Where There's Smoke

That fetish of mine.

We don't chose our fetishes. If we did, I'd fetishize boots or gloves or piercings or tattoos or facial hair or something like that. I mean, I do to some extent in that I think that stuff is pretty hot, but they're not true fetishes.

A true fetish is some inexplicable thing to which you're drawn to the extent that your powers of self-control are sorely tested.

So my fetish.

My fetish is smoking. It was established in my formative years (of course). The boys that I lusted after in high school were the boys who smoked. There are a lot of us out there. With variations on the theme. (I've chatted with a few guys for whom a smokers cough is sufficient reason to cum without touching their dicks.) Check out the website SmokingHunks and you'll have an idea of what it's all about.

Now, this is a problem. Smoking is bad for you. All things considered, I would rather I didn't smoke. But attempts to quit have been fruitless. Recent attempts to cut down have met with more success (I can't smoke at work, and when I go out, I smoke cigars). And absolutely trying to quit is made all the more difficult because of my fetish.

Well here's a twist: this coming weekend, from 3pm Saturday until 3pm Sunday, I'll be in service to a man who also has a smoking fetish. He's into forced smoking. He plans to make me his smoke pig. It's just for 24 hours, I tell myself. But it's not whatchya might call 'good for me,' is it?

I guess we need to talk about this. This Top and I. My Marlboro Man. Hopefully, Marlboro Man will be equally as turned on by my smoking cigars as he is with me smoking Camels. That would be good.

But, I would be lying if I said I wasn't really looking forward to this, and turned on by the prospect of being this guy's smokepig. Ananuthathing. We're negotiating, as part of the scene, him taking me to a tattoo parlor, and me getting a second tattoo. His choice. Within limits. Nothing cheesey: no Hotstuff the Little Devil, nor any cartoon character for that matter, no pugilistic Irishmen, no Chinese characters, no skulls, no dice showing snake-eyes, a snake would be okay--there's the whip connection--but not a cobra, and since I'm not Irish, no Celtic designs. That doesn't leave a lot, huh?

Well, it does. Wolves are great. Chains are fine. A well-designed angel I'd be okay with. A St. Andrew's Cross might be appropriate. The Green Man would be excellent. A whip might be too much to hope for. A clenched fist. And of course, the word 'Conviction.'

We've agreed on the location. Right over the crack of my ass, there above my butt cheeks. Once, in the sauna, I saw a guy who had a hummingbird over a lotus flower (no hummingbirds and no lotus flowers) done in pink, yellow, blue, and green (no... well, I hope that's obvious). It looked really sexy. The location, I mean. And the subject, too, in a squeaky-clean, Chelsea boy, only-in-the-missionary-position kinda way.

I think this is way hot. I mean, how is that for submission? Marlboro Man is gonna mark me. For good. And we're constructing it in such a way so that we'll be able to play all kinds of head games during the scene that it's purely coerced. How cool is that?

Remember the movie La Bamba? The scene where Richie Valens wakes up after a night getting drunk with his brother in Mexico and discovers he has a tattoo that wasn't there before? That's a big part of the reason that I love that movie.

Huh. It's a lot like smoking in some ways.

"Yeah. It's bad for you. But what the fuck."
"Yeah. It's a tattoo. Idunno what it means. What the fuck."

Just like when I was wearing the shiner that PunchPig gave me. When people would ask Omigod! What happened to you? I got to look blase, or give a big grin and say, "I got punched in the face."

I guess it's how I would define tough, in a masculine sense. That unshakeable stoicism in the wake of whatever the fuck.

Another similarity. Smoking is a memento morii, a reminder of death. I read once that a tattoo is also a memento morii. Because that tattoo is permanent. It will one day grace your cold corpse.

Interesting. Last night, tooling around Philadelphia with the Baron, I remembered a word in German: Gelassenheit. It's from my reading of Heidegger in college. It means, 'Forgetfulness." Heidegger posited that Dasein (the human condition, approximately) was all about Forgetfulness. As in, we forget that we're alive, that we are, even though we might as well not be. And what rouses us from Gelassenheit? Mortality: the sure awareness that one day we will pass into Nothing.

I forget what he called the state of being that supercedes Gelassenheit. Forgetfulness. If I was Martin Heidegger, I would have called that 'Butch.'

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