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Message-ID: <33289asstr$1005023405@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Jordan, Gary S." <JordanGS@vadoc.state.va.us>
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Subject: {ASSM} Smokin' Hot Sex {Gary Jordan}
Date: Tue,  6 Nov 2001 00:10:05 -0500
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Dear Alexis,

Oh, no.  You don't get to drop that one on me.  You and Shon thunk
it up - you and Shon take care of it.  I'm not writing a story that
associates sex with smoking.

Besides, it hits too close too home.

Did I tell you that PJ and I were both smokers?  That she smoked
as a teen, but I didn't take it up until I was twenty?  That and
coffee were two of the nasty habits I picked up in the Navy.

What I probably didn't mention was that I *had* seen a therapist
about quitting.  Well, PJ had seen therapists on and off for years,
for depression (this was long before she was diagnosed as a
multiple).  I went with her occasionally, when one therapist or
another needed to meet me or felt I needed to be a more active
participant in the therapy.

At one such session, habits were discussed.  I won't list *all*
the annoying little things that married people don't realize they
do that annoy the hell out of their partners.  Some of them are too
personal.  Most of them are trite, though.  You know the ones.  The
position of the toilet seat, asking for directions, four hours to
dress to go out to a two hour party, nylons on the shower curtain
rod, cap off the toothpaste, socks on the floor instead of in the
hamper, not emptying an ashtray until it was ready to overflow (or
had)...

That last one led to smoking, and both of us expressed a passive
desire to quit.  PJ did, on her own, for months at a time, but I
was a little more hardcore.  That particular therapist admitted
that chemical dependence was not her specialty, but she had heard
from a colleague that substitution therapy was common.  Some people
chew gum whenever they get the urge to smoke.  Telly Savalas was
well known for his Tootsie Pop substitution.  He did that
television show with a sucker in his mouth the whole time ("Who
loves ya, baby?").

We discussed potential substitutes.  I hate gum - I'll smoke a
cigarette just to get the taste out of my mouth.  Lollipops and
suckers were out.  It only takes me three licks (crunch) to get to
the center of a Tootsie Pop.  I remembered that before I smoked, I
used to chew up a box or two of pencils a week.  It helped explain
why I so quickly went from non-smoking to a pack-a-day.

Other substitutions were suggested, discussed, and dismissed, for
a variety of reasons.  I think the therapist was at wits end (the
topic had strayed far afield of PJ's problems) when she suggested
sex.  Not with her - don't get the wrong idea - but as a substitute
for smoking.  There was some embarrassed humor, the inevitable "Do
you smoke after sex?" question, and the equally inevitable answer,
"I don't know, I never looked."  Ha, ha.

But there were no admissible objections to this substitute. 
Unlike food, this activity was non-fattening (okay, one of us could
end up getting temporarily fat without proper precautions, but you
know what I mean.).  It was something we could both enjoy, and help
the other with.  And it beat the hell out of walking around with a
pacifier in my mouth.

What we agreed to, PJ and I, was that there would be no smoking
until after an orgasm.  Ask a smoker which cigarette is the hardest
to give up, and if they're honest, that's the one.  I could give up
lighting up with my first cup of coffee.  I could give up that butt
that went with a beer (by giving up beer).  But that afterglow with
a little red glowing cherry in the dark?  Fuggedaboudit.

It never would have worked if I had been due to go to sea anytime
soon, but I was at the time stationed aboard one of the "Forty-one
For Freedom", a Fleet Ballistic Missile submarine.  They have two
complete crews, designated Blue and Gold, so that the ship can be
on station nearly all the time while a crew has a chance to rest
and recuperate for their next deterrent patrol.  It was my crew's
turn to be home, and this therapy session took place in the first
two weeks of that 98-day "off-crew" period.

Let me digress a little more.  The off-crew period is broken up
into discrete periods.  The first two weeks is called "R&R".  The
Navy has a policy that no more than 96 hours of liberty can be
granted at any one time (Liberty is authorized absence, time off,
that doesn't require dipping into your vacation leave balance.) 
During the R&R period, every member of the crew is required to
phone the office twice each week to "muster".  Technically, you
were expected to be in the immediate area during that phone call,
but people have mustered from the other coast.

The next two weeks is the "Admin" period.  There isn't a lot of
difference, except that three musters were required, and these were
"sign in" musters for two, and a formal mustering of the crew for
the third, where the crew was inspected, information was
disseminated, and then dismissed.  (The crew, not the information.)

The remainder of the off-crew was the "Training" period. 
Classrooms were provided, and members of the crew took turns
lecturing their departments or divisions about ship's systems and
procedures.  Crewmembers were sent to formal training at the
Submarine School in Groton as well. At the end of that period, we
would muster one last time with sea bags and tearful goodbyes, and
fly to wherever the ship was to relieve the other crew.

As you can see, the only reason we thought there was any chance of
success for this smoking abatement therapy was because I would be
home no later than five every night for nearly three months, just
like my civilian counterparts, and often earlier.  We went home
from that therapy session with the best of intentions.

We gathered all of our smoking paraphernalia and stored it in the
bottom drawer of the nightstand next to our bed.  I hadn't had a
cigarette in the car during the drive home, and watching all of the
smoking materials being placed out of reach, or at least out of
bounds, was instigating a nicotine fit.  Besides, PJ just looked so
damned good bent over like that.  I placed a hand on either side of
her hips and rubbed myself up and down the middle.

The look she threw over her shoulder at me was almost enough to
let me light one up.  She straightened and turned in my arms and
pulled my head down to hers, and things got serious, fast.  Well,
we *were* still on our "honeymoon".  That happens every six months
or so to most missile boat sailors and their wives, while they get
reacquainted with each other after an extended absence.  The sheets
got turned down quick, and then pulled up, and twisted, and kicked
out of the way.  Fifteen minutes later, we were both smoking in bed
(not a recommended practice, but there we were.)  PJ lifted the
sheet and looked under, and said "Nope."

I was a little slow.  I looked at her grinning face with
befuddlement until I remembered the reference. We laughed together
until the cigarettes were extinguished.  I helped her change the
sheets and make the bed.

I lasted an hour until the cravings began to gnaw at me.  In my
defense, I was a chain-smoker by then.  Unfortunately, I was not a
satyr, or afflicted with priapism.  An hour should have been enough
of a refractory period, but PJ was doing some sort of wifely chore
and out of sight, and the stimulus was all wrong.  I had to tough
it out.  Instead, I filled my lungs with secondhand barbeque smoke
in preparation for dinner.  (Just kidding.  nobody intentionally
inhales that smoke, no matter how serious their cigarette habit.)

I grilled steaks and corn on the cob, while PJ made macaroni salad
and green beans in the kitchen.  The grill was my area, then, and
the fixin's were hers.  It was all delicious.

Have I mentioned that next to the post-coital cigarette, the smoke
after eating is the most intense craving?  Have you ever observed
that making love on a full stomach can be uncomfortable?  It looked
as though we were going on diets as well as a smoking cessation
program.

PJ was as eager as I was for that after dinner cigarette, no
matter how uncomfortable it might be.  We experimented with
different positions, trying to find one that did not involve
sloshing bellies bumping one another.  We settled for facing each
other on our sides, but it had never been a particular favorite and
wasn't the most stimulating for either of us.  That said, we
managed to reach a mutually satisfying conclusion.  It was some
time before either of us reached for the ashtray and the packs and
lighter.  It almost felt like cheating.

"Honeymoon" or not, neither of our sex-drives could keep up with
the demands of the nicotine in our systems.  That first cigarette
in the morning after waking up became a quickie.  PJ begged off
after lunch on the third day, complaining of dryness.  I was
smiling when I said it was okay, but I felt like I was itching
inside.  We had never used lubricants before for regular sex and it
frankly didn't occur to us at the time.  I was becoming irritable
as a result, and that is *not* a major turn-on for women, including
(especially) PJ.

My beloved spouse did hit on a loophole in the plan (she had a
genius IQ).  We had agreed, and the therapist witnessed, that we
would not smoke until after an orgasm.  No place in that agreement
did we say that it had to be our own orgasm, or that both of us had
to have an orgasm.  She explained this loophole to me while I was
chewing my last fingernail, sitting on the couch, with her kneeling
in front of me.

Not long after, I was a good deal less irritable.  So much less
that I fetched our stash from the bedroom and cuddled with my
spouse on the couch until nearly dinner time.  We decided to forgo
a large meal and just snack on leftovers for a while before bed. 
(I think we were both a little too exhausted from the anti-smoking
regimen to enjoy the ante-smoking regimen.)  At bedtime, we passed
up a last cigarette before sleep in favor of more cuddling and
quiet talk.

The first day of training was difficult.  After the after-
breakfast quickie, I had to get dressed and report to the off-crew
office.  There was a long-standing tradition of Monday Lunch at the
EM club for the Engineering Department, and as the Leading Chief of
Machinery Division, I was expected to attend, a guest of my troops.
Our Officers would attend as guests, too.  I think I worried as
much about a Pavlovian response to eating at this point as I did
the nicotine fit that was sure to drive that urge.

Smoking was allowed in the clubs in those days, and as soon as the
hot wings had disappeared, all but two of my division lit up.  Some
smoked while they were eating, even, but that has never been one of
my faults, and it didn't bother me.  Another feature of this
tradition, however, was the hydraulic nature of desert.  There was
no way I could eat lunch *and* drink beer without smoking.  I put
up with a lot of teasing (Sailors don't "tease" - they harass)
about passing on the beer.  

I finally went to the payphone at the entrance and called home,
hoping to sneak out for some afternoon delight.  PJ was in the
middle of a meeting of the wives' club and torpedoed that idea -
she said she was having problems of her own.  But she suggested a
solution for me.  Ten minutes later I washed my hands and left the
men's room, ordered a beer and bummed a smoke.

I got home at three.  Training rarely lasted the whole day, and
especially not on Mondays.  The Navy Wives had long since departed,
after planning various bake sales and the theme for the Ship's
Party. PJ was almost desperate for a smoke, and I felt like I
needed one as well, but following her advice at the club left me
under prepared.  Fortunately, I had paid attention when she had
observed the loophole in the smoking agreement.

Yes, smoking is an oral fixation.  Why not, as PJ had, substitute
one oral activity for the other?  Now I must confess, that neither
of us had been terribly oral in that department at this point in
our marriage.  We had both considered it foreplay, not the main
event.  I was inexpert (so was she that other time, but amateur
enthusiasm in a loved one more than made up for that) and unsure. 
Still, I did my best.  It didn't seem to be enough, until I
convinced her to tell me when I did something right, and not to be
afraid to ask for whatever made it better.

I can thank nicotine for making my wife more vocal in bed.  She
was gradually less shy about telling me how to please her, and much
more aural.  The drawback to this?  In pleasing her, I became
aroused, and I felt guilty because I felt I needed to "save myself"
until the next cigarette.  Talk about two-edged swords.

Let me make a long story marginally shorter.  At the next session
with the therapist, we announced that we were giving up on this
particular approach.  Neither one of us liked what it was doing to
our sex life, choking spontaneity by subliminating sex to
withdrawal pangs.  

We did keep the positives, though, so it wasn't a total loss.

Anyway, you can see, dear Alexis, that I have issues about writing
a sex story that involves making someone addicted to the post-
coital butt.  You can write one, or Shon can write one, but leave
me out of it.

Yours for a song,
Gary

P.S.  Got any chocolate left from your birthday?

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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