My fetish had killed a highly promising relationship

My fetish had killed a highly promising relationship. There was no escaping that conclusion. Sherri never returned my calls. The day when I was going to toss all of my pictures and videos loomed larger on the horizon, and finally, I swore that I would just learn to ignore it. After all, most of the smokers I had seen recently were smoking short, fat, cork-tipped cigarettes like truck drivers. They didn’t even provide the barest thrill. I thought that would make it easy to wean myself.

Perversely, that trend chose to end about a week into my “anti-fetish program.” Without changing my normal movements and activities, I encountered a prolonged run of excellent sightings. I stopped at an outdoor cafe to have a beer on my way home from work. The cute waitress who had served me sat down at another table.

She removed a box of Virginia Slims Ultra Lights, and took a deep pull. Even with the slight breeze, I could see the smoke flowing through her pursed lips. She held the cigarette horizontally, resting her elbow on the table until the next puff. She drew steadily for several seconds, lifted her chin, and exhaled again.

“No, no, NO!!! Ignore her!” my rational mind screamed, and I turned away to watch the cars on the street, fighting the urge to watch my waitress finish her break. I had willpower. I would make it.

Three days later, we had an after work Friday happy hour to say good-bye to one of our secretaries. I discovered that her replacement, who had been in training during the week, smoked Carlton 120 Menthols.

The cute young redhead said she was trying to quit, but her drags, long and deep, were followed by a pouting, perfect stream exhale through her lips. Given the fact that she was smoking Carltons, it seemed that every time I saw her, she was lighting one of the extra-long white cigarettes. Arghh. More temptation. I found the most avid anti-smokers and hung out with them, not daring to look.

It didn’t stop there. I went to the symphony the next night; at intermission, I almost died. Elegantly dressed women of all ages were puffing away. On my left, two smokers chatted away, waving and dragging on all-white cigarettes. To my right, there were several young women congregating. But did they smoke Camels or something equally unattractive? No such luck.

One girl pulled out a pack of More Light Menthols, and two others took cigarettes from the pack, but another pulled out a pack of Virginia Slims Superslims. I had to move before I saw what everybody else in the group smoked. I headed for the men’s room. That was no relief.

In the line for the adjoining ladies’ room were six female smokers with assorted sexy brands. Virginia Slim 120’s (Sherri’s brand–STOP THAT!), Virginia Slim Lights, Benson and Hedges Deluxe Ultra Lights, another Capri or Superslim smoker, someone else with something all-white, and a woman removing a long, white cigarette from a case. Nature won out over the urge to find a different bathroom, but I was glad that several of the women had disappeared by the time I got finished.

I went for a drink. A beautiful young oriental woman was sitting next to the bar, glass of wine in one hand, and what was obviously a freshly lit Capri 120 in the other, held gracefully between her slender fingers. She took a drag, french-inhaled, turned her head in my direction, and casually exhaled a thick plume of smoke.

I felt myself thicken as I watched, fascinated. She seemed absorbed in her own thoughts, taking leisurely draws punctuated with french-inhales, holding the slender cylinder with a limp-wristed grace until her date returned. My heart was beating rapidly. The lights flashed, fortunately, and I hastily headed back to my seat, not risking a look at any of the women who were finishing their final drags.

It was difficult, but I managed to calm myself enough by bedtime that I could go to sleep without dreaming of any of the sights.

This didn’t let up during the week, either. Dee, the new secretary, smoked right outside the entrance to the building. I had to watch her and those damned long cigarettes every time I went in or out. I would stand and talk with her, not wanting to seem stand-offish. I relentlessly threw myself into my work, fighting the urge to find an excuse to see Dee smoke again. I called Sherri. She still didn’t call back.

On the platform at the train station, that day, I saw a nurse light a Salem Slim Light and take a huge draw. Her exhale was dissipated by the breeze. I thanked whatever deity for small favors, because she exhaled forever, but the smoke was scattered instantly. The rest of the week passed without major temptations, except for Dee. Her efforts at quitting were going nowhere.

Friday, I tried Sherri for the hundredth time since we broke up. As usual, her answering machine took the message. As usual, she didn’t call back.

By Saturday, I was going stir crazy, and resolved to go out to my usual haunt. Mark, one of my dart buddies showed up about a half-hour after I did. With his sister Jackie, and her roommate, Anne — Her stunning, raven-haired friend, Anne; her drop-dead gorgeous goddess of a friend, Anne. They were staying at Mark’s while visiting our town from Arizona for the weekend.

Jackie was a cute, short brunette, but Anne was damn near a walking wet dream. Her hair came down to the middle of her back, her chest was perfectly in proportion to the rest of her, and her jeans accented her firm, shapely ass.

The torture started almost immediately after the introductions; Jackie pulled a box of Saratoga 120’s regulars from her pocket and placed them on the table.

Mark said something about “teams and 501.”

It barely registered that Anne and I would be on a team against him and Jackie, as I waited in suspense for her to take one out. Cork tip, yes, but long and elegant. It was my turn to throw, however, so, I took the line. My first dart was a 20. Not bad, just a little high… “Jackie, can I have a light?”

The dart landed squarely in the middle of 1 as Anne’s question destroyed my concentration. The next hurried shot was a 5; I wanted to see Anne smoking a Saratoga 120. When I turned, she was holding a long, brown, slender cigarette. The silver pack on the table was unfamiliar. “More Light 120’s Menthol” it said.

Anne took a drag, then slowly snap-inhaled, exhaling skyward, with the sexiest, dreamiest expression on her face. Jackie laughed, “You’d better stop distracting your partner, Anne. This always happens when we throw darts.” My panic at being caught smoke-watching subsided as I realized that she thought I was just looking at Anne like half of the other men in the room were. Anne took another drag and I was speechless.

Jackie came back from throwing, lit her Saratoga, then exhaled a thick stream through her nose. Anne did a combination nasal/oral exhale. Jackie took a deep drag, breasts rising, and smoke streamed from her nostrils, then she opened her mouth and let the rest of the smoke roll out… Darts? What’s that? I shot like shit in 501.

I was too busy watching twin smoking performances that were so sexy that I almost came in my pants. Ed, sign these gals up, I thought. They’d sell a ton of videos.

Anne’s last drag from her first cigarette was awesome. It began as a pursed-lip, thick-stream exhale, but then she played with the remaining smoke, using her lips and tongue to pop out tiny, continuous, ruffled clouds. We won most of the games we played as a doubles team. Why? Because Anne was a very good player, and my head cleared enough for me to keep up.

She also affected most of the teams we played against, because guys I knew well were missing shots they could hit with their eyes closed. But the picture of her standing poised to throw, her long black hair straight down her spine, a long, brown cigarette between her lips glowing as she completed her turn, had burned itself into my memory.

The way that Anne would finish her turn, drag on the cigarette, then draw in some air before her slow exhale into the air had me tied up by my fetish. That night, I lay in bed, watching Jackie and Anne and the oriental girl from the symphony… Just before my orgasm hit, I saw another woman. “Sherri!” I cried as my back arched off the bed.

The battle between my willpower and the fetish was clearly decided the following weekend. After Saturday’s lapse, I had managed to regain my equilibrium, even though it looked like sexy smokers were coming out of the woodwork to test me.

Wednesday, there was Jane, whom I met for dinner. She was a friend of a friend who wanted me to design a web page for her business. Slightly pear-shaped, with circular, narrow rimmed glasses, and straight-thin blonde hair, she was not remarkable-looking. At least until a full pack of Max 120 Menthol hit the floor as she reached in her purse for her card. “Oh!!! Do you mind if we sit in smoking?” Of course not.

Jane did have a very relaxed style, although she held the cigarette almost out of sight, arm fully extended by her hips. She swallowed the smoke before exhaling a thin stream off to the side. I shoved the visions of her out of my head once I had gotten home. Jeez, had every woman in town switched to 120’s?

I was almost hoping to see nothing but cork-tip, short and fat-cigarette, unstylish smokers for the next few days. The final confrontation came Saturday night. I went out to a coffeehouse to watch some friends play music. It was a big coffeehouse; the furniture was mostly comfortable sofas and chairs with some tables around. The band played softly from the stand. Almost all the patrons were smoking. There was a group of young kids dressed in black; one girl put a black cigarette into a black holder to light.

I looked away, but I should have left right then.

A slim, middle-aged woman near the bandstand took an easy, infinite draw on an Eve 120 to light it. Her exhale was languid and nasal. Two couples were playing cards at a table. All four had cigars. One of the women took a draw on her slim, long panatela. She leaned back in her chair, and produced thick, near-perfect smoke rings in slow, easy succession.

I found a seat at the coffee bar, giving myself a view of almost every female smoker in the place. Old habits die hard. About an hour later, a very pretty woman in a brightly colored sun dress came in, and sat down next to me. She crossed her legs and swiveled the high backed chair to watch the band. Magnificent legs, and a very distinctive face. Her eyes had that perpetual “Fuck me” look. Sandy hair, neatly cut around the shoulders.

I pretended not to look as we sat next to each other in silence for the next few minutes, just listening to the music. She reached into her purse and my heart began to beat faster. She produced a box–I couldn’t tell what brand, or even if they were cigarettes, but kept rummaging around in her purse.

I picked up a nearby box of wooden matches. “Do you need a light?” I asked. She stopped searching, looked at me, and smiled, “Yes. Thank you.” She opened the box and removed a cork-tipped, brown cigarette. I looked at the box once I had lit the match. Nat Sherman’s Phantoms. So uncommon that they rank as incredibly sexy. Especially in this woman’s fingers.

“My name is Liz,” she offered, along with her hand. I introduced myself, explaining that I was here to watch the band. She was meeting some friends. I watched Liz’s next puff carefully. It was an easy draw, short, but deep. She exhaled with her head upturned, her legs still crossed, sending a narrow stream into the air.

I indicated the box. “Nat Sherman’s. Wow, I don’t meet many people who smoke those,” I said, hoping to start a smoking conversation. Old habits. “Oh, yeah,” she replied. “These are the only kind I smoke, even if I have to order them by mail from New York. I like the MCD’s, too.”

Her smile was dazzling, her pose lust-inspiring. “Besides, I like the color.”

I asked her about Mores.

“No, they’re too skinny, and the wrong brown color.”

We chatted while she smoked, moving beyond cigarettes into what we did for a living. After she finished her Phantom, Liz said, “Well, I need to go find my friends. We were supposed to meet here, but I bet they’re somewhere nearby that serves beer. Are you going to be here long, Doug?”

I said that I didn’t know; it depended on the music and how tired I got, but probably not.

“Well, maybe I’ll drop in a little later. See ya!” It was a little after ten.

By one-thirty, the crowd had thinned. It had been a wonderful night of sightings, particularly for me, holder freak that I am. The girls in the group of goths all had cigarette holders and had smoked Camel Lights or black clove cigarettes in them. I had seen three more female cigar smokers, and the Eve 120 lady was still there, with her wonderful, lazy, all-nasal exhales. She had been joined by a younger, rounder, larger-breasted Marlboro Light 100 smoker with a really cool style. So I had no lack of amusement, and the coffee buzz eliminated any fatigue.

I had been hoping Liz would show back up, but I really didn’t think she would. Right then, the breakfast that one of my friends in the band had ordered arrived. Looking at it made me hungry, so I decided to stay around for breakfast. Near the end of my meal, I heard a somewhat familiar voice behind me ask, “Can I have a light?”

There stood Liz, looking as fuckable as ever, her eyes sparkling, with a Phantom between her fingers. I found a match, and watched her first long draw as she sat next to me. Her legs barely registered as she exhaled, chin raised; the stream of smoke coming out was a little thicker than earlier. Something else started to get thick. “So, did you stay for the food?” she teased.

I replied, “The coffee here is really good, so I’m not the least bit sleepy now.”

Liz took a drag, and some smoke came out of her nostrils before she finished it. The exhale was sent into the air in a stream, same as before. I forced myself to keep my mind on pleasant conversation.

“What is there for insomniacs and caffeine speeders around here once this place closes?” Liz took a drag, popping a ball of smoke back into her mouth before exhaling in her habitual style. “Not much, really. After three, you either go to the Waffle House or home. But you’ve already had breakfast, I see,” she smiled.

We continued to talk until well after the band had packed up and left. I noticed that it was getting awful late. It was almost closing time. Liz was smoking another Phantom, still displaying her magnificent legs, but she was rolling smoke back into her mouth with each drag now. “Well, it’s getting late. Can you do me a favor? I parked at the other end of the strip here, and it’s gotten pretty chilly. Could you give me a ride to my car?”

When we got into my car, Liz placed her hand squarely on my crotch. “Do you know how flattering and distracting this is?” she breathed. “Doug, I know I’m hot, and I know that guys look all the time. But you–” She patted it. “–Spent almost an entire night with a hard-on for me, and didn’t say anything about it. Are you bashful?”

“No, Liz, I’m not bashful, but I just met you tonight,” I replied. “I usually don’t make passes at women I don’t really know.”

“Would you turn me down? I gotta tell you, looking at that bulge grow for me has made me feel really sexy. And it’s got me thinking what it looks like, and what it feels like…” Her voice became quiet and throaty. “I was mentally undressing you for the last fifteen minutes in the club.” Funny. That was the last time she had smoked a Phantom. Imagine that. “But–my roommate is home, so we can’t go there, and I know you live a half-hour away from here,” she sighed.

Mr. Visa to the rescue. There was a Motel 6 nearby. She lit a cigarette while I was paying for the room. Once we had gotten in, Liz sat on the bed with her Phantom and took another easy drag. She gasped in surprise as I snatched off my pants and underwear. My cock sprang free, fully erect. “Already–” I hastily put a rubber on and pulled her onto me.

She didn’t bother to put the cigarette down, took a drag, and I got REALLY hard. I saw her eyes open wide, and we went at it. Liz yelped and rolled and bucked and churned. I grunted, thrusting upwards with all my might.

This episode repeated itself about an hour later. Liz was having a cigarette, I got hard, and she climbed on top again while smoking. The cork tip and brown cigarette were unbelievably exciting for me, as well as having her smoke while riding. She couldn’t smoke very long though–Liz had to drop the Sherman into the ashtray after a couple more shallow puffs and fucked me long and hard. I had a MAJOR orgasm. I think Liz did, too.

She wasn’t there when I woke up. She left me a note that said, “Thanks for the great time! You sure know how to make a girl feel sexy. Hope they don’t charge you for another night’s stay!”

They did, because I checked out at two-thirty that afternoon. My body hurt. Liz hadn’t left me a phone number, which I took as a big hint. But the image of her and her Nat Sherman Phantoms still made my cock twitch. As I lay in the tub at home soaking my aching muscles, it was obvious that I couldn’t ignore the fetish. So, Sherri was lost, but there were other women out there, and some of them were sexy smokers. If I was lucky, I’d find one of my very own someday.

Life pretty much went back to normal after that; Dee had switched to Misty Menthol 120’s, giving up on quitting for the moment. I enjoyed seeing her and chatting while she smoked. The doorway was always too breezy to check out much more than her handling, though. Otherwise, I saw the usual bunch of Camel smokers and their truck-driving ways. Except, of course, at the symphony.

I still had dreams about Sherri, though. Four months, several sexy smokers, Liz, and they still hadn’t stopped. I had, however, stopped calling her. One Friday after work, as I debated whether to go looking for Liz or whether to stay close to home, there was a knock on my door. I looked out my peephole. Sherri???? What’s she doing here? I opened it. “Hi,” I said, stunned.

“Hi, Doug. Can I come in?” she asked, not really looking at me. I waved her in. “We need to talk,” she announced before sitting down at the table. “How have you been?”

“OK,” I said neutrally. “It’s been over four months, Sherri. I hope you didn’t expect me to wait.”

She nodded. “No, no. I didn’t. In fact, I thought it was over. That I didn’t want to have anything to do with you and your fetish.” She took a deep breath. “I started dating other guys again.”

I shrugged. “It was over. So what happened? Why did you come over now? You never returned my calls, you didn’t say anything one way or the other.” She asked me if I wanted her to leave. “No, Sherri. I’m just trying to understand. I know that my fetish spooked you. But that’s how I am, and it’s not going to change.”

I shrugged.

“I know that,” she quietly replied.

“So why did you come back, given that my fetish makes you feel like a fantasy object?”

She looked me dead in the eye. “Because the other guys I dated never made me feel that–zing!–I get when I’m with you. And it isn’t just sexual, either. There is something about you…” She shook her head. “I don’t know. But I want to find out more about this guy who can make me forget who I’m with. Even after four months.” She looked sheepishly at me. “He was really pissed when I called your name.”

I had to laugh at that. Getting serious, I said, “Y’know, I still dream about you a lot. I missed you, much more than just some fantasy object, Sherri. If I want fantasy, there’s places on the net, videos, and photos galore, not to mention the world-at-large out there.”

A warm smile came to her face. “So, if told you that I quit smoking, you’d still want to go out with me?”

“If you don’t mind my occasional fantasies.” I held up my hand. “I’m being honest here. I tried to learn how to ignore it. It didn’t work.”

“I know that it’s a part of you, Doug. I’m in psych, remember? Lots of guys only go for women with large chests, but it’s not called a fetish, when that’s what it is. It’s only a problem if that’s the only thing that gets you going.” Sherri grinned. “So… have we made up?”

“I think we have.”

“Good,” she giggled. “What do you want to do tonight? I’m starving–oh, and, on the way to dinner, I need to pick up some cigarettes. I ran out. No, I haven’t quit.” She saw me smile. “But you will have to explain this fascination to me some time.”

**

“Some time,” came that evening. Sherri really wanted to know all about my fetish; how it started, when I first noticed it, and what exactly the hell it was. I didn’t really think I could explain it in public or noisy surroundings, so we agreed to go back to my place after we ate. I signed onto Netscape and showed her the commercial sites.

“So it’s not an entirely uncommon fetish,” I said as she watched Holly from CLP do that nasal/oral exhale thing.

She nodded. “I see that there are several sub-fetishes, too. Do you like women who smoke cigars?” I said that it was a little exciting, but not really my main thing. I showed her the pictures I had on the computer. Sherri was surprised at the number of smoking pictures I had. “Why so many photos when there are lots of smokers outside your door?”

**

“Because most women don’t know how to smoke in an alluring fashion,” I replied. “It’s long been my contention that smoking is becoming a lost art; women still smoke, but most of them aren’t particularly feminine about it.” Sherri thought. “I guess then, that you own some videos, since stills don’t quite get it right.”

I nodded, a little surprised at her insight. We were being frank and honest here, so I saw no need to be afraid. “You can’t watch an exhale happen in a photo,” she correctly noted. “It’s kind of like the difference between a dirty picture and a dirty movie. So what excites you the most? And, am I one of the sexy smokers, or the unsexy ones?”

“You’re definitely a sexy one. And it’s natural. You don’t look like you’re thinking about how to make that exhale, or hold that cigarette.” She smiled, eyes sparkling. “As for what excites me the most–I don’t know. I mean, I like women with extra-long cigarettes, or something that doesn’t look like a standard cigarette. I’m also a big fan of women with holders.”

“You got lucky, then, that I smoke the Virginia Slims Luxury Lights,” she said. I nodded, and asked her how she came to smoke that brand, because it’s not one of the more common ones. She smiled. “Well, let’s see, I started smoking Virginia Slims Lights. I had a friend that I would go out with who smoked them, and she’s really the one that taught me how to smoke.” Sherri reached into her purse and removed the pack. “I switched to Virginia Slim Ultra Lights when I started inhaling. For about three months.

I got a pack of Salem Slim Lights from a machine one night. I found out that I didn’t like menthol, though.” She giggled, “I switched to Benson and Hedges Ultra Lights, because that’s what I bought right after I tried the Salem.”

“I was doing OK with those for a while, but one night, I got a wild hair and bought a pack of Mores after I’d seen this one girl with them. They were so long and brown. I liked the way they looked, but I didn’t really like the taste. I smoked them and the Benson and Hedges for a little bit, and after a while, I wanted something–different. I bought a pack of Capri Ultra Lights; I thought they were cute. But they didn’t last long, so I switched to Capris.

Then I found the 120s. I smoked Capri 120s for a couple of months. Then I went to a discount cigarette place one day to buy a carton of Capri 120s, and they had a special on Eve Ultra Lights.

By then, I knew liked longer cigarettes, so I got a carton of the 120s; they were long, and they were ultra light. They were OK, they were cheap, but when I ran out, I didn’t buy another one. I saw the Virginia Slims Luxury Light 120s at the store, and there was a free jacket or something if you bought two cartons. So I did–that was about a year and a half ago. I haven’t tried anything since.” Sherri glanced down. “Oh, my! You do like women who smoke long cigarettes, don’t you?”

She smiled with a gleam of mischief in her eyes, and lit a cigarette. Sherri took her customary smooth draw, and rolled the smoke back in, before exhaling. Her eyes were sparkling. With each intoxicating, mesmerizing puff, she glanced at my increasing erection. She tickled it through my jeans as she dragged again; I thought I was going to explode in my pants. Sherri put out the cigarette. “I’m not gonna waste this…” was the last thing she said before the only noise either of us could make was panting and moaning.

Sherri was having her customary post-sex smoke. “I want you to get me a cigarette holder,” she said. “And I’ll learn to smoke fancy, just for you. But Doug, you are going have to do something for me in return.” “What’s that?”

“Make sure that every time we make love, it’s as good as the first time,” she sighed, sending smoke, backlit, into the air.