blond was named Sylvia, and that her friend's name was Cathy, and I figured that my chances with either one of them were about as remote as getting on the next rocket to the moon. "Did they smoke?", you ask. Not only did they smoke, but they smoked like thirty year olds. One of my most vivid memories is of Cathy standing by her locker just before lunch break, talking to one of our math teachers. She's hot to get outside of course, hungry for her fix, and as they speak, she's fishing in her purse, pulling out the pack of Rothman's, getting out the cigarette and holding it in her hand as they chat. She's got the pack in one hand, fingers casually around it, and the cig in the other as she gestures and stolls toward the door. It is an act of incredible nerve, and a tribute to the strength of her addiction, and she performs it with the absolute thoughtlessness of a woman whose level of sophistication far exceeds that of the person whom she is talking to. There was never any question in my mind that the teacher would not have dared speak a word, except maybe to ask her if she wanted a light, or to see if maybe he could fetch her an ashtray. Anyway, back to the story. I'm standing at my locker a few weeks later, and suddenly I hear this voice behind me, right out of nowhere. "I see you're trying to grow your hair. It looks good, but what you need is to get it cut properly once before you start. You'll look much sexier, you know." I turn around, and there she is. Sylvia. The mystery girl. Her voice is soft and low, and she has a trace of an accent that I just can't quite place. I'm suddenly overcome with the scent of perfume, looking at those fabulous breasts, stunned speechless by the awesomeness of the entire situation, and I do the only logical thing. I stand there like a total goof, wondering if I remembered to put on deodorant that morning or not. She gives me a bright smile. "Why don't you come over to my place some night, and I'll give you a haircut. I went to beauty school for a year in Germany." There is so much that I could say about her. About how I took her up on the invitation, and that it turned into a love affair that lasted nearly 5 years. How she shared her knowledge of the world with me, and taught me more about making love that anyone has since, and how she showed me how to dress, and how to treat women with care and respect, and how to eat properly in a restaurant, ordering for my companion and using the right fork at the right time, and how she shared her love of smoking with me right from the first minute, never shy, never afraid. And could she smoke. Her brand of choice was DuMaurier Kings, wickedly strong in those days, and she told me about how she had practiced her French pop in front of the mirror until she had it down so perfectly she could do it in a windstorm. She would always take her cigarette from the pack, pose it casually beside her head, fingers gently curved, and then wait for a light from whichever man happened to be close by. Even at 19, she never had to wait long. "Women never light their own cigarettes", she used to tell me in her soft accent. "It's incredibly vulgar." She always smoked the same way, too, taking five huge drags one right after the other, each with a perfect French pop followed by a tight stream that ended with a drift from her nose. Only after those first five drags would she finally slow down and breathe some air in between. She loved all white menthols, too, St. Moritz, which she had gotten in the habit of smoking in Switzerland, and Export "A"'s which she liked because of their strength, and even a cigar once a month or so. Her cigar of choice was Old Port. Not sure if they are available in the US, but the're like Swishers, thin and tipped and tasty, and she smoked them with the same long drags and deep inhales that she used with her cigarettes. She loved for me to go down on her, and would enjoy a cigarette while I did it. To this day, it's still my favorite sex act in the whole world. Why did we break up? I guess we grew up. Me to music and her back to Germany with her parents, I know they were glad to see her get rid of the Hippie, and they knew there was no future for their daughter with a musician/writer/bum, and I haven't seen or heard from her for years. One thing I did do, though. In 1976, on a whim, I bought her a Zippo, and had her name engraved on it, and sent it to her, which is something that I've done a lot of times since over the years, for a lot of different women, some who knew it was from me, and some who didn't. I never heard back, though and I often wonder if Sylvia ever got my very special gift. |
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