The pleasure was mine, all mine.
How I shivered in ecstasy, how I longed for the moment to linger.
Not one but two beautiful cigarettes had been lit, so close beside me on the bench that long ago evening. As one lovely mouth clamped tight and drew in a draught of sweet smoke, indulging her nicotine passion, another mouth was opening in a thick, smoky exhale.
I was bathed in smoke, shrouded in smoke, soaked in smoke, puff after puff, breath after breath – as rich, intoxicating and delicious as the mists that must fill the air of some happy place in heaven. I inhaled the fumes that poured from those lips, inhaled so hard that it hurt, and held the smoky elixir inside of me as long as I possibly could.
We never spoke a word to each other. I had been there when they wandered into the place, for a break from work perhaps, or from a round of shopping. I got up as they approached, because I guessed they might be seeking a place to smoke and I knew they wouldn’t sit there if a cigarette-less person occupied the spot.
They lit up and I immediately sat back down. Which odd move on my part conveyed two possible silent messages: I was a non-smoking jerk who was trying to spoil their cigarette break, like those cranks who sit in smoking sections, scowl and cough. Or, I absolutely, completely, totally, did not mind that they were smoking.
For once in my tortured life, I won. They assumed the latter, as odd as such a notion might be. I was as exultant as a kid at Christmas as they kept right on smoking, paying no heed whatsoever to the fact that their smoke was blowing right in my face. They made no attempt at all to aim their exhales away, or even to hold their cigarettes down to prevent the sidestream smoke from twisting and twining its way into my airspace. I was of as little concern as the armrest on the benches.
Oh, this is how it must have been in the good old days, I thought. Anywhere a woman might have gone in years gone by, she might be expected to bring her cigarette – to the schoolhouse, to the store, to the movies, onto a plane, into the maternity ward -- and as each pleasurable puff left her lips, almost nobody minded where it went.
None but a few inveterate whiners had any problem with enjoying secondhand the fragrant, smoky perfume that every fashionable lady exhaled from lips of deepest red. Fain might a man curse at the aroma of a bakery drifting out onto the street, or the rich leather tones of a new sofa, as to rail at a woman’s heavenly exhale.
But the whiners persisted. And they have won. And today, I went back to that mall, for the first time in a long time, for it is far from my home. To my great sorrow, the smokers were banished; the air was clean, in a relative way, but I felt as if the life and soul had been sucked out of the place. I bought nothing and I did not linger.
Showing posts with label capnolagnia. Show all posts
Showing posts with label capnolagnia. Show all posts
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
A joy to behold
She was a perfect specimen of Woman -- tall, slender, with rich, dark, brown hair, a petite little face and tight shorts around her firm, kissable, sweet rump.
As she strode forward down the sidewalk, accompanied by two very lucky friends, I deeply inhaled the cigarette smoke that she spilled from her rosebud lips. The finest perfume on earth could not have compared to that ambrosial mist that she breathed forth. To think that this very smoke drifting upon the humid air, had seconds before been hidden deep within her lungs, sending pleasure waves through her body -- had touched her, filled her, deep within, more intimately than even the most passionate lover could ever hope to do!
And now, having satisfied her need, having delivered the precious nicotine for which she hungered, the sweet smoke mingled with her own breath and ascended the pretty chimney of her throat to fill again her mouth, roll across her tongue, dance around her teeth and escape through the doorway of her lips!
And the very essence of it, the same smoke and sweet breath that had kissed her deep within, now found its way to my eager senses, and I drank it in joyfully.
And my non-smoking, non-capnolagniac friend who happened to be with me, waved his portion away in annoyance. Uncomprehending, unaware -- as clueless as the barbarians who burned the books of the European monastaries because they could not read them.
The Goddess took a final drag and threw her cigarette away still burning, into the street, as a Goddess should. A Goddess is not bound by mortal rules about proper disposal of her cigarette. If it be her pleasure to drop it to the ground and crush it beneath her heel, so be it; if it be her pleasure to simply throw it away, so be it.
Were I unaccompanied, I might have scampered like a little mouse over to that morsel of her pleasure and carried it away and inhaled its last stray vapors in the privacy of my car, kissing the tip where her lips had so recently rested.
But alas, I was not alone. Rarely am I alone when such ecstatic moments come my way. I do believe I could return to that very spot on my own and wait four days, and nothing but old men and stray dogs would pass by me.
As she strode forward down the sidewalk, accompanied by two very lucky friends, I deeply inhaled the cigarette smoke that she spilled from her rosebud lips. The finest perfume on earth could not have compared to that ambrosial mist that she breathed forth. To think that this very smoke drifting upon the humid air, had seconds before been hidden deep within her lungs, sending pleasure waves through her body -- had touched her, filled her, deep within, more intimately than even the most passionate lover could ever hope to do!
And now, having satisfied her need, having delivered the precious nicotine for which she hungered, the sweet smoke mingled with her own breath and ascended the pretty chimney of her throat to fill again her mouth, roll across her tongue, dance around her teeth and escape through the doorway of her lips!
And the very essence of it, the same smoke and sweet breath that had kissed her deep within, now found its way to my eager senses, and I drank it in joyfully.
And my non-smoking, non-capnolagniac friend who happened to be with me, waved his portion away in annoyance. Uncomprehending, unaware -- as clueless as the barbarians who burned the books of the European monastaries because they could not read them.
The Goddess took a final drag and threw her cigarette away still burning, into the street, as a Goddess should. A Goddess is not bound by mortal rules about proper disposal of her cigarette. If it be her pleasure to drop it to the ground and crush it beneath her heel, so be it; if it be her pleasure to simply throw it away, so be it.
Were I unaccompanied, I might have scampered like a little mouse over to that morsel of her pleasure and carried it away and inhaled its last stray vapors in the privacy of my car, kissing the tip where her lips had so recently rested.
But alas, I was not alone. Rarely am I alone when such ecstatic moments come my way. I do believe I could return to that very spot on my own and wait four days, and nothing but old men and stray dogs would pass by me.
Friday, May 7, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Hope for smoke thwarted
For nearly two hours yesterday, while I waited for a work assignment to begin, I enjoyed the sunshine and a good book on a bench outside our local mall.
Three women and one man came outside to smoke. I fully ignored the man, as of course he did not interest me. But it is important to note that I was not rude to him. I believe that the capnolagniac's code, even if said capnolagniac is, like me, not a smoker himself, is to be as tolerant as possible of male smokers.
Long experience has taught me to be quiet, unobtrusive and to feign an oblivious state if I am to enjoy any secondhand smoke blowing my way from the lips of a lovely lady. In my younger years (I am still quite young!), I foolishly tried to tell smokers that their smoking didn't bother me, that they didn't have to turn away, etc. I succeeded only in scaring them off and coming across as a creep. I do not wish to be a creep.
One must carefully position oneself close enough to be able to capture some of her sweet smoke, but if you are too close, most likely her lifetime of dealing with anti-smokers will kick in and she will do her utmost to avoid any smoke blowing your way.
I was too close to the first woman, sitting down probably about eight feet away from her as she lit up. She did not take more than a few puffs before putting it out and returning to the mall. So for me, a mental slap in the face, a failure.
I stayed put for a while and eventually another woman came out and sat upwind of me. I had the advantage of already being in place this time, which is less creepy than a guy who moves into your vicinity. But the experience was unremarkable; she smoked some brand that barely gave off any smoke and was soon gone.
My last experience was also dissatisfying. A blonde woman in her early twenties. So concerned about not letting any smoke drift my way that she sat far downwind from me, half hidden by some bush. Only one cigarette for her break.
Altogether a dull afternoon.
It is always better to seek a place with a lot of people around, so that your presence does not disconcert her. Unfortunately, places with a lot of people around tend to be off-limits to smoking these days.
Three women and one man came outside to smoke. I fully ignored the man, as of course he did not interest me. But it is important to note that I was not rude to him. I believe that the capnolagniac's code, even if said capnolagniac is, like me, not a smoker himself, is to be as tolerant as possible of male smokers.
Long experience has taught me to be quiet, unobtrusive and to feign an oblivious state if I am to enjoy any secondhand smoke blowing my way from the lips of a lovely lady. In my younger years (I am still quite young!), I foolishly tried to tell smokers that their smoking didn't bother me, that they didn't have to turn away, etc. I succeeded only in scaring them off and coming across as a creep. I do not wish to be a creep.
One must carefully position oneself close enough to be able to capture some of her sweet smoke, but if you are too close, most likely her lifetime of dealing with anti-smokers will kick in and she will do her utmost to avoid any smoke blowing your way.
I was too close to the first woman, sitting down probably about eight feet away from her as she lit up. She did not take more than a few puffs before putting it out and returning to the mall. So for me, a mental slap in the face, a failure.
I stayed put for a while and eventually another woman came out and sat upwind of me. I had the advantage of already being in place this time, which is less creepy than a guy who moves into your vicinity. But the experience was unremarkable; she smoked some brand that barely gave off any smoke and was soon gone.
My last experience was also dissatisfying. A blonde woman in her early twenties. So concerned about not letting any smoke drift my way that she sat far downwind from me, half hidden by some bush. Only one cigarette for her break.
Altogether a dull afternoon.
It is always better to seek a place with a lot of people around, so that your presence does not disconcert her. Unfortunately, places with a lot of people around tend to be off-limits to smoking these days.
Free to be me!
This blog may offend some people. So be it. This is my place to express what I might not be able to do so elsewhere. In the real world, I'm a decent guy. I pay my taxes. I work hard. I've committed no crimes. I don't have a ponytail or live in my momma's basement.
Yet, deep in my soul are fervent passions -- passions that must be kept in check. Utter love of that miracle-being, womankind, that burns like a radioactive ember within me. Love of the sound of her voice, the perfume that radiates from her skin, the taste of her mouth, the pleasure of kissing her from head to toe and every inch in between -- and I do mean every inch. From suckling her wiggly toes to exploring her every secret orifice to simply inhaling the breath she exhales.
When she is mildly naughty, ah, it inflames! And here is where the offense may come. If I were to notice a woman slipping something into her purse in a store, I would shirk my civic duty, I would never tell. And indeed, I have noticed, and told not.
If a lovely lady hand reaches through her car window and tosses out litter, my heart races -- and again, I thrill to the sight. And indeed, I have seen, and reported it not. I cannot dare to drop so much as a gum wrapper, myself.
If a spider, or a wriggling worm, is negotiating passage of a sidewalk, and she sees it, and she crushes it underfoot needlessly, cruelly, oh, the power of that moment! And yet, I cannot bring myself to take a lowly life, except the occassional mosquito.
My deepest, most inexplicable torment has burned within me since I was a little boy. Officially, it is called capnolagnia. It is the intense arousal engendered when a woman flouts the conventions of society and lights a cigarette. Oh, how can you naysayers hate me for something that I distinctly remember smouldering in my soul when I was yet so young as to be unaware of long division and cursive writing?
So I go about my life, a normal guy, a nice guy, a harmless guy, never knowing when I will turn a corner and catch a glimpse of a lovely lady exhaling Marlboro mist and find myself trembling like a child and conjuring up excuses to break from whatever group I am with and immerse myself in her smoky presence for a few minutes until she puts out her cigarette and goes her way.
I stop short when I see a lady finishing off her can of Coke or unwrapping a candy bar, waiting with bated breath to see if she will stuff it in a trash can or just let it fall.
That's just me. Repressed but harmless.
Yet, deep in my soul are fervent passions -- passions that must be kept in check. Utter love of that miracle-being, womankind, that burns like a radioactive ember within me. Love of the sound of her voice, the perfume that radiates from her skin, the taste of her mouth, the pleasure of kissing her from head to toe and every inch in between -- and I do mean every inch. From suckling her wiggly toes to exploring her every secret orifice to simply inhaling the breath she exhales.
When she is mildly naughty, ah, it inflames! And here is where the offense may come. If I were to notice a woman slipping something into her purse in a store, I would shirk my civic duty, I would never tell. And indeed, I have noticed, and told not.
If a lovely lady hand reaches through her car window and tosses out litter, my heart races -- and again, I thrill to the sight. And indeed, I have seen, and reported it not. I cannot dare to drop so much as a gum wrapper, myself.
If a spider, or a wriggling worm, is negotiating passage of a sidewalk, and she sees it, and she crushes it underfoot needlessly, cruelly, oh, the power of that moment! And yet, I cannot bring myself to take a lowly life, except the occassional mosquito.
My deepest, most inexplicable torment has burned within me since I was a little boy. Officially, it is called capnolagnia. It is the intense arousal engendered when a woman flouts the conventions of society and lights a cigarette. Oh, how can you naysayers hate me for something that I distinctly remember smouldering in my soul when I was yet so young as to be unaware of long division and cursive writing?
So I go about my life, a normal guy, a nice guy, a harmless guy, never knowing when I will turn a corner and catch a glimpse of a lovely lady exhaling Marlboro mist and find myself trembling like a child and conjuring up excuses to break from whatever group I am with and immerse myself in her smoky presence for a few minutes until she puts out her cigarette and goes her way.
I stop short when I see a lady finishing off her can of Coke or unwrapping a candy bar, waiting with bated breath to see if she will stuff it in a trash can or just let it fall.
That's just me. Repressed but harmless.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)