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This is a question Your first cigarette

To be honest, inhaling the fumes from some burning leaves isn't the most natural thing in the world.
Tell us about the first time. Where, when, and who were you trying to show off to?

Or, if you've never tried a cigarette, tell us something interesting on the subject of smoking.

Personally, I've never ever smoked a cigarette. Lung damage from pneumonia put me off.

(, Wed 19 Mar 2008, 18:49)
Pages: Latest, 17, 16, 15, 14, 13, 12, 11, ... 1

This question is now closed.

Guess the punchline…Guess the punchline…(3)

You could've knocked me down with a reasonably-sized baseball bat when I discovered Borat's cousin had decided to change his religion and embrace Guru Nanak...

And that was my first ______________________

*skulks off back to work*
(, Wed 26 Mar 2008, 11:31, 9 replies)
Guess the punchline…Guess the punchline…(2)

Imagine my surprise when I discovered the China Electric Equipment Group corporation had decided to stop selling electrical goods and had gone solely into the business of growing orange vegetables for human consumption.

Still, I’m an open minded chap so I thought I’d give one a go.

And that was when I had my first ___________________

(this is an easy one – so you only get 2.8 points)
(, Wed 26 Mar 2008, 11:12, 25 replies)
Frankspencer mentioned this…

In his own inimitable way, of course, but could somebody please explain to me the logic of why or how some people can smoke like troopers yet live to be a ripe old age; whilst at the same time perfectly healthy, regular exercising non-smokers develop lung cancer and die young?

What’s the deal with that?

(Please send replies to ‘It’s all God’s will’ competition, PO Box 69, Cleethorpes)
(, Wed 26 Mar 2008, 10:47, 16 replies)
More shit puns
About 4 years ago, when I was heavily into drugs, I used to take a lot of horse tranquiliser.

I stopped taking it when one day I spewed everywhere.

It was my first Sick on Ket.

I also vomited all over a policeman in Soho. You could say I was Sick on the Met.
(, Wed 26 Mar 2008, 10:46, 1 reply)
My first, and my last
I remember it well – I was in my late teens, and the relationship started, as many do, when I was drunk. She looked so alluring – long, slender, and blonde. How could I resist? The truth was I couldn’t. I was recently out of a serious relationship, and was feeling a bit battered and bruised by the experience. When she pressed herself to my lips, the experience was dizzying, electrifying… it took my breath away.

This was a new experience, and one that I quite liked. It made me feel liberated, somehow; carefree. More importantly, it took my mind off things, and I was grateful to her for that.

It was not to last. Whether it was because my head was somewhere else, I don’t know, but I awoke one afternoon to find that I wasn’t thinking about her anymore, and took it to be a sign that it was time to move on. For the next 13 or so years, I forgot all about my short but tender experience. That is, until my marriage crumbled around me, and I became a pale, nervous shadow of my former self. For two months I could barely face anyone, until one day resolve took hold of me, gave me a much needed slap and forced me to have a good look at myself. I straightened myself out, and took a friend up on his offer of “anytime you fancy a pint, just ring”.

So at 5:30pm, on a Tuesday evening, I did just that. Conceding the point that 5:30 on a Tuesday was a bit early, we met some 3 hours later, and drank and talked and laughed. I felt relieved at facing the world again, and found myself enjoying the company, but the return to an empty house served only to plunge me back into a pit of misery. The next day she walked mysteriously back into my life. Only this time, she was no longer blonde, but a kind of light brown with highlights. It suited her.

We took up exactly where we left off – not a word was spoken between us. There didn’t have to be, and for a few months I took comfort in her. Then, as suddenly as before, she was gone, and I thought no more of it. But then, I did have other things to consider, such as setting up temporarily in a flat of my own, whilst also looking for somewhere to buy. And so another year or so passed without a thought of my slender companion, until one night she was thrust upon me once more. This time it was different though, as we only saw each other at weekends – I was going to savour her companionship, give myself something to look forward to. It was OK, for a while, but I found myself missing her, and would sneak her into my house midweek, then one more day, and another… My friends grew concerned. Soon, she was even following me to work, where we’d sneak off to a small room a couple of times a day (she had reverted to being blonde by this point). The small room was available to us for about a year, until we were forced out by some Health and Safety nonsense, and we found ourselves taking refuge outside, at the end of the building.

My friends continued to warn me about her, but I didn’t listen. You don’t in these circumstances, do you? I was blind to what was happening to me, often found myself scraping a fiver together so I could see her again. When I look back now, that was pretty desperate. However, only a few days ago, it hit me, out of the blue – she was fleecing me of about £120 a month. It would go missing from my bank account, just small amounts at a time, so I wouldn’t notice until suddenly I was into the overdraft. And I realised that she wasn’t good for me. The strain of her company was starting to get to me, and I was having difficulty in sleeping. My mouth became dry, and I couldn’t taste things in the same way. And I realised that she had become a habit, devoid of any enjoyment. The bitter taste I had felt after her last kiss told me that it was time to walk away.

So, on Monday night, I pressed her to my lips one last time. “This isn’t working”, I whispered to her, my breath catching on the cold night air as I did so. With that, the last dying flame of our passion went out, and as I turned on my heel and closed the door, we said goodbye forever…
(, Wed 26 Mar 2008, 10:37, 14 replies)
i come back from holiday where i couldnt get on the internet looking forward to getting on b3ta and seeing the qotw and its this bollocks???? whats going????? form has dropped lately b3ta people. get it back on track! ps mine was a b n h gold from my mums bag when i was at boarding school. i thought i was going to die
(, Wed 26 Mar 2008, 10:27, 1 reply)
Smoking in the Scouts
I started smoking when I was 12 years old. I was in a small town in Dumfriesshire called Wanlochhead with my local Paisley Scout troop (7th Paisley JNI for anyone who is interested).

Being a local Paisley lad, I tended to be a bit of a rebel, so I took up the cool art of smoking. I sneeked a packed of fags from the machine in a local shop a proceeded to smoke the whole 20 packs in about an hour in a half.

So cue me getting very ill, staggering back to the campsite, throwing up everywhere and spending the night in the campsite hospital tent due to some unknown tummy bug (sorry guys, my confession is that I smoked too much and made myself ill and it wasn't anything to do with Ian Barr's cooking) (oh yeah, and RIP)

There....I finally have that guilt off my chest.

I'm now 32 and stopped smoking August last year (2007) thanks to Allen Carrs great book - "The Easy way to Quit smoking"

From 20 a day for 20 years to 0 in one day!

I'm so proud!

no really, I am.
(, Wed 26 Mar 2008, 10:12, 1 reply)
When I first saw him he looked at me as though he knew what I looked like without my shimmy. He knew I was in love with someone else and then all through the war pursued me with gifts of pretty hats. He knew I drank but still he pursued me. He did help me get out of the city during the seige but his flippant remarks drove me to become tired of his company...

now I'm sick-of-Rhett


Scarlett O'Hara
(, Wed 26 Mar 2008, 9:27, 2 replies)
Crie de coeur

I believe it is customary to apologise for length. In that case, sorry.

I was born in Paris in December 1985, and my name is Jim - partly because my mother’s favourite film is Truffaut's 'Jules et Jim'. At the heart, it was always just me and Maman - though, over the years she had lovers who came and went, for longer or shorter times, sometimes she would find a new lover before getting rid of the current one. Some I liked, some I didn't. She is a liberal, an intellectual and a fun person to be around. I've got no complaints about her at all, she made me the man I am. Of course I was curious about my father, when I asked her about him, her eyes would go a little far away but there was always a smile, though sometimes a tear as well. 'He was an Englishman, a very nice Englishman. When you're older, I'll tell you all about him, when the time is right.'

When I was little, I hated my strange foreign name but, as you do, I got used to it - I grew into it. As I'd always knew my father was English, I'd always studied hard in my English lessons.

When I was 18 Maman thought that the time was right to tell me about my father. She took me out for a meal a few days after my birthday, we both drank a bit more than usual and then started on the tale:

It was spring of 1985. Maman had been living with Jean-Claude for about six years, he was 36, she was 30. For about three years they had been trying for a baby but with no success. They were not married, but Maman thought that when she got pregnant, then, perhaps... Anyway, things started to go wrong. Maman worked as a social worker in a hostel for young people, this meant that about two nights a week she had to sleep at the hostel. One day, as she got back to their flat after a night at the hostel, she noticed that both sides of the bed had been slept on. She had suspected for some time that Jean-Claude had been cheating on her, but now he was bringing his woman back to their bed. She confronted him, he denied it. Weeks went past, things were not right, Maman didn't feel the same way about J-C anymore. Things he did annoyed her, he became more distant - what to do?

And then it happened. One day at the hostel she spotted a young man talking with some of the residents. Her heart started beating wildly and she realised that she could not be in love with J-C anymore, as one sight of this man had made her feel like she did six years ago when she was young and beautiful and J-C was funny and sexy. She told me his name and that he was 21 years old, very handsome and English. He spoke very good French with a lovely English accent, she spent that night with him and that was night I was conceived.

Now she had a problem. The Englishman went home and so did Maman, but J-C could see a change in her. He choose this moment to announce that he was in love with a younger woman and was moving out. Maman swore and shouted a bit and said 'Hah! I too have a young lover, get out and don't come back.'

She wrote to the young Englishman, but didn't say that anything was wrong, just that she missed him and wanted him back as soon as he could. She was so mixed up she didn't know what she felt now. She was messed up over the break up of her relationship, she felt like a young girl in love with an impossible love. She wanted to declare her love but was afraid of scaring him off. Then she discovered she was pregnant and she knew it was his baby and she knew she wanted to keep it and to try to make a life with this man.

He visited her just one more time. Maman was so tense that she found she couldn't tell him her news. She knew that he found her attractive but was totally unsure what he truly felt. But then she found out very soon. He told her that he was in love with someone else, a girl in England and that he couldn't return again.

Maman was in shock a little. She found how deep her love was now, she knew she wanted him to be happy and that if she told him about the baby then it would spoil everything. It was obvious now that he wasn't in love with her, but she had the chance of keeping a part of him forever as well as giving him the gift of freedom and happiness.

When I was born and was a boy, she called me Jim, she thought that it was tribute enough to my father to give me an English name. She said if I wanted to know what he looked like then just to take a look in the mirror.

And that was the story she told me. And that was the night I smoked my first cigarette.

I matriculated in 2003 and applied to Montpellier University to study English, but first I decided to take a gap year, working and travelling around England. I waited at tables in Covent Garden, was a barman in Highgate and a few other places too. I stayed in Youth Hostels in Cumbria, Cornwall and Yorkshire; I ate Cumberland Sausages, Cornish Pasties and Yorkshire Puddings; I drank beer, beer and beer - from Royal Oak to Tetleys to Fullers London Pride via Jennings, Banks's, Shepherd Neame and, on one un-memorable night, I drank several bottles of 'dog'. I also had some lovely encounters with some lovely English girls - and one or two Scots and Welsh too. Oh, and some Irish.

One of the highlights of the year was watching the final 6 Nations game in my favourite Hampstead pub, with a few French mates and a lot of English ones, when Les Bleus beat world champions England to take the Grand Slam. 'Appy days, as we say. We were planning on taking a live rooster to the pub but when we couldn't find one, we made a compromise and left a box full of Kentuky Fried Chicken bones in the gutter on the way home in stead.

The second year of university (2006/7) I spent at Leeds University. What a year. What a year. My gap year and my studies had given me fluent English but when I was with women, I tended to pretend not to understand everything - that way I always knew who fancied me, who was talking dirty etc. and yes, I did take advantage - you bet. One memorable weekend I spent from Friday afternoon to lunchtime Monday in a house in Hyde Park which was shared by five female students. I don't remember much about that weekend, but I had some strange bruises and teeth marks on me by Monday morning.

But it wasn't all beer and boffing as they say in the Midi. I also used some of my spare time to search for my father and in February 2007 I registered on this fine website, for to improve my understanding of English as she is written today. At one time, I considered using the QOTW as the subject for my dissertation: "B3ta Question of the Week answers, and the insights they give us into the apparent polarisation of the written English language into the pre- and post-internet generations"; I may still do this just for a lol. Yeah, right. WTF?

To search for my father all I had was his name and address from 1985 - when I was a little boy I'd searched through my mother's drawers one afternoon when she was out, and I found a letter from my father to her - she'd written his address on the back of the envelope. When I knew I'd be in England for year, I made sure to copy it out. As you would expect, I found the house in North London where he used to live but the people there had never heard of him or his family. That was at Easter, then I registered with 'Friends Reunited'. There were five people with his name but only one fitted the age and location of my father.

His profile matched as well. He spent a few years 'bumming around Europe' after school before meeting his wife in 1985. And he had one daughter, born in 1987...my little half-sister. Should I try to contact him? The bad news was that he hadn't been active on the site since 2001. I started shaking so badly I had to go outside and walk around to calm down. I ended up at the pub slowly sipping a pint of Samuel Smiths at a corner table, thoughts whirring round my head. I stalled. Half of me wanted to drop everything and pursue him but I was scared. He was still married - at least six years ago - a daughter not much younger than me, a wife - how could I burst in on this? I stumbled home close to midnight and logged back on. I tried sending a very brief message just ‘do you remember me?’ It failed to arrive. Part of me was relieved, part frantic.

In the morning I was a bit calmer. OK, I had a lead now, there was no rush was there? I had a lot of work to do so I buried myself in it, I also drank quite a bit and found solace in the arms of some women. All too soon I had to return home. I decided to ask my Maman what I should do. But wait, was this a good idea? I felt she still held some feeling for this man, should I disturb her as well? Merde.

To cut a long story shorter than it might be...I finished my course at Montpellier and applied for jobs in the UK, got one working for a company in Manchester - moved here last November. I took up the pursuit of my father again and through Google, I think I found him. Where he now lives and works. At Christmas I went home to stay with Maman, determined to speak to her about the matter. I didn't tell her that I'd found him, just that I was looking - she wasn't at all surprised. She said she expected me to do that and that she could tell it was on my mind when I got back from my year in the UK. She wished me good luck and said that if I found him to please ask for his forgiveness for keeping the secret from him, and to send her good wishes.

I got back to Manchester and decided to book a week's holiday in March as work would allow me some free time then. I made arrangements, checked electoral roles. Then, at the end of January I was reading the QOTW as usual and the topic 'Stalking' came up. At last, I thought, I will tell the story of how I tracked down my father. I sat down and started writing - it was pretty hard, so I read some of the other posts and then I saw the story from Che Grimsdale and all of the pieces fell into place - I couldn't believe it - I had truly found my father.

I was going to send him a message, I wanted to post 'Therese's story' myself then and there, to tell you all my side of the story. But I bottled it. Apart from anything else, I was trying to erase some of the images conjured up - some things you don't wish to know. "You were conceived in Paris" is fine...intimate details? No thanks. I did print off all of Che's postings - nearly five years' worth. I read them non-stop over a weekend, I don't suppose many people know their father quite like I do - so intimately and yet not at all. At least once a week I sit down to compose a message but I haven't found the right words until now.

So now, Che - Dad, it's over to you.
(, Wed 26 Mar 2008, 8:51, 12 replies)
Burn Baby Burn
Growing up in the 70s, the house was always full of disco music, and it soon became clear that I Was Made For Dancin'.

And that is how I had my first experience of Leif Garrett.

(All, all, all, all night long)
(, Wed 26 Mar 2008, 8:19, Reply)
Will the Haiku never end...

Traps ineffective
Food missing so I let
My dog go sic a rat

Do you still love me now you know?
(, Wed 26 Mar 2008, 7:40, Reply)
I only smoke on occaisions,
But i have always wondered what the big deal with nicotine is , ciggarettes have never made me feel better and the firts time i tried them it had no effect.

which is why i love Jägermeister
(, Wed 26 Mar 2008, 7:23, Reply)
Iv never spoked
but i know cigarette smoke smells like shit.
(, Wed 26 Mar 2008, 3:04, 1 reply)
Boom boom
When I first started drinking I used to drink a lot of a particular beer originally from Bremen, Germany. In fact, I loved the taste so much I wouldn't touch another beer. However, after a few months I was sitting in a bar and I realised I just didn't enjoy the taste anymore...

Yes, at that moment I was First Sick Of Beck's...

*edit* also grew tired of a certain England footballer aiming for his 100th cap...

and this girl I once knew called Rebecca...
(, Tue 25 Mar 2008, 22:55, 2 replies)
Problem with this question...
is that not enough people have been complaining how crap it is.

Well I think it's crap.
(, Tue 25 Mar 2008, 22:39, 13 replies)
I was helping my friend....
..with the architecture of a building he was working on getting built with a bunch of his mates.

He needed me to design a sort of tower on one corner, just big enough for one of them to climb up to and yell at people.

I'd never done such a thing before! It was my first minaret.
(, Tue 25 Mar 2008, 22:13, Reply)
In college
one of my friends in my film studies class would often let me have a drag or two from her fags to calm my nerves around deadlines and such.

Then one night at a gig, another friend offered me a cigarette whilst we were all sat around. Obviously, I was only used to a few drags. I smoked the whole fag in about 30 seconds. And threw all over. The staff had a right go at me
(, Tue 25 Mar 2008, 21:47, 1 reply)
My first cig...
...was a pipe.

My grandad smoked a pipe, and my dad picked it up from him, so I grew up around pipe smokers.

Pipes are a bit more interesting than a cigarette, so when I was 6 or 7 I liked playing with them. Only a matter of time really before I put some tobacco in the bowl and tried to light up.

My mum walked in to find the youthful me, in my pyjamas and dressing gown, puffing away on a badly lit pipe like a junior Leslie Philips.

My mum told me off through tears of laughter.
(, Tue 25 Mar 2008, 21:29, 1 reply)
It runs in the family
Just remembered this one. My mum has never smoked, but when she was a teenager (or possibly younger), she too once thought about trying a cigarette. She and a mate sneaked into a wedding and somehow managed to hide a cigarette in my mum's (or my mum's friend's) shoe. When they found somewhere to try it, they realised it had been so squashed that it was un-smokable.

It seems boring anticlimatic smoking stories run in my family.

Length? Two generations so far.
(, Tue 25 Mar 2008, 21:08, Reply)
this QOTW is Shit at best
(, Tue 25 Mar 2008, 20:34, 6 replies)
Not quite the first
But it was one of the first, i only remember because i got in trouble.

My Parents had an account at the local dairy and i would often be asked to get milk and bread and the shop owner would just put it on the tab. My father smoked Pall Mall Filter too, and even though i was only 13, they would let me take those to him too.

When i did get curious about smoking cigarettes, i thought the easiest way to get a pack was just to grab some milk and a pack of smokes from the dairy, it would go on account, and no-one would ever be the wiser!

Would have worked sweet too, except i turned right(towards the park), instead of left(towards my house), when i left the shop! Bastard called my parents! I got a hiding and then...strangely...felt like a cigarette.

:o( still smoking a pack a day 17 years later.
(, Tue 25 Mar 2008, 19:48, Reply)
I just spent the day at the funeral of a wonderful person who died of lung cancer. This smoking business is heartbreakingly shit. Eh, that's all really.
(, Tue 25 Mar 2008, 19:18, 1 reply)
Dad Ash
I tried my first cigarette when I was 14. My Dad used to smoke roll-ups and I helped him roll them occasionally, but never smoked them myself.The first cigarette I tried was probably when I was 15 and my Dad let me have a puff.I didn't dislike it but I remember it wasn't as good as I thought it would be after all the prep work.However, I wasn't that fussed about it, I just liked doing the rolling; I saw it as an art!
What impressed me most though were the neat cylindrical ash piles my Dad would leave in the ashtray. They were perfect. As I got older and started smoking myself,I still couldn't do it. Even my friends were impressed with the ash that my Dad left after every flick. I asked him how he did it and he just winked and said, "It's how you roll them".
I'm 24 now and I I still can't get my ash to fall off in a perfect cylinder, or line them up in neat little piles like my Dad could.

My Dad died 2 years ago, and 'Dad Ash' as it became known to me and my mates is one of my fondest memories.

Sorry for lack of shit pun.

Length? About 5mm high.
(, Tue 25 Mar 2008, 18:24, Reply)
sparkler based fun
I could post the story of my own first cigarette, but unfortunately its of the "behind a wall/bush, coughed a few times" variety...

so instead ill tell you the story of my mate's first time, it was a sunny afternoon, June last year, and as we smokers departed from school to the nearby park for a few cigs and a general natter, a non-smoking mate of mine piped up that he would like to accompany us on our peramble. A cruel and unusual thought entered my mind and assuring him that i would go roll him one, i went up to my room and opened my draw of random shite(TM), i selected a sparkler and carefully shaved off all the black powder and sprinkled it on the baccy, taking care to not put any at the tip.

As my mate reached for the lighter, the entire group watched carefully for a reaction, he took a few tentative tokes, which were enough to get to the powder lit, the cigarette proceeded to burst into white flames and then disappear in a haze of grey-black smoke but not before he bizarrely took another toke. Rather than coughing he spent the next five minutes sneezing ferociously and his snot went a tasteful grey colour.

Before you think im a complete bastard, i did apologise AND bought him an orangina which i feel went a long way to restoring the balance.
He recovered and is now a happy 5-a-day man.

*pop* phew, i didn't expect to last that long!
(, Tue 25 Mar 2008, 18:08, 1 reply)
Some of you may know that I rock climb (badly).

Well, last summer saw me tackling some well known routes down on the sandstone at Harrisons Rocks.

I battled and battled with this particular route - a nasty overhang which I'm sad to say I still haven't managed to complete. It's known as the Pig's Nose.

Yes, sadly I still haven't had my first Pig-arrete.
(, Tue 25 Mar 2008, 18:03, 1 reply)
My First Smoke
I love smoking. I really really love smoking. Throughout my life I have never managed to get addicted to anything except smoking. I am a casual drug taker (Disco Biscuits and Charlie), but, only when in situations where it socially acceptable (work, church etc). To be honest if I never touched them again I wouldn’t mind. To be brutally honest I easily submit to peer pressure.
During a dark time in my life I would smoke spliff after spliff for about 2 years on end. One day I woke up and didn’t want to smoke it anymore. I haven’t since then.
Occasionally I decide I don’t want to drink for a while. I gave up for six months last year while I was saving for a deposit.
I even once gave up sex for 3 months………er…..yeah…..of course it was my choice…..

But smoking. Bloody smoking. I cant give it up. It’s always there. Nicotine patches, nicotine gum, therapy, hypnosis, 7 week plans – I have tried it all and yet I will smoke 20 today. And tomorrow. And so on.

The odd thing is I was forced into this habit.

Sophie was a really good friend of mine when I was 15. She was a laugh, but, a smoker. The problem Sophie had was that her dad would smack her around if he ever caught her smoking. One day when she got home her dad found a pack of fags on her and she didn’t come to school for a few days. The guy was a total cunt.
Anyways – when she came back to school she asked me kindly to take her fags home and give them to her in the morning on the walk to school. This seemed logical to me – I don’t smoke – cant possibly get in trouble.

Eventually I was caught. I was carrying my coat upstairs and the packet fell out right in front of my mum. She went fucking apeshit. The kind of crazy that can result in child death. The kind of crazy that reminds you that there is a bit of Jack Nicholson in every mother. The kind of crazy that a liter of morphine wont even dent. While she was bouncing up and down screaming at me I started shouting “they are not mine – I am JUST LOOKING AFTER THEM”. Strangely – this excuse didn’t work. I cant imagine why.

“Outside” she shrieked, in a tone similar to rusty bus brakes.
I stood in the garden and was passed the packet.
“Open itttt” This time she sounded more like a pissed off god of thunder.
I did – inside the box of Marlboro red were about 14 cigs.
“Now smoke them. Smoke them all”
At 1st I hated the taste. By the 2nd I felt sick. By the 5th I was sick. By the 10th I started to strangely enjoy it. I kept glancing at my reflection in the glass doors. I looked pretty fucking cool. I looked well hard. I breathed the smoke out of my mouth and watched to dragon like explosion from my nose in the glass. By the 14th smoke I had mastered looking painfully cool while smoking. Clint Eastwood had nothing on me.

I couldn’t wait to show off on the way to school.

Thanks mum for starting me on the road to my early death. I have been smoking for over 12 years now. I cant shake the habit. I will keep trying.
(, Tue 25 Mar 2008, 17:46, Reply)
teenage party
I was about 15 and at a party of some of the coolest people at school. There was also Jessica, the hottest girl in my year with the body of a grown woman and the sexual appetite to match.

Everyone was smoking. Everyone but me. I was dreading being offered a cigarette, because I'd have to refuse out of principle and then look like a dick. So when Jessica sidled up to me with a cigar between her full lips and offered me a pull, I had to lower my eyes and refuse, knowing she'd think me a nerdy little tit.

"I respect that, Frank," she said. "Any other guy here would say yes just so they could get in my pants. But you have principles. Come with me and I'll show you what I can do with my mouth."

She led me to a an empty bedroom and took off my trousers. My dong sprang forth and she clutched it in her slender fingers. "A fine cigar should first be dampened," she said. And she ran the tip of her tongue around my throbbing tip. I thought I would come there and then, but I controlled myself.

"Then you have to hold it delicately in your mouth," she said, taking the head between those impossibly soft lips and closing them around it. I felt the tongue at work and closed my eyes as she began to suck gently, coaxing the raging torrent of jis from my swollen scrote to lash madly across her tonsils.

But I screamed in terror as the lighter sparked up under my testicles and the reek of burning hair and flesh wafted into my flaring nostrils.

I was her first cock cigarette.
(, Tue 25 Mar 2008, 17:32, 4 replies)
It wasnt a cigarette
but a 'dip' or some Skoal...chewing tobacco. I was in middle school and my big brother, a high schooler (about 17 at the time) and his buddy were in my parents basement watching a movie...I came home from a baseball game and trotted downstairs to see what was going on and saw they were dipping snuff. I asked if I could have some and my Brother said "Ask Mom you little dweeb!" My Mom was in the next room doing laundry or something and I walked in and asked "Momma (cuz I called her Momma...dont judge) can I try some of Jeff's chewing tobacco?"

I will NEVER forget the look on her face when she said "Sure Citadel." It was PURE Motherly EVIL!

So I walked back in and said "Give me the tin please!" and put in a dip. In about 10 seconds, the stinging/burning on my lower lip was unbelievable! I ran right back into the room where my Mom was and spat it out into the wash basin and turned the water on full blast to try and rinse my mouth. Oh how my Momma laughed!

A year later, and my Parents were constantly catching me with a chew in during baseball games! I foiled their Evil Plan! MWAh ha ha ha!
(, Tue 25 Mar 2008, 17:25, 1 reply)
I was in the pub
The other night, but I couldn't drink as I was driving.

I drank more *generic carbonated energy drink* than ever before.

I was slumped, face-down on the bar when my friends came back in from smoking.

Only afterwards did I realise what had happened...

I'd had my first sugar-rest.
(, Tue 25 Mar 2008, 17:24, Reply)
Remember years ago listening to a new girl band on teh radio..
That was my first zig-a-zig-ahhh
(, Tue 25 Mar 2008, 17:17, 1 reply)

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