Monday, August 03, 2009

International Diplomacy and Oral Sex

I’ve been talking about "doing it" for a long time and now, well, I think I actually am going to do it. That is, I’m going to tell you about giving the blowjob to the French fireman. You know him by name now, Christophe.

And still I’m resisting. I find myself wanting to explain the reason why I seemed, and genuinely felt, I was sleepwalking through the scene. My sophomore year of college I fell madly in love with a freshman guy and we were convinced we were soul mates. For about three months. Then he dumped me and it took four long years for my heart to recover. Somehow my mind keeps insisting the why’s and wherefore’s of that emotional cataclysm are important to this story, when they are not. It’s just that another reason I was in that car, besides my small breasts, is that I had no boyfriend waiting back home.

The other obstacle goes back to Stephen Elliott’s challenge of the “truth” of memory. Certain parts of that evening are so very clear to me, yet many of the transitions that would make it a “real” story are just gone. That gives the experience a jumpy quality, like a foreign film. Which it is in a way. So, I’ll go with that.

Ready to jump around?

So, let’s leap back into that dark, throbbing disco, take a seat at that small table where swarthy Patrice was eyeing my friend and licking his lips, while Christophe smoked, looking appropriately blasé, yet somehow nervous, too. At some point, Patrice must have asked my friend if she wanted to go outside for a breath of fresh air. I don’t know think she said yes then (he kept asking), but I was alerted to the proposition and what it probably meant, so that later, when Christophe got around to asking me if I wanted some fresh air, I had an inkling of what was in store.

When he did ask and I decided what the hell, there must have been some communication with the other women that we all had a ride home, but that part is hazy. I do remember stopping by the coat check as Christophe and I headed outside. He stopped me. Non, non, non, I didn’t need my coat. But it was chilly outside and I thought I did. But he insisted, I was not to claim my sweater. It occurred to me then that this was some signal that we were “going out for fresh air” and not leaving and that it was important to him that this message be conveyed to… the coat check girl?…or some other band of watching friends who’d know he was going to score? On the other hand, I might be violating some sacrosanct French custom, one never knew, so I gave in, hoping we would indeed come back so I could get my sweater. I liked that sweater and didn’t want to lose it.

Coatless, I crunched along the gravel parking lot under a starry July sky to Christophe’s small car, the kind of French auto that feels like you’re driving around in a tuna can. We got in and he started up the car. There wasn’t much fresh air involved yet, and again I had a distant feeling of doubt as to what I was getting myself into, but I also wasn’t getting terrible vibes, either. We drove through the fields and pastures and Christophe gallantly asked me what kind of music I liked. In truth I was more interested in hearing what he—a real, live French guy—liked, but it seemed a point of courtesy for him to have me choose from his collection of tapes. He kept asking do you like so-and-so, and so-and-so? I finally settled on David Bowie and Christophe seemed much relieved he could please me.

I always found this part of casual sex rather touching, when a guy I didn’t know and would never know in any real sense, was clearly intent on charming me in a superficial way that strangers must resort to. Then again, music is an international language.

With David Bowie singing through the speakers, Christophe pulled over to the side of the road. This seemed weird and again might have been terrifying, but he just seemed to want to sit and talk. There was no fresh air involved here, either. We started kissing. He tasted like tobacco. His hand wandered between my legs and it only then occurred to me—I was having my period. Yeah, that sounds weird, too, but at 19 I’d only had about four natural periods and this was number four. Somehow I conveyed my indisposition to Christophe and he pulled away and sighed. (No really gallant cela m'est egale, I'm going in anyway, but then Americans and Japanese never did that either). Then somehow I conveyed that I was willing to give him a blowjob.

Because, you know, I had to prove that shy, flat-chested girls could be lots of fun, too, not to mention as an American, I had a duty to my French hosts to be likeable and diplomatic so I'd give them a good impression of my country. International diplomacy--that's the real reason I gave a blowjob to a French fireman in the middle of a vineyard in Southern France.

This all makes sense, right?

Anyway, Christophe readily took me up on my offer and before I knew it, he’d pushed his seat back to a reclining position and had his jeans down to his knees. This was my first look at an uncircumcised penis, which was definitely interesting. Christophe asked me shyly what we called the male organ in English, and we had a brief cross-cultural language lesson of sexual terms--we call it this, you call it that. This linguistic interest struck me as odd, but it was also touching, too. In retrospect, I do think the guy was a sweetie.

After the lesson, I took his cock in my mouth. Now, I’d always gotten good reviews on my blowjobs, although I didn’t then or now consider myself an expert. But I was licking and sucking and dealing with the foreskin when Christophe spoke up in his gravely voice asking if he could turn on the light. I hesitated. I knew guys were supposed to be visual, and I supposed it was a good sign he wanted to watch what was going on, but I also realized we’d basically be on a lit stage in the midst of a dark country road. But again, I felt an obligation to support positive international relations, so I told him oui.

So I continue licking and sucking and he’s arching back and sighing and then he cleared his throat. “Do you mind if I smoke?”

What? That was really weird. I mean, sure he was chain-smoking all night, but if he had to do it during the middle of a blowjob, he was either really addicted or my skills weren’t translating well at all. Still, agreeable as always, I said oui. So he lay there and smoked while I did it. Now and then I’d look up and he seemed so blasé and bored, I wasn’t sure what was going on. But I soldiered on to the finish.

I don’t remember much about the rest. I licked and sucked some more, he came in my mouth, I swallowed, and we drove back to the disco to collect my sweater, but only that, no more dancing or anything. Then Christophe drove me back to the apartment complex where my home-stay “mother" lived in one of a rather depressing series of gray, featureless high rise apartments. I vaguely recall having some trouble finding the place, Christophe having to turn around and double back, but we did finally make it. Before I got out, Christophe asked me if I’d like to get together again some time. I said oui and he wrote down my phone number.

I figured I’d never hear from him again, although I’ll admit, in spite of his bored demeanor during the blowjob, his offer seemed more than pure politesse.

I let myself into the apartment to find my roommate in bed awake, ready to relate her story of fending off Daniel and his invitation to go sailing on the Riviera. She made it all sound like a slapstick comedy, with Daniel grabbing for her as she slipped away leaving him to embrace empty air. I edited my story, simply telling her that the other woman went off with Patrice, I ended up with Christophe and he gave me a ride home. The kind of experience a woman with small tits was expected to have.

The only other physical sexual contact I had that summer (although there were a number of opportunities) was with an English guy who was hanging out at the campground near Avignon with another group of unemployed fellows from Manchester who spent a lot of time following us around in their van. His name was Bill and he was a long-haired hippy type with intense blue eyes. One night he and I ended up enjoying each other’s conversation at the usual café hangout. We lingered after the others, getting drunk on pastis. He showed me his wedding photo—his wife was Indian, but they were somehow not together now. Then he walked me home and told me I was the most beautiful and interesting American in the group. As a reward, I let him kiss and fondle me on the bench outside the apartment. He kept asking between tongue-tangles if I would come back to his tent. But he smelled and I didn’t really want to do more with him. I just liked the validation.

But back to Christophe.

A few days later, I was coming back from French classes in Avignon with my roommate, when Madame called out to me from her study. “Donna, you got a phone call from a French boy named Christophe.” She used the word “garcon,” although I’d thought of him as an older man.

My first thought was this: Well, I guess he really did like that blowjob.

“He said he’d call back,” she added. “It’s really interesting. The girls who stay here during the year are so serious, but the summer girls are much more cutesy.”

“I’m pretty serious,” I said.

“Pah, look at you,” she countered. “That cute little lace blouse. The winter girls don’t dress like that. And they most certainly don’t have French boys calling them on the phone.”

When we got back to our bedroom, my roommate observed, with a sparkle in her eye, “I think you didn’t tell me everything that happened that night.”

I shrugged and blushed, but I was pleased for that validation, too. I was also pleased that Christophe never did call back. I assume he was embarrassed to speak to Madame again figuring his dishonorable designs on her temporary charge were all too clear. Or it’s possible that he left his number (I’m picturing a note in Madame’s handwriting with a phone number written in the French way rather too clearly) and I didn’t call him back. I know for a fact, at least, I never called him and we never saw each other again.

So that’s the story. Not especially sexy, more than a little poignant, maybe not quite so high on the list of "most pathetic" experiences as I thought. It’s funny, I feel a little bit like Lydia in Amorous Woman after she spilled her guts to the two young Americans. I’m not sure if it was a story worth waiting for, but I’m glad I told it.


Emerald said...

I feel so glad that you're glad you told it. Thank you for sharing.

As I read this, a number of trips down memory lane — or at least glances down the pathway(s) — came up in me. It seems to me like stories like this abound in my sexual history, with differing degrees of similar elements. I actually feel, for whatever reason, like sitting here contemplating that for a while.

Thank you, again, for sharing this.

Jeremy Edwards said...

What a rich, and richly told story! I can see it all as a French film. It's poignant indeed; but, as an American, I crack up at the "Do you mind if I smoke?" line. And yet Helia, seated next to me in the art theater, notes (based on her experiences living in France) that this is probably not an unusual request within that culture. And, hey, the French would probably laugh at my habit of blowing bubble-gum bubbles while receiving oral sex. [jk]

Donna said...

Hey Emerald, thanks for reading and please do share your memories, if you feel inclined. But in any case, I'm glad this struck a chord. It's always nice to know I'm not alone :-).

And thank you, Jeremy for your kind words about my tell-all memoir. I know you and Helia are well-acquainted with French culture, so your observation is very valuable. While the French may smile wryly at the bubble gum bubbles, I find the practice quite charming myself--and common here among men and women in the States ;-). Although, I will admit I prefer eating popsicles while receiving oral sex myself. Or steamed crabs (hailing from Maryland, as I do).

Jeremy Edwards said...

Although, I will admit I prefer eating popsicles while receiving oral sex myself. Or steamed crabs (hailing from Maryland, as I do).

Hahaha! Steamed mussels are great, too ... but then you have to worry about where to put the shells.

Speaking of which—yeah, gum on the bedpost is all right ... but there are some places you really don't want to find yesterday's wad.

Craig Sorensen said...

Back in the day I was quite the heavy smoker (couple packs a day for a while,) and did more than my fair share of lighting up after sexual activity. Never during!

In it's own way this is a very sexy story. It's personal, real, revealing. You can feel the heart flutters.

When Madame referred to you as a "summer girl," contrasted to your opinion that you were quite serious, that gave quiet a vivid image.

Thanks so much for sharing such a personal experience.


Isabel Kerr said...

This is so rich with significant moments and ideas to explore, Donna, from the boldness of your act to the nonchalance of Christophe.

The french have a different approach to sex which is illustrated by a conversation we had with an american woman here with her french partner. First, she described their first meeting as not needing to speak the same language, (they spoke the same body language and that was enough.)

And then, as he tended to stay in their accommodation while she wandered and chatted with us she explained it as, him up there contemplating death and that the only other thing he spent as much time thinking about was sex and he and their friends could sit at table and as easily, and nonchalantly, have a conversation about 28 sexual positions, and I'm quite sure they would have been talking about them heads back squinting through a veil of Gauloises smoke.

The French are different from you and me, or something like that. We would just be blowing bubbles, right Jer?

The psychological and emotional implications are rich. In some ways you sound nonchalant but it seems like this really reverberates all these years later and while it was over so quickly all of the intricacies of the circumstances have lingered.

Your having to deal with his foreskin leads me to recall it's always interesting to me the difference in arousal of some men getting blow jobs that take some some to be aroused and those who are already hard. In this case, French nonchalance about the act I suppose.

This is a great story Donna and I see it developed into a fiction piece although you've probably used elements in other stories. Bold acts and validation and memories of foreign situations are so rich to draw on for fiction and life.

Hm, any regrets about your being unfulfilled? Were you unique among your friends at the time in your willingness to go down on a man? Did you ever talk about it with friends?

I went down on my Art History professor in a Volkswagon in broad daylight on a street in Greenwich village. TMI. ; )

Jeremy Edwards said...

I went down on my Art History professor in a Volkswagon in broad daylight on a street in Greenwich village. TMI. ; )

Like hell, "TMI." Which street in the Village? I'm trying to get a complete picture over here. ; )

Emerald said...

"I went down on my Art History professor in a Volkswagon in broad daylight on a street in Greenwich village. TMI."

Heh, on the contrary Isabel, I found that a delightful piece of information! ;)

Emerald said...

Ha! I actually wrote that before I saw Jeremy's comment.

(Next thing you know we'll be blowing sycnchronized bubble-gum bubbles....)

neve black said...

Oh, Donna, I'm so proud of you!

Thank you so very much for sharing this. It's a wonderful, warm and touching story.

I did have to laugh too - real life tales are laced with humor - thank God for that, oui?

p.s. I think we were all holding your hand the whole time, but it was all you telling your tale. Good for you!!

Isabel Kerr said...

Hahaha! Phew! Thanks Jeremy and Emerald.

J- don't remember, it was waaaay too long ago. Remember the Professor though ; ) and almost all the other details, as Donna does in this vibrant vignette.

LVLM(Leah) said...

You know what I loved about this story, you gave a lot of insight and put words to those feelings about having a less than "memorable" sexual experience that many of us do during out lifetimes.

If I think back on all my sexual experiences, I remember the intense love affairs, the really hot and fun one night stands, the loves of my life and so on. Very positive experiences that I remember fondly.

But I did have experiences like this one that you had in which I did things that I wondered afterward, "WTF was I thinking?" And why did I go along with something that deep down I knew was not something I really wanted to do, but did just to go along or be the good little woman and not rock the boat?

If I think about those experiences something in me gets uncomfortable like I degraded myself even though at the time I didn't quite feel as such. So to go back and get in touch with and articulate the truth of what was going on really, and to make it real and human is an art that you have.

It's actually these kinds of experiences that teach us over the years about what we really want and what we're not willing to put up with or do just to be "nice." So in some ways they are necessary.

I loved how Lydia walked a fine line in Amorous Woman in that she often technically debased herself and yet, her actions were so human and realistically portrayed. As a reader I could identify with her would could see myself doing those very same things given certain situations.

As far as the whole American in a foreign country thing, you bring up so many emotions for me as a person who is well traveled and who has tasted many international flavors sexually.

I found it very easy to get into sexual situations that I would never have done in America when I lived and traveled overseas. What is that? LOL It's like as a foreigner yourself, you don't have to live up to certain social standards and are free to experiment and play. Kind of like you are invisible and what you do won't be recorded by anyone. I did so many things in foreign countries that I'd NEVER do in America.

Sexual encounters in a foreign country with foreign people take on a whole other aura and make them more out of the ordinary it seems, somehow making it OK.

I wonder if Christoph reflects back on that American girl who gave him a blow job one night and what kind of memory that is to him?

Donna said...

Wow, everyone, these are amazing comments--not sure I can do them all justice, but thank you for reading and sharing your fascinating responses.

So interesting you would categorize this as "sexy," Craig, because it's not "sexy" in the way most erotica readers would use that word. But isn't "sexy" (I'm getting sick of the quotes, lol) in real life much more complex? There's unfulfilled longing and disappointment and pity and feeling protective and sympathetic/empathetic as well as just nice joyful lust and satisfaction. Sex is all these things and I'm feeling maybe my definition is narrowed down by erotica writing.

Hey, glad you quite smoking!

Donna said...

Isabel, you've given me tons to think about. First of all, I was sort of confused when people were eager to hear my French fireman story because I knew I couldn't offer them a "hot" blowjob story. BUT your mention of the professor in Greenwich Village just totally perked up the eyebrows and I want to know ALL, or what you remember anyway. If you're up for sharing, please consider it. And it's not even that I expect it to be amazing sex, although great if it was, but it's more a curiosity of what it was like for you, what real sex is like.

Now, the truth is, I suppose I do have some anger about this story and all the other stories in my life like it. It's not personal against any particular man (usually), but more at the "system." That men wouldn't see the sex as a mutual thing, that if he gets a blowjob, he owes me some sort of attempt at mutual satisfaction. It's even worse when intercourse is involved and so many men, mostly young, but a surprising number of those who should know better, assume that if it feels good for him, it feels good for her. What I'm angry about is that everyone doesn't know that female sexual satisfaction is so shortchanged. We have all of these images of sex in the media and they're false and misleading.

So, kudos to the French for being blase about discussing sex. I'm much more that way now too and I love it. But if those men who talk about 28 sex positions are not making sure their partners share pleasure in bed, then they are just frauds and I'm not impressed at all.

Wow, see, I AM mad!

Thank you, Dr. Kerr. How much is a session?

Donna said...

Hey, Neve,

Thanks for holding my hand--'s good and very comforting! I realized that the main reason I'm glad I told this is to discover connection. I'm not alone with my pathetic sex stories from the past, lol.

Donna said...

Lol, Gina Marie, that joke evokes a very vivid visual image for me, weird enough I might use it in a story some day--the smoking vagina ;-).

Donna said...

MB, wow, you have hit so many points right on target. Truth is, this hesitation to tell the story is shame of a sort. I refuse (or so I tell myself) to feel degraded by anything I've done. But deep down I suppose I do, and it's bubbling up in interesting ways.

One of the issues in this story is that I actually had experienced great, mutually satisfying sex with my first love. Then it was gone and I was back to this sort of casual thing that often (always?) shortchanges the woman. But every partner is not going to be special or the best, assuming you don't wait for the right person as we're supposed to do.

Yes, the foreign setting totally changes the dynamics and allowed me to do lots of things I just wouldn't have done in the States. Especially in Japan.

And thanks so much for your kind words about my writing--I do appreciate it!

Now, I also have to thank you for summarizing so well what I really learned from this post myself:

It's actually these kinds of experiences that teach us over the years about what we really want and what we're not willing to put up with or do just to be "nice." So in some ways they are necessary.

You are so right about this, MB. Words to remember. I feel like I owe you a check for a therapy session, too :-).

Isabel Kerr said...

Hm, so much food for thought Donna.

Looking back on these situations is difficult for the reasons that MB articulated in that we do things to please someone else at different times in our lives, like I know I was blowing my professor's mind, as well as his dick, because he was a very wild guy and to be given a blow job in the middle of the village was his idea of sextopia and is nothing to be blase about, just as Christophe does probably look back on that beautiful young American sucking him off and still gets off. At the same time we got short shrift. How many men would do that for us? I know a few, the lover who slipped back under me when I started to pull away, chuckling "more", and I will never forget the sensation that sent through me, but that is rare. More often we aim to please and please we do. At the same time again, my affinity for giving blow jobs is fairly well known so I can't say it's all selfless now.

The casualness of sex as table conversation is fairly normal here to the degree that I sometimes need to draw a line when my husband gets ahead of our son's need to know, but it is much better to talk about it than to repress it, like your son's visit to the Dr., the more knowledge one has the better decisions one makes in the future. And you're right those 28 positions need to include 14 that give women pleasure.

Our culture is so geared toward men's pleasure, it is time we took back the night, so to speak, and make sure our needs are met too.

Great discussion Donna, thanks for opening up!

Donna said...

Thanks to Herr Doktor, I'd like to correct a typo in my response to Craig in which I said: "I'm glad you quite smoking."

I'm meant to write: "I'm glad you are quite smoking."

Or was it something else ;-)?

Jeremy Edwards said...

I made that same quit(e) typo earlier today (in an e-mail, I think, not a blog comment). That's quit a coincidence, isn't it!

Craig Sorensen said...


LVLM(Leah) said...

What I'm angry about is that everyone doesn't know that female sexual satisfaction is so shortchanged.

This had me thinking about my own experiences where I felt a bit angry that I did something I wasn't totally thrilled about.

Do you think that if this guy and the other guys you had similar experiences with would have treated you with some respect and were insistent on mutual pleasure, it would have felt less "shameful?"

Do you think the fact that you, many women, aren't satisfied or that female pleasure isn't at least considered by the guy that it kind of turns the experience into having the feel of whoring yourself out?

I've had many sexual experiences with people who were strangers and could be considered one night stands or brief encounters, however, those times in which mutual pleasure was given were experiences that were very positive for me.

I think stranger sex can be very deep because you know you'll probably not see that person again so you are just who you are, not worrying about all the emotional stuff involved with someone you really like or love. There's a tremendous amount of freedom in that and you can really open up with someone in no holds barred way.

I've have just as profound sexual experiences with strangers as with men I've been deeply in love with because of a mutual enjoyment and desire to please from both parties.

But those kinds of experiences in which I felt I was just doing something for the guy, for what ever reason: I felt pushed into it, or I felt it would be easier than fighting, and he didn't care about even being mutual, made me feel like a whore and used even though I went through with it.

What's even worse is that pretty much before I did those things, I wasn't that clueless to be used, which made those experiences doubly ugly for me, since I let it happen.

So, I think what you say about mutual pleasuring is a huge factor in whether a non-lover sexual experience is positive or shameful, is right on the money.

Erobintica said...

Hi Donna,

Just getting around to reading this (I had to come back to read the comments after reading the post earlier). This is such beautiful, brave writing. And judging from the comments it touched a nerve. Like I said somewhere else (an email? I forget) - I've noticed lately that some of what starts off (in my mind at least) to be a fun, erotic story slowly morphs into something which is in essence more real. But then I get afraid that no one will want to read that. BUT, then I look at what you wrote here and I think "but I like to read this - I find it interesting" and so why are we so afraid to write truthfully about our stories? So, you're getting into Stephen Elliott too?

One thing I find I'm curious about is this: I wonder if most of us that are drawn to writing erotica are drawn to it because in a way we want to figure out our sexual selves. Especially as we get older. I don't see too many twentysomethings among the erotica writing crowd. Hmmm. Now my brain is going.

once again, great post Donna

SusanD said...

Aw, I'm glad you shared the story, too, Donna. This:
So I continue licking and sucking and he’s arching back and sighing and then he cleared his throat. “Do you mind if I smoke?”

Okay, that does crack me up. It does seem so funny and almost WTFish, but thinking back, I can recall a couple of times I snuck a smoke like that, too. Smoking was gooood, man. The two together are also good, but just usually not compatible.

Anyhow, great to hear this and very well told! Sorry the hippy smelled, but that also cracked me up.

Isabel Kerr said...

Yeah, MB, I think it is really important that we develop our partner's awareness and our own self respect to the degree that we don't feel used, and avoid victimization, been there, done that too. The concept of mutual respect and satisfaction is an ideal which is why it is good that so many women are writing erotica, maybe we'll help spread the word this way. Especially if we continue to explore some of these concepts on Donna's (and others) blogs! Conceptual erotica, like conceptual art. (no pun on conception ; ) )

And Robin, I think many may be exploring their own sexuality, some are writing just because it comes to us this way, and some of us to enlighten in some way, and/or all of the above. Exploring sexuality in words, to me, enhances exploring it in real time.

Thanks again Donna

Donna said...

Wow, Isabel, I like that guy who said "more" too! Who knows what the fireman thought or the sailor guy in Virginia Beach. A totally compliant female like me is supposed to be the fantasy, but somehow I doubt I'm much of a memory. Then again, I guess he did call, lol, and how often does that happen?

Blowjobs are complex as has been much discussed during Blow Hard and elsewhere. They are at once the ultimate service and the ultimate power, so complicated.

And an open interest in sex can be a good thing--when one is passionate and interested in something, one is usually good at it. But it takes more than just talk to sell it to me, lol.

Donna said...

MB, wow, I'd love to have you over and talk more about all of this over some sake.

It would have made a big difference if Christophe had tried to please me in some way. Btw, I really respect men who can deal with menstruation and sex :-). And yet, I'm also ashamed of myself for feeling like sex is a scored sport. One point for his orgasm, one point for mine. Not that the pleasure shouldn't always be mutual, but it should be about the pleasure.

I think I really haven't gotten over the fact that so many men are so clueless about sexual pleasure as a mutual thing. Granted, I stopped testing new models at the wise old age of 23, so maybe older more experienced men are different (although I was with some older men).

I totally believe you about the charms of sex with a stranger and the chance to let go and just be yourself in a way you can't with people who will be there later (similar to the foreign country phenomenon). I never really had such an experience though. It could be me and my reluctance to trust and let go. But it is the staple fare of erotica!

Donna said...

Hey Robin,

Thanks for stopping by. Stephen Elliott is in my to-read pile (I read his story in Pleasure Bound) thanks to your endorsement!

And thank you for saying this sort of thing is of interest. It's of great interest to me, too. I want to read about real sex, and I think this fad for "true sex" stories reflects that interest of many. I suppose I set up this possibly false sense that I must be cheery and positive cause that's what editors want. Actually some editors do want that and they state it openly, but many more are up for other things (like R. Gay).

And you nailed it, I do want to explore my sexual self honestly, not just gloss it. In a way, once I found my husband and was settled and happy and sexually satisfied (give or take a few hard times), I just wrapped up my past and put it in the back of the closet. But now I'm doing some closet cleaning, lol.

It's work worth doing, I think.

Donna said...

Hey Susan,

I'm glad you liked the humor and am also glad to get some insight into the ways smoking enhances sex. I mean, hey, maybe he was liking it so much, he wanted to gild the lily with a ciggy? I'm the one who interpreted it as boredom, lol.

Lost in translation!

And yeah, that hippy reeked!