My name is Scott, and I have a smoking fetish. My girl-
friend’s name is Colby; she’s an artist who has a bit of
a local name, and we’ve been going out for almost a year
and a half. We met at a nightclub: Colby had just moved
to town and was being shown around the neighborhood by
her roommate, while I was watching one of the bands I
manage. As a part-time extra income job, it’s perfect
for a fetishist because, in essence, I get paid to look
at many lovely women as they smoke. Colby immediately
caught my attention because she was smoking More menthol
120’s. I took one look at this slender young woman with
black hair as she held a long brown cigarette between
her fingers, and was madly in lust. She would pause
after each drag, seeming to relax and enjoy the smoke,
then exhale without urgency and a smile on her face. In
short, her demeanor made me overcome my usual shyness,
and I introduced myself.
Since she was so new to the area, it was easy to strike
up a conversation with her, and to get a date “to show
her a little more of the city.” Colby’s very outgoing
and very easy to get along with, and she is a fun
person. A strange thing happened when I ran out of
interesting places to show her: we kept going out. I
loved to watch her smoke, and I loved the way she
handled snide remarks about her brown cigarettes. This
was one classy, self-assured woman. After a while, Colby
seemed to be quite sure of one more thing: that I was
her boyfriend. She introduced me as such to the local
arts supporters at her first show, then asked me as I
drove her home if I had any complaints about it. “Nope.
None whatsoever.” I never made it back to my place that
night.
That took place about a year ago. Our relationship had
been going so well that I felt it was time to tell Colby
about the fetish. She hadn’t ever mentioned noticing it
or anything, but I felt it was something she should
know. I told her about it last month. She knew something
was going on when she saw the dinner I had prepared. Our
after-dinner conversation started with Colby asking,
“So, are you going to tell me you’re married or some-
thing?”
I cleared my throat. “Colby… I want to tell you some-
thing about me. It’s something… private, but we’ve
been going out long enough that I think you should
know.” She looked surprised, and waved her hand at me to
continue. “I have a smoking fetish,” I declared, and
waited for the puzzlement to finish its trip across her
face. “I get turned on by watching women smoke.”
“Really.” Colby regarded me strangely and seemed to be
looking for something else to say. The room was silent
for a few more seconds. “You mean that every time I
light up one of my Mores, you get the hots for me?”
“Well, not always, but, yeah. You smoke in a very sexy
fashion,” I admitted. “That was one of the things that
gave me the courage to talk to you out of the blue in
the first place. It kept me from being thoroughly
intimidated by how beautiful you are.” I was a little
worried because Colby still had a strange expression on
her face that gave me no clue about what she was
thinking.
“I see,” she finally said. She rummaged in her purse and
pulled out a fresh pack of Mores. “So, like, if I light
up now, you’ll be crazed with lust and desire by the
time I finish it.” I nodded slowly, even if it was an
oversimplification. Colby opened the pack and lit one,
taking a drag. She crossed her legs and faced me, lean-
ing slightly, with the cigarette held high between limp
wristed fingers, off to the side. “Now I’ve heard every-
thing,” she muttered, before puffing again in her usual
deliberate fashion. My mind was a blank, turned into
mush by the fantastic picture Colby presented. “Well, I
originally picked Mores because they looked distinctive.
This is really too much,” she giggled. Colby studied me
for an instant, then took another classy drag and ex-
haled a long, slow, thick line of smoke through pursed
lips. “So let me get this straight. You want me more now
than you did a few minutes ago.” I nodded again. She
raised her eyebrows and asked, “Does this happen for any
woman who you see smoking?” Colby leaned forward, a
gleam of interest and curiosity in her eyes.
“No… not at all. They have to do it right, and… and.
…it’s real complicated to explain. The short version
is that I like women with long cigarettes, or cigarette
holders, or cigarettes that are black or brown, as long
as they smoke in a feminine fashion,” I blurted out.
“And I obviously qualify on all counts,” she quietly
said, half to herself. Colby turned to face me and
announced, “I think this could be real fun, Scott. A
whole lot of fun.” She gave me an impish, playful smile.
Then she turned and gave me a profile view of the most
luxurious, artistic, lady-like drag and long, extended
exhale. Colby didn’t make it home that night.
She showed up without warning about two weeks later,
dressed to kill. Colby was wearing evening gloves with
a satin-like black gown that hugged her body, faux-
diamond earrings and necklace, and high heels. I opened
the door and saw this awesomely sexy, incredibly gor-
geous, elegant woman and her 12-inch red cigarette
holder with a freshly lit More in it. When we got around
to talking about it later, I asked her, “Where did you
find the holder?”
“Did you like it?” Colby teased. I raised my hands as if
to say, “what do you think?” She laughed. “Well, I went
looking around in tobacco stores; there’s one that car-
ries a bunch of them. I bought three,” she grinned.
“Then I was at Java Surf late last night, and ran into
Phil–you remember, my computer hacker friend. He was
prattling on about all the sex groups on the Internet
and how he had to show me this and that and suddenly I
was looking at something called alt.sex.fetish.smoking.”
Colby paused. “Once I got some privacy, I found a ter-
minal and did some looking. Some guy actually wrote
something that tells you how to fix holders so skinnier
cigarettes don’t fall out.” She gave me a peck on the
cheek. “So I spent two hours today trying to get this
holder to hold Mores.”
“Was it worth it?”
Colby swung her legs over the side of the bed, retrieved
the holder, and wiggled a More into it. “Da-a-ah-ling,
give me a light, and I’ll let you know tomorrow morn-
ing,” she said with a mischievous grin.
Colby apparently decided it was worth it. She came over
the next night with her other two holders: a six-inch
black one with a gold bowl, and a five-inch white one
with rhinestones. She also handed me a copy of the
“Cigarette Holder FAQ” from the Internet. “I’d be happy
to smoke for you using a holder, but if you wanna watch
me do it, then you’re gonna have to set them up. I can’t
walk around in public with a foot-long red holder all
the time,” she grinned. “However, my Bohemian artiste
image might be enhanced if I were to use one of a more-
-reasonable–length in public from time to time…”
Colby’s eyes sparkled, and her voice held more than a
hint of come-hither. By the time I had finished day-
dreaming about being out in public with Colby using a
cigarette holder, she was handing me some tools and
chirping, “It’s amazing what you find around an art
studio. I’ve got everything here the guy says you need.”
Colby sat on the sofa. “I’ll even keep you company while
you work. But I won’t have a cigarette until you’ve
finished. I don’t want you getting distracted.”
I read the information on modifying holders, and picked
up one to work on it. Colby began, “So, you liked it
when you saw me smoking my Mores…” I said, “yes,” as
I was starting to hollow out the bowl of the black
holder. “You know that I didn’t even start smoking until
I got to college? My roommate was a social smoker and
frat butterfly. She never went to a party without her
Virginia Slims Lights menthols. Since I was the shy
freshman, she was sort of my… mentor, and pretty soon,
I was smoking them with her.” Colby relaxed and crossed
her legs. She had noticed that I was paying more than a
little attention to her story. “I went from a social
smoker to a regular smoker over that summer. I started
to come out of my “shy” shell, and my Virginia Slims
Lights menthols were always there. They were a part of
what put me in the “popular” group at home, the ones
that smoked and did all the “bad” things.”
“I only smoked Virginia Slims Lights menthols, though.
Sometimes I’d smoke the ultra light ones, if I was feel-
ing guilty about smoking. It never really crossed my
mind to try anything else. Until I was a junior, and
becoming the enfant terrible of the art school,” Colby
said. “I was such a little bitch in those days, just
because I had had this major write-up in a small art
journal. Fame and a big head and all that. I smoked
unfiltered Camels for a half-year, trying to be the
tough, androgynous, new wave punk artist. After my
grades dropped, I left school to work for a year, and
decided that I really did enjoy being a girl. An
eccentric one, granted,” she smiled. I was making pro-
gress, working at hollowing out the piece of plastic
that would hold Mores.
“So, I wound up smoking Salem Slim Lights, because I
bummed them from a friend of mine so often that I just
started buying them and we’d share cartons.” She paused,
obviously thinking. “Once, we were broke, and the store
had a special on Virginia Slims Lights. The only menthol
ones they had left were 120’s. She and I pooled our
money to buy them. We both liked them, so we became the
“120’s smokers.” Most of our smoking friends made some
comment about how long they were.” Colby pointed to her
holder. I held it up and she nodded, eyes sparkling.
“That looks nice, Scott.”
“So how did you wind up smoking More menthols?” I asked,
genuinely curious, and slightly excited by her story.
Colby thought for a second. “Well, I moved to the east
coast after graduation, and promptly got a sponsor. His
wife smoked More menthols. I was staying in their little
carriage house and had run out of mine late one night,
so I asked her for a pack. I asked her about them,
’cause I’d never really known anybody who smoked them.
She commented that they looked distinctive, in addition
to having a real kick, and remarked that image sometimes
played better than talent in her town. It was originally
just for the look, a career move, I guess. But I found
that I liked More menthols. So, I’ve been smoking them
for three years or so. And that’s how Miss Colby here
got your attention. It’s ’cause she’s an image-conscious
attention slut. They make me get noticed.” I held up the
finished holder. “Is it ready? Good. I’m dying for a
cigarette after talking about smoking so much,” Colby
said. She put the long brown cigarette into it and lit
it. “Not bad… it seems to work okay.” She waved the
holder around. “It fits real well.” Colby took an ex-
tended draw, then exhaled an extremely long, narrow
stream of smoke. “It works for me, Scott,” she said, as
she walked to my bedroom and checked her appearance in
the mirror. She came back into the living room. I spent
five minutes watching her smoke through that holder be-
fore announcing that setting up the other one would have
to wait. Colby didn’t object at all.
Now, I told you that story to tell you this one.
Early last week, Colby had come over for dinner. After-
wards, as was becoming her custom, she pulled out a More
put it in her black holder and lit it. “Guess what,
Scott? I noticed something the other day,” she said
excitedly. “I realized that several of my friends smoke
120’s. It never dawned on me before. Guess I just
noticed because of your fetish. Pretty strange, huh?” My
eyes must have glazed over, because Colby gave me one of
those strange looks. “Wait a minute,” she mumbled,
“that’s not strange to you–it’s exciting!” She had
correctly deduced my emotional state. “Scott, please
don’t take this the wrong way, but I gotta ask–does
the thought of watching three or four women smoking
120’s all night excite you?”
“Yeah,” I admitted, wondering why Colby had asked, “as
long as they are–feminine about it.”
“Well, none of them–” Colby stopped in mid-sentence to
take a lust-inspiring, posed drag from her holder. She
gave me a sly smile before continuing, “–Smokes as well
as I do, of course, but they’re all definitely femi-
nine.” She finished her cigarette with a deep, cheek-
hollowing draw and slow, creamy nasal exhale. “Would it
inspire you for them or for me?”
“You’re my girlfriend.” It was a little difficult to
think right then. “I mean, you’re the one that is aware
of my fetish and has fun playing with it.” I looked
right into Colby’s twinkling, dark eyes. “Like just
now,” I pointedly added.
“Then I have a proposition for you,” she stated. “If
your bands can get along without you next Saturday
night, we can go to a party where you can watch them.
If you’re a good boy, I may even get them to talk about
their smoking. Then we’ll see what happens–after the
party.” Colby had a distinctly lecherous grin on her
beautiful face.
“Without telling them about–”
“I won’t mention a word to them about what it does for
you. We’ll just let things happen–naturally,” Colby
said. “Trust me. I have a lot to gain from it.” The
grin spread wider. I wiped it off her face with a deep
kiss. Man, was it ever tough to get out of bed and go
to work the next morning!
The party was held at a huge, ritzy house. It was for
the artists and people that worked at Colby’s studio,
and its supporters. People were dressed up, people were
dressed down, and there were a few that were downright
grungy. Colby spent a good part of the early evening
introducing me to people that she worked with or this
person that bought one of her works or that person who
supports the studio. I didn’t see any smokers in the
crowd during the buffet dinner. Colby pulled me aside
after dinner, and said, “I’m going to retire to the
lounge for a cigarette.” Somewhat unnecessarily, she
added, “Would you care to join me?”
We walked through a set of double doors and found our-
selves on a spacious screened porch, with tables and
chairs. “Welcome to the smoking room!” a female voice
said from over in the corner. Colby gave a squeak of
surprise and sprinted for the woman who had just
spoken. “Colby, darling! How are you?” A willowy woman
with dark hair hugged my girlfriend.
“Cindy!!! It’s been ages and a half a country since I
last saw you! This is my boyfriend, Scott,” Colby said.
I shook hands with Cindy. Colby and I sat at the table,
and she pulled out her newest holder, a telescoping
silver one, about three inches long. With a flick of her
wrist, she snapped it out to its fully extended seven
inch length.
“Still the stylish one, I see,” Cindy laughed, as Colby
put a More into the holder. “Nice fashion touch, dear.
It makes you look even more the eccentric artiste.”
Cindy sat and grabbed her purse while I lit Colby’s
cigarette. She pulled out a pack of Max 120’s, and I
lit hers as well. “I must say that it was nice of the
Grahams to have a smoking room for us,” Cindy said. She
drew on the Max and pushed her chest forward as she
exhaled. “Colby, sweets, I’m going to be moving here as
the new artist-in-residence at the university!”
Colby gave me a surreptitious squeeze, knowing I hadn’t
heard a word that Cindy had said, then exhaled slowly
through her nose. “Fantastic! It’ll be like old times
again, won’t it?” she laughed. “Except of course, I am
off the market these days.” Cindy nodded and the two
women descended into chatter about the old days. I
didn’t care. I watched Colby’s friend handle the long,
slim cigarette with a carefree style. Cindy would crane
her neck forward a bit before easing her chest forward
and lazily pushing the smoke from her mouth. I watched
Colby and her telescoping holder with an almost hypnotic
fascination. I thought I was in heaven. I was wrong. I
hadn’t even gotten close yet.
“Hi Colby! Mind if I join you and Scott and…” Paula
had arrived, and introductions were made anew. She was
short, very slender, and had blonde hair. I had met
Paula before. Colby had told me that Paula was the
youngest artist in the studio. She was an improving
photographer being sponsored by a married couple for
whom she occasionally served as a sex toy. The young,
petite blonde pulled out a pack of Capri 120 menthols.
I raised my eyebrows, because the only time I had seen
Paula, she was smoking Virginia Slim Light menthols.
“Colby, I like the holder. Mondo cool,” Paula said after
I lit her extremely slender, long cigarette. I was get-
ting more excited by the minute, barely managing to keep
my fantasies in check.
By the end of the next hour, I had met four more 120
smokers. There was Lisa, Paula’s best friend, who smoked
Virginia Slims 120’s menthol. Christie was a graphic
artist who rented space at the studio. She jokingly told
me, “I actually get paid for what I draw,” before I lit
her Virginia Slims 120 regular. Christie had long, curly
brown hair that spilled below her shoulders, and took
long, deliberate, deep drags. I made a note to watch her
carefully.
Tanya had come out to the porch to smoke. I already knew
her. She was the co-owner of Java Surf, the combination
coffee house and Internet crossroads. I hadn’t known
that Tanya smoked, but she did so quite nicely, taking
long, slow draws on an Eve 120 menthol before tossing
her head and thick, jet-black hair, then exhaling bil-
lowing clouds skyward. Her exotic Eastern European
facial features and soft, round, yet petite body made
for an image that made me sweat. Finally, Meghan, a
tall, green-eyed blonde in her early thirties stepped
onto the porch and joined the crowd. Meghan was the
administrative assistant to the director of the studio.
She was wholly responsible for scheduling and only less
slightly responsible for everything else involved in
running the studio. Meghan pulled out a pack of More
White Light 120’s menthol, and took a deep draw, turned
her head leisurely to the side, then exhaled a fine,
thin stream of smoke. Now I was in heaven.
People circulated on and off the porch for the next
couple of hours; the host had hired a band to provide
entertainment after dinner. Colby and I bounced back
and forth between the dance floor and the patio. We
were having fun, and I even managed to keep my mind
off the spectacle of all those attractive 120 smokers
for the most part. After she and I were exhausted from
dancing, Colby waved me out to the patio. We sat and
kissed for a little while. “So, it seems that you got
a bonus. I never expected Cindy to be here,” she
quietly said. “Did all those pretty women smokers get
your blood going?” she grinned. It was getting late,
and we were the only people on the patio for a while.
The band went on break, and the porch quickly became
full with all the smokers at the party. Colby’s smoking
friends congregated at our table. Colby and Cindy took
center stage, regaling the table with stories of their
exploits as single women in the concrete jungle. When
the band went back inside, the two women were still
telling a long and involved story. After a while, Paula
and Lisa began telling stories. I went inside to fetch
snacks and drinks for the table, since the women seemed
to be showing no inclination to go back inside to the
no-smoking zone. Colby caught up with me. “Are you
having fun?” She grinned in that impish way of hers.
“The night’s not over yet.” When I returned to the
table, Tanya had just finished talking about some of
the things she had seen while working the graveyard
shift at Java Surf. It looked like the “120 club” had
settled down for the rest of the party.
Colby, as usual, took over. “Y’know what?” she asked
the group. “It’s pretty funny, but didja notice that
all of us smoke extra-long cigarettes?” Heads turned
to inspect the various packs on the table.
“Well, I like longer cigarettes. I always have,”
Christie declared. “I tried Mores when I first started
smoking, but they looked too much like cigars, and all
of my high school friends gave me too much shit.”
“So what did you do, Christie?” Colby asked.
“When I got to college, I found Saratogas, and that’s
what I smoked for about three years,” Christie replied.
She opened up her Virginia Slims 120’s and took one out.
“I switched to Vantage 100s for a couple of years, then
they came out with Virginia Slims 120’s.” She took a
full, very deep drag, breasts rising, and began to ex-
hale a thick stream of smoke from her lips, but then
finished it with a heavy cloud from her nostrils. “I’ve
been smoking these for about five or six years.” My
heart started to beat faster. Christie took another
full, glorious drag, pulling the cigarette away from
her lips slowly before exhaling through her nostrils.
Paula chimed in, “Talk about getting shit! I usually
hear about these Capris, ’cause they’re so skinny. But
I thought they were so cute when they first came out.
I like the way they look.” The tiny blonde pulled out
one of the “luxury length”, extra-slim cigarettes and
looked at it. “They look so long when you pull them out
of the pack.” Paula lit it and immediately took a
second, harder sip on the Capri 120. She sighed her
exhale, a fluffy cloud from her lips, then continued
her story. “I originally started on Salem Light 100’s,
then Salem Slim Lights. I smoked More Lights for a
while–there was a bunch of girls in high school that
did, but I went back to Salem Slim Lights.” Paula took
another drag, and sat with the Capri held vertically
next to her face. She sighed again, a thicker, longer
plume escaping her lips. “I switched to Capris as soon
as they came out. I was on vacation in New Jersey, and
I had trouble finding them here at first.” The petite
young woman took a longer, deeper pull. “My only com-
plaint is that you can’t find them in machines at
clubs.” She exhaled a thin brief stream of smoke after
she had finished speaking, then picked up the pack and
looked at it. “I picked the longer ones when they came
out because they last longer, and they look even
cooler,” Paula concluded.
Lisa looked at Paula, with a just-lit Virginia Slim
120 menthol between her index and middle fingers. “You
and your little femme sticks,” the short, honey-blond
woman said with a grin. Paula took a mock swing at her
while everybody laughed. “As many of those as I’ve
bummed from you, I still can’t see why you like them.
It’s like sucking on a straw,” she complained, and took
a deep draw on her own cigarette. Lisa opened her mouth
and pulled some of the escaping smoke back in. She
pursed her lips and smoothly sent a trail of smoke into
the air. “I was one of the More Lights girls with Paula
in high school, but I switched when I went to college
and started smoking Virginia Slims Ultra Lights.” She
paused to think, dragging again, with the same open-
mouthed double inhale and smooth, silent, pursed-lip
exhale. “I switched to the 120’s during finals my
second year. They were kinda hard to find at my school,
so I remember running across town to get a carton at
the drugstore. I’ve smoked them ever since.”
“What about you, Tanya? I never knew you smoked,” Colby
asked the woman sitting next to Lisa, keeping the topic
alive.
“Oh, yeah. You just never see me smoke at Java Surf
because I never work in the smoking section. I gotta
be close to the office, so I usually just pop in there
to smoke. That way, it never looks like I’m just hang-
ing out and not doing anything.” Everybody laughed
again except me. The exotic woman with wavy black hair
had lit an Eve 120, and taken one of those slow, deep
drags. Tanya tossed her head, sending her black hair
bouncing, lifted her chin skyward and exhaled audibly.
I had a difficult time not making any noise. She crossed
her legs, reclined in the chair and held her cigarette
down by her hips. “I was one of those fence-sitting
social smokers. Always had to smoke when I went out
drinking. I smoked Marlboro Lights until I bummed a
menthol from my roommate. I liked it, and started buy-
ing Salem Ultra Light 100’s. I started smoking for real
when we started to work on making Java Surf happen. I
picked up a pack of Virginia Slims SuperSlims because
they were on display at the 7-11 late one night, and
I loved the taste. I smoked those for about a half
year… but they went too fast. I smoked Capri 120’s
for a while, because they looked like the SuperSlims,
but they weren’t quite menthol enough for me. I liked
having longer cigarettes, though, it meant I didn’t go
through two and a half packs on those long nights. I
saw Eve Light 120’s next to the Capris in the super-
market, so I decided to try them.” Tanya took another
voluminous puff. “I haven’t looked for another cigarette
in about a year and a half. I really like these.”
Cindy lit another Max and tossed the empty pack away.
“Talk about not looking for another cigarette,” she
said. “I have been smoking these ever since my college
days. They are so smooth to me, and I like the fact
that it makes me look a little different. I have to
hunt for them sometimes, but I like them enough to make
the effort.” She pushed her chest forward and exhaled
a fine stream of smoke. “I started smoking Marlboro
Reds, and I switched to Lights when they came out. When
I got to college, though, I had to smoke Mores for a
half-semester, because it was a sorority hazing thing.
Once I got accepted, I switched to Virginia Slims reg-
ulars, but I found out that I missed the length of the
Mores. I tried Saratogas for a week, went back to Mores
for a bit, but I got tired of the brown cigarette bull-
shit my old boyfriend gave me. I found Max regulars at
a local drugstore late one night. I haven’t changed
since except for two weeks when all I had were Colby’s
Mores.”
That was my girlfriend’s cue. She took her holder out,
snapped it fully open, and put a More into it. Colby
lit it, but before she could say anything, Meghan took
it from her. “Oh, look, I’m Colby, the eccentric, flam-
boyant artiste,” she said, walking around with an exag-
gerated wiggle, and waving the holder around, holding
it by the mouthpiece with a thumb and forefinger. Meghan
posed and took a fast, hard, deep drag and french-
inhaled before tilting her head to exhale. Everybody
laughed again, including Colby, who admitted that it
was a pretty good imitation. Meghan continued smoking
Colby’s cigarette through her holder, shifting to hold
it between her middle and ring fingers. “I smoke these
in the light 120’s,” she said. “I started out smoking
Salem 100s, but a close friend of mine smoked Mores.
I wound up switching and smoked Mores all through col-
lege. I switched to More Lights menthols for a while
after I graduated, but my ex-husband hated the idea of
his wife “smoking a cigar”, so I switched to Virginia
Slims Lights menthol. I got a free pack of Eve Light
120’s menthol while I was out shopping one day. I
smoked Eve Light 120’s for a couple of years until I
divorced shithead, and I moved to someplace where they
had More Light 120’s in brown. I thought it was perfect.
I even showed up at the divorce hearing and blew smoke
from a brown cigarette in his face.” Everybody laughed,
but mine died when Meghan took another draw and french-
inhaled it, before exhaling very slowly. The smoke
leaving her lips looked like cream. “Then I moved here
two years ago to take the job with the studio, and
found out that the More Light 120’s are white here.
They don’t taste quite the same,” she resumed. “They’re
not as good, so I switch from time to time. When I get
tired of them, I usually buy a pack of Eve 120’s.” She
took another long drag, french-inhaled it, and exhaled
while leaning against the wall. A very casual, and sexy
pose for someone with a More in a seven-inch holder. I
moved closer to Colby. “I also smoke More menthols when
I’m in the mood for something… different, or Colby is
taking a smoking break with me. I smoke 120’s because
it feels so much more unhurried. I can relax with them,
and only have one cigarette. It also makes Richard have
to wait longer for me to finish my cigarette break be-
fore he can drive me crazy with another crisis at the
studio,” Meghan laughed, then did another french-inhale,
leisurely turn of the head, and easy, effortless exhale.
I was almost crazy at this point.
Colby was laughing. “I admit that I smoke Mores because
of the attention I get from brown cigarettes. You all
know me. What else would I smoke?”
Cindy quickly said, “Cigars. Now there’s something that
would get you a lot of attention. After all, it’s quite
the chic thing to do these days for women. It was really
big back east. Do you guys know that they have women’s
cigar clubs there?” There were murmurs of curiosity
around the table. I saw the look in Colby’s eyes; I knew
I’d get to see her smoking a cigar in the very near
future. “I even went to one,” she said. “It was kinda
fun. Maybe we ought to start one here,” Cindy suggested.
Paula quickly agreed, and Tanya volunteered the smoking
room at Java Surf for a locale. Meghan suggested invit-
ing men, and Colby volunteered to bring snacks. Christie
initially declined, but when Paula, Lisa and Colby sur-
rounded her, she decided that she would give it a try,
and make an advertising flyer for it. Lisa said she’d
get copies of the flyers made. Cindy smiled. “Great.
Then all we have to do is to find a date for the meeting
and some good cigars. I’ll check out the local cigar
shops.”
Meghan laughed, “Then I declare that this meeting of the
‘120 smokers’ is now adjourned. We will reconvene as the
120 and cigar club.” Everybody laughed, but mine was a
delirious one: I was all but lost in fantasies and men-
tal replays of the night. We all headed inside to take
our leave of the party; the band was packing up and the
host was asleep on the couch, leaving it to his wife to
say good byes.
As we drove off, Colby quietly asked, “So how hot did
all that talk make you?”
“Very.”
“What do you think about the cigar club? Is that a turn-
off, or a turn-on?” There was a note of concern in her
voice. Colby actually cared about the effect of her
smoking cigars on my smoking fetish. “I like the idea of
smoking cigars in public, Scott,” she admitted. “I guess
I’m just an image-conscious attention slut.”
“Yeah,” I agreed, “but you’re my image-conscious, sexy-
smoking, attention slut. And I want to get us home very
quickly. You’d better not have any plans for tomorrow.”
Colby snapped her holder open. “I don’t,” she throatily
said.