Pretty maids all in a row

56

In the Teachers’ Conference Room, around that large and fairly shiny table there, sat Surcher, Proffer, School Board Members, the Area Super, a few others, and Tiger. They were tussling with the knotty problem of closure vs. nonclosure, for the time being, at any rate. From time to time Tiger checked his watch, for it was all a matter of time, and if he showed up too late no explanations would do, he knew. Such were young maids. Well he knew. Whatever the circumstances, it wouldn’t do. Sandy especially, that angel in blue. So he hoped this powwow wouldn’t go on that much longer. It was all a hell of an affair. Once again he had been forced to cancel practice. Now, here they were seriously discussing whether or not to close' the school. A major blunder if ever there could be one. Tiger, like Surcher, and Bowlby, the Area Super, was against it. It was some of the School Board bozos and Proffer, apparently, probably sucking up as usual, who wanted to close down. One thing great has been accomplished: Mummer was finished, they had decided on that— unanimously. He wouldn’t be allowed in the school after today, though he would be paid until the end of the term. Fair enough. That might just give the jerk time to find work. Good luck to him, Tiger mused. Would he try G.A.R.? He grinned, picturing that. Right now, Surcher was patiently and calmly explaining why there should be no closure. How else could they corner the nut? He told them the only way was to keep the school open, regardless of risk, and of course there was a certain risk, no denying it. There was just no other way that he knew of. As for the parents, he thought most of them would understand and cooperate, once they know the facts. Tiger nodded, and spoke along the same lines, leaning, to a certain extent, on his reputation, the respect they had for him, and the awe they held him in. Of course he utilized all the effective techniques of interpersonal communication at his command, internalized over the arduous years of experience in the field. For it was his field, every day. Surcher talked some more also, when he had finished. Finally, and to Tiger’s great relief, they swung the right way, starting with John Slater, the best one of the bunch, without a doubt. Tiger knew. Proffer was no problem, once he saw how things were going. Tiger, and Surcher too, he knew, breathed sighs of relief, within. There was more chitchat of course. They decided to invite all the parents to the school for a mass meeting in the auditorium, so they could talk to them and get their fullest cooperation, which was essential, possibly and probably vital, of course. Finally, they broke up. Tiger checked his watch again.

“What about the game, Tiger?” John Slater asked him.

“Yeh—” Tiger said, noting the Board Members begin' ning to mill about him, “We’ll have to work on that.”

“Hell, cancel the whole thing.” Jack Hitchner said, “You won’t stand a chance—two, three Practices maybe shot to hell—”

Tiger eyed him, knowing what a football expert he thought he was, though of all of them, he knew, he was the dumbest jerk.

“We’ll work on it," he told the dope. That satisfied him, whatever Tiger finally did.

“Why don’t they have a double funeral?” Hitchner now said.

Tiger took that in. What could he say? He said nothing. He checked his watch. Hitchner had actually connected. They were talking about it. Tiger heard forlornly. Surcher was talking to him.

“Well, you’ve got your boy back,” he said, giving that little grin.

“Thanks,” Tiger said, meaning it one hundred percent.

Now Surcher talked to him about his plan to interview all the teachers thoroughly. The male teachers, of course, he meant. Tiger listened, concurring, and wishing him the best of luck, and offering him his fullest possible cooperation, as always, of course.

“I don’t mind telling you,” Surcher told him, “I’ve hit a wall here.”

Tiger grinned, “You'll get over it—” He paused, “Or through it.” The man needed encouragement. He patted him on the shoulder.

A few more words with Proffer now, about this and that, and Tiger finally made it out of there.

He checked his watch, with a frown.

Ponce couldn’t stand it. No matter how hard he tried. He knew he was on that long slide, and stopped fighting it. And so, after emerging from between those stacks, having done nothing but sob his heart out, on that heaven-sent, he made a beeline for the lavatory—and jacked off. He was a failure, utterly, he knew it. She had offered treasures, well he knew it. Now, finally gaining relief with a series of hot convulsive jolts, a pounding heart, and screaming pins and needles all over, Ponce started pondering morosely, as usual—only more so. He stared at his red-hot and healthy young organ, detumescing slowly. How long could he go on like this? How many guys, in one lifetime, were presented such golden opportunities—twice not once—like this? And what would they have done? Ponce, in despair, stared at his healthy pal. Miss Nectar would have adored it! He had kept it from her. What was the only thing he was capable of doing with it? Playing with it. He felt sick. And dizzy. Keeping it from them. He nearly fell over. His head would fall into the toilet. That’s what should happen, really, he thought, it was all he was good for. When would he stop playing with it? He thought he was on his way, he thought he had, these past few days he had fought and controlled himself—And now—Here He Was. He hung on in that cubicle. When would he grow up? Be a man? That was the trouble. What good was this? Afterwards, he always felt like this. Sick, sick. He was almost seventeen now, it was time to get the hell off this bubble. Did the other guys worth mentioning in the school carry on like this? What the hell would Dink have done with her? What if he knew? Ponce was so low. He would end up in that toilet. Wham. Dink’s wang would have gone all the way home. He knew it. He pictured it. Deep in those stacks—What a setup! He sank lower. No getting away from it. He couldn't go on like this forever, he knew it. It was all up to him, he knew that too. He would have to be the one to put the brakes on it, really on it, and start growing up. How the hell else could a guy grow up? That was it, that was how it happened alright, he knew. Tiger had told him—not that he had ever discussed his problem with Tiger, he just didn’t have the nerve to— but just talking in general, skirting sort of around the area, about growing up in general—developing—he had told him. And Ponce knew that was right, for it wouldn’t just happen. How could it? He had to make it happen. He was sure. Otherwise—and he suddenly shuddered at this, the closest yet to being sick—he could spend the rest of his life like this! Ponce stared at his now pendulous organ. He placed his hand around it, letting the last drops of semen slide into his palm, and fingers. Wasted. He felt. All down the toilet. He also felt. Loving its feel. And smell. Knowing how much a heaven-sent like Betty Smith or Hetty Nectar would love it, the feel of it. How did it feel, that lovely lovely stuff, that warm-life stuff, inside them? Sliding in them? He felt warmly sad, he way getting excited again, thinking of that. He was absolutely seized with the most overpowering desire to know that. How could he? He never would. Not that, anyhow. No matter how much progress he made toward being a man, that was something he absolutely and totally would never know, or could. He knew it. He felt more than sad ... He sat down, on the toilet seat, after getting himself together again, and thought about things. Other things. Everything. He felt worse. He could never remember feeling worse. What would happen now? Would the kook strike again? When? What about the game? Would there even be a game? Or a school? Was this the end of Sawyersville High School? What would happen to the school? And Betty Smith? Would he have the guts to go to her place once again? What about Practice? Would there be Practice tonight? Poor Yvonne. What a heck of a swell girl, what a girl, that Yvonne! Her old man. Her parents. Ponce thought about her parents. She was the only child—the apple of their eye—he knew—Larry Mel-lish had built up that business over the years—all those years—What a raw deal. Rotten! What a stinking rotten deal! It was! Ponce thought about going down to see Tiger. But then he remembered, he still would be in that meeting.

Pretty Maids All in a Row 309 Well, he would see him after, he had a lot to ask him. Most important, outside of Mummer, even ahead of Mummer, the straight scoop as to whether or not the school was closing. He was almost afraid to ask that one, for he knew the answer could be—he prayed it wouldn’t be. He prayed silently to a God he didn’t even know the scoop about, let alone the truth about, for he had to. Really troubled, he always had to—whatever the truth was. Did it matter? He was beginning to discover what seemed to him to be one of the saddest truths of life—so many things didn't matter. He thought of the percentage of his fellow citizens who totally supported the bombing of North Vietnam, and more, according to the latest Gallup Poll he had read about in the paper this morning. He thought of that miserable, backward country. All those countries. He thought of the might, the power of his own country. He thought of Compone. It was incomprehensible. It was pathetic. He felt so low now he didn’t think he could ever get up off that toilet. He would just stay there and they would find him there. Like Jill. He leaned forward, his hands over his face, thinking so many things, everything. . . . If he had the nerve tonight he would see Betty Smith.

He had to see her, and talk with her. . . . There just

wasn’t anyone he loved so much—outside of his mother. . . . His profound despair lifted just a little bit, thinking of

her . . . and his mother. . . .

“How many hands do you see?” Tiger asked Sandy Seymour. She only pouted and shook her head so that her red hair, today in a cute ponytail, shook too. Tiger loved that ponytail. And the red hair.

“Why were you so late?” She only asked, for the fourth time at least. They would never get through the test.

Tiger sighed, put his hands down.

T know how you feel—” he said, “But try to remember my explanation, honey—”

“Well why didn’t you phone here or something? You just let me sit and wait for you—”

“Didn’t I leave you a note—Lovely?”

“Tell me about the meeting,” she demanded, in a pet, crossing her legs. Tiger wondered what she had on today, the honey. He remembered seeing her at the community swimming pool last summer in a bathing suit. Come to think of it, that’s when she had joined his list. What a girl! It had been so hot that day. He had shown her a dive or two. She had caught on right away. Some girl. Next to Rochelle, she was definitely the most talented of the Drama gTOup. She had a class way beyond her years alright, despite the tantrums at times. Temperamental. They were worth putting up with. She knew the score.

“I told you already.” Tiger patiently said.

“I hope nobody murders me," she said,

“Amen,” Tiger said.

"You wouldn’t murder me, would you. Tiger?” She asked.

He grinned at the lass, “Not today.” Definitely, she was warming up. At last.

“I’m awful mad at you,” she said.

“How many hands do you see?” He held one up this time.

“And what if you put one hand up?”

She did.

“That makes two,” she said, with a pretty smile.

“Put up the other one,” Tiger said, grinning away.

She had a cute T shirt on today, and with her hands raised her breasts stood out more prominently than ever under it. He observed them, loving them. He didn’t think she had one on today.

“Do I?” she said, invitingly.

“Come over here.” he said, grinning fondly at her, “With your hands up.”

“Oh—whatrya gonner do?” She was great. She tickled him. She got up.

He observed her as she walked toward him. There might be better forms somewhere, Tiger mused, but he didn’t know where. He was prouder than ever of Sawyersville, its young maids, among other things. She walked slowly, the teaser, toward him. He knew she was dying for him. Those marvelous orbs of love. He couldn’t wait to get his hands on them. He waited though. She came nearer to him.

“O.K.—let’s frisk you,” he said, standing up. He ran his hands up and over her. Expertly.

“Hey—” she said, playing it well. His hands had stopped at her treasures. He was behind her, fondling them through that cutest of T shirts. No bra. He had guessed right. What a girl. She leaned her head back until their faces touched. Hers burned.

“Hey—” she said again, whispering low. Her hands came down, slowly, and began caressing his neck, his head, he loved it

“Hey Hey—” she said, very soft and low, as he played with those marvelous gifts. Her warm breath on his face. He stroked the tips. She burned ever more.

“How’s everything?” He murmured to her.

“You’ll see—” said the maid, murmuring to him. She turned her face, her lips met his. “Oh—” she said, giving him a luscious kiss, her eyes closed, “Gosh—oh—" she said, turning slow, melting into him. He held her close.

“What’s new?” he said.

“That feels nice—” she gasped, pressing ever closer to him.

“Does it?” He asked.

“Tiger—oh—” She barely gasped, quivering a little bit, kissing him wonderfully again, her soft, full tongue gliding marvelously. He loved it. She certainly was true blue, Tiger mused, sliding his tongue over hers, feeling her quivering more. He was near quivering too. Now his tongue slipped through her wet lips, she gave him a little nip. They played gloriously in her wonderfully sweet mouth. She gasped. He unhooked her skirt. He helped her wriggle out of it. What a cute skirt, what a slip. That was the prettiest slip. He caressed her hips, gliding around, and inside her thighs. There was silken paradise. He helped her slip off her T shirt. He was dazzled by the sight. He kissed and suckled them, like a famished man.

“Tiger—” she moaned, her heart pounding hard. She burned. Tiger lifted her in his arms. He kissed her neck, and breasts, he carried her to the couch. Her head was back, she moaned in his arms. He kissed and glided over her smooth belly now. He laid her on the couch. Gently, he slipped off her silky things, admiring True Paradise, drenched, of course, tropically. That heavenly way. How he loved red hair. He stripped and lay down beside her, and she played with his formidable shaft, murmuring, and murmuring to him. Now she moaned again. She moved,

gently, stroking, caressing it, from time to time kissing it, gliding her sweet tongue over it, and once letting it slip past her lips, which closed over it, tenderly, as she held it in, exquisitely, a little while. Tiger gently withdrew, finally, she gave a long sigh, he mounted her—

"OH—” she cried, as he entered her, *7 love you so” Now she cried, as he slid deep into her, and began those inimitable divine thrusts into her, again, and again, deep into her. "TIGER DARLING!” She cried, beside herself, moving magnificently under him, with him. He held her delightful behind, he rocked with her, his thrusts hit a . fantastic rate, he was out of this world again. . . .