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From: "f. aces" <slipstream_sunrise@hotmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Smoking (MF/nosex?)
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Date: Thu, 24 Jul 2003 09:10:04 -0400
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<1st attachment, "smoking.txt" begin>
Smoking by Memory's Grace
There is no feeling as lovely as the hot scorch as smoke enters your
lungs. You finally realize what breathing is, and you know the actions of
your body in its being. And you breathe in. You breathe it all in.
I don't live in the city. Not anymore. The noise was getting to me,
and the people were....well, they were people. I don't really remember
them.
I do remember her, though.
Maybe I do.
I don't know what I remember about her. I think it's a bad thing when
all you remember about a person is the actions that you took with them.;'
That is a foolishness and failing of women.
``So, how were things?''
``Fine.''
``What happened?''
And it doesn't matter anymore, Tynn. I don't care what happened, even
if it was 5 minutes ago. I don't care about the fact that I saw Alice
giving Bob a blowjob in the theater, while Carol minded her own business
beside them. It doesn't matter.
``Not much.''
``What's wrong?''
Nothing, I'm just blowing you off.
You see, I love my rats. I've had them for years now, and they're so
kind and gentle. One of the best things about rats, as you can ask any rat
lover, is their paws: they're so delicate with them. they almost act like
humans with them. This is how I feel about people.
I think if I try real hard, one day I can be human.
So I took up smoking. I didn't have a hobby. Most people build model
trains or fuck their sister. I smoke. It's a victimless hobby.
I got a zippo so I could be cool like the other smokers, only to learn
that my opinions of other smokers had been formed by watching Humphrey
Bogart and jerking off to Lauren Bacall. It's a victimless hobby.
So I got a cigarette case. The best thing about a cigarette case these
days is that no one knows what the hell it is, and it's always a mystery
(like Christmas) when you produce a cigarette from one. I'm a modern day
magician: with just a puff of smoke I can make a cigarette disappear.
Won't mother be impressed.
``Oh, God, I can't stand him.''
``Why's that?''
Now we're talking over instant messenger. A true waste of time if ever
there was one. Pointless completely: most of human interaction is based on
the lies of body language, and I don't think all that much of human
interaction to begin with.
``He's so hairy.''
Except for sex, mind you. Sex is a wonderful human interaction, mostly
because it's so funny. That queer look people get on their faces, I assure
you, is beyond value. Especially virgins. They're great.
``Ahh, an excellent thing to base a relationship decision off of. I
hope that our interactions are based off of the same sublime
interpretations of glory and the everlasting ineffable something that
creams your panties for you.''
``Well, it's true.''
``Sure.'''
Instant messenger was designed for short little phrases like this one.
Short, sweet, non-committal, and totally unacceptable in person. Kinda
like a politician.
``I'm trying to figure out how to tell him I'm not interested in him.''
The funny thing about this is not that she's telling me about it, it's
that in another 2 months she'll be dating him as well as me, and after
that, I will realize that she has never been dating me.
But I can't say I hate the guy. After all, he smokes, and, as I've
mentioned before, I respect smoking. The fact that he has burning embers a
few inches away from his mouth says a lot that makes me comfortable about
the fact that he's boffing the girl of my dreams. The girl who claimed to
never feel anything sexual, but nonetheless liked me a lot. Somehow the
image of her ass pumping under him gives me a nice warm feeling in my
lungs, near where, I'm told, my heart is supposed to be. It's an excellent
feeling.
``Yeah, they're living together now.''
And here I'm going to defer my cofeehaus professionally-bitter style to
an expert: her best friend. The girl whom I liked first, and through whom
I met Tynn. If this sounds like high school, rest assured, it's only
half-educated tripe that's designed to sound dejected from a person who's
happy with life and is just faking it.
If that makes you feel better, you can even believe it. Yeah,
continuing.
``I heard they broke a chair. I never see them anymore, they always
spend so much time together.''
I think a lot about fucking her best friend. ``her'' in this case
referring to Tynn's best friend. Well, both of them, really. But in this
case, I'm talking about Tynn's best friend. She has these great hips and a
great ass, not to mention she's stacked. It's things like these that I
think about privately, as it wouldn't do to disturb my image of dedicated
and interested friend. It's not that I'm a pig, not at all. A pig doesn't
think about such things as how delicious it feels to ram your dick into the
best friend of the girl you can never get, all the while struggling not to
say the name, her name, the name you're thinking. Yeah, the best part of
that is that acid feeling you get just below your shoulder blades that
seems to eat away at something. Stealing her panties and bra afterwords to
keep in your dresser is a bit much, I'm told, but they're nice to pull out
and reminisce over.
``No....''
You see, if I just say something that reflects disbelief, then
everything will be right with the world. I fall over in sorrow into her
lap, my hands going to her hips and my face nuzzling into her stomach,
feeling her breasts brush against me.
And that's another thing about smoke: it's an activity you can do to
busy your hands and mind. It's like sewing, but more creative and less
drudgework.
So, I've started smoking again. I've switched over from cigarettes,
though, they're unhealthy. Now I smoke carbon monoxide. Much better.
That burning sensation is magnified a whole bunch more, and you really feel
like you're being torn apart. You sit there and contemplate just falling
back and giving in to sleep, and then weakness sets in. Panic, the fear of
not living anymore. You panic and you become a coward, and you turn off
the car. It's delicious.
Then sometimes you just finish the story. And you exhale.
And all is right with the world.
-- Pursuant to the felliatic principle, feedback is appreciated and
solicited at slipstream_sunrise@hotmail.com <1st attachment end>
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