Out of the Humidor
From the Print Edition:
Matt Dillon, Spring 96
(continued from page 7)
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My wife and I are in our 40s and have been married for 12 years. Approximately five years ago, we changed our routine when making love in bed. We light a candle, then bring a glass of wine and a fine cigar to bed with us. We sit (unclothed) on our bed and together we enjoy our cigar, wine and slow, wonderful foreplay. This can last up to 45 minutes before we really get to the serious part. This small change has made an enormous difference in our marriage and both of us can hardly wait until the next time when we start our ritual over again. My wife and I have shared cigars during disagreements and it always seems to defuse the situation, mainly because we sit next to each other while sharing. I really feel that if two people can find something as simple as this, couples would stay together longer.
Mike and Mary Adams
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I had a beautiful day at work. But when I went to the post office to get a registered package, bang. The letter, although very nicely formulated, was what is known to be the fear of every part-time writer: a rejection slip. Thinking of Gertrude Stein and the numerous rejection slips she got before being recognized as a genius didn't help. I came home quite depressed. A question of ego, I suppose.
I tried to rid myself of my depression by eating dinner. Whatever was available without cooking: a can of sardines dumped on a plate, a piece of cheese sprinkled with sesame seeds, Cabaret crackers and a bottle of white Bordeaux. Even so, my depression got the better of me.
I decided to treat myself to a cigar. I thought of a dry one, a William Tell. Then I said to myself, "No. Tonight calls for a real cigar." I looked into my homemade humidor. An Ashton? No. It's too mild and I was too sour. Let's go for a Hoyo du Prince. I had not smoked one for months. Before lighting it, I went through my scrapbook and read your rating of it: "Decent, toasty aroma, flavors: cedar, sweet spices," and my own comment, "No band. Too long but nice. Gift of A."
I took refuge in my backyard. Picture this: An early evening of an extremely mild autumn night. Green grass covered with yellow maple leaves. No neighbors in sight. Quietness. Solitude. My blond cat sitting by me at the picnic table. And a great cigar--suddenly too short and very tasty--accompanied by a double Amaretto di Saronno--to counterbalance the cigar's aggressiveness. A perfect moment, as Simone de Beauvoir would have called it, notwithstanding my mood.
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