First Time

(by The Lurker , 10 November 1997)

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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:


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


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.


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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