Femininity is sometimes a pair of red lips wrapped around a cigarette. Sometime's her look, her porcelain cleavage, but always the lips, her lips. And not just the lips alone, but the smoke that glides, light as a feather, through them and creates the entire atmosphere. It's elegant, ennobles the smoker, and, for women gives a sense of strange fragility. It's also intimate, if I'd exhale it all in your face, you'd lick your lips, it's tasty, smells like me and the perfume I wear, it's personal, a mark of style. I smoke a Marlboro, the pack's matching my lips, and, for the nuance, I light it up with matches. Old-fashioned. The thick smoke fills the room, giving you the visual effect, and me the whole experience, the unmistakable taste, with which I fill my lungs, thirsty like a deer during drought.