Magic moment

She slid into the driver’s seat of the big SUV beside my parked car and in a moment, a slender white cylinder was balanced in her fingers.

A second later, it rested comfortably in the loving grip of her pretty lips.

She carried no fancy lighter, not even a matchbook – or if she did, she didn’t bother with them. The car lighter would do just fine. She held its red-hot circle to the tip of her cigarette and concentrated.

Such a delightful sight, always, such a delicious thing to contemplate.

When a girl first places a cigarette in her lips – maybe at some teenage slumber party or in the girls’ bathroom at school, or as late as some college study session, she doesn’t really need it. She has no idea how it will make her feel. She is satisfying only curiosity or the urgent desire to fit in.
But soon enough, she needs it. And she learns there is no pleasure like smoking. Nothing like the comfort of a cigarette in her fingers, stylish and slender, the accoutrement of a glamourous lady with disdain for the strictures of society. Nothing like warm, rich smoke filling her lungs. Nothing like answering her body’s hunger for nicotine.

And thus comes a magic moment such as I was privileged to see. Need calls, knocking on her acetycholine receptors. Urgent as the need for sleep at the end of an exhausting day, urgent as the call to scratch an itch, urgent as her daily need to release her cotinine-infused liquid gold, she wants a cigarette and she will have a cigarette.

The flame singes the tobacco, her lips close tight upon the filter tip, her diaphragm contracts and a breath of vital air – oh blessed molecules – is drawn into her lungs, saturated with sweet cigarette smoke.

In seven seconds, nicotine reaches her brain and her pleasure centers light up. She is rewarded. Again and again, she will kiss the cigarette to her lips and inhale, until her beautiful body has reached equilibrium.

If he is lucky, her lover will be close at hand, able to enjoy the sight and fragrance of her pleasure, bathed in her exhales of smoke – in their car with his window firmly closed or in the warm, intimate darkness of their bedroom. He will kiss her smoky lips and his desire for her will burn hotter than the cherry of her cigarette. He will caress her breasts and sweet soft bottom and luscious loins, and add to the pleasures that are surging through her nerves.

Being a woman should indeed be all about pleasure. Pure indulgence. I dream of a Utopia where a tax upon all men provides women smokers with their daily cigarettes for free, where cigarettes do not cause the long-term harm that does in fact trouble me, despite my capnolagniac passion, and where a woman is perfectly free to light up anywhere she pleases – in the office, in an elevator, a school, wherever she may be.