It was Drake’s shift behind the wheel, when they came to the Selma, NC, exit of I-95 South, and he deftly maneuvered the 1996 Taurus onto the ramp. Angela, his bride of all of 24 hours sat on the seat next to him, arms crossed and fuming.
Coming off the ramp and onto the little side-road, Drake followed the signs to the parking lot next to the huge building which bore the logo, “J*R TOBACCO– 1-800- JR-CIGAR” painted on its side in letters 8 feet tall.
“We’re here, Angie,” he said, smiling at her in the hope of getting some sort of positive reaction from her. She turned slightly, focussing an angry glare at him as she reached into her purse. She pulled out her pack of Marlboro 100’s, and proceeded to light up.
“If you insist on making this stop,” she told him, “you can go by yourself. I’m smoking a cigarette.”
“Honey,” Drake said slowly, sighing, “I was going to save this as a little surprise for you, for after we got inside, but they have a perfume department in there, too. I think they must carry just about every perfume in the world, with the exception of a couple French labels that cost over a hundred dollars an ounce or more, and the prices they charge make K-Mart look more like Neiman-Marcus.”
“Really?” she asked, perking up markedly. She looked at her cigarette, a small frown appearing to mar the start of her smile.
“And, hon–this is North Carolina. Tobacco-growing country. They don’t have all those stupid “No Smoking in the store” regulations down here. And this place also sells cigarettes at less than half the carton-prices they charge back home.”
“Okay,” she gave him a wan smile, “but I’m still not budging on what I said earlier about the cigars. I won’t tolerate you smoking them. Not a bit!”
They got out of the car, the beginnings of a sad expression forming now on Drake’s face, as he began to realize that his fantasy would probably never become a reality. Angie was beautiful beyond belief, and supremely sexy to begin with. When she smoked, it was (most of the time, anyway) all he could do to keep the bulge in his crotch from becoming too terribly noticeable. And, since Angie knew all too well about Drake’s fetish for women who smoke, she quite often did the “bad-girl” routine to the hilt, just to see him squirm to keep from creaming his shorts.
Before they’s been introduced to each other, Drake had smoked cigars far more often than cigarettes, but that had come to an end when, that same day, she had casually commented that she couldn’t stand the smell of cigars. Drake had basically given up his cigars during the course of their courtship. Oh, he still smoked an occasional cigar, if he was out with the guys, or when away from Angie on a business trip, but never in his apartment, nor around her. Still, he had hoped that, someday, he could bring her around to at least sharing one puff off of a Hoyo de Monterey Excalibur #1 with him. The image of his tall, willowy, blonde lady with the churchill-sized cigar poised at her ruby lips haunted the best of his wet-dreams for the two years they had dated steadily prior to the wedding.
The morning after their wedding night, they left bright and early to drive south to Orlando for a week of honeymooning at Disney World, followed by a drive further south to Miami, and a week of visiting Drake’s older brother, Collin, and his wife Terri. As they cruised south on the interstate, they’d begun to pass occasional billboards, advertising either JR’s, or South of the Border. Angie, who had never been farther south than Colonial Williamsburg, had stated that she wanted to stop and see what “South of the Border” was all about, and Drake had consented, even though he had visited the place on other trips, and knew it to be a gigantic tourist- trap.
But, when he’d mentioned stopping at JR’s, Angie had gone ballistic. The resultant argument had lasted for nearly 80 miles. And so Drake had finally consigned his hoped-for fantasy of Angie and a double-corona to the mental waste can.
They entered the building, walking (as Drake had planned) via the door that led directly into the perfume department. Angie, seeing the massive display of feminine scents, gave a small squeal of delight. This squeal was repeated several times in the course of the next half-hour as she discovered the price-tags that were attached to her favorites.
After she had made her selections–three of her favorite (but usually too costly for her budget) perfumes, and a bottle of the Lagerfeld cologne that she loved to smell on him, they made their way to the rear section of the store, where an aisle nearly 300 feet long was stacked on both sides with cases of cartons of cigarettes. Locating the Marlboro section wasn’t too difficult; there was a massive banner on the wall directly above it. They picked up several cartons apiece, most of which were destined to be shipped home in care of one of Drake’s co-workers, and were looking through the selection of Marlboro Gear gift items (free with purchase of “x” cartons) when the sweet aroma first wafted into Drake’s nostrils.
Apparently Angie had detected it, too, as her head was tilted back slightly and she was taking short, rapid sniffs of the air with a curious expression on her face.
“What is that?” she asked, turning to him.
“The smell?” he asked, and she nodded in reply.
“Cigar smoke,” he answered, mentally bracing himself for the expected storm of her next comment.
“It can’t be cigar smoke,” she told him firmly. “It doesn’t stink like a cigar does.”
“You know, Anj,” Drake looked at her, puzzled, “I’ve been wanting to ask you this for a couple years, now, but–with the way you felt on the subject, I never got up the nerve. Where did you pick up your hatred of cigars, in the first place?”
“When I was a young teenager, my grandfather came to live with my family after my grandma passed away. He smoked nothing but cigars, and they really stank. I was just thirteen or fourteen at the time, and had just mastered smoking cigarettes snitched from my folks’ packs, and I asked Grandpa, one day, how he could stand the smell of those cigars.
” ‘They don’t smell at all the same, if you’re smokin’ ’em,’ he told me, and held out the one that he was smoking at the time, and told me to try a puff. I pretended to be a good little non-smoking young lady, whereupon he informed me that he’d seen me, on several occasions, at the mall, smoking with a couple of my girlfriends.”
“So, I took a couple puffs. Choked on the first inhale, did a bit better on the second, but the cigar tasted worse than it smelled. Thinking that, like the first couple cigarettes I’d ever smoked, it was an ‘acquired’ taste, I tried a few more puffs. All of a sudden, I got to feeling really sick, and just made it to the bathroom before my lunch came back up. Ever since then, I can’t stand the smell of cigars.”
“But I do know the scent of cigar-smoke, when I smell it, and that isn’t cigar-smoke that we’re smelling. So what is it?”
Drake was about to give her an answer when, around the corner of the break in the aisle came a young couple pushing a half-filled shopping cart. Both were merrily puffing away on large cigars. As the couple passed them, Angela took a deep breath through her nose, and a wistful expression played briefly on her face. Hesitantly, she cleared her throat, and then called after the pair of shoppers.
“Excuse me,” she said, and the man and woman turned around to face her.
“Yes?” the woman responded, exhaling a large cloud of fragrant smoke at the ceiling.
“Where did you get those cigars?” Angie asked her.
“Back there–” the woman turned somewhat and pointed a finger toward one rear corner of the building, where a sign hanging from the rafters proclaimed “Humidor” in flashing neon.
“Thanks,” Angie told her. Then, as an afterthought, “What kind are they?”
“Well, the one that my husband is smoking is a Hoyo Excalibur #1,” the woman told her as the couple walked back to a more comfortable conversation-range, “and I’m smoking a Santa Rosa Churchill. Why?”
Angie suddenly found herself confessing her situation to the couple, as if they were old and trusted friends, and she gave them a complete explanation, up to and including the better portion of the 80-mile argument.
“And, for the past two years, I’ve kept him from smoking cigars around me, never imagining that there were any that actually smelled pleasant.” The couple smiled warmly. “But if he smoked cigars that smelled like yours do, I don’t think I’d mind at all.” she finished.
“And you’d maybe even try a puff or two, yourself, wouldn’t you?” the lady asked her. “By the way, this is my husband, Greg, and I’m Lauren. Where are you two from?”
“South Central Pennsylvania,” Drake told them, and then introduced himself and his bride.
“Anywhere near Harrisburg?” Greg asked.
“About half an hour away,” Angie replied. “Do you two live in Harrisburg?” “Actually, just outside of it, near the airport.”
“Are you on vacation?” Drake looked at Greg.
“Yes and no,” Greg smiled.
“What he means,” Lauren explained, “is that we’re on a ‘getaway weekend’, as we call them. About four times a year, we take off for the weekend, drive down here, and stock up on cigars, perfume, and after-shave. And, we usually have a shopping-list accumulated from friends.” she nodded at their cart. “Then, we go into town, get a nice meal, and then check into a motel room for a night of mad, passionate sex. Next day, we head home.”
“I didn’t think women…” Angie began, then stopped, unsure of just how to voice her thought without risking offending the kindly couple.
“You mean, you thought that nice women don’t smoke cigars, right?” Lauren winked at her.
“Well, I, er, uh, that is…”
“Honey, there’s no more truth to that than there is in that old wive’s tale that nice girls don’t go down on their men!” Lauren chuckled. “I’ve been smoking cigars for five years, now. Greg introduced me to his other love, Lady Leaf, on our first date!”
“Only, back then, I was fresh out of college, and didn’t have the budget to afford really good cigars. In fact, I didn’t realize there was a difference in the types of cigars until a business associate of mine saw the White Owls I was smoking, and gave me a few assorted Dominicans and Hondurans out of his own stock,” Greg added.
“White Owls?” Angie exclaimed. “That’s what my grandfather smoked!”
“Which explains, in part, why you got sick back then,” Drake told her. “White Owls are not at all the same breed as those cigars that Greg and Lauren are smoking.”
“And, I’d be willing to betthat your stomach was fairly empty, too,” Lauren smiled.
“Well, it was late afternoon, and as I remember, I’d had very little to eat that day…”
“That just about wraps it up, then,” Lauren told her. “You tried to smoke a really lousy excuse for a cigar, on an almost-empty stomach. It’s no wonder you got sick. What you need to do is try a really good cigar, with some food in your belly, and see the difference that that makes.”
“But,” Angie wavered, “I’m still not sure about this deal with women smoking cigars. No offense, Lauren, but it just seems weird to me.”
“You’d be surprised at the number of well-known actresses who prefer cigars to cigarettes,” Greg told her, “as well as the number of professional women and even housewives, who smoke cigars.”
“I saw a piece on the CBS Morning News, recently,” Lauren said, moving over to stand next to Angie, “all about women cigar smokers. According to the reporter, more and more women–something over 15% of the total of all smoking women in the country–smoke cigars either occasionally or exclusively. A few do it to make some sort of either political or social statement, but most of us do so simply because cigar smoke contains less harmful ingredients than cigarette smoke, and because we simply like the taste and aroma of a cigar better than that of a cigarette.”
“But, do those taste as good as they smell?” Angie wanted to know.
“Try it and see for yourself,” Lauren told her, handing her cigar to Angie.
Angie took the cigar gingerly, and brought it up a bit closer to her face, sniffing at its aroma. “It smells really wonderful, but Grandpa always said that the best- tasting cigars always smelled the worst…”
“Don’t stall, honey. You’ll never know, unless you try it for yourself.” Lauren chided. “And remember,” Greg added, “Gramps smoked those cheap, domestic White
Owls, that made you sick. What did he know about premium, imported cigars?”
“What’s the real difference?” Angie asked him.
“You could buy 10 of those White Owls for the price of the cigar you’re holding in your hand. That ought to say something about the quality of the tobacco that went into each cigar!” he explained.
By this time, Drake was nearly in agony, holding his breath unconsciously, waiting to see his lovely wife take a drag from the cigar. Angie noticed, from the corner of her eye, the expressed anticipation on his face, and it suddenly dawned on her that her husband was waiting to see an unfulfilled fantasy become a reality.
Slowly, she placed the cigar next to her lips.
“You’re sure that you don’t mind, Lauren?” she asked.
“Angie, I wouldn’t have offered it to you if I did mind. Now, go for it.”
Eyes half-closed, Angie curled her lips around the end of the cigar, and began to gently draw smoke down through its length. As the first tendrils of the fragrant smoke carressed her tongue, her eyes widened.
It’s sweet!” she exclaimed, puffing the smoke out again in surprise.
“That it is,” Lauren agreed with her. “Now, take another drag off of it, and inhale.”
Angie placed the long, thick cigar to her lips again. Turning slightly in Drake’s direction, she took a couple puffs, followed by a long, leisurely drag. She opened her mouth slightly, as she pulled the cigar away, so that Drake could see the dense ball of thick, white smoke start to escape her mouth before she drew it down into her lungs. She held the smoke down for a couple seconds, and then let it loose in an exhale that flowed from both her mouth and nose.
“This is good!” she exclaimed. “Drake, honey, I think we have some more shopping to do.” Then, to Lauren, “May I have one more drag off of this?”
“Of course,” Lauren chuckled.
The two couples headed for the store’s humidor room, Drake and Greg began chatting about what type of work each did, and for what companies, while their wives made sure that addresses and telephone numbers were recorded properly, for getting together again after Angie and Drake returned from their honeymoon.
As they entered the large humidor, Angie saw Lauren inhale deeply through her nose, and she copied the move. At once, a tantalizing aroma filled her nose.
“What a wonderful aroma!” she sighed.
“Don’t worry,” Lauren told her, “after a month or so with the two of you smoking cigars in it, your house will have the same wonderful smell. But, I just had a thought come to mind: don’t you think you ought to apologize to your husband for keeping him from the pleasure of his cigars for so long?”
“Now it’s your turn not to worry!” Angie giggled to her in a whisper that was accompanied by a conspiratorial wink. “I’ll do that later tonight.”
Drake and Angie spent the better part of an hour, and a sizeable amount of money, in the cigar store. They purchased a couple boxes of cigars, as well as a half-box full of assorted singles, apiece, for the rest of their trip. They also purchased a couple cigar-cases, as well as a humidor for Angie’s cigars (although Drake hadn’t used his humidor in nearly two years, he had not discarded it) and several more boxes of cigars, which were to be held, along with the humidor, for pickup on the trip home.
While Drake was taking care of the bill, Lauren took Angie aside. Helping her to select a single cigar from the large selection at the store’s front, Lauren began to
give Angie a crash course in the art of preparing a cigar for smoking. She was shortly being assisted by two of the store’s several sales clerks, both female (and both smoking large cigars), and both eager to help a ‘sister’ become acquainted with the various facets of cigars and cigar smoking.
A short time later, purchases loaded into their respective cars, the women were hugging, and the men shaking hands in parting. Angie had promised to callLauren as soon as they returned home, to schedule an evening or weekend get-together for steaks, cigars, and a few hands of Spades. Greg and Drake had also exchanged Internet e-mail addresses, and had been discussing the possibility of starting a cigar-club in the area.
“Oh! By the way, Angie,” Lauren said as they were getting into their cars, “When you get to Disney World, check with the park offices. If I remember it correctly, I think that Cigar Afficionado Magazine is sponsoring one of their Big Smokes at Disney World sometime in the next week or so. Maybe you two can manage to still get tickets.”
They waved goodbye, and Drake put the Taurus in gear and headed for the interstate, contentedly puffing on his first Hoyo de Monterey Sultan in nearly two years. More important, his blushing bride sat next to him, smoking a Santa Rosa Churchill.
They continued south until they reached Dillon, South Carolina, and “South of the Border”, where Drake got a motel room for the night. After a good meal in one of the local restaurants, they returned to the motel.
Angie claimed first rights on the bathroom, instructing Drake to wait in the room with no more light than that provided by the television. When she was done, it was Drake’s turn.
When Drake finally emerged from the bathroom, following his shower-and-shave, he found Angie lying on the bed, naked but for her stockings and garter-belt. He crossed to the bed, and sat down beside her.
“You look absolutely gorgeous,” he told her, reaching out to caress her breasts.
“But I don’t feel that way, at the moment,” she replied. “I have something that I need to get off my chest.”
“You couldn’t prove that by me,” he chuckled. “From where I sit, your chest looks perfectly naked–and perfect!–as it is.”
“Be serious with me for just a few minutes, darling, please?”
He nodded.
“I want to apologize to you for part of my conduct over the last two years,” she began. “It is so often said that, if you really love someone, you’ll accept those things that you regard as faults or shortcomings in that person, without trying to change them.
“Your cigar smoking, when we first met, was something I regarded as a fault, and I demanded that you change, in order to keep dating me. I thought, ‘It’s not like I was asking him to quit smoking; after all, I smoke cigarettes. He can just switch from cigars to cigarettes, and everything will be fine.’
“I was wrong. I didn’t realize how wrong, until about the time I tasted my second or third drag off of a good cigar, this afternoon, and I realized just how pleasing the taste and aroma were to me. I started to think, then, about how I would have felt, if you’d been a non-smoker, and demanded that I give up my cigarettes for you. I love to smoke. I get intense pleasure, and a lot of relaxation from it, and I wouldn’t give up smoking for anybody or anything. Yet I asked you to give up the smoking that you really enjoyed. I hope that you can forgive me.”
“Of course I can, honey. That’s part of what love is all about. And part of marriage, too; marriage isn’t the fairy-tale ‘happily ever after’ that so many people think it is. It’s about learning to live with people who are less than perfect, and using reason and communication and a host of other things to make it balance and work and last a lifetime.
“Too, nothing is static except change. And nothing proves that any better than this afternoon. And you gained a new pleasure, and I got an old one back. So all’s well that ends well.”
He leaned down, took her in his arms, and their lips met in a passionate kiss that lasted several minutes. Finally, she pulled away. Rolling over, she reached to the night-stand on the oposite side of the bed, coming back with a large cigar. She sat up and brought the cigar almost to her wine-colored lips.
“Light me, baby?” she asked him, winking.
He took his lighter from the other night-stand, and held it while she slowly puffed the cigar into life. When she had it going well, she took a deep drag, left the tight ball of smoke partially escape her mouth, pulled it back, french-inhaled it, and then brought her mouth to his in a smoky kiss–something that she knew really turned him on.
She drew back, then, to watch him exhale her smoke.
“I want you inside me, baby,” she told him in a suddenly husky voice, ”I want that big cock of yours as far inside me as you can pound it–and I want it to stay there until this cigar is too short for me to hold it any more!
He was watching his fantasy come alive.
If he only knew the fantasies that his cigar-smoking wife was beginning to have. To Be Continued?