This third piece of fiction almost ties with Daria as my favourite. It is extremely well written and the characters well characterized for a relatively short story. The story is called Naomi and Mom and it is about a 16 year old girl that deperately wants her mom to quit smoking. So much so, she is willing to do the unthinkable. She is going to start smoking until her mom quits. And you might be able to predict how this one ends… but this story isn’t about the destination, its about the journey.
It always marvels me in fetish writing that there are so many mothers that want their daughters to start smoking. I still wonder what mom would have done to me, if she had discovered I had be dabbling. Part of me thinks I would have gotten an “I’m disappointed in you.” talk. But would she have outright forbidden me? No, I don’t think so. She wouldn’t have grounded me either. I kind of have a feeling she would have let me and then proceeded to make me feel guilty about every cigarette. My mother would have used her most devious skill- guilt.
My favourite thing about this story: how it describes the effects of smoking on Naomi, and when I say effects, I mean all of the effects. 😉
Here is an excerpt from Naomi and Mom
I’ve simply had it. You know the feeling. For ten years I’ve pleaded, reasoned, bitched at, and whined about mom’s smoking. And at the receiving end, there’s seldom more than a blank stare. I might as well be talking to myself.
There’s no question that the smoking issue is coming to a head. I can see it in her eyes again this morning but she might as well be talking to herself. If Naomi had any idea how overmatched she is, she’d be dumbfounded. The delightful irony is that with the right moves, my daughter will never even have to know.
And here she sits over the breakfast table with an already generously full ashtray, a freshly lit Marlboro 100 yet fastened to her lips, and completely oblivious to my wishes. And my wishes, nothing; for God’s sake, everything I’m trying to do is in her own best interest. She must know that.
Revelation and desperation not being unrelated, in a flash the answer becomes unmistakably clear. I now know instinctively what I must do. The filth and vile of her habit can only be exposed through example. In order to shame her into quitting, I simply have to start smoking myself. I can’t tell you how nauseous that thought is but, as it strikes me sitting here, it feels like my only choice. It isn’t a strategy born of my 1450 SAT’s but rather my rage and frustration. I must fight fire with fire so to speak!
I’ve never seen her this angry before. There’s no question she’s on the attack. I have several offensive moves I can make but a defensive tack seems more likely to catch her off guard. Let’s see where her first pawn lands.
We seldom speak much over breakfast – mom absorbed in the Today Show and shrouded in cigarette smoke – and me with my New York Times and Special K. Only coffee is confluent and those conversations are composed of scintillating commentary like “Want more?” and a grunt. While I’ve noticed an increasing dependency lately on my morning caffeine, that seems pretty innocuous. Juan Valdes is no killer.
So mom is totally oblivious as I reach, not particularly stealthily, across the table, free one of her Marlboro 100’s from the pack, repositioned her ashtray closer to me, and pick up her lighter. Mimicking every move I’ve loathed for these many years, the feather-light cigarette quickly dangles precariously from my lips. Upon the second or third flick, her fancy lighter ignites. The simple act of drawing on the cigarette raises the tip to meet the on-coming flame and as they merge I draw in a bit of smoke and recoiled as my mouth is assaulted by an incredibly foreign taste. Foreign I choose as a descriptor because, while not particularly pleasant, it seems totally disassociated with that stench I so heartily detest.
While of course I’m familiar with inhaling, I wouldn’t dare. First, I can’t imagine doing such an unnatural thing to my body and second, I suspect that it would be a greater challenge than I’m up to. And why should I anyway? After all, simply seeing me attempt to smoke will call forth all of her maternal instincts and the case will be closed once and for all. Just seeing me with a cigarette will be shock enough for mom to finally get the message.
She is so absorbed with Matt and Katy at the moment however, that at first she doesn’t seem to notice. It isn’t until my fourth puff, which I manage to sputter out in her direction, before the spell is broken. And as she lets out a little gasp, I feel the elation of an early and well-earned victory. Served by inspiration, I have outwitted my mother in nothing but an instant.
For the rest of Naomi and Mom click here.