I know you wouldn’t fuck Marilyn because she was a smoker too…

The One, The Only, The True

Cigarettes.

How does anyone start?

By sneaking one out of your mom’s packet…and you know that your dedication to La Monroe is real when you’re prepared to smoke Camel filters. The images of vixens with full-length leather gloves and red lips, glancing at you contemptuously from beneath their pillbox hats and veils, filled my mind. I wanted nothing more than to be a noir heroine, a femme fatale. I pictured skin tight secretary skirts, seamed stockings and fetish heels. Corsets and burlesque dancers were my brand names and popstars.

These images always came with that unbidden cigarette.

How I longed to be in black and white, always walking down a dark alleyway in patent heels, filmed from a low perspective and looking like a goddess. I sought out a long black and ivory cigarette holder, and danced seductively in alternative music venues while my Camel filter wobbled uncertainly at the end of my holder.

…and then I found my grandmother’s antique cigarette holder, and I knew that fantasies like these are inherited.

RIP Maria Magdalena Steyn

Powered by Plinky

Advertisements

About this entry