Slender and sleek, alluring and seductive, she is a whore who plays with fire. She waits at every street corner, flirting with her eyes, teasing with her breast. All she asks for is a kiss, for that is all it takes to bring the kisser back to her again and again. Every time she is kissed, she injects a little of her smoky venom, until finally she hooked her victim forever. She is the bitch call Cigarette and I am one of her victims.
Adolescent curiosity led me to her and I kissed her for the first time. Cough-pant-fume-gasp, it didn’t taste good at all, but made me feel like a man nevertheless. It was rare occasions that took place secretly inside the bathroom, under the bed, and inside the closet. Smoking was only for the name, keeping the smoke in the mouth and blowing it out was the game.
One fine day, the kissing was deep, and the smoke broke the barrier of my throat to reach my lungs. A kick in the head, a slight dizziness, and I became a real kisser and a smoker. It had to happen someday, and it happened that day.
College happened. Smoking her came handy to belong to the upper class of the college apartheid. Smoking was a symbol of having done things which remained youthful fantasies to the others, instilling respect and fear to them. Every puff I inhaled declared, ‘I am not afraid of anyone’, and every puff exhaled screamed, ‘I am liberated.’ Everybody looked at me in awe and I was really happy.
Soon came the days when I can’t do without her anymore. Every occasion became an excuse to kiss her: at the morning flush, at breakfast, at lunch, at dinner, with tea, with wine…… My male chauvinism crumbled under her smoky lure, begging her for a kiss I realized I have been hooked for life.
My endeavor now is to unhooked myself now from her smoky clutches. But how, oh how.