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.