Rebecca is right

On Her blog today, Rebecca P. discussed littering, which is a disgusting, environmentally damaging behavior.

I told Her that I agreed. But I also stated that I find an inexplicable attraction in seeing Women litter. I had a post, one little post about that earlier this year on this blog.

Rebecca, quite rightly, stated that She finds me to be confusing, for "enjoying Women engaging in marginal or unacceptable behaviors" while I claim to esteem Women so highly.

All the way home, Her words have bothered me, because I sense Her discomfort, perhaps even Her revulsion. I value Her contributions to this blog and I also value Her opinion about me.

I am choosing to have this discussion on this blog, because I initiated the discussion uninvited with my post to Her blog, and I don't want to track any mud, so to speak, into Her house. In other words, She or may not want to see the word capnolagnia, whatever, on Her site or to have this discussion there and I utterly respect that.

As this blog of mine has progressed, I have posted less and less about those things from my hidden closet. Lance, the first blogger to discuss this with me, would probably call that lamentable. It's as if this blog is beginning more and more to become as I am in real life -- a nice, ordinary guy with an odd but harmless secret -- and less and less a confessional.

Believe me, Rebecca, my closet troubles me. I hasten to add that I would be even more disturbed and conflicted if I enjoyed the possible consequences of the two fetishes that I have -- a Woman suffering smoking-related health consequences or a fine for being caught littering.But such things bring me absolutely no enjoyment.

Perhaps my ... confusing closet simply reflects an extreme version of the very common male attraction to "bad Girls," which rarely if ever encompasses the consequences of such behavior. It is as if the brain sets that aside. When You smoked in Your past, Rebecca, did You not, at least temporarily, set aside all the possible consequences of Your smoking and live in the moment, as irrational as such behavior might be?

And You Ladies know that You tend to like bad boys, too.

Rebecca, perhaps these personal conflicts or inconsistencies are more common than some people realize. There are pious believers out there who every now and then doubt the existence of God, for example.

Please know that I respect You very much and I hope that this blog of mine, as it continues to develop and mature, will be valuable to You, not a source of discomfort.

Insane

Warning: Capnolagnia content follows

The last blog on my to-read list this morning consisted of an angry protest about sitting down in the park and having two Women proceed to sit next to this person and light up cigarettes.

Oh, the blogger was mad, mad, mad! How dare they, how come this always happens? She wrote, and Her readers concurred and commiserated.

What a strange world we live in. She curses what I crave. She experiences, and hates, what I long for, and never obtain.

I'm a reasonably well-traveled, non-threatening looking guy. Yet it's been at least a decade or more since any Woman ever sat down near me and lit up a cigarette -- it just doesn't happen. I go every possible place they do with the exception of bars, not being a drinker.

Dear Blogger, I'd trade with You, if only it were possible. We'd both be thrilled.

Only twice in my life do I remember such a blissful moment -- and both were prematurely interrupted. I was a teenager signing up for the military in a Seattle office building, about 1989. I sat down on a bench in the lobby and a lovely brunette sat beside me and took out a cigarette.

My mother had driven me to the place and, being unaware of my odd desire -- She certainly wouldn't have approved anyway -- chose that moment to return from the restroom or wherever She was in the building and take us home.

A few years later, another brunette, dressed in lovely white, sat Herself beside me at the ferry terminal. Again, scarce had Her cigarette left its pack when my grandfather appeared, for I had called to let him know of my arrival and need for a ride home.

Doubt he would have understood if I had said, "Uh, Gramps, can you wait about five minutes until I indulge this absolute moment of ecstasy and the Lady here finishes Her cigarette?"

So, cursing myself by all the epithets I could muster for having made the phone call when I did -- why hadn't I waited just a few damn minutes? -- I followed him to his car and out of the Garden of Eden with the Forbidden Fruit utterly untasted.

So unfair. Life is so very unfair.

Bemoaning the Big Bans

She stood outside the bar, talking with a friend. I sat in my car, counting down the minutes until I needed to head across the street for a certain freelance interview.

After a moment’s passing, she reached in her bag and withdrew a cigarette. My pulse quickened. I am a capnolagniac, as those who’ve suffered through my blogs know quite well. I love to see a woman enjoy a cigarette.

Suddenly, I didn’t care anymore what time it was. I put away my copy of Ovid, in which a thirty page introduction by some smarty professor was driving me crazy, since I speak about as much Latin as your average Sherpa and the dude sprinkled it joyfully and liberally amongst his already over-my-head prosery.

A click of her lighter and she had her cigarette a-burning. Then she exhaled a great stream of smoke so thick and creamy that I could see it all the way across the parking lot where I was.

In a heartbeat, the breeze battered and blew it away.

Such a sight is so rare these days, and viciously maligned when it does occur. An inhale that intense, to launch such a celestial stream of smoke, had to deliver a mighty jolt of pleasure. And it had to be summoned by a woman who did more than dabble in the fine art of fumery.

In the days before The Big Bans, she might have been allowed to smoke inside, not exiled to a seedy parking lot to satisfy her need. Thank heavens she had that burly-looking friend with her.

Some guys, seated beside her in that bar in those more relaxed days, would have moved away in an angry huff if those sweet lips had turned his way and bathed him in such a beautiful exhalation.

Needless profanity might have been uttered. Foolish hands would have waved it away.

Chances are, that woman might go a lifetime without ever meeting the sort of fellow who, greeted with such a misty salutation, would find his heart thumping; his respiration quickening in hopes of capturing said smoky greeting; his soul melting; and his voice, if he dared utter a word, squeaking like a scrawny teen suddenly French-kissed by the school Homecoming Queen as she passed him in the hallway.
But we do exist. Ladies, we do exist. And we’d hitchhike across the world in the hellstorm of Armageddon and ride to Kandahar in a dune buggy with three functioning wheels and a broken clutch, driven by a terrorist with a blood alcohol level five times the legal limit, and punch out Bin Laden himself if he had the world’s last cigarette hidden in his cave and you were craving it.