Posted by red on October 27th, 2009 in Lust

It had come up so casually and fluidly. After playing, Paul and I were watching the world go by from a patio down his street. The conversation stayed light, yet somehow settled onto pipes, and onto smoking. Paul looked out to the water and wistfully spoke longingly about sitting on patios with a pipe smoking friend, and I, mirroring his wistfulness, I spoke lovingly about the sensation of smoke curling around my tongue, and of the sweet peppery scent found only upon exhale.

Thus we slowly began what I now understand to be the dance of two fetishists, exchanging words of yearning and phrases of affection for the act and experience of smoking. Our enthusiasms grew off of one another, until our affection became entwined between us – its presence gripping strongly at us both, imagined tendrils of smoke binding our imaginations and memories together into one want.

Back in his yard, I studied him as he put together his hookah with well practiced movements, his hands forming it from a bagful of pieces, a proverbial lump of clay becoming something wonderful beneath his dancing fingers. I watched him as he lit the coal, glowing red with promise, and placed it atop the towering hookah. He pulled the pipe end to his lips, sliding it between them without fanfare, and pulling his cheeks aggressively inward as he pulled air sharply over the coal and into the herbal concoction below. Releasing the pipe from the constraints of his lips, he pursed his lips together and blew, outward, a thin coil of smoke escaping as he did. Another pull inward, followed by more smoke pouring from between his puckered lips – again and again until it was coming from him in thick billowing marshmallow clouds.

Smiling, he passed it to me, then reached back into his bag of tricks and pulled free a pipe and a bag of pipe tobacco. I lightly pulled at the hookah pipe with my breath, keeping the herbal shisha ember burning bright, sipping at the flavored-thick smoke as I did. His fingers pinched a bundle of pipe tobacco, and placed it carefully into the bowl of his pipe. I could smell the scent of the apple flavored smoke I was inhaling, but beneath it, the sweet baked raisin stench of the fresh pipe tobacco. As I watched, he lit the bowl, puffing gently at first, fanning the embers with his cupping hand, till moments later the smoke was pouring out of the pipe, into his mouth, and all through his presence. We sat there like that for some time, me watching him puff, him watching me pull long, slow and deeply at the hookah. I savored the feeling the thick herbal smoke blanket cascading across my tongue, syrupy smooth and light, before I bundled it back together into a tight knot in my mouth and slowly let it dribble free, flowing upwards across my face, across my identity, and into a place far above me.

Putting down the hookah pipe, I leaned in towards him to watch him smoke his pipe slowly and methodically. As he pulled in, it glowed red and strong as he shook slightly with the effort of controlling the pull just so. When he reached his capacity, smoke escaped in tufts from around the pipe, from his nose, and finally, from his mouth as it was allowed to trickle free. Peppery soft, peppery sweet. Heady like perfume, satisfying like spiced vanilla pie. Pulling again, his steely eyes fixed firmly on mine, I leaned in close when he pulled the pipe free, bringing my lips mere millimeters away from his while he exhaled slowly into my waiting mouth, smoke pouring over my lips, up my face and into my mouth. I leaned back slightly as he brought the pipe back to his plump lips, and again, lips close to his as the exhale began – this time, connecting ever so lightly to him in an electric lip lock as the smoke poured from him and into me.

We continued like that for some time, switching in the hookah with the pipe as the nicotine headiness got to be too much for both of us. The electricity flew through the air between our lips as the tendrils of smoke wrapped deep into us and between us on mutual breaths, locking our breathing together with thin ribbons of cloudy smoke and desire. As I inhaled, the smoke pulled deeper and deeper within my body, running down through my cunt, dribbling down my thighs and towards the ground below, before pouring free and up through me – cleansing and liberating – up my face and into the air above. I could feel him in the smoke, his presence settling into me on my inhales, and springing free as I breathed outwards again and again. With each puff that seeped out of him and into me, a part of him moved inside a part of me – momentary, ephemeral, and formless. Paul was in that smoke, inside of me, and yet – there in front of me, his eyes watching mine, his lips grazing mine, his presence all around me and bound firmly to me and to that moment by the strings of that smoke. I sighed and leaned in again for a smoky kiss, enjoying the warmth of this intimacy seeping into my body and comforting me on a level that defies any sort of traditional explanation.