BRANDED-XXX: THE CIGAR GIRL
I've known many women and had many sex partners; everyone has their characteristics and foibles, but I've only known one woman who smoked cigars. Getting away from the cigar smoke was the least of it. Trying to escape Greta was the most challenging thing I'd ever attempted. I still bear the mental and physical marks of my struggle, and yet foolishly, I pray every night she will return to me.
Greta was a Dutch student studying at the University. I was a graduate student at the time and found myself seated next to her in an advanced class. She was tall, with a pretty face, two generous, perfect breasts, and a slender frame.
Greta was the classic Dutch girl you might see in a Vermeer painting such as "Girl with a Pearl Earring" or immortalized on one of those baking powder cans whose content will cause the dough to rise. Her presence had the same effect on my pecker, which seemed to rise to greet her when ever she arrived at her seat next to mine.
We'd conversed before class or after and even gone for coffee one afternoon. I told Greta a few jokes, as is my standard MO, but she didn't laugh. Greta just nodded her head and said Ya-Ya. She had a different way of pronouncing words, stressing every other syllable; in a way, it made her mundane comments seem enthusiastic.I soon got used to her pronunciation of specific words she had difficulty with, such as those with a' th.' To my ear, it made her sound like she was German, but she'd say,
"No, no, I don't sound like a Cher-min."
Greta was very knowledgeable and spoke exceedingly well for an international student. Her large, bright blue eyes were captivating, and almost from the first, I wondered what it would be like to kiss her with her eyes open. Greta's light brown straight hair was cut to chin length and hung like straw. We were getting ready for the big exam that would decide our grade in the graduate course when Greta asked,
"Would you like to review the course material before next week's exam?"
"Sure, shall we meet in the library?"
"Why don't you come to my apartment? It's just around the corner?"
"Sounds good. When?"
"If you are free Friday afternoon, that might work?"
"Yes, no problem, give me your address."
"Why don't we meet here after class? As I said, we can walk there; it's very close."
I wasn't used to studying with other students. I had tried a few times, once with a beautiful married student at her home some distance away. It didn't prove productive as her husband kept coming into the kitchen where we were working to make sure we weren't fucking each other. As much as I liked her, I wished we were, but we never got to that fevered pitch.
I assumed Greta was single and a serious student. She never said she was married, but there was a stiffness, a rigid nature in her attitude and even in her gait. I imagined she'd be a terrible dancer. Greta never spoke of a husband or partner, and there was no word of her having offspring. On Monday, when Saturday Night Live had a terrific show, I asked her if she had watched it.
"I don't watch television," she said, "Between studying, shopping, and keeping the apartment clean, there isn't much time for TV."
She accented the V. In a way, her intonation and pronunciation of familiar words made them sound new. Since Greta was earnest and all business, I thought she'd make a good study partner, although I usually prepared for exams on my own. If spending time with her gave me a chance to stare into her big blue eyes, what the hell--why not?
I was ready to study seriously and not start shenanigans even though I found her attractive. We were both in our early twenties. Greta was three or four years older than me, which accounted for her more serious nature.
We met on campus that Friday and walked to her apartment. Greta wore a green dress with wide fabric suspenders that bent as they passed over her pert breasts. Her tasteful blouse was pale yellow. It was a cold day, and Greta wore a leather button Lodin coat that remained unbuttoned.
I offered to carry her heavy briefcase, but Greta demurred. Her legs were longer than mine. She walked quickly ahead of me, I could see Greta was wearing tan tennis shoes, and I noticed she had a tiny boyish ass. My mind's eye always focuses on a woman's tits. Her two good-sized jugs made up for the disparity in the size of her ass, a clear sign of her femininity. I was never one of those men who would walk an extra block to follow a big-assed girl, a big-tittied girl, indeed.
Greta's apartment was in a twelve-story building only two blocks from the University. The unit was school-owned and provided at a low rental to students. As we walked, I measured her height by eye and saw she was two or three inches taller than me.
I was not concerned about a woman's height. I dated the female college basketball center; she was over six feet tall and big-boned. I remembered her squashing me in the backseat of a small car when we double-dated with my friend and her roommate. In those close quarters, we managed to masturbate each other. I remember her bare sperm-coated breasts sticking to my chest like two canned sardines.
Greta's building was constructed in the 1950s, twelve stories high, and faced with red brick. We walked into the lobby through the folded entrance doors to the elevator bank. There were three copper-clad elevators, although I learned one of them usually had a sign that read, "out of order."
Greta pressed the call button, but it didn't light up.
"Is it working?" I asked.
"Ya, the light in the button is always burned out."
We were lucky; the elevator door opened with a grinding noise, and we stepped quickly inside. Greta pressed the eighth-floor button, and the elevator door slid closed with a metallic squeal. It made a clicking sound as it passed each floor, stopping on the eighth floor.
I followed Greta down the dark hallway. She stopped in front of a brown metal door with bumps and scratches due, I imagined, to many years of tenants moving in and out. She unlocked the two-cylinder door locks, gave the door a harsh push, and turned to me,
"It's a safety thing. The neighborhood north of here is very rough."
"I nodded, "Good idea."
Greta held the door open, "Go on in."
Once inside, the apartment looked neat and clean. The room was uncluttered with modest furniture; a simple old grey cloth couch was against the far wall, and on the opposite side was a desk with Greta's books piled high. A paper cut-out of a windmill was scotch taped to the wall. An older, small aqua, colored plastic, shelled TV with rabbit ears sat on the low blond coffee table. There was a tiny New York kitchen in the corner. A curved alcove led to the bathroom and bedroom. At the side of the entrance, a blond Louisville slugger rested against the wall in a bucket with umbrellas.
"Do you play baseball?"
"No, it was given to me for protection, but I haven't needed it so far."
"You won't need it with me. I'm on good behavior."
She laughed,
"Oh, I know that. Come sit near my desk, grab the extra chair."
I unfolded the wooden chair that lay against the wall and sat down.
"Can I offer you a coffee, tea, or a Coke?"
"Coke is fine. The caffeine will keep me awake."
"If you get tired, we can rest," she accented the last word and seemed to point to what I assumed was the bedroom.
"I'll be fine, thanks."
We both spread out our notes and studied for the next few hours. When we took a break, I asked where the bathroom was. I desperately needed to pee.
"Go in there," she said, pointing.
I entered the alcove leading to the light blue bathroom. Even the ceiling was blue. From my summer job as a painter's assistant, I knew that ceilings were painted white to reflect light.
I didn't unzip. I quickly lowered my pants and briefs. In my urgency, I was fearful my stream would wet them. The commercial tankless toilet was anchored with a thick, shiny pipe to the wall. I leaned my chest forward against the wall so any piss drops would drip off into the bowl and not wet my underwear. Fortunately, I remained dry.
The toilet had a flush system standard in an old building. I pushed down on the handle, and a powerful blast of water shot into the toilet. I washed my hands in the small sink and used a damp paper towel to clean my penis so there would be no pissy taste if we got that far. I am always optimistic.
I returned to the living room, where Greta had brought in a cheese plate and an assortment of crackers. We sat on the couch for a while, making small talk, and then returned to our studies. By the end of the evening, we had covered the entire syllabus and reviewed the assigned reading.
"It is getting late. We've done very well; we should call it a night.
Greta said, "Would you like to smoke a cigar with me?"
I had noticed a cigar box on the coffee table in front of the couch, but I didn't think it contained cigars. People save colorful cigar boxes because they are useful receptacles.
"I didn't know you smoked."
"You don't know any other Dutch girls? It's quite common in Holland. Women don't like cigarettes. Besides, it's much sexier."
"In what way?"
"What do you mean?
"In what way is it much sexier?"
"Well, that's obvious; the cigar is a phallic symbol. Sigmund Freud said, "A man smoking a cigar is like a man sucking a penis."
"I would think it is more like a man sucking at a breast, but accepting Freud's definition, I understand why it's sexier when a woman smokes a cigar."
"Of course," she smiled at me, her big blue eyes twinkling as her tongue slowly wet her lips.
Greta took a torpedo-shaped cigar out of the illustrated cigar box. It was about six inches long, and she handed it to me. She then selected one for herself, licking it to dampen the tobacco.
"These are Dutch cigars. They are a little drier than American or Cuban cigars but taste nice. Try one. Let's see if you agree."
She leaned close and lit my cigar with a long cedar match, and then, as I got my first puff, she lit hers--the room filled with the peasant tobacco odor.
"Do you know," I said, "My grandfather was from Viena and a big cigar smoker. I don't think I ever saw him without a lit cigar in his hand. When I smell the cigar smoke, it makes me think of him.
Greta nodded.
"He was very poor, and when the cigar got down to the stub, he'd stick it in a pipe to finish it off. His frugality passed to my notoriously cheap father, who pocketed the artificial coffee sweetener in the luncheonette to bring back to his office."
I thought that story was funny, but Greta didn't laugh; she nodded and said, "Ja-Ja."
We sat and smoked for the next twenty minutes. The dry cigars burned quickly; soon, it was time to put out the stub. The room was smoky; I could tell my sweater had absorbed the smoke. I followed Greta's lead and was putting out the cigar stub in the crystal ashtray.
"Does the TV work," I asked
"Try it."
I turned on the old set, and immediately, the electronic image appeared, flipping up and down. I found the adjustment screw on the back of the set, and when I moved the rabbit ears further apart, the set worked perfectly.
Greta said, "If you are finished with the TV, I'd like to ask you a question."
"Sure."
"Would you like to have sex with me? I've noticed you always pop an erection when sit down next to you." As usual, she accented the last syllable.
