My name is Joanna, and I'm drop-dead gorgeous. I've been married to an average guy for three months. My Tim's an engineer who works at an aircraft company. Some people think he's a geek, but I think he's the sweetest, sexiest guy I've ever met. His co-workers can't figure out why a girl who looks like me would go out with, let alone marry a guy that looks like him. After three months, I can't say that I'm sorry in any way, but I can understand the way they feel.
I'm blessed with great looks, but a pretty good set of down-home sensibilities. I can thank my paternal grandmother, Gramma Jo, who I was named after, for that. Ever since I was a little girl, Gramma Jo would tell me how pretty I was every time she saw me. Once I got old enough to understand more, she also kept telling me that in order to be taken seriously, I'd have to work twice as hard as anybody else because I was so pretty. Gramma Jo taught me a lot in the time we spent together.
I wound up going to college on a ROTC scholarship; I may have been good looking, but that does not pay college bills. At 5'6", 130 lbs., I wasn't tall or skinny enough to be a model, and my 34C's were definitely too big for the job as well. I served my active duty working on security clearances—it's amazing how much guys will tell a pretty woman with an occasional prompt. Now, I'm reserve only. I work as a manager in a public relations firm, which is another career where being a gorgeous twenty-something woman helps. Through my job, I've met and dated doctors, lawyers, local celebrities, businessmen—pretty much the rich and handsome. I've never been a shrinking violet and despite my military background (and the muscles acquired through it), I enjoy being a girl. I dress like a girl, act like a girl, and even smoke like a girl. That's something else I've got Gramma Jo to thank for. I didn't smoke regularly until I went to college, but I started smoking at the tender age of nine, inhaling at twelve. But only at Gramma Jo's, and when I wasn't around my folks or anybody who really knew me, because they would have freaked.
Gramma Jo smoked Mores, "because they were nice and strong." When I was fourteen, I made a smart-ass remark to her about her cigar smoking. I don’t know why I did it, because I’d been smoking her Mores with her until that year. I was spending my traditional summer week with her, so I got her to buy me a pack of Marlboro Lights because that’s what all the kids I knew smoked. I made the remark, and her reply has stuck with me ever since. "A lady’s cigarette is an accessory, conversation point, and flirtation device, all in one. Its length should accent a lady’s hand, and when handled properly, it should call attention to her feminine grace. The act of smoking should always be a feminine one for someone as beautiful as you, Joanna. It can enhance your allure, or it can make you more—common." I didn’t entirely understand what she meant back then, but I knew she wasn’t happy with me, and that was something I just couldn’t take. Gramma Jo meant a lot to me.
I told her that I’d throw away the short cigarettes and smoke Mores with her again like I always did, but she stopped me. We went up to her attic, and she asked me to open her hope chest. She pulled out some old pictures and set them aside. I took a look at them, because she was obviously looking for something else in the chest. I almost passed out—it was almost like looking in a futuristic mirror or something. I was looking at a picture of a slightly older me, in a 1940’s evening dress, obviously at a party, with a martini glass in one hand, and a cigarette holder in the other. I looked through, no, studied, the photos of my older twin sister from the past. I was so absorbed that Gramma scared me when she closed the chest. "Come along, Joanna. You can bring the album, too." She carried a wooden box or case of something. When we got back downstairs, Gramma Jo opened the case and I giggled. There were eight cigarette holders in it, of different colors, lengths, and shapes.
"Gramma Jo, nobody uses these any more!" I giggled again when she put one of the Marlboro Lights in a red holder that was about four or five inches long.
"I know," she said with a smile, and lit the cigarette in the holder. She closed her eyes as she held the smoke, then exhaled without any noise. Gramma Jo grumbled, "Not only are they short and weak, they’re stale, too. But—" She took another drag and french-inhaled (I didn’t know what it was called then, but I’ve since learned) for like forever. It was a very impressive display for a fourteen-year-old from her idol, and had quite the impact. When she exhaled, I could easily imagine her dressed the same way she was in the photos I’d been looking at, doing the exact same thing. "—At least they fit the holder."
"Gramma, can I try one?" I knew she was going to say yes, so I reached for the longest holder in the box, at least a foot-long, ivory-colored one with a ring of emerald-green stones around the end. She put her hand down to stop me.
"There’s an art to using a holder, especially the longer ones, Joanna, and you’d be better served using one of the short ones, dear." That kind of surprised me, but I thought the long one was really cool, so I asked her to teach me. That’s where and when I learned to smoke the way I do. Gramma Jo and I spent the week smoking Mores without the holders (only because they wouldn’t fit), and Marlboro Light 100’s with them. Most of them are one to three inches long with a black plastic tip and silver or gold end, (yes, I still have them, case and all), but three of them are distinctive. There’s a polished teak holder, about four inches long, with a pure silver end for the cigarette. Grandpa got it for her in India. There’s also a three-inch carved meerschaum Turkish holder with a plastic tip. Finally, there’s the long ivory holder. It’s 14-inches long. The stones in the setting at the end are real emeralds, and the emerald lines leading to them are hand-carved and painted. She said that it was as close to ivory as you could get, and that Grandpa had it made for her while he was in Japan. It’s worth a fortune, and I understand why she didn’t want me to play with it.
Ever since then, I've only smoked the real "girly" cigarettes. I've smoked just about every 120 on the market, and when they were still being made, I used to carry the Fantasia 164's in my purse—for their impact at a nightclub or bar. I may turn heads on my own, but I still liked the extra attention those extra-long pastel cigarettes got me. When I was a college freshman, I smoked Eve 120's, but then they changed the design and the taste, so I switched to Virginia Slims 120s. For a change of pace, I smoke Mores and Capri 120s (because they are entirely so "girly" that I can't resist. Tim thinks I look really darling with them too.) Most men don't say anything about my smoking unless they're either preaching at me about the health risks (I'm in much better shape than most of them), or they're a really bold fetisher. Oh yes, I was aware of the smoking fetish long before I met Tim. I was a pretty smart girl and it didn't take me long into my first college course in "human sexuality" to realize that Grandpa had one, and it was obvious he liked Gramma Jo with cigarette holders. I've never used one of the holders she left me in public; I'm not quite that brave, but I’ve used the fetish to my—advantage on a couple of dates with fetishers. I've also gotten pretty good at spotting fetishers in the crowd, so to speak, and I'm not beyond giving them a little bit of a tease or thrill, even if they're not with me. A snap-inhale here, a nostril exhale there, the ladylike pose throughout… I'm sure I've been the subject of many wet dreams, and I admit, I like the thought.
Smoking was what got me to meet Tim. Neither one of us is really sure how it happened, or even why. Before I started dating him, he was not the type of guy that would have interested me. When you're in your late twenties and gorgeous, you have your pick of men, many of whom would be willing to walk through a mile of shit just to wind up alone in the same room with you. I could pick and choose any one of them, and I usually did. That's just the way it is with pretty women. But if I looked at a guy and didn't find him good-looking, or muscular, or sexy enough, he had no chance at me. Tim and I saw each other for the first time at a nightclub. I was out on a second date with an MBA-type rising star from some company whose PR we do. It was our second date because I couldn't to figure out the answer to the question after our first date.
You guys know which question I'm talking about, right? The "lucky" one? I can usually tell during the first date, but I kept getting mixed signals from this guy right up to our no-kissing, polite good night. My body didn't feel strongly about him one way or the other and my brain said maybe I should give him another chance because he seemed like a nice enough guy. So we went to see one of my favorite reggae bands at this club. Mr. Junior Executive didn't like to dance and he had four left feet, which definitely tipped the scales to "No," but I have enough class to be a pleasant date for the remainder of the evening. Near the end of the night, he went to the men's room and to get me another drink. I decided to have a cigarette—I was smoking Virginia Slims 120s that night—and lit one from my pack. I took a drag of the freshly-lit cigarette and looked around the room, more out of boredom than anything else. That's when I saw Tim. About my height, a little out-of-shape (he goes to the gym with me now), wearing glasses (it hides his eyes, which are gorgeous , by the way) and looking at me. The crowd had parted so he had a clear line of sight. I gave no sign that I noticed; I'm used to being looked at, especially when the guy I'm with has left me ostensibly alone for a moment. The bolder ones approach, but I could tell that wasn’t Tim’s style. I took another drag, and calm, relaxed exhale, and Tim watched. Oh-ho, I thought. I've got a live one. Poor guy probably hasn't had a date in weeks. Maybe months. I took a big draw and slowly french-inhaled it, just to give him a show. I exhaled through my mouth, doing that little lady thing, to give him a thrill.
I don't know exactly what it was about the expression on his face and in his body language. I'd done this to several guys before, gotten a reaction from them, and left them wanting more without really caring about them. But something about the way he was looking at me affected me more than him. It wasn't the fetish-driven stare, or the "unattainable desire" look, or the "please take me home with you" puppy dog, or the "let me be your ashtray slave" look. It was something else, something more significant. Significant enough that it had a physical impact on me. I felt something go "twinge" down there. He was looking at me with intense desire (I get that a lot), pleading (that too), but there was something else. I took a quick, hurried drag and exhale to steady myself; Tim says he didn't really notice, he was still quite awestruck. Once I had calmed down, and told my body to behave, I gave him another arm-extended slow exhale, still continuing the show. He was still watching with that same look, and my body, which I thought I had under control, responded with another twinge. At that point, he looked away, and moved out of my line of sight; he'd seen me watching him. I took another show-stopper of a drag and exhale, one that would get the attention of almost any fetisher in the room, but the band started, and I couldn't see him any more. But my self-image of what I must have looked like to Tim gave me another, weaker twinge. I put the cigarette out because I didn't want to give any arousal signals to my date. He came back about a minute later with our drinks, and seemed relieved that I didn't want to dance. I was too busy trying to figure out why I had been so affected by a guy whose type usually doesn't do anything for me.
The look in his eyes and his body language was what had the impact on me. It had the usual elements in it: appreciation of beauty, desire, lust, fetish attraction, but there was something else. I distractedly held a banal conversation with my date, turning him on to one of his favorite subjects—himself, which allowed me to think a little more carefully about Tim. There was something about him that said, "If you were with me, I'd make you feel so special…" And I'd never felt that from a guy before. Guys have said that to me, but normally all they want is sex. That gets back to the question, but it's not that they make me feel special. Flowers and candy is nice, but guys, don’t do it unless you really want to. Not just because you've been told that it's romantic or that it'll help you get into a girl's pants. We can tell when you're being sincere.
The more I thought about it, the more curious I got. Any man who made me twinge was worth a shot, even if my brain kept telling me that he wasn't my type. My body strongly disagreed. I excused myself to go to the ladies' room, and as I walked, discreetly scanned the room for the guy I'd seen. He was headed for the bar because his drink was almost empty. You learn how to see things when you're assigned to Intelligence. I put my home number on one of my business cards while I was in the ladies room, and as I passed him, I made eye contact and dropped it at his feet while still walking. He took the bait. I felt him politely tap me on my shoulder, and all I did was stop, turn, lean to his ear and say, "That's for you. Call me." That was all I could do. The next move was up to him. The Junior Executive didn't notice a thing, bless his little egotistic heart.
Tim called me the next day, but I wasn't home. "I know I'm definitely awake, and this isn't a dream, but if you are the incredibly beautiful woman who gave me this number on a business card last night at World's Beat, please call me back." Cautious, and not really believing his luck. Can't say I blame him. I called him back, and we talked about meeting sometime the following week, because I had a date that night. My body had continued to give a little twinge whenever I had a cigarette and thought about that look he gave me, so I picked somebody I’d been out with before for whom the answer to the question was yes. I needed to be fucked.
Tim met me at World's Beat the following Saturday night. It was a special show, and I used my PR comps to get us in. The question was open at the beginning of the night, but my body hadn’t said anything to me, and my brain was highly disinterested in his looks. I wondered if I had made a big mistake. Like I said, I’m classy enough to be a pleasant date for the rest of the evening, even if I wasn't going to get laid. He immediately began to woo my brain. First thing was that he liked dancing. The band was going when we got there, and he asked if I wanted to dance before asking about drinks. He wasn't (and still isn’t) the most graceful I've seen, but he was having fun, and his enthusiasm was infectious. Next, it was obvious that he wasn't a total geek, because he knew several of the people there, including women. I also noticed that my presence raised his standing in some of their eyes. It was weird, though. Although it was obvious that he thought I was gorgeous, I didn't get the twinge during the first part of our date. He was relating to me as a human being. After dancing for a half-hour, he went to get drinks, and I sat down, cooling off. Tim had been the perfect gentleman, but frankly, there was no spark. It looked like the answer to the question was no. Then I lit a Virginia Slim 120, and everything changed. It was as if the whole bar disappeared. He gave me that look again and I felt the twinge. About three times as strong as the first time he looked at me. Suddenly, the answer was an enthusiastic "yes!" And Tim was up to the challenge.
Our second date was a little more—private. Tim took me to dinner at a nice place with a smoking section. We talked a lot; I told him more about me, and then I opened my gold case filled with Mores. "So, are you going to tell me about your smoking fetish?" I casually asked with a smile, allowing him to light me. It was "the look" all over again, and I started to melt inside again.
"You know about that?"
I smiled as charmingly and as calmly as I could because my insides were in nuclear meltdown. I gave him a good look at a snap-inhale and long, slow exhale. Silly boy. "What do you think?"
"I think you are the most spectacular-looking woman I’ve ever met." Twinge. "When I saw you across the room two weeks ago, I’d never seen anybody so—" He paused, searching for the right words. "—Casually elegant, and so wonderfully feminine. You took—I mean, take my breath away every time I look at you." Twinge. "It’s not just the fetish although—" I chose that moment to take a rather routine drag, but another long slow oral exhale. Tim inhaled sharply, noisily; I smiled because I made him lose his composure—it’s just a game I like to play with smoking fetishers. He looked at me with a challenging smile as if to say, "Score one for you, but I’m not always going to be that easy," and I just about lost it in the restaurant. Twinge! "—The fetish has something to do with it, Joanna, but I enjoy the way you’re so—feminine, whether or not you’re smoking. I don’t know what possessed you to give me your phone number, but I have got to be the most favored man on the planet. You’re smart and very observant, and I don’t think I’d want to arm wrestle you." OK, so I was putty, at least until we got to his place. Dancing? We did a lot of the horizontal tango that night, and I do mean a lot. It was so—different to have a guy this thrilled to be with me, that I really let go. Many guys think of pretty women as conquests, another symbol of their superior maleness. Afterwards, he didn’t hold me like I was something he had to guard. It was a very gentle, comforting embrace.
I kept going out with him because this nerdy-looking engineer made it clear that I was special to him. I was Joanna, a friend he cared about. I never felt like I was on display as a symbol of his wealth, power, or attractiveness, but I always got the sense that he genuinely appreciated me for me. We had some marvelous discussions about life, how we got to be who we are, and where we wanted to see ourselves in the future. My increasing attraction to his personality didn’t stop me from having fun with Tim’s fetish, but he was refreshingly open about my attractiveness to him as I smoked. It was also clear that he wasn’t going to make any requests about what, how, or when I smoked. He only does if I ask him. After about a year of dating almost exclusively (we had a fight and separated for about a month,) he took me out one afternoon, supposedly to get some fashion advice; he had a new job interview coming up. I had no idea what he was doing until we stopped by a jewelry store at the mall. That’s something else about him: he can surprise me. Somehow, he’s figured out how to counteract my spy training. "Joanna, do any of these rings look good to you?" His voice cracked while he was asking. It was so cute. That night, I smoked Nat Sherman’s in the ivory-and-emerald holder for him all night. Both of us were very, very tired the next day.
So here I am, a married lady. With a husband whose smoking fetish provided the impetus for our original meeting. Amazing what the impact of a single cigarette in a nightclub can be.