I've simply had it. You know the feeling. For ten years I've pleaded, reasoned, bitched at, and whined about mom's smoking. And at the receiving end, there's seldom more than a blank stare. I might as well be talking to myself.
There's no question that the smoking issue is coming to a head. I can see it in her eyes again this morning but she might as well be talking to herself. If Naomi had any idea how overmatched she is, she'd be dumbfounded. The delightful irony is that with the right moves, my daughter will never even have to know.
And here she sits over the breakfast table with an already generously full ashtray, a freshly lit Marlboro 100 yet fastened to her lips, and completely oblivious to my wishes. And my wishes, nothing; for God's sake, everything I'm trying to do is in her own best interest. She must know that.
Revelation and desperation not being unrelated, in a flash the answer becomes unmistakably clear. I now know instinctively what I must do. The filth and vile of her habit can only be exposed through example. In order to shame her into quitting, I simply have to start smoking myself. I can't tell you how nauseous that thought is but, as it strikes me sitting here, it feels like my only choice. It isn't a strategy born of my 1450 SAT's but rather my rage and frustration. I must fight fire with fire so to speak!
I've never seen her this angry before. There's no question she's on the attack. I have several offensive moves I can make but a defensive tack seems more likely to catch her off guard. Let's see where her first pawn lands.
We seldom speak much over breakfast - mom absorbed in the Today Show and shrouded in cigarette smoke - and me with my New York Times and Special K. Only coffee is confluent and those conversations are composed of scintillating commentary like "Want more?" and a grunt. While I've noticed an increasing dependency lately on my morning caffeine, that seems pretty innocuous. Juan Valdes is no killer.
So mom is totally oblivious as I reach, not particularly stealthily, across the table, free one of her Marlboro 100's from the pack, repositioned her ashtray closer to me, and pick up her lighter. Mimicking every move I've loathed for these many years, the feather-light cigarette quickly dangles precariously from my lips. Upon the second or third flick, her fancy lighter ignites. The simple act of drawing on the cigarette raises the tip to meet the on-coming flame and as they merge I draw in a bit of smoke and recoiled as my mouth is assaulted by an incredibly foreign taste. Foreign I choose as a descriptor because, while not particularly pleasant, it seems totally disassociated with that stench I so heartily detest.
While of course I'm familiar with inhaling, I wouldn't dare. First, I can't imagine doing such an unnatural thing to my body and second, I suspect that it would be a greater challenge than I'm up to. And why should I anyway? After all, simply seeing me attempt to smoke will call forth all of her maternal instincts and the case will be closed once and for all. Just seeing me with a cigarette will be shock enough for mom to finally get the message.
She is so absorbed with Matt and Katy at the moment however, that at first she doesn't seem to notice. It isn't until my fourth puff, which I manage to sputter out in her direction, before the spell is broken. And as she lets out a little gasp, I feel the elation of an early and well-earned victory. Served by inspiration, I have outwitted my mother in nothing but an instant.
What a truly interesting turn of events, I think to myself, as I watch out of the corner of my eye. Her struggle with the lighter reaffirms her smoking virginity. At least she's not a hypocrite. Nothing about her speaks smoker. Thank God I'd granted her the first move though. This strategic miscalculation on her part just took at least three months off of my timetable.
And then, with all of the self-righteousness I could muster, I feign first recognition. "What the hell do you think you're doing young lady", I blurt out in mock horror. "How dare you smoke after the insolent way you've attacked me all these years? I simply forbid it!"
"I'm almost sixteen now and can smoke if I damn well please. And who the hell are you to tell me otherwise. Get real! But that's not why I'm doing it. Don't you understand? I'm showing you what a nasty habit smoking is and will continue to do so until you agree to quit. You've got to know that smoking is not something that I want to do - but be really clear about this - I will continue to smoke as long as you do.
My mind smiling, but my face stoic, I say to myself "Well, you've finally got something right young lady."
You might not care about your own body and health but, as my mom, I know that you really care about mine. No responsible mother would ever let their child start smoking." I can see in her eyes that I've struck a real chord. The end is easily in sight. The white flag is moments away. I victoriously await her surrender.
What a pompous little ass I've raised. Of course I care about her well-being, but if I thought smoking wasn't worth the risk, why would I still be doing it? Give me a break. My mom practically encouraged me to smoke the day I turned twelve and I don't think that she was irresponsible. Oh well, since she sees health as her hole card, it will need to be part of the ultimate solution. Just how, however, will take some planning. I watch silently for the next couple of minutes.
The immediate reaction I'd expected isn't forthcoming. I can tell though, by her expression, that she is troubled. As she struggles to respond, I take another three puffs to further drive in the stake.
Naomi takes three more puffs, but doesn't inhale them. With each, a disdainful sneer graces her otherwise beautiful face. My thoughts now formulated, I respond. "Of course I care about your health and you've finally found a way to get to me", I state with an entirely straight face. "If I thought there was one iota of a chance of you really becoming a smoker, I'd quit on the spot but frankly dear, as long as you're not inhaling, you're not doing any damage. If you want to toy with an occasional cigarette like that, I won't have a cow. You can't intimidate me that easily."
That isn't the answer I'm looking for. No way. But then why the hell do I think that mom will just cave? After all, she's not walking away from her addiction without a fight. Lighting that first cigarette, I'd just put the bullet in Archduke Ferdinand - now to determine wheregoest the battle? And as for her observation, it was kind of an interesting one. She was right, of course. Just lighting up a cigarette, without inhaling, isn't going to have me smoking or croaking any time soon. My emotive performance had fallen on deaf ears. Perhaps it was time to employ my full 1450 horsepower on the problem.
What a dweeb. My daughter is a sweetheart, but there are a lot of things in life that she just doesn't get. I'm no wild ass but, frankly, I'm surprised that I've raised such milquetoast. Hey, I'm not complaining. This beats the hell out of being a grandmother at 34 like I did to my mom, but I simply thought that Naomi would have a bit more spit and vinegar to her than she does. With her striking looks and luscious body, the guys have to be salivating. And as for smoking, she may have an IQ double mine, but don't bet against me. This could be an interesting morality play. As every smoker and former smoker well knows, the commitment required to quit smoking is a thousand fold what's required to begin.
Cornered. I now have a very real dilemma. My threat to smoke is pure vapor at this point. She calls my bluff and now I have to actually inhale smoke to get to her. But I am certain that that will get to her. If she sees that I'm so determined that I'll desecrate my body, then she will quit. I'm so sure that that will do it, that I'll have to consider it. If I can inhale just enough to bring out her maternal instincts, then I'll be in the driver's seat. But oh how bad that sounds. I wretch - thinking about what it will do to my lungs - and won't even think about the impact upon my basketball. But, of course, I won't have to smoke much to get her to quit. I know that. So there's the new plan. I'm simply going to have to learn to inhale.
This inaugural cigarette is more than half gone now and I badly want to stub the stinking thing out but that looks like surrender. I take a fairly light puff and, as I had watched mom do many thousands of time, open my lips a little and suck it in. To call what happens a jolt is understatement. It feels like a hard right cross to my chest and I instantly spit it all back out amid a choking cough. Mom stifles a laugh but I see it none-the-less. Undaunted, I inhale a second time and this time hold the smoke for a moment and exhale it uneventfully. Unfortunately, this time she isn't even looking.
Now things are getting interesting. Naomi takes a legitimate drag and of course gets pummeled by it. I can't help myself and begin laughing. Mockery just could be a powerful ally given Naomi's drive to do things well. Even as she loathes smoking, she also loathes failure and that's just what happened now. Her second effort is a less comedic performance but I pretend to ignore it, because I don't want to recognize a successful inhale at this point in the game. I'll need time to craft my strategy.
As badly as I want to get the upper hand and demonstrate proficiency, two inhales is all it takes to completely turn my stomach. I stub out the cigarette and speed for the bathroom. I don't lose my cookies, but my stomach was certainly a churn. It is also nearly time to leave for school so this battle is over and lies mostly in mom's column. I'll devote some serious time though later in the day to laying out a better plan.
My opening gambit is clean and she knows it. If you aren't inhaling, you aren't smoking. And to her credit, she gave it a game try. Fortunately, the nicotine demons got to her quickly and I didn't have to recognize her successful inhale. That will be the tricky part here. How can I nurse her along yet have her believe that she's getting to me? I've read that it takes no more than 100 cigarettes to reach light addiction. I need to get her up to that level without having to quit myself. If I fail to do that, then I may have to face the unthinkable - and I don't like failure any better than Naomi does.
All day in class my mind is racing. I'm going to have to demonstrate to her quickly that I can smoke - that I can inhale - and that I'll do it, until she quits. Hopefully that will be very quick. This is such bull but I do have to find some way to not heave every time I smoke. Mom's Marlboro 100's are just too strong for me. Maybe I can find something more my speed so I don't kill myself along the way. A couple of my friends - we'll since they smoke, more like former friends - smoke Marlboro Lights. And the 100's I hear are even lighter than the others - regulars or kings or whatever you call them. Maybe I'll have to find something like that, which won't make me heave.
I walk home alone this afternoon and cut through the Mobil station. I pick up milk, bread, and coke first so that I've established myself as a legitimate customer - assuming that that will reduce the chances that I'm turned down for cigarettes. No point in taking an undue risk. As it turns out, it probably doesn't matter at all. The clerk doesn't flinch a bit when I asked for Marlboro Light 100's - just asks "pack or box" to which for some unknown reason I respond "pack" - and then grab a little package of tiny lighters as well. "Don't you think you should be carding me, bozo?" is so close to my puritan lips, but somehow I catch myself.
Now checking me out for looks rather than age, he does try to strike up a conversation at this point - one of those feeble "haven't I seen you around school?" attempts but I stick the cigarettes into my purse, toss the lighters into the grocery bag, and head out mostly irked, but also just the least, little bit bemused at this turn of events. The two-year, starting guard of the Holly Hills basketball team has contraband goods on her person. I feel just a tiny bit naughty.
The message on the recorder from mom is routine. "Working late - be home around seven - chops in the frig - could you fix dinner?" Rhetorical, of course. Dinner will be on the table as it always is. This happens four nights out of five. And of course I now had my cigarettes to join her after the meal. Hopefully these Lights wouldn't be such a challenge.
All day long I've been reflecting on the morning confrontation and what the evening will bring. The last thing I want is a withdrawal or concession because it would only be temporary. Eventually the issue will resurface and will come to a head. She made a dangerous gambit this morning and one that I can exploit.
Having forgotten about the cigarettes, I now go to retrieve them. Removing the pack of Marlboro Light 100's from my purse, I rather gingerly set them down on the kitchen table, near where mom had left one of her many open packages this morning. The graphics are much cleaner and subtler than the Gold package. Thinking about the Marketing course I'm taking, this seems consistence with the kind of imagery that "light" should convey.
I continue about my business laying out my homework, talking to a couple of friends, and beginning preparation for dinner. But with increasing frequency my eyes stray to the unopened pack of cigarettes mid-table - disconcertingly, MY pack of cigarettes. Why that more pleased me than troubled me was perplexing - but left unexplored.
Curiosity finally wins out and I pick up the pack and feel it. The cellophane is strangely sensual to the touch. I locate the little gold tab and rotely find myself stripping it off, exposing the foil top of the pack itself. Only now do I realize what is meant by a "pack". What an idiot. Pack means soft pack. Obviously what's lying all around our house are "boxes" and they seem easier to deal with. I'll need to remember that if I ever have to buy another pack - I mean box - but, of course, I probably won't have to.
Until now, I'd only been familiar with the box - the thousands of boxes perpetually strewn around our home. It takes little engineering prowess though to discern that I have to peel back the foil from one side of the pack if I'm to continue - and so I do. Now exposed, these cigarettes are much more cloistered and difficult to access than mom's Marlboro 100's boxes.
Five or six filters, tightly packed together within, greet me. And I'm not exactly sure how to extract one. My fingernails - worn down from my time on the court - aren't the right implements and then it comes back to me that I've often seen people wrapping the pack against their wrist to jar out a couple. My first effort is a bit too tentative but the second time a couple of filters pop out a quarter of an inch. I now can withdraw one and do. Unlike mom's, these cigarettes are all white. That seems like a good thing to me, but for what reason, I haven't the faintest idea.
Without any conscious plan in mind, I'm now sitting at the table with a cigarette in my hand, my three pack of Baby Bics torn open, and this morning's filthy ashtray - my half smoked butt included - staring at me. I look at it, gag a little, and then dump it into the garbage. I've done this many times before - gag included - but then always loaded it into the dishwasher. Unlike those previous iterations, this time I replace it, grimy but empty, back on the table but then, as an afterthought, return to the sink where I rinse it out and dry it. It'll be filthy soon enough. No point in starting with filth, right?
It is only now that I become truly conscious of my actions. Apparently I've formulated a plan and it seems to be to practice a little before mom returns so I can look more adroit. That's what it looks like. For a good five minutes, I stare at the unlit cylinder of death. I must really love mom a lot for me to be doing this abhorrent thing. But the only way to get mom's attention will be to show some proficiency, so here goes. The flame erupts, the dangling cigarette stiffens to meet it, and Houston - we have ignition.
Like this morning, I simply hold the first puff in my mouth for a couple of seconds and then blow it out. Again that bitter taste, but noticeably less harsh than mom's cigarettes. I take a second similar puff and then decide to go for it. A very measured puff, my mouth opening a bit, and then the inhale is complete. It is again jarring to my lungs but not cough-inducing. I hold it for maybe two seconds and release a nice little stream. It looks exactly like warm breath on a winter's day. If it weren't so stinky and bad for you, it might even seem like fun.
Encouraged by this success, I take another and another. Each successive inhale is slightly more ambitious and I even feel the tickle of a little smoke escaping via my nostrils. I'm about ready for a seventh or eight attempt, cigarette already upon my lips, when my body rebels. It isn't my stomach so much this time as my head beginning to swirl. Though barely half smoked, this adventure is done for the moment and the less than fully spent cigarette is history.
I'm not sick - just a bit dizzy. I guess putting poison into your body will do that. I do take some comfort - almost a perfidious pride - however in the knowledge that I can now inhale respectably and that I would soon be able to coerce mom with that fact. As it turns out the opportunity was very near at hand.
I was having a shitty day at work. Selling real estate does not always expose you to humanity's finest. And in today's world, you can't even risk smoking in your own car lest you offend someone. I spent three and a half hours with a couple from the bible belt who were being transferred to the Metro. I smiled a lot but fidgeted even more because of course I had a "situation" to deal with tonight.
The first dilemma will be how to prevent her inhaling from trapping me. I'll have to feign serious contrition and offer up some concessions. The end game, however, will be to prolong her indentureship until she gets hooked. Here I must be clever. One step into the house and it is evident that she's already been smoking. That can only mean that she was rehearsing. Pretty likely that I'll now have to acknowledge that she inhales. On the other hand, she's really playing right into my hands - she's now one more cigarette down addiction alley.
A fresh pack of Marlboro Light 100's confirms many things. Yes, she has been smoking today; yes, she'll be exhibiting inhales shortly; and yes, this game will be hardball. For the moment, I'll steer the conversation elsewhere. "Dinner ready honey?" I queried refraining from grabbing my pre-meal cigarette and escalating too soon. A couple of shrugs and nods and dinner is on. It is quick and quiet - no different than most evenings.
Routinely, Naomi cleans off the table while I have a smoke and I then do the dishes later. Tonight begins no differently but she is unusually prompt with her end. Ninety seconds of schlepping and she's back at the table with cigarettes and lighter in hand - and apparently intent upon sharing my ashtray. I say nothing pending her performance. I watch and wait.
"So I guess we'll be smoking together, huh mom? Maybe we can get adjoining cemetery plots too?" I begin tapping out a second white filtered Marlboro Light 100. With the last one now two hours before, the queasiness is gone. I think that maybe a full stomach will help too. A little tentatively I place the cigarette upon my lips and then meet it with the flicked Bic as mom is compelled to watch. I waste no time and inhale the initial drag and do so flawlessly. It isn't gargantuan but it goes in and out uneventfully - even maybe looks somewhat accomplished. She notices. Knight to Queen's pawn.
Very interesting. Her third cigarette (I think) and she's already smoothing out the edges. "So clearly we need to talk, don't we?" I begin. "I can see that you're going to call my bluff. I have to admit that you're inhaling. Those baby puffs aren't going to do much damage but you've proven your point. And of course you do realize that you hold all of the cards because nothing is more important to me than your health. Can you give me a couple of days to decide how I'm going to quit?" And I sound so sincere, I almost buy my own act. What is important, however, is that Naomi buys it - hook, line, and sinker.
Well, I've got her seriously thinking. I guess I shouldn't be surprised that she needs a couple of days to quit since she has been smoking for twenty years or more. I'll just need to have a couple per day to keep her honest. And thus I responded, "That's reasonable but, of course, I'll be smoking for those two days because if I don't, I don't trust you to quit". Again, it was obvious that I had the upper hand and in a couple of days we'd both be ex-smokers.
"I can understand how you'd feel that way. It's Tuesday night right now. I'll have my plan in place by Saturday morning. Please don't make me feel guilty by smoking too much in the interim. Does that work for you, Naomi?"
"I guess so. Do you think that my Marlboro Lights will last that long?" Of course I'm joking, because I only have to smoke one or two per day in order to show mom that I mean business. And to do that, I only need to smoke when she's home. That should be a cakewalk. Mom just smiles and then thanks me for caring so much about her. She is really responding.
We are talking to each other in a way that we haven't in months. She even offers me a small glass of wine, which seems like a good idea. And I even decide to have a second cigarette with it. And I can tell by her disapproving look, as I take a fairly deep draw, that my plan is well on its way. As much as I hate to say this though, accompanying the wine, I don't hate that second cigarette nearly so much. It's almost like they were meant for each other.
The wine was a masterful tactic. While I couldn't be too obvious, I'd be sure to use it with some frequency. Alcohol is a lubricant that will almost always encourage that second cigarette. Drops resistance and the taste chemistry just plain works. Complementary drugs. While she wasn't aware of it, she smoked the second cigarette in much the casual manner that a committed smoker would. This game was almost too easy.
Wednesday and Thursday evening are formula. Mom comes home, lights up a cigarette, I join her then and then again right after dinner. Both evenings I pretty much entirely finish the early cigarette, but bail on the second one half way down. Not because I'm sick or anything, but I just want to be careful. I know how bad this is for me and I just don't want to hurt myself too much. Never the less, I am smoking and inhaling consistently and my exhales look kind of cool - well not really cool in the sense of a good thing, but more like in the sense of being competent - not like some complete novice or something. At lease not embarrassing.
It's now Friday afternoon. I just got home and I'm bored. I'm working on a Cajun Chicken Caesar Salad for dinner and there's nothing to do. No homework at all, nothing on the tube, and not much to read. I'm feeling just kind of antsy when I spot my cigarettes. For some weird reason it occurs to me that I should have one. Now I don't really know what I mean by that either. Should I have one to practice or have one to let mom know that she needs to get down to business or have one just because I want to?
Rather than ponder, I light one up and immediately realize I'm feeling a bit strangely - like DOWN THERE. You know what I mean - kind of damp and itchy. I may be straight laced, but not that straight laced. I do know how to deal with this problem. I head into the bathroom, the cigarette still dangling from my lips as I urgently unfasten my jeans. And as I touch myself, I concurrently take a still hands-free drag off the cigarette and, peeking in the mirror, see smoke billowing from my nostrils. I get even hotter. A warm chill runs throughout my body, launched by the nicotine and furthered by my dancing digits.
I've never come that fast and I've never come that hard. I'm so tempted to get another cigarette and go for an encore but the thought itself is distressing. It must have been some kind of weird accident. I continue about my duties the rest of the afternoon but can never quite regain emotional control of my thoughts. Even my fresh panties are already damp. Maybe at bedtime?
Mom is right on time which is absolutely unheard of on a Friday night. She's been to the liquor store as evidenced by two chardonnays and a pinot noir. She also seems to think that she's smuggled an unseen carton of Marlboro 100's into the house, but they don't evade my eyes. We obviously have a lot left to talk about - but that is for morning. Tonight will be far more enjoyable, if we don't fight and she shares the chardonnay.
And she does offer me wine right off and I accept - and tonight it is more than a splash. We have a full glass each along with our cigarettes. Mom is in a really good mood for some reason and we laugh more than we have in years. She tells me about her day and her clients and how glad she is to be home with me. And for a change the feeling is mutual.
When she has a second pre-dinner cigarette, so do I - and this time there was no reaction. It was almost like she doesn't notice. And somehow that doesn't bother me nearly so much as it would have a couple of days ago. And inexplicably, I haven't reach for this cigarette to spite her, but rather because I want to have one. The wine simply demands it.
The light fragrance of smoke was again apparent when I got home - not in the kitchen but in the back of the house - back in the bathroom - and no telltale butt in evidence anywhere. I wonder? And again the wine is playing its catalytic role - she's relaxing a lot. It's also evident that smoking is becoming a good bit more comfortable for her. She's finishing every cigarette now and often dragging rather nonchalantly - seemingly with little or no forethought. Looking at her, you'd swear that she been smoking months - not just days. This may be even easier than I thought.
I compliment her on her excellent salad and even volunteer to both clean up and wash the dishes tonight. She gladly accepts and we're both on our third cigarette and third glass of wine in short order. She reaches a fourth cigarette with the third glass while I refused to let up until the bottle is gone (two more glasses) and accompany each with a couple of cigarettes.
She switches to soda, but just as I'm killing off the wine, she lights up yet one more cigarette. My forced disapproving glare was giggled away - first by her and then by me. We both surrender knowingly to the wine but nicotine's victory is not yet understood - not by her anyway. To see her deep inhales and seductively languid exhales, already conjures up a 1940's movie. She's going to drive some guys wild and initially she may not even know why.
But morning isn't far away and now we'll need to reach an accord. She needs to believe that it will result in me quitting and I need to know that it will result in her starting. The past evening has left me comfortable of victory - but I can't be cocky. She isn't likely to revert, but I can't be sure. "Morning honey. Coffee?" I greet her. Another secret weapon. She's about to have her first "morning coffee with cigarette" - that tabernacle that all smokers worship at. Another wondrous drug interaction.
Mom's ashtray is already well used when I get up. This should be very disappointing to me since this is "treaty morning" but somehow I don't find myself all that disappointed. More like confused. I retrieve my cigarettes and fire one up quickly. I inhale more deeply than usual and linger longer before exhaling. The smoke seems to spread wide and warm within - filling unexplored recesses, including you know where. I almost don't want to exhale.
I do this a second time as well and then take my first sip of coffee. The tastes entwine. Maybe two wrongs don't make a right but the distinctly different bitter tastes magnificently complement each other. It isn't the first cup of coffee that I've truly enjoyed, but it is the first truly enjoyable cigarette. And in that sense, makes it also the best cup of coffee I've ever had.
I light a second Marlboro Light 100 still without mention of the planned topic and this time I find myself fixated upon my own smoking. I notice how long and firm the white burning cylinder is as I hold it quite erectly between my fore and middle fingers - much as - no precisely as - mom does. On the next puff, I more consciously part my lips in an oval as I inhale. I allow the smoke to linger, momentarily exposed, before pulling it deep within. And beyond a pregnant pause, I expel a confluent mouth and nostril exhale that is at once both smooth and ample. It's almost like there's an art form buried within this ritual.
No longer do I seem aware of the smell I had so hated but rather am now conscious of a taste I'm growing to like. Leafing through the morning Times, I take many more luxurious drags and offer back one leisurely exhale after another. Oh well. The conversation would soon be upon us.
I have to keep the victory smile off of my face. That could be the one move that would scuttle this deal. Naomi doesn't recognize it - at least I don't think she does - but she is already hooked. I just had to pull her in. I begin "I'm ready to quit" looking to see her reaction. It isn't the elation expected earlier in the week which is obviously pleasing. More of a detached listening. "It will take me a little while however. I figure about four to six weeks with use of the patches and all. I'll cut down from two packs to one immediately and then by five per day for each of the next four weeks. That's the best that I can offer." She shows no sign of either disappointment or disapproval.
"Then that's what you should do" I respond feeling some peculiar sense of relief. Five weeks will give me ample time to finish my experiment and quit as well - even though right now I'm lighting up my third cigarette of the young morning. "Of course I'll continue to smoke until you do quit", I pronounced. She protests lightly but the matter is closed.
For the first time, I'm beginning to see two sides to this conversation. I can certainly understand how mom might find it difficult to just quit cold turkey. I do feel that I owe her some kind of grace period. And the fact that I'll have to smoke during the interim - well, that's just the price of being a loving daughter. And I guess that means I'll have to get another pack of cigarettes tomorrow or Monday.
Having finished my last Marlboro Light 100 after dinner last night, it's now after school on Monday and I'm back at the same Mobil Mini-Mart. "Marlboro Light 100's - two boxes please" I hear myself saying and the same kid again complies. He works a little harder at striking up a conversation today and given that he's cute and I'm in no hurry, I respond. Maybe five minutes in, he says to me "You know it's okay if you want to have a cigarette here".
Well, I haven't had a cigarette since the one I bummed from mom at breakfast - she was very stern about it, but she did lend me a couple after I ran out last night and another one this morning - so what the hell. Even though I've never smoked in public, this place is off the beaten path and I'm unlikely to be exposed. And for that matter, what if I am?
And the weirdest thing happens. First he pulls out a lighter and his hand is shaking, he's so anxious to light it for me - and then he can't take his eyes off of me. Talk about feeling self-conscious. Every drag mesmerizes him and when I do the open mouth swallow, I can tell the poor guy is about to lose it. My breasts seem to swell as I inhale and he seems to think so too, given the undivided attention he pays them. I suspect, just below counter level, he's in full salute mode.
So apparently I'm not the only one who gets turned on by smoking, I conclude - and find myself now also aroused. First, crushing out the cigarette amid a stream of smoke sent in his direction, and then resisting the urge to simply offer myself counter top, it's time to get home - FAST.
I've only "borrowed" mom's "toy" a couple of times but today will be one of them. Vibrator, cigarettes, and lighter and I'm in business. Reclining on the sofa with the curtain now drawn, I light up and take copious drags largely exhaling through my nose as I begin to penetrate. The rush is amazing as one wave of orgasms is supplanted by an even greater wave. I turn on the TV just to drown out my screams. You know, I think to myself, if I'm this good maybe it's time to try on a guy.
Need I explain that this becomes a daily ritual? When you've found Nirvana, you don't just discard it. Over the next couple of weeks the days without a good orgasm are few and many days allow for multiple sessions. And nicotine isn't just a complement, but rather an ingredient - an increasingly vital and enjoyable component of self-pleasuring.
There is one problem however. Mom. She's living up to her end of the bargain. She's clearly smoking less. Some nights now it seems like I smoke just about as many cigarettes as she does. On Fridays and Saturdays, when we enjoy our wine, I go through half a dozen cigarettes a night and then always a couple more with morning coffee. She seems to think that I'm smoking four to six cigarettes a day, but what with my clitoral adventures, I'm polishing off a pack every two days lately. And as a bonus, getting to know convenience store clerk Curtis, well in the process.
My desire to see her stop has practically abated. Maybe I've gone too far. Maybe I have been unreasonable with her. Maybe I should slow things down a little. Allow her a little more time to quit. Maybe I've trapped myself. No - I've absolutely trapped myself here. So how do I get out of it?
The game formally lasted another two and a half weeks, but the look in her eyes when she stated that she would smoke during my withdrawal, was all that I needed to know. By early the third week, Naomi was smoking seven to ten cigarettes a day during the school week and even more with me on the weekend. I made sure that I audited her packs when she wasn't looking.
She had an easy two hundred cigarettes behind her now and that's double my original goal - double what researchers consider the light addiction level and approaching a level of more serious commitment. I was pleasantly surprised by her uptake and, by week three when I was to be down to ten, we were theoretically on an even plane. Of course, I was never truly down to ten. I was cheating like crazy - I never truly got below twenty-five - but I did manage my smoking at home.
It's now been three weeks and I'm getting hooked. I know it but mom doesn't seem to realize it. If she did, I'm sure she'd pick up her timetable to prevent it. It's now Sunday and this morning we go to Mia Tia's for Huevos Rancheros. When the waiter asks "smoking or non" I look at mom and shrug "smoking", and then realize that I'm not carrying my cigarettes. Why should I - I never have - but that makes me very uncomfortable and, that it makes me very uncomfortable, makes me very, very uncomfortable.
I think mom can tell outright that something is wrong. I fidget a lot as she smokes before breakfast and outright bum one of her Marlboro 100's immediately after breakfast. While I can now handle them, they still seem awfully harsh. None-the-less, the nicotine is welcomely greeted by every pore of my several hour, deprived body and greets warmly its warm buddy, caffeine.
As I reach for a second Marlboro 100, she slips me twelve quarters and nods toward the cigarette machine where I quickly proceed. Dropping the change rapidly into the machine, I feel many eyes upon me but unlikely because of my age. As I retrieve a pack of my own Marlboro Light 100's and return to the table, the focus of attention is mostly upon my leather skirt and spike heels. And the attention feels rather pleasant, but less pressing than my sudden need for a cigarette.
I have the pack flipped open and an already slightly lipstick-stained, Marlboro Light 100 hungrily dangling from my lips as I return to the table. Dipping forward to meet mom's extended Calibri flame, I inhale deeply and, in turn, give her a reflexive "thanks" as if this were nothing out of the ordinary. Well, come to think of it, maybe she does have some idea that my position on smoking may be changing. What if she quits and I'm hooked? Wouldn't that be the weirdest?
Wednesday night, the white flag flies. I come home to a very smoky house - and again the odor is strongest around the bathroom. On a hunch, I check my nightstand drawer and feel certain the vibrator had been relocated. After dinner - where we both have a pair of cigarettes - Naomi goes to her room to study. While she may have taken her cigarettes in there on another occasion, tonight it is blatant.
She leaves the table with her cigarettes and lighter, confiscates the living room ashtray for her own, and rifles a fresh, back-up pack of Marlboro Light 100's out of her purse along the way. Sublimely, I give her about an hour alone and then pay her a visit. The recently clean ashtray already has four fresh butts. "Do you think we need to talk about anything?" I ask, with a smug little smile.
Wednesday was the day. I knew that I was about to eat crow. I love smoking. I look forward to getting up in the morning and starting my day with coffee and cigarettes and then returning home from school and having a couple more cigarettes - not to mention maybe a little orgasm or two. Lunch hours, though, are beginning to get a little shaky. I guess even that is just a matter of time. Smoking - I mean - not sex.
Evenings with mom are just so mush more cool with us both smoking, sharing a little wine, and finally talking to each other - more like friends now than mother and daughter. I didn't even mind the risk of being caught in the restaurant. I care more about smoking than I do about being seen as a smoker. It just feels so right, so adult, so exquisite. My body just tingles and craves the next cigarette. It makes no logical sense, but it's so.
And that other stuff - fucking amazing. I can't believe the rush and the orgasms that come when I smoke and play with myself. I look in the mirror and see myself panting and encased in a smoky haze, and then I explode all over. Some days I've come four and five times and my lungs feel blissful filled with warn smoke. It just makes no sense and I can't believe it, but it's true.
"Oh hi mom. Want to talk?" I respond amid a speaking exhale. Taking another satisfying pull on my cigarette, I continue, smoke streaming from my nose, "About this, I suppose" waving my cigarette in her direction. "I've kind of decided to get off your case about smoking. I hardly know how to say this, given how I've been, but I guess you were right. No matter how bad it might be for you, for us I guess I mean, it's nothing compared to how good it feels. I'm pretty sure I'm already hooked and I don't even care. I kind of even like the idea. Surrendering to something pleasurable, I mean" thinking now of more than just smoking.
"Would it be okay with you if we just drop the whole topic? And could you maybe add a carton of Marlboro Light 100's to your shopping list? Good night mom. I really love you and I just hope you aren't disappointed in me."
Not at all dear. Not at all.