“Now Tiger—” At last she said—“Now My Tiger—” She gasped and said, trembling more and more.
“Alright, Lovely—” Tiger said, withdrawing his shaft,
exquisitely, slowly, as she moaned, murmuring— He eased himself downward, gliding over her form— His entire body pounded at the impending, approaching, spectacular finale, the most unique and glorious he had ever heard of or known, unfurled for him by her, only, this unique one —and only—
"Now Lovely—” She gasped out, barely, ready, totally.
“Wow, Lovely—” He told her, making his hand into a fist and easing it between her divine thighs, and upward, slowly, ever upward, gently, entering her, marvelously, sliding upward, ever, deeper, seeking her, as she groaned, and moaned, trembling violently—
“Yes Lovely—" Her voice came to him somewhere near a scream, it seemed, as a hot, white spinning haze began enveloping him, “Yes, YES LOVELY—” She said— His arm was gliding, penetrating, he was almost up to his elbow, he was drenching wet, nearly out of his head, he began to stroke, he stroked and stroked, she was writhing under it, it was a pumping stroke, he stroked more rapidly, feeling the very depths of her meeting his loving fist, each time it thrust home in her, he stroked and stroked, she began to scream, he was in a wild dream, the sweat poured off him. she couldn’t have been drenched more, he plunged and stroked, up to his elbow.
“T I G E R!” She screamed, wildly, reaching for him, clutching him—He withdrew his arm, fully—“OH— T I G E R!” She pulled him onto her, he plunged his throbbing shaft into her, she clasped him tightly, a fiery vise, she kissed him. passionately, her legs wrapped around him, her body jerked and jerked, fabulously, he plunged massively, all the way, wildly, jolting, spilling within her, violently, a tributary to the vast, convulsing, flowing hot river she now was . . . totally— They rolled off the seat, rapturously jerking spasmodically. . . . They were on the car floor, still entwined. . . .
“Tiger—"
She moaned, over and over, in his ear, kissing it—she was still twitching.
“Lovely Honey—”
He murmured to her, in her ear, a long while, coming back to this world, gradually, caressing her, tenderly.. . .
Ponce, floating on clouds at least ten miles high, got back home about eleven that night, just about the time Rochelle, and Tiger, and seventy-seventh heaven, were parting. Ponce had passed a truly inspiring, exciting, breathtaking evening at his dream’s apartment. They had talked and talked. Ponce never knew he had so much to talk about, that there was so much two people together could talk about. How had he done it? It just seemed to flow out of him, all sorts of things, subjects, topics, intoxicating him. He was intoxicated. She had inspired him, without the slightest doubt of it. Sitting there, especially after they had finished their cocoa, he was aware of a definite, gradual, most gratifying and welcome melting away of the powerful forces which had, up till then, to all intents and purposes, paralyzed him. His dream had probably smoked about a pack of cigarettes, at least, Ponce reflected, thinking back on it, attentive to detail, as always. She had made toasted cheese sandwiches with olives and pickles as a side dish and potato chips too, to boot, for both of them. It was delicious. And more cocoa too. Before the evening was through. She made him feel right at home. It was wonderful. He still saw her, sitting there, on that sofa, not all that far from him. Her fragrance surrounded him. Even though, Ponce floundered, dipping downward, he hadn’t kissed her, or caressed her, or laid a hand on her, as much as he had been dying to. Screaming within to. He loved her, he was utterly and desperately in love with her. Even though, Ponce further floundered, she had held his hand, on that walk to the kitchen, and back again. Even though, Ponce really floundered, crestfallen, she had stood before him, and touched his face, with that heavenly hand, that hand . . . so tenderly . . .
But how they had talked! At least they had established a rock solid relationship there, in that sphere, no doubt of it. First, of course, Milton. They had gone up and down, and across and down, and in and out, all the lanes and byways, not to mention highways, of that great English poet. Ponce had learned more in one evening from her than he would, he knew, from all the reading he could do in the next five years, at least, on the subject. It was great. She had gone right to the heart of it. He had felt right in tune with it. His theme would show it. Would such a theme, at Sawyersville, ever be seen again? Ponce doubted it. He was excited about it. Perhaps they would publish it. Yes, ii could well be, possibly, his first published work, he thought of it. Inspired as he was, aware of his abilities as he fully was, the idea seemed not too far-fetched at all to him. Ponce pondered. He’d be thrilled no end. His mother would. Certainly, Miss Smith, and of course Tiger, would. What about Peppy? Ponce grinned. . . . Then, Democracy. Passing over, somehow, into the realm of Social Studies, they had thoroughly explored the cherished ideals and practical practices of that much bandied and living concept. They had come to the conclusion, more or less, and however reluctantly, that in the great and powerful country in which they after all did happen to reside and were part and parcel of, the concept, in fact, up to now, had been, and was, somewhat of, or something akin to, a fiasco. More unkindly, and only mentioned in passing, a floperoo, a first-class one. Miss Smith had pointed out how in fact the great democracy was almost totally, and purely, in the control of, and hands of, "The Industrial-Military-Right,” as she termed it, and Ponce, on reflection, concurred in. A vast, banal complex, it ran the show. In fact, banefully, it was the show. That was the crudest fact. The hardest. Who disputed it? Miss Smith, for the life of her, couldn’t imagine anyone trying to. Ponce didn’t try to. The nation was a monolith, one hundred percent, almost, behind it How couldn’t it be? It was it. It saddened him. And really they didn’t know or have in mind anything that could replace it. For they agreed that it was the characters and personalities of the vast majority of citizens that needed replacing. Or altering. And how could that be accomplished? Could it ever be? Caught as they were in the vicious cycle of heredity-social-personal-intra-and-inter-personal pressures, factors, and processes, all interrelating and interacting, relentlessly, what possible chance did they have? Could they have? Plus intelligence. Ponce certainly was aware how that was distributed. Totally undemocratically, and unalterably, at birth no less! What was the answer? It was baffling. Perhaps, one day, The Bomb would take care of it. Though of course they hoped not. Certainly. For when it came to that, they knew the side they were on. Life, imperfect, flawed, general floperoo or fiasco though it might be, was the only one, to be on. They knew it. They agreed. Completely. For there was hope in it. . . . Next, integration. Civil Rights was the only and proper approach to the matter, and it would take a long, long time for the Negro citizens to reach their goal. The problem, Miss Smith had told him, was in fact a psychological one, based on the equation of black citizens in the minds of a very substantial majority of white citizens with feces. That was exactly how she had put it to Ponce, and though startling at first, on reflection it made a good deal of sense to him. He accepted it. This vast majority, Miss Smith had gone on to tell him, had never really evolved or developed beyond an early anal structure, rooted in infancy. Their characters, however mature in many ways, still were under the influence of powerful split-off parts of themselves, anal totally. They were made sick, in short, they were horrified by the thought of (though they weren’t in the least bit aware of it) having to rub shoulders on equal terms, in short, to mix with what were, in their primitive minds, chunks of living, walking, talking feces. In short, shit. This vast majority would certainly have to grow up, integrate those split-off parts of themselves, before the Negro really had a chance in this country. And the Negro would have to haul himself up by his bootstraps also, somehow, so he could help these primitives by showing them that certainly he wasn’t at all what their minds equated him with, despite his color. It was a two-way process, without a doubt of it! Ponce had been fascinated, in fact almost staggered, by this revelation and interpretation of the sad situation. And the high esteem in which he held Miss Smith rose even higher, if that was possible, for clearly she was sophisticated in areas other than Literature, and without a doubt of it. Ponce had expressed his concern that possibly in the present circumstances of the tragic situation which had hit Sawyersville square in the eye, i.e., the demise of Jill Fairbunn, there would be strong pressures brought to