Chapter 2: Media, Libido, and My Dick Radar

Media, Libido, and My Dick Radar

(And remember; you are still my psychoanalyst... )

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Okay, I get it. It’s all about women doing stuff with their mouths; right? And with a phallic object, no less!”

While there’s no denying the previous statement’s basic validity, I’d say that painting it with a brush that broad would be an oversimplification. Yes, there is the obvious Freudian oral sex suggestiveness whirling around the act itself, admittedly. However, there is much more to explaining the overarching ‘mystique’ accentuating this obsession. The reasons stoking the fire under the attraction are more nuanced to me, I can assure you. It involves attitude. It’s about circumstance. It lives and foments within the context of social mores, within the assumed differences between acceptable and questionable behavior, and much more.

As I had said, it was through early perceptions that much of my personal neuroses surrounding this fetish grew strong. Furthermore, part of the influences promoting this growth stemmed from mass media. My “fascination” could be seen as being directly attributed to an apparent ever-present element of sensuality and sophistication connecting cigarettes with sex and ’loose’ sexual behavior, all of which purposely seemed to underpin plot lines throughout a lot of the media production I was consuming. This was especially noticeable with the portrayal of female smokers.

As a point in fact, for the actors, learning how to communicate a wide range of emotional depth, which would include portraying promiscuous sexuality through the act of smoking within different scenes, was a thing of import. So, learning how to smoke in a natural way, while using a cigarette with attitude, was strongly encouraged by directors. That may sound odd or silly or even fabricated to you, but I can assure you that it’s true. If a script called for a specific feel, then it must be done properly. A character’s actions had to be convincing. The smallest details were considered. That included smoking. Studio-affiliated drama teachers instructed their aspiring students, as well as their professional actors and actresses on the finer points of this simple act.

Jane Greer, one of the sexiest, savviest, and most influential Hollywood actresses in film noir screen history attested to this point during a conversation with a few friends. In a 1999 column for the LA Times, in which that conversation was recorded, the riveting “bad dame” femme fatale and co-star with Robert Mitchum in the dark noir “Out of the Past” (1947) pointed out that earlier in her career, at the age of 18, she was ordered by her drama coach to learn how to smoke for her film roles. Greer didn’t smoke at that time, but she quickly learned how, and as a result, became a life-long smoker due to the encouragement. And goddamn—did she ever look sexy doing it!

Above: Jane Greer from photo shoots for “Out of the Past” (1947)

Getting back to the industry’s self-imposed restraints on curbing what they viewed as “perversion”; the Motion Picture Production Code sought to severely limit the measure of sexuality that ultimately made it to the screen. If you want a good laugh, look up the ”three second rule” in reference to the MPPC’s guidelines on “excessive or lustful” kissing.

However, writers and directors, their cinematographers, and editors, found clever ways around MPPC barriers. Codes of their own device were conceived and implemented. They came up with subtle ways of conveying that raw sexuality that they knew their audiences secretly wanted. Hays Code or no Hays Code, they managed to get their points across, sailing them right over the heads of the censors, like so many paper airplanes, crashing them directly into the minds of the people sitting in the galleries in all those darkened theaters. Poetic innuendo and double entendre were employed. Through good writing and brilliant direction, sex became sexier when these artists factored the fertile imaginations shared among their audience members into the equation. Cigarettes and smoking became very effective devices.

Above: “Gilda” (1946) — Uncle Pio (Steven Geray) relates an observation to Gilda (Rita Hayworth)

And so, quite often, when they chose to depict women smoking back then, in some cases it would seem to have had a suggestive or provocative purpose. I would venture to say that book authors and scriptwriters, directors and actors, etc., appear to be applying this suggestive “bad girl” promiscuity code to the work being produced even to this very day. And, just as it is today, back then, whether it was being communicated through films, plays, or advertising, we were being bombarded with psychological “reinforcing imagery.” Nothing has really changed. Reaction “triggers” are still employed. It is just that the emphases are being placed differently these days.

But, at any rate; back during my impressionable era, my horny, fevered brain picked up on all the well-placed cues. It homed in on the innuendo-laced promiscuity like radar.

Understandably, the directorial angle was being done in such a way as to emphasize a developing plotline, or to establish certain character traits. Sometimes that emphasis on sexuality and sophistication was subtle, or otherwise presented in such a way as to convey a somewhat wanton manner inherent within a character’s makeup. While other times it was intended to just come across as innocent playfulness. And, of course, then there were also those moments when the point or plot device was sexually blatant, and therefore came across as being very hot to me!

Whatever the intent, the cues worked for a seriously obsessed, susceptible, perverted, budding, fetishist like me.

Examples?

⇩ In the Past

Above: Evelyn Keyes giving Brad Dexter a thrill in “99 River Street” (1953)

Below: Lana Turner puts Kirk Douglas’ advise on the finer points of tease smoking into practice in “The Bad and the Beautiful” (1952)

⇩ More Recently

In those early days, the ever-present subliminally suggestive messaging emanating from the media and advertising landscape seemed to translate very clearly to the women in real life, as well. This included the women around me. Quietly observing these fascinating women—and, for the most part, undetected in doing so—I began picking up on little nuances being displayed within their behavior during “certain moments.” As a youth, and mostly looked upon as being a lovable pest—a “kid” in their minds—I seemed to be virtually invisible to the elders, at times. This made it relatively easy to get away with my scrutiny if I sat there quietly enough.

And, it was during those “special moments” I had observed plenty! Whether being done wittingly or unwittingly, these sexy seductresses of my youth seemed to be utilizing this “arrow in their quiver” by subtly applying their smoking mannerisms toward a purpose. They appeared to be implementing a sometimes-useful method in order to attract, incite, arouse, or otherwise frustrate the hell out of the men around them. It looked to me as if playful “bratty” teasing ticked and purred at the core of these occasional situations.

As for the reactive behavior of their prospective male targets, from my perspective—and I realize it could have been a case of overheated assumption on my part, considering how sexually imaginative and easily aroused I was at the time—the “arrows” look to me as if they were hitting their bullseyes. Even though the arrows were not aimed at me, I can tell you that I got caught up in their wake. Just watching these all but insignificant teasing moments transpire was almost too much for me!

Again, whatever their intent may have been, every little movement they made, and every nuance in their behavior during those times served to reinforce the developing triggers in my brain, concerning this point of arousal centered on smoking and sex. It reinforced other things for me, too... much stiffer erections, and more shattering orgasms during masturbation.

Understanding the ‘incitement’ or ‘teasing’ aspects of their behavior is important to this narrative because they represent key elements in the process of what started to evolve in my head early within my own personal capnolagnia/smoking fetishism history.

Speaking of history; at this juncture, it would probably be helpful if you knew a little more about my background.

Now, you wouldn’t know by my online pseudonym and persona that I am of Italian descent. I come by it naturally; a rich southern Abruzzese heritage was derived from both sides of my family. My mother and father were born in Italy but immigrated to the USA when they were young children.

As a first generational off-spring here in the states, I grew up loved and nurtured within a densely populated, close-knit Italian neighborhood located in New York City. Generally, my youth was happy and full. It was an upbringing very typical of those like me from my generation who were raised within the Roman-Catholic tradition in many east coast metro areas.

Between my relatives and neighbors, I was surrounded by dark-haired, olive-skinned Italian women of varying ages, all of whom, by and large, were absolute beauties. My sexy youngish aunts, along with many female cousins—Gesù-fottuto-Cristo, even my older sister! May da lord have mercy on my perverted soul—became prime “targets” in my runaway arousal. (Yeah; “targets” is code. I’ll go into greater detail about that later, and probably in much more detail than you care to read!)

Quite a few of their friends became “points of interest,” too. You know, nothing seemed to be sacred to me back then. My rebellion against Catholic religious dogma, along with the generally natural youthful rebelliousness that we’ve all been through, directed against everything else, came early to me. So, while jacking my swollen cock raw, very few women were spared within my dark, illicit thoughts. All these wonderful females and their beguiling mannerisms provided early masturbatory fantasy fuel for my over-stimulated young brain.

And (need I mention?) besides their stunning good looks, most all of them were smokers during those early days. Watching these alluring females smoke, and then mentally filing those sexy images away for future devilish use, became a favorite sinful pastime; a frequently committed sin, I might add, the details of which I would have never divulged to any priest sitting on the other side of that mesh screen in the confessional on Friday afternoons! Never in my wildest dreams would I have ever imagined doing anything like that, under any circumstances!

Aside from experiencing the embarrassment of having to actually provide descriptions of all those sordid, borderline-incestuous details of my self-abusing routine out loud to a priest—not to mention how crazy all of it would sound—there would be the fear of public exposure and the consequences to deal with. The assumption that states “anything said within the walls of the confessional will be held in the strictest confidence” didn’t apply to young boys like me; not when it involved subject matter such as this.

I mean; how would a confession like that even go?...

“Um, forgive me, Father, for I have sinned... Um, heh Yeah, well, I thought of my sister’s painted lips blowing smoke while I beat off three times this week. Oh, ahem... and I did the same using my Aunt Carmella’s lips, too... ‘ did that twelve times.

“And, oh yes, I meant to mention: um, did I tell you that I imagined what it might be like to eat out my Aunt Donna’s seething cunt? Um. ... yeah, well, I thought about tongue fucking her creaming pussy as she shoved it passionately up against my sticky face while she smoked. Yep, I did that; uh-huh!... ‘ thought about that one eight times last week... ‘shot off all over my mother’s best towels in the process the first time. Had I I told you about that one, Father, huh?

“Hey, would that last thing be considered one sin, or two, Father?”

Nope! Admitting out loud to having thoughts of that nature to anyone, much less to a fucking priest, would be totally unimaginable! No frigging way!

First, it would have been out of character. I had never confessed sexual “sins” of any kind during all those Friday afternoons I had spent kneeling in that weird space. And, as I alluded to; I wouldn’t be able to even begin figuring out how I’d phrase stuff like that without running the risk of giving the old priest a fucking myocardial infarction right there in the cubical!

Listen; the confessional itself was intimidating enough. That priest knew every person to whom he gave penance. The latticework screen separating your sinful mug from his ecclesiastical face obscured nothing. As sure as nature makes little green apples, you could bet that after you stepped inside that cubical, and he’d slide the window panel open, he could see you. Oh, yes! He knew who you were, and he knew your relatives; he knew your parents!

So, there you’d be, fully exposed to his judgmental glare; kneeling within an enclosed, claustrophobic space, breathing in the pious aroma of Pontifical incense, while grappling with the uncomfortable prospect of having to divulge sensitive information about your bizarre little fantasies and filthy sexual urges to a sanctimonious man who had taken a vow of celibacy.

Oh no! Not me!

No, no, no... I always considered it safer and much easier for everyone concerned if I just stuck to ‘the script’ while in the confessional; you know? Admitting to having transgressed the normal litany of innocent minor offenses; that is, choosing sins taken from the “safe” list of less severe, mostly fabricated indiscretions, always sufficed. Because once confessing to a couple of those ‘soft’ sins—e.g. “I’ve taken the Lord’s name in vain X number of times,” and “I missed mass last Sunday” etc.—then after mumbling the prescribed obligatory penance, I would be out of there, virtually unscathed, with no one the wiser. And once again I’d be on my merry-neurotic-special way, back to the bosom of my family, and most importantly, back at the job of tending to my demanding hard-on.

Did I lie in that confessional? Oh, yes! You bet I did! I lied like hell, and on a regular basis!

On the other hand, if I started confessing the truth about this other stuff—even if I could find the right words—before I could say “Saint Francis save me!” I would find myself up to my deviant little neck in holy shit, and with a whole lot-a hell to pay! Besides, if I were dopey enough to ever admit to having “impure thoughts” about painting my aunts’ faces (Mother Mary, and Joseph! ... Even my own sister’s face!) in warm semen while they blew soft streams of smoke near my erupting penis; there could never be enough “Hail Mary[s],” “Our Father[s],” or “Act[s] of Contrition” muttered in guilt-ridden penance to keep me from feeling the fires of eternal damnation!

(Oh, and by the way; that is what I was referring to when I used the word “targets” earlier, if you hadn’t already figured it out.)