Would you believe that when I was younger I was extremely anti-smoking? You wouldn't believe the hard time I used to give my mum, full-blown fights, running the kitchen tap over her cigarettes. I’d tell on the girls at school who smoked in the bathroom, made snide comments, and was overly dramatic about waving smoke away if it got too close to me on the street. I was terrible, but what I know now and wasn’t ready to admit to myself then, was that I was fascinated by smoking, fascinated by the look, fascinated and jealous of other girls who smoked and fantasised about being one of them.
What I didn't want to admit was that I had a smoking fetish and had spent the first 25 years of my life overcompensating by going hard in the other direction. This is how I started smoking.
It was lockdown, I was living on my own in what turned out to be a temporary split from my girlfriend. I had already discovered sites like smokingstories.net and it was one of my main albeit secret sources for getting off when on my own. Time, opportunity and perhaps boredom combined and well one night when I was horny I worked up the courage to buy a pack. I chose the brand my mother smoked (Marlboro Gold) as it was all I really knew of.
That first night I barely knew how to light it. I just held the cigarette in my hand with the flame to it until it lit. After the first pull (not even an inhale) I hated the taste that much I crushed the cigarette out and threw out the packet. But that night I had one of the best orgasms I've ever had masterbating as I thought about it.
After that first night, I felt ashamed and disappointed with myself for smoking, for doing something I was so against. But I'd still get turned on thinking about it. The idea of having another cigarette, being a smoker. After about a week I cracked. I'd had a few glasses of wine and brought another pack. This time it was much the same. I still didn't inhale and only smoked about half the cigarette before putting it out. That night I came holding the pack pretending I was still smoking. It continued like that every few days. Feeling shame and embarrassment, before getting turned on again.
I carried on like that for a few weeks. Still not inhaling. Eventually, I got used to the taste and figured out how to light one properly. But I knew I still wasn't doing something right, so I inhaled for the first time. Now I don't know if it was because my mum had smoked around me as a kid or because I'd spent so long getting used to it without inhaling, but I didn't cough or anything like that. But the feeling when the smoke hit my lungs was incredible. The lightheadedness, the buzz! Just the feeling of the smoke in my lungs. Followed by the look of the smoke as I exhaled and knew it was mine. I can't describe how wet it made me.
Part of me honestly thinks that’s when I might have become addicted; at least psychologically.
That became my new routine, I inhaled every time, but started getting bolder as the nights started getting colder and I could no longer comfortably hang out my window. One night I lit my second cigarette, but smoked it in the bathroom in front of the mirror while rubbing my pussy. I wanted to see how I looked smoking. You won't be surprised to hear that I loved how I looked, loved how sexy it made me feel, how naughty it made me feel I was being. Watching me, an anti-smoker holding a cigarette, letting it dangle from my lips, watching the tip glow brighter as I drew on it, the thick smoke in my mouth before I inhaled followed by a long slow exhale. This became common, I stopped smoking out the window, and only smoked in front of the mirror.
I some point I realised that I'd stopped smelling the smoke as strongly even though I was smoking several times a day now in my bathroom with only the window open and the fan running. The smell had become if not pleasant, then normal. I only really noticed it first thing in the morning, then not as much after my first cigarette.
Simple and stupid things gave me the thrill, knowing my cigarettes were in my handbag while grocery shopping, having them sitting just out of shot on my desk when on a work Zoom call. Talking to friends and family on the phone wondering if they knew the pause in my talking was because I'd just inhaled and wanted to hold the smoke a little longer in my lungs. Cigarettes became my dirty little secret.
After a while, I grew bolder, I moved from the bathroom to the bedroom bringing a handheld mirror to be more comfortable as I came to the sight of myself smoking.
In time the naughty thrill of watching myself smoke in the mirror wasn't enough. I wanted other people to see me smoke, see me do something so bad for me, something everyone thought I hated. I knew there were people out there who wouldn't care, maybe even some who found it attractive. I don't know if it was boredom, I just missed the ‘me time’ or if I wanted to make sure I looked my best but I spent over an hour on my hair and makeup. Noticing for the first time as I did the stain my lipstick had made on the filter. The makeup was overkill for my one government-sanctioned walk a day. I slipped my cigarettes into my handbag and headed out.
I'd like to say that the first time smoking in the open I owned it and was confident, but in truth, I was a paranoid and nervous mess double-checking every car that approached afraid it would be someone who knew me. Somehow the fear of ‘getting caught’ added to the thrill. When I got home my heart was pounding yet I was exhilarated; other people, albeit complete strangers knew I smoked.
It was a Saturday when I experienced my first real craving. The lockdown rules were relaxing, and some of my friends from university had agreed to meet in a local park. I didn't bring my cigarettes as part of me was ashamed I had been smoking and I didn't want my friends to know. None of them smoked, a few used to have an occasional cigarette on a night out, when we were still at university, but that had stopped since graduation. Even back then when they had a drunken cigarette and I saw, I would give them a dirty and disappointed look. I couldn't face them knowing I had been smoking. Would they judge, be disappointed, mock me like I had them? With a knot in my stomach, I didn't yet recognise, I left them at home.
It was fine at first, it was good to see my friends and to catch up in person, but after a while I could feel myself growing restless, the knot in my stomach tightening, soon my restlessness had turned to agitation then annoyance as my mood soured. My annoyance wasn't directed at myself, but at my friends. They were the reason I couldn't have a cigarette, because they were judgmental bitchs who wouldn't understand, who would chide me for smoking, for starting such a disgusting habit. My mood was foul, and I suspect my face told the truth as I rolled my eyes at their stupid jokes, pretty problems, and gave snippy irritable answers to simple questions.
To say I wanted a cigarette would be disengenuous, I needed a cigarette. I hated myself for not bringing them and knew that had they been in my bag I would have caved, I would have snuck off to have one.
After the meetup, I practically ran home, my walking pace much brisker than normal. I thought of asking the man who passed me smoking if I could have one of his. It had been hours since my last one and my whole body felt tense. I contemplated stopping at the shop to buy a new pack and a lighter, but knew I had an almost full one at home, sitting for me on my coffee table.
That cigarette after being without was almost as good as the one when I first inhaled. I could feel the tension wash away as I basked in the feeling of relief after each hungry inhale and low exhale. That was the first time I ever smoked two in a row. I knew immediately after the first one that I wanted needed another.
Part of me knew that I should throw the pack, my lighter, and the old bowl I'd been using as an ashtray away, but the thought filled me with dread. A milder version of the tension I felt earier in the park came back. So I let them sit on the coffee table, resolving never to smoke again. I only lasted a few hours. I convinced myself I might as well finish the pack, then I'd stop. As the pack knew lighter my uneasy sense of tension grew stronger. I'd find myself waiting longer to light one, nervous as to what would happen when they were gone. The thought made me sad so I tried to push it from my head.
Then the day finally came, my pack was done, my makeshift ashtray and lighter discarded in the bin outside. I opened the windows and cleaned my flat trying to remove all evidence of what I had been doing. I was determined to put this behind me. I would never smoke again. Then the knot tightened, the craving began.
It's a strange experience getting turned on by your cravings, by your discomfort, but that’s where I found myself, back on my bed with my vibrator. I’m embarrassed to admit, but as I lay there I would sniff my fingers for the lingering scent of smoke and breathe in and out pretending I had a cigarette until I came.
After that orgasm, I felt guilty, stupid and ashamed. Asking myself why I ever let myself have that first cigarette. Those emotions helped in their way, they strengthened my resolve to never smoke again. To put all this behind me. I'd go to the chemist in the morning and get nicotine patches or gum if I had to. I masturbated two more times that evening, my resolve wavering each time. I was growing more desperate, but I had left it too late. It was now past 10pm and the shops had closed. That night was awful, I tossed and turned trying to sleep, but craving wouldn't let me. I cried and cursed myself. I screamed into my pillow. A frantic 2am Google search revealed there was a shop that opened at 6am. I only had to last 4 more hours.
I arrived, coat and jeans pulled over my pyjamas, hair pulled back in a messy ponytail and waited in the cold. I had arrived early. The store finally opened I tried to act nonchalant, idly browsing the small store while he got the cash register ready. I grabbed milk I didn't need and a magazine I wouldn’t read and made my purchase.
Outside the shop, I tore the plastic off my new pack, pulled off the protective paper and fumbled in the cold to extract one of the tightly packed cigarettes. It felt infuriatingly long to get the cigarette out, but I finally did. One spark from my lighter and the smoke hit my lungs. I paused closing my eyes and let the pleasure and head rush wash over me. I smiled as I tilted my head towards the sky and exhaled.
The sun had begun to rise as I made my way home. I knew then I was addicted. Knew I wasn't smoking, I was a smoker.
