We mess around, and then she lights a cigarette. I think I'm attracted to it, her smoking, more than her body, her smile, her scent - when I jerk off, I jerk to that image, her dragging hard, exhaling into the wind, her lips settling back into position, buzzing from the heat. I'm in love with her in that moment, and not the others, and she probably doesn't know that. Beyond the smoking Jenny's another girl after the same bullshit material wants, watching the same bullshit reality TV shows, wrapped up the same bullshit miniature dramas of the day at her job, where she's a bitch and she's a bitch and she's a fucking slut and she'd be okay, if she weren't so goddamn stupid all the time.

She wants to eat but she can't cook. She'd love to talk about something, but she hasn't seen the news in three days. She'd finger herself but she's not daring, she'd shower herself if she didn't already shower twice a day, and she'd sing if she could remember a song she'd heard on the radio. Instead she smokes, and knows she does it well, and knows I'm entranced by it. So she pulls and blows and watches me get off; she's secretly sickened by it because she's not imaginative enough to have unconventional fantasies.