Local County Fair Overview


I remember visits to the local county fair in the small southern Minnesota county where I grew up dating back to 1983.  I have a vague recollection of a couple of early sightings that intrigued me in the 1990s, but it wasn’t until 1999 when I got my first memorable sighting.  In the years to come, I was never particularly aggressive about perusing the grounds for sightings for whatever reasons.  That officially changed in 2005 when I had my breakthrough local county fair sightings year and scored three of my top-5 sightings that year after spending a few hours of significant fairgrounds exploration every night after the concerts I attended.

In the five years since, I’ve been considerably more aggressive, dedicating several hours of fetishing every night at the local county fair, with impressive results.  The venue’s downsides include the smaller fairgrounds which leave one considerably more conspicuous while fetishing, and the fact that I still know a lot of people in this county and find myself frequently distracted by friends and relatives, not to mention paranoid about getting spotted by someone I know in the middle of an awkward fetish moment.  Still, it’s a very productive location for sightings as smoking still occurs at above-average rates in my downscale, blue-collar home county, and it’s always a thrill to have it kick off fair season every summer.

Sightings Per Year At the Local County Fair:

1999—1

2000—1

2001—10

2002—2

2003—6

2004—3

2005—11

2006—55

2007—88

2008—80

2009—125

2010—144

2011–125

2012–117

2013–119

2014–110

2015–101

2016–97

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2 Responses to Local County Fair Overview

  1. thatisthelaw says:

    The summer after I graduated high school, and through to the start of the following summer, I worked as an attendant and fry cook at at a fishing pier, which in a coastal town, in summer, is a destination a bit like what a country fair is inland. While there, I didn’t see as many smoking beach bunnies as I would have liked…but I did get to sell cigarettes to a cute 13-year-old. I also sold to a couple of older teens at different times, but it was the 13-year-old who stuck in memory, especially after I found out how young she was. She looked and acted–and smoked–like somebody much older.

    She was one of those active, coltish girls you see at beaches, tanned, slender, and small-breasted, bikinied and showing every inch of her tan all summer long, and with a complete lack of self-consciousness. She always seemed to be running, or almost running, and always tossing her neck-length light brown hair out of her eyes. And she always had a little boy in tow–her little brother, I assumed. She behaved more like his mother, and I got the idea that she did most of the parenting of him. She was evidently a regular down there, because the owners of the pier knew her by name. (However, when I recently reconnected with one of them to find out more about her than I’d known at the time, he couldn’t remember her.) But the feature about her that attracted my attention the most was that she was always smoking. Because of this, and her general appearance and attitude, I took her to be 16 or so.

    She was the kind of cute girl who you knew would grow up to be pretty, but not in a voluptuous way; her face was more angular, like a model’s. And like a lot of girls who take on grown-up responsibilities (and habits) young, she wasn’t at all coquettish, either like a little girl or an older one; she was very matter-of-fact. That was her manner when she came up to the counter one weekday afternoon, on a day and at a time when the pier was relatively unpopulated, and asked to buy cigarettes.

    Actually, what she asked was, “Can you sell me a pack of cigarettes?” Though she wasn’t at all shy in asking, she seemed reluctant about it, and her tone was polite almost to the point of apology. She had never bought there before, and never did again, and I got the feeling that because of her knowing the owners she didn’t like to put them in the position of breaking the law. I told her, sure, and tried very slightly to engage her in conversation, with the ulterior motive of being able to watch her close up as she smoked. But she wasn’t at all open to being conversed with, or being gotten to know. Since I still thought of her as being only a year or two younger than myself, I just concluded she was brushing me off; but also it seemed like it a habitual thing with her. I better understood why when I found out she was younger than I’d believed but had matured early because of the role of mom she’d apparently had to take on. She was skipping the flirting and dating stage, and probably already looking forward to a job or marriage when she got old enough. And I was probably too immature for her, anyway.

    She asked for a pack of Marlboro reds (of course) and, after paying, walked away down the pier–to my frustration! However, though I would have liked to be at her side as she unwrapped the cellophane, undid the foil, extracted a cigarette, lit it, and smoked, I did get the next best chance. We always had a pair of binoculars handy under the counter, so I brought them out and watched her in close-up, albeit at a distance, as she did all those things, and I watched two successive clouds of smoke from her lips as they were picked up by the wind and carried off to disperse in the air.

    …And she looked so-o-o good with that cigarette I found I had to do something with myself RIGHT THAT MINUTE, so I quickly put out the “Be Right Back” sign, grabbed a handful of fish-wrapping papers, and ran into the back room, where I lay back on the nearest piece of furniture at hand (a fish freezer) and dropped my pants just in time to relieve my condition and reap the enjoyment of what I’d witnessed.

    The summer ended, and she stopped coming around–except for one afternoon, about a month into the school year, where she led a group of three or four other eighth graders out to the end of the pier and stopped at a point not quite beyond my sight–which was lucky for me, because I got to see her hand out cigarettes to the others. To my surprise, I knew one of them; I’d taken a fencing class with her and her mother the summer before. She had glanced at me, and on recognizing me showed a trace of anxiety at having been spotted; but she quickly looked away and pretended not to have seen me, as if maybe that would mean I hadn’t seen her.

    She was the smallest and youngest-looking of the group, and didn’t really seem to belong to it, as if she were tagging along after one of the others. Once the girl passed out the cigarettes and they all lit up, it was clear that the girl from the summer was the only practiced smoker in the group. The next best, and the next prettiest, was a plump blonde with a kewpie doll face, who did inhale a little and produced some decent exhales. After finishing their cigarettes, they left.

    …and never came back!–to my great disappointment, needless to say. Thirty years later, with her still on my mind, I visited the archives of the city’s historical society and browsed through all the high school and junior high school yearbooks for that and the following year, hoping to identify her. I failed to find a picture that looked anything like her. Of course, by then a lot of water had flowed under the bridge–or semen between the legs–and I might not even have recognized her; or her picture might not have done her justice. But since I never saw her out on the pier again, even in the spring and summer of the following year, I imagine her family had moved away, and with her gone, the smoking clique she would have established just dissolved.

    Those weren’t my only fetish experiences during my time there. One weekend my boss’s family got a visit from his 19-year-old niece, who lived in New York: a very cute, very busty, very much out-for-a-good-time blonde, who of course smoked. I must have been watching her, and she must have noticed, because as the family was standing around in the snack area and I was seated on my usual stool she suddenly slid–almost oozed–onto my lap, supporting herself by wrapping her arm around my neck, so that the hand holding her cigarette rested on my shoulder. Once on my lap she wiggled and rotated her very round bottom on top of my lap, as if settling in. Every so often as she sat there hugging me she’d lift her cigarette in front of my face and take a puff. I probably don’t need to report that as soon as she deposited herself on me I acquired a gigantic erection, which only got bigger with every action she took. For years after that I wondered whether she’d been able to feel it under her; and finally it occurred to me to make a test with an object of equivalent size and firmness. And guess what? There was NO WAY she would not have felt it! She KNEW she was turning me on, and was deliberately turning me on even more. I wonder if she sensed that her smoking was part of it. As a 17-year-old virgin I wasn’t used to that kind of attention…but I wish I could have had a lot more time with her before she went back to New York.

    • Smokin' Mark says:

      Fascinating girl. The way you describe her makes her sound like a child forced to become an adult who adopted heavy smoking as part of her routine either as a coping mechanism or as a means of carrying herself more like an adult. Excellent report. And the second act about the boss’s niece is downright epic….sounds like you had an even more intimate encounter than I did with my 1996 State Fair Girls in the MNSF #1 report.

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