Lurker Chronicles (incomplete), Part 3

    The authorship of the Lurker Chronicles is a mystery, designed to protect
the identities of the very real people that they portray. What is no mystery
at all is the attraction that each and every one of us feels toward our
perfect female smoker.
    As always, your comments are welcome...


    The Lurker Chronicles


    Chapter Three
    The Secret

    It takes me a few minutes to get myself together and pay the check, and by
the time I walk out the door of the Beacher and back on to Queen Street, the
black Lexus is long gone. It's just as well. The last thing I need is some
scene from "The Graduate", where I go tearing down the middle of the road,
chasing her car and screaming at the top of my lungs for her not to get
married. For all I know, Dr. Martin Firestone and Dr. Brenda Lewis might turn
out to be an excellent match, although I kind of doubt it.
    For one thing, he calls her "Brenny", as in 'Do you want to go out and
play some fucking polo this afternoon, Brenny?' And of course, he just HATES
her smoking. She told me once that they went to this big medical dinner at the
Four Seasons, and after they ate, Brenda asked the waiter for an ashtray and
proceeded to stoke up one of her Camels right there at the table. You can
imagine the scene, but that's Brenda to a tee. Lighting up just as cool as can
be at the table, while about twenty doctors and their wives enjoy a collective
stroke, now that would be right up her alley. Sometimes she's a regular Sharon
Stone.
    Not that it matters to me anymore. I'm just about packed, and I can
already feel the heat and humidity come bouncing in as they open those
airplane doors down in Vallarta. I'm not about to get sidetracked now. 48
hours isn't very long when you have as many people to see as I do, and I've
already planned to do some fishing today.
    At the mall, that is.
    ***
    The cab drops me off right at the doors, and I don't even have to walk
through any snow before I'm inside. Its almost noon now, and the place is
starting to fill up nicely. I do some quick math, and figure I've got a little
time before the smoking section of the food court gets too packed to get a
seat. The smoke shop is right there anyway, and it only takes me a second to
pop in and buy a newspaper and a pack of Old Ports. They are the perfect cigar
for fishing trips. Not wimpy, but not too big, either. They have to be small
enough to be picked up in a flash without anyone noticing. Old Ports have a
nice plastic tip, too, and each one is individually wrapped. The wrapping is
important. I find that an unwrapped cigar looks unsanitary. And that scares
the fish.
    I open the package, and take out the five cigarillos, leaving them loose
in my jacket pocket, and as I walk through the mall to the food court, I can
feel my heart starting to race. It's a good day, and the sunlight will be
streaming across the tables, turning the air above the smoking section into a
thick gray haze. It just doesn't get any better than this.
    Starbuck's is right there, and as I stir the cream and sugar into my large
coffee at the counter, I take a minute to scout the tables. The food court is
less than half full, but I can see that some of my regulars are already there.
The receptionist from the hairdresser's sits by herself, smoking her long
white DuMaurier Mild 100's while she reads the Sunday Sun. She's a big girl,
tall but not fat, with a shapely ass and full hard tits that do a pretty good
job of filling out the front of her uniform. Her hair is short and streaked,
and sometimes I fantasize that she is a nurse.
    Every time that she gets to the bottom of the page, she pauses to take a
long, slow, perfect drag off the100. As she pulls the cigarette from her lips,
she opens her mouth very wide, sometimes for as long as a second, before she
breathes in, just to make sure that everyone who's interested can see that
she's really doing it, really inhaling and not just pretending. Her holds
aren't that long, but her nostril exhales are great. She's what I call a
"releaser". While she's holding, there is nothing, but then all at once you
can see her chest fall and the streams appear instantly as she forces the
smoke out of her lungs and through her nose. Two of my regulars had babies
last year, and both of them smoked all the way through. It was a very big turn
on to watch the receptionist, especially toward the end, with her stomach
pushed tight against the maternity uniform, her breasts heavy and sagging, as
she took the cellophane off a fresh pack of 100's and went about the daily
ritual of feeding her body with the never ending doses of nicotine it so
desperately craved.
    The girl from the department store is here too, the short, dark haired one
who looks like she might be Greek, or maybe Italian. She smokes DuMaurier
Kings, the strong orange tipped ones, and she smokes them one right after the
other. I can tell she's always getting ready to quit, because she buys a small
pack, and always uses matches. One look at her smoking style, though, and you
know that it's never going to happen. I've seen her do five DuMauriers in a
row without stopping, early in the morning, before her shift, as she
desperately tries to get her nicotine level up high enough to get her through
until break time. She pulls hard, cheeks hollowed, fingers open and away from
the cigarette so that it can rise a little bit between her lips from the force
of the drag, and then finishes off with one of the best French poppers I've
ever seen. I would say that a good French pop is one of the most difficult
inhales to master, and done by a woman who really has it down, it is an
absolute thing of beauty.
    The quantity of smoke must be exactly right, enough to completely cover
her upper lip like a thick and creamy wave, and her timing must be perfect. If
the woman inhales too quickly, the pop will never make it all the way to her
nose, and she will end up snatching at it. If she waits too long, the drag
will spill over and she will lose some of the smoke out into the air, or up
the side of her face. The secret of the great French pop is practice,
practice, practice. If I close my eyes, I can see the girl from the department
store working on it, privately, in front of the mirror, puff after puff, drag
after drag, lighting one DuMaurier after the other from the pack that she is
still hiding from her parents, maybe using her makeup mirror to catch the
side view, determined not to give up until she has mastered the most
difficult and sexually attractive inhale of them all.  I could watch the
regulars all day, but there's only so much time left, and I know I have to
get my fishing trip started. I deliberately choose a table without an
ashtray, and put my coffee and my paper down, nice and slow, so everyone has
time to see me. Then I take a look around, and reach into my pocket. The Old
Port feels good in my hand, and I hold it loosely as I walk slowly toward the
other empty tables.
    The rest is easy. As I reach for the ashtray, it only takes a second to
pull the cigarillo out of my jacket pocket and place it casually on the table,
and in less than a second, I'm back in my seat, enjoying my coffee and reading
the news. I only get to page four before I hear the sound of voices and
laughter, and when I look up, the three teenage girls are already halfway
across the food court, looking for a place to sit and have a smoke. I can't
help but smile.
    They don't know it yet, but today they're going to have a little
adventure.

    ***

    The women's dorms are on the west side of the campus, and in order to get
there, I have to walk all the way across the parking lot. It's only the
beginning of November, but already the temperature at night is well below
freezing, and by the time I'm half way across, my ears are starting to sting
from the cold. I know that Kit will still be at the library, but there is a
good chance that the other girl, Brenda, will be in the room, and I am
actually kind of excited about the prospect of seeing her, even if it will
only be for a second while I drop off the lighter.
    Now, I have to tell you that I'm not all that attracted to women who don't
smoke. I mean, I don't mind being friends or anything, but I could never
seriously consider things going any farther than that. My girl has to wake up
with a little cough; with that bell ringing inside her head that says "where
did I leave my cigarettes last night when I went to bed?" She has to live for
that first bitter, cheek-hollowing drag, for that snap and catch in her throat
as she takes in the first inhale of the morning, for the little spin that she
gets, all too rare these days, as she holds the smoke deep in her lungs,
waiting for the drug to do it's magic. With a girl that didn't have the habit,
it could just never work.
    With Brenda Lewis, though, something is different. You see, there was a
click between me and Brenda, and it happened the second that we met. It was
almost like we'd known each other all our lives. Now, I'm not bragging, but I
can tell you that I'm smart, and I always have been, and it's not very often
that I meet somebody who I think is smarter, but it only took about 2 minutes
of talking to Brenda to realize that I would never have a chance of
outbraining this girl. And she LOVES music, especially Elton John. I'm not
much of a singer, but Elton isn't much of a piano player, not really, and his
style is pretty easy to copy, and I know she likes the way that I play. Plus,
she may not smoke herself, but she doesn't seem to mind me doing it at all.
    On the other hand, I think to myself as I run up the three steps and on to
the sidewalk in front of the UWO ladies' dorm, her father, the heart surgeon,
and her mother, the fucking socialite would probably have a double aneurysm if
they even knew I was TALKING to their precious daughter. No, it would never
work. Not that way anyway, not serious. Sometimes it's better just to call it
friends, and leave it at that.
    It's starting to snow just a bit, and the light from the ground floor
windows is throwing soft yellow pools out on to the sidewalk. Most of the
blinds are drawn, but here and there you can still get a peek into someone's
room. I keep my eyes pretty straight ahead, though. There is plenty of
security around, and the last thing I need is to get busted as a peeping tom.
Kit and Brenda are on the north side, so I just skip the main entrance with
it's big oak doors, and dodge around the corner of the building. The side
entrance is usually open, and their room is right next to the door. I can be
in and out in a couple of minutes and nobody will be the wiser.
    As soon as I round the corner of the building I'm instantly cut off from
the big halogen lights of the parking lot, and the darkness drops on to me
like a heavy wool blanket. The frigid air almost crackles in the absolute
silence, and I can suddenly see about a million stars up in the sky. I am
totally, completely, absolutely alone here, and I stop for just a second and
watch my breath as it mists and curls in the light from Brenda and Kit's
uncurtained window.
    Then, it happens. All at once, I feel as if ten thousand volts of
electricity is pumping through my body. My heart is going a mile a minute, and
there is a sudden flush of heat across my face, as if I had just turned to
face a fire. My bowels feel weak and loose, and my legs start to tremble.
    Like a scene from a movie, Brenda Lewis walks regally across the room.
Obviously fresh from her shower, she wears a dark blue satin robe, tied
loosely in the front, and she has a white towel wrapped carefully around her
long blonde hair. As she moves, I can see her breasts swing gently under the
satin, almost feel the tiny thrill she gets as her hard little nipples scrape
against the chilly fabric. As she steps forward, the front of the robe falls
open for a split second, and there is the tiniest glimpse of her pubic hair, a
soft silky mound of the purest honey blonde. My breath is catching in my
throat now, and I'm thinking that I just might pass out, but I'm afraid to
move even an inch, for fear that she will see me standing in the dark, only
inches from her window.
    Brenda reaches for the towel, arms above her head, breasts tight and hard
against the robe as she stretches up, and rubs the last of the dampness from
her hair. She is almost cat like, every movement slow and sensual and
perfectly balanced, and she takes her sweet time, using the towel first one
side of her head and then the other. When everything seems just right, she
drops the towel on to the floor, turns her back to me, leans over the bed to
pick something up, and then continues across the room to sit in front of the
mirror. In her right hand she holds a very expensive looking tortoise shell
hairbrush. And in her left hand, dangling loosely between her first and second
fingers, looking for all the world like it was put on earth to be exactly in
this place, at exactly this second on this coldest and purest of winter
nights, is an unlit, orange tipped cigarette.
    At first I think I am imagining things, that maybe the Marlboro (I'm sure
it must be one of Kit's) is merely an optical illusion, some psychosomatic
product of pure wishful thinking, and so I close my eyes tightly and squint
hard in a sort of motionless equivalent of rubbing them. But when I open them
up again, the smoke is still there, looking perfectly natural as she holds it
loosely between her slender fingers. As Brenda sits down at the vanity and
places the hairbrush gently on the table, she raises her hand, turning her
head sideways just a bit, and gazes at her reflection in the vanity mirror
while she holds the cigarette up high and close to her face, fingers curled,
her thumb resting ever so gently on the end of the filter. I am absolutely
amazed, even shocked by this most incredible of secret acts, but at the same
time, I just can't help but think to myself that right at this particular
moment in time, Brenda Lewis has to be the most beautiful woman I have ever
seen.
    It can't be any more than about five minutes, but for me, time has lost
it's meaning. I'm caught here, in the space between a couple of fantastic,
other-worldly minutes in which I stand perfectly still, totally oblivious to
the numbing cold that is creeping into my feet, totally unaware that anyone,
anyone at all might be walking up behind me to ask me the hell I think I am
doing out here alone in the dark. In that few precious seconds, I am
transformed and transfixed, a helpless, hopeless prisoner of the woman in the
mirror. I watch as Brenda places the orange tip of the unlit cigarette
carefully between her lips, see her cheeks collapse as she pulls, and feel my
heart jump like a frightened deer as she opens her mouth and performs the most
perfect of mock inhales, all the while never taking her eyes off of her
reflected image, not even for a second. I watch some more as she holds the
cigarette in her mouth, her head tilted slightly to the right, as she picks up
the brush and draws it slowly through her hair, stroke after stroke, until the
familiar cascading style begins to emerge from the still damp tangles, all the
while drawing on the Marlboro and pretending to inhale around it without
removing it from between her lips.
    Brenda completes maybe a hundred strokes or more before she finally puts
the brush back on the table, and picks up her lipstick. Then she leans forward
into the mirror, the still unlit cigarette in her other hand, and concentrates
as she carefully applies a perfect, shimmering coating of the deepest red. She
works slowly, patiently, stopping every few seconds to examine the job, making
sure each line and definition of her sensuous lips is absolutely perfect.
    And then, finally, she is finished, sitting back on the stool, smoothing
down her robe, gazing at herself from top to bottom, and she smiles a little
half smile of satisfaction as she reaches out and picks up the cigarette
again. This time though, there is a little flash of reflected light from her
left hand and I suddenly notice that she has picked up something else as well.
Gently, she turns the tiny gold lighter end for end, the cigarette still
between her fingers. She seems almost mesmerized as she looks thoughtfully at
the lighter's shiny surface, almost as if she is trying to make up her mind
about something. Finally, she raises her hand, carefully placing the cigarette
between her freshly painted lips, and spins the wheel.
    Flame spurts from the tiny lighter on the first try, and Brenda stares at
it for a second, turning it back and forth in her hand, still not sure, still
afraid to take the next step. Then with a slight shrug, and a long look into
the mirror, she leans forward and gently applies the flame to the tip, pulling
it deep into the end of the cigarette. Then she closes the lighter and leans
back, eyes half closed, as she pulls the smoke into her mouth. The drag is not
big, but it is big enough, and as soon as Brenda pulls the cigarette from her
mouth, she blows the smoke out without inhaling, turning her head from side to
side, watching the smoke in the mirror as it gently curls and dances in front
of her. Almost immediately, she places the smoke in her mouth again, and her
cheeks hollow as the end of the cigarette glows brightly. This time, though,
she pulls the cigarette out of her mouth, and waits. Even from outside the
window, I can see the lipstick on the end of the cigarette, see the drifting
smoke, thick and white, as it flows slowly from the end of the filter, and
finally, unbelievably, I see Brenda Lewis close her eyes as she opens her
mouth, see her soft breasts rise under the dark blue satin robe as she hauls
one in, inhaling the drag deep, deep into the bottom of her lungs.
    Her hold is brief, too brief for a seasoned smoker, but when Brenda
exhales, the stream is thin and gray, and again, she turns from side to side,
eyes always on the mirror, the half-smile still in place. It is obvious that
she likes what she sees. She takes three more drags this way, inhaling each
one slowly and carefully, intently watching each one in the mirror, and
exhaling the last one from her nose in two perfect long streams, as the clouds
of smoke continue to billow and swirl around her head. Just when I am thinking
that I must be in heaven, that it can't get any better than this, she raises
her free hand and begins to move it, ever so slowly, back and forth across the
front of the satin gown, her long, perfectly manicured nails tracing patterns
on the fabric where I can see her nipples beginning to harden and rise.
    Brenda drags again on the Marlboro, harder now, much longer than before,
and I count five full steamboats before she finally pulls the cigarette from
between her ruby lips. Her hand closes tightly on her breast, cupping it from
below, squeezing and kneading, and she holds the smoke in her mouth, eyes
closed, and tilts her head back, her long blonde hair falling loosely across
her shoulders. Ten more steamboats chug by before she finally opens her eyes,
stares full into the mirror and releases the thick white mass from her mouth,
pulling it up over her lip and into her nose in the most perfect French inhale
I have ever seen. Once more, the head goes back and Brenda places the last
inch of the Marlboro between her lips and exhales around it, the thick white
stream rising up toward the ceiling, as she pulls the robe wide open and
places both hands on her beautiful breasts, thumbs and forefingers twisting
and pulling at her fully erect nipples.
    All at once there is the sound of voices, very close, and I feel the panic
grab hold of me like a wild grizzly. I take two small steps back from the
window and quickly turn. Not twenty feet away, Kit is marching across the
lawn, books under her arm, waving good-bye to some unseen companions.
    Desperately, I look toward the window where I see Brenda taking one last,
long drag off the Marlboro. Kit is already at the steps now, and she stops for
an instant, takes two quick puffs off her own cigarette and flicks it out into
the snow, and then, in a flash, she is through the door. Brenda is still
blowing smoke toward the mirror, her robe still open around her shoulders, but
now her breasts are the last thing on my mind. I can almost hear Kit striding
down the hall, pawing through her purse as she looks for her key.
    The situation is desperate, and I do the only desperate thing I can think
of. With one smooth motion, I reach down, barehanded, and grab a clump of
snow, cold and icy from the ground. There is no time to look, but I do my best
to judge the angle, and toss it at the window with all my might. I hear the
"thud" as my snowball connects with the glass, but there is no time for a
backward glance. I turn on the overdrive and push my way through the door.
    "Kit!"
    She is already at the room, already turning the key in the lock, but
blessedly, miraculously, she recognizes my voice and stops for an instant,
turning to face me and smiles a big smile. I give her a friendly wave and keep
moving. I am taking long steps, trying to cover the distance as fast as I can,
but at the same time, I don't want to look like I'm running.
    "Hey. How was the movie?" I'm desperately trying to think of something to
say. "Did you catch on to the part about 'Rosebud', or what?" Only ten feet to
go. She turns the key and I hear the click of the lock.
    "Oh sure, David. That part was easy." . Less than five feet to go. The
door begins to swing open. "I actually knew about that already. You know. From
the course material." Only two feet to go. She begins to step into the room.
    I've got to do something.
    "Jesus!!" I yell it as loud as I dare, and then, like a Mustang fullback,
I lean forward and bounce myself off the doorframe, and at the same time, I
reach out and grab for her shoulder. The connection is perfect. Kit spins back
into the hall like a ballerina, and with a loud crash, her armful of books
goes tumbling to the floor, and the heavy door of her room swings closed with
a bang.
    "Oh God, Kit. I'm sorry. Oh shit! I'm so sorry." I'm flopping around like
a fish in the bottom of a boat, trying to gather up the books, and doing my
best to act like a total idiot. But all the time, I've got one eye looking
over her shoulder, directly at the door.
    Kit is laughing hysterically. "God David. What have you been drinking?
Don't worry. It's OK. They're only BOOKS for heaven's sake." The all at once,
I hear the click of the lock, see the brass handle turn, and the door swings
wide open.
    "What in the world is going on here?" Brenda Lewis is standing in the
doorway, dressed in her sweats, hands on her hips, and her blonde hair in a
pony tail, looking for all the world as if she has been studying the night
away. The only clue to our secret encounter is the ruby traces still left on
her lips, made all the more prominent by the total lack of color in her face.
    People are starting to come out into the hallway now, curious about the
commotion, and Kit quickly kicks the rest of the books through the opening, as
she grabs my jacket and hauls me into the room, slamming the door with her
foot.
    "Get in here!", she hisses. "The last thing you need is to get caught in
the womens' dorm. They'll string you up and throw away the key. I swear. I
don't know what you..."
    And then she stops, and looks around the room, as if she might be in the
wrong place. For a second she doesn't move at all, and then, she cocks her
head and sniffs the air. "I smell smoke. I'm sure of it. Somebody has been
smoking in here, I mean besides me." She looks pointedly at Brenda. "Can't you
smell it?"
    I look at Brenda Lewis, and she looks at me, and if it is possible, I
would swear that her face is even whiter than it was just a moment ago. The
blue eyes are piercing into me, begging, imploring, and in that brief second,
I do something that will change the course of mine and Brenda's relationship
forever. I slowly turn and take the pink lighter out of my pocket and offer it
to Kit.
    "It was me, Kit. I've been here for the last half hour waiting for you. So
that I could return this. Actually, Brenda just threw me out, and I was headed
over to the Pub to see if you had gone back there after the movie. That's when
I saw you outside. And I'm sorry as hell about your books. I really am."
    Kit laughs, and shakes a Marlboro out of her pack, rolling it between her
fingers as only she can do, and lights it with the pink lighter. Little jets
of smoke come out of her mouth and nose as she talks.
    "Well. I guess between you and me, this girl is going to have one very bad
case of cancer by the time she finishes school."
    Brenda Lewis doesn't say anything. She just looks at me and lets out a
long, lingering breath that seems to come all the way up from the bottom of
her soul.

    ***

    There is a nasty, bratty look that teenage girls get when they are out on
the prowl, and if I had my choice in a fight, I would probably take on a group
of guys first. Then again, considering I'm here to fish, not fight, I probably
couldn't have made a better choice. These three are hell bent for trouble, all
thick eyeliner and baggy pants under nylon coats with sports logos on the
back, and normally, I wouldn't give them a second glance. My tastes are a bit
more adult, and I like my women smokers to have some class. But on this
particular Sunday afternoon at the mall, with the image of Brenda and Kit and
that incredible evening still swimming in my head, I am ready for a different
sort of diversion, and so I am content to watch as the three younger ones
laugh and big mouth their way past the fountain and flop themselves at one of
the end most tables.
    They know the game well, these three. Each one has a half full soft drink,
just in case security comes by, and they put their bags under the table where
they won't trip some little old lady and get themselves thrown out of the
mall. I dismiss the one with the green hair right away. Too freaky, and
probably self conscious as hell. Much too affected to have a nice, natural
smoking style. The one with the dark hair isn't quite as bad, although she
looks a bit chubby. Still, I'd like to see her smoke.
    I finally decide that the best bet is going to be the redhead. Her hair is
a bit longer than the other two, and her coat is not quite as stylish. I bet
myself that she probably comes from a working class home, and that even at her
young age, she has been stealing Player's Lights out of her mother's pack for
long enough to have gotten herself a pretty respectable habit. I'm not that
surprised when it is she who is the first one to produce smokes, opening the
crumpled pack and passing them around the table to her friends.
    I am right about the green haired girl. She takes little puffs, and blows
the smoke out way too hard, and then makes things that much worse by tapping
her cigarette incessantly against the side of the aluminum ashtray. It is a
very nervous style, and not the least bit attractive.
    The dark haired girl does a little better, taking good sized drags, and
showing a nice, slow smokeball before she inhales. Her exhales are pretty
good, too, nice and long in the bright light of the food court, and with a
little tailer out the nose at the end of every one. Obviously she has had some
practice.
    The redhead seems to be the best, though, just like I figured it. She is
completely at ease with the cigarette, passing it smoothly from hand to hand
as she talks and laughs, and she has a nice trick of holding it very close to
her lips for a second or two before she actually puts it in her mouth. She
pulls hard, much harder than the other two, and inhales very fast and very
deep, closing her eyes. I can see her shoulders rise a couple of inches as the
smoke enters her body, and then fall again as she begins her exhale. No
smokeball, but her exhale is very thick, and she finishes it off with a
perfect ring, which floats slowly away across the empty tables.
    I steal a glance at the Old Port, sitting on the table right next to them,
and I feel my chest begin to tighten just a bit. The green haired girl is
already looking around, already bored with sitting still, and it doesn't take
her very long to notice the cigarillo. As soon a she see it, her eyes open
wide, and she immediately begins to look around, to see if anyone is watching.
Right away, I glance down, pretending to be absorbed in my paper, and count a
few steamboats. This is the critical second. If the green haired girl gets
even the tiniest indication that someone has seen her, she will drop the whole
idea, and I'll be out three bucks.
    When I look up again, she is already on her feet, and I know the deal is
done. In less than half a second she has picked up the Old Port and is back in
her seat, smiling and laughing and showing it to her friends. The dark haired
girl is already turning up her nose, making a face, and I can just imagine
what she is saying, but the redhead is giving the cigar a pretty good
look-me-over, and I smile.
    She will be the one.
    Greenie has already taken the cellophane off, and is running the cigar
under her nose, twirling it in her fingers and pretending to smoke it. The
dark haired girl is still making faces, but for the redhead, the game has
gotten a bit more serious. She has already pulled out her Bic and fired it up,
and with a questioning look, she holds out the light, offering it to Greenie.
    My pulse starts to race as I watch the green haired girl lean into the
light, and she pulls hard on the Old Port, puffing smoke out the sides of her
mouth as she gets it going. It takes a few pulls, but before I know it, the
cigar is burning, nice and even, and I can already smell the first few whiffs
of that incredible aroma. She takes a long slow pull and blows the smoke out
in a little stream, up toward the ceiling, and then all three of them start to
laugh. Then she turns the cigar end for end and offers it to the dark haired
one, who makes another face, and waves her hands back and forth in the air. No
takers here.
    The redhead, though, is going to be different. Her face is serious, and
she is staring at the Old Port as though it has some kind of magic. She leans
forward and reaches out, taking the cigar from the red haired girl, and holds
it like a cigarette, between her first two fingers, watching it burn for a
second, and then gently raises it to her lips. She has probably never done
this before, and for me, the thrill is absolute as I watch her cheeks cave in
with the force of the drag.
    Smoke swirls from the plastic tip as she pulls the Old Port away from her
lips, and then, almost as a reflex action, the redhead opens her mouth and
inhales deeply. Her eyes close as the incredibly strong smoke hits her
windpipe, and I see her throat jump as the force of the drag catches on the
way down, but this is a girl who knows about smoking, and she manages to
complete the inhale without choking. Only when the thick white package reaches
the absolute bottom of her lungs does the redheaded girl cough the tiniest of
coughs, and two little jets of uninhaled smoke, the last remnants of the drag
still in her mouth, shoot from her nostrils. Then she purses her lips and does
a prefect exhale, blowing the smoke straight away from her in a long stream,
as she finally opens her eyes and looks at her friends. Almost immediately she
repeats the process, this time opening her mouth long enough to show the pure
white ball that is the living proof of the action. Then, she smiles this coy
little smile, like: "that, my girls, is what it's all about", and hands the
cigar back to Greenie.
    I'm about to enter cardiac arrest, just thinking about watching the three
girls finish the cigar, passing it back and forth as they work on their
collective technique, when there is a sudden trembling at my waist.
Distracted, I pull the pager off my belt and squint at the numbers in the
bright sunlight, and suddenly, I lose all interest in the fishing expedition.
    There is a 911 in front of the number, indicating that somebody wants to
talk to me right away.
    And that somebody is Brenda Lewis.


    to be continued....

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