Monday, November 25, 2013

Smoking Fetish: My own Love-Affair with Smoke

It all began simply enough: I'd been a smoker since age 13, when my older brother handed me a Marlboro Red as we stood across the street from our highschool, wearing our ROTC uniforms.

I felt so cool, so accepted, so promoted.
I loved the way the smoke curled inside of me,
the way I had something to do with my hands,
and the way I felt like a tough, capable woman while smoking.

Yes, I'm aware of the cancerous side effects.
Yes, I'm aware of the horrible damage I did to my lungs, larynx, and vocal folds.

But, hot damn.
Nothing beats smoking.

Nothing compares to the power of the french inhale from across the bar when men are staring.

Nothing compares to the rush of winter in NYC at 2 am when you're covered in a fine sheen of sweat, but you're still out on the street breathing in all the joy of the evening with each puff.

Nothing, and I mean absolutely nothing, compares to feeling your body explode in orgasm, then tasting that first mint-tinged drag.

So, for those of you with a smoking fetish, I get it.
I'm right there with you.
I love the way I look with a cigarette, and I love the way I feel when men watch me smoke.
I love ashing into a perfectly clean crystal ashtray, held by a man who only lives to watch me blow smoke in his face.
I love wearing thin black leather gloves and never needing to light my own cigarette, as I relax.

I love the curl, the wisp, the secret inherent to every breath.

I love that I look more than slightly villainous when I enjoy, slowly, the thick haze that surrounds me during a long night at the bar.


I've since moved on to vapor, and have found that, with only a few brands, can I achieve the same sensations and look of the real thing.
The above picture is actually an eCig, and it does a lovely job of giving me my fix without tearing up my lungs.

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