"No, that's not what I meant when I axed you what you was Join' sittin here, Champ.
"I meant why aren't you out there joggin'. "
"I can do that any time, Tony.
"But I wanna see 'em get the shuttle program back in action."
"Yeah, well I don't see what that's got ta do witchoo."
"Hey man, it's got ta do with me, with you, with all of us.
"We lookin' at the future in the makin' here."
"Your future is the fight comin' up next month, pal.
"That or shinin' shoes outside the fuckin' train station."
And Tony realizes that he has once again gone too far.
His racism is showing.
He can't help it and means nothing by it.
But what can you do, growing up in a neighborhood where blacks (negroes, they were called back then) are referred to as "mulignans"-eggplants?
Stereotypes get ingrained, become second nature.
And there is no hatred, no contempt behind it.
And yet, there can be.
When did these fucking mulignans get so fucking sensitive, all of a sudden? Who knows?
And all Tony wants to do is get him out there and train him to a razor edge.
Its what all their futures depend on, really.
What the fuck do they, any of them, care what those clowns do on the taxpayers' money?
All this excitement so a bunch of yoyos in space suits can say clever things and smile and wave.
Besides, Tony reasons, there ain't a guinea in the bunch-again.
And where would any of 'em be, if not for Mrs. Columbo's boy Cristoforo back in 1492?
So number one it ain't fair and number two, who the fuck cares?
But here he sits, the heavyweight champion of the world, at least for the next month, as Tony constantly reminds him, eyes glued to the stupid fuckin' tube like a school kid.
Geez, will you lookit that?
Nappy-headed sumbitch even got his fingers crossed.
Disgusted, Tony strolls out onto the porch. Perfect time, perfect day for runnin', he thinks. Humidity's down and it's not too hot yet. But the champ is wasting it. Wasting the day, the opportunity, himself. Over a matter that concerns him not in the least. Over something in a different world from the one in which he-they-exist. Tony can't stand it.
He's gotta say something, that's all there is to it.
He crashes back into the living room of the deluxe log cabin that is the base of operations at the training camp.
"Champ, will you for crissakes get fuckin' with it already?"
And Teddy Robinson, the current champ, does in fact look at Tony, glaring. "This is important, Tony."
The words are reasonable, but the tone is that of the repressed fury, of power pent up and under heavy restraint that awaits the right occasion for its release. Not that Teddy would ever hit Tony. Not that he is even thinking about it, per se. But Tony has succeeded in arousing the tiger within him, waking it up, bringing it to a pacing mode in its cage.
And, truth to tell, this is a part of Tony's value to Teddy, to the championship process, to getting there and staying there.
Because you do not become a champ with out the anger.
Without the anger, you are not willing, at the crucial moment, to kill.
So that only the padding of the glove will save the opponent from what is actually an assault with deadly intent.
And Teddy knows this and uses it, even though he despises it in himself.
That is a shameful secret, the only real secret he has.
He does not hate his opponents.
Not before, not after, not even during the fight, for the most part.
But for that one second, that crucial moment, he does.
For that one would-be fatal instant, that man standing, bobbing, weaving, jabbing opposite him, becomes everything he hates, everything that stands between him and life itself.
And that is the secret that Tony shares with him, the secret that not even the most insightful of sportscasters or sports journalists have picked up on.
They do not know, do not even suspect that every victory of his is a homicide which, fortunately, has not to date lived up to its intent.
And it is not an easy thing to live with.
How could he ever be honest, open enough to say, when asked the secret of his victory, "I don't set out to win; I set out to kill!"
He depends on his opponents' conditioning, their reflexes, and the softening of the impact, such as it is, provided by the gloves, to prevent tragedy.
Because there is no part of himself, at the crucial point, that holds back anything.
So Tony need not worry that a missed session of jogging is going to in any way impair the process of victory.
His opponent sets out to fight; he himself intends murder.
It is a simple case of overkill.
His opponent seeks victory in a contest and achieves defeat.
Teddy seeks to do legalized murder and achieves victory.
And one morning's jogging is not going to change any of that.
No, this morning Teddy is spending with his people, his fellow citizens, his attention and his will united with theirs.
Go, go, go USA!
And now, Tony finds himself joining in with him, but for an entirely different reason.
Get this fucking thing over with already! he prays, to nobody in particular.
And he looks at his stopwatch, realizes what he has done, and, annoyed with himself, rolls up his sleeve so that he can check the actual time.
Okay, jogging is over.
Jogging time, that is.
He should be toweling the champ off as he shadow boxes in front of the heavy bag, ready to do a number on it.
Another half hour and that too will be shot in the ass.
"When's the launch?"
"See them numbahs onna bottom of de screen? " one of the sparring partners asks. "Oh, yeah!"
And he watches the numbers, the fractional second counter racing satisfyingly, as fast as he would wish.
"T minus twenty and counting," the announcer says, as the minute figure confirms that fact. And Tony reschedules Teddy in his mind. He will have to do the bag work.
No way does he spar from a cold start. He would rather cut the time off the actual sparring session.
"... and you feel, Colonel, that the weather will permit the launch to proceed on schedule."
"That's the way it's looking at the moment, uh, Sam."
Yeah, yeah, yeah, get on with it, already, fuckin' mamones, Tony thinks.
And he grabs Teddy's bulging, thick trapezius muscles under the hooded sweatshirt, kneading them, loosening them.
And thinking, Can you believe this fucking shit? Dumb sumbitch is actually getting tense over this garbage.
Only thing Tony can see good about the situation is that it will not be repeated between now and the title defense.
T minus thirty days and counting, in case anybody around here fucking cares, he thinks.
* * * * *
Cynthia Harrington lies on her chaise on the beach, the heat waves making the sand appear to dance as she glances around herself through the mirrored sunglasses.
The beautiful, blonde wife of international financier Chipper Harrington III, she is almost alone today.
For all the beauty of the day, the beach is practically deserted.
She has heard that some sort of space nonsense is going on today, and this beach, adjacent to their Florida home, is so close to the event that any tourists and most locals are either as close as possible to the launch site or glued to their TV sets.
So that, tired of the static, unchanging view of her pool, she has gone the extra few yards to the open beach, where she can watch the rolling surf.
At first, she hesitated to take off her bikini bottom.
The top, no problem.
This section of beach is an extension of the adjacent properties and therefore public only to the tide mark.
Still, there were occasional strollers who ignored this legal, some would say legalistic, refinement.
But today that would not be very likely; at least, not until after the launch.
So she takes a chance and removes the bottom.
Not that its small triangle would detract that much from her tan, but why should she not be perfect?
So that now she feels a perfect freedom. She is at one with the sky, the surf, the sea, the day.
Elsewhere, there are others, doing whatever they do.
But they are distant, unreal, in any case unimportant.
And Chipper?
He is off somewhere, as usual, doing whatever he does.
Everyone is doing their thing.
Except her.
She is doing nothing.
And she is very good at it, she tells herself. A few aerobics, a little jogging, a lot of tanning. Other than that, nothing. Or so she would have others believe. Actually, she does have, well, a hobby, she supposes one would call it. Sex.
Sex in all its forms, its variations, some would say its perversions.
Not that she is a nymphomaniac or anything like it, for that matter.
No, she is very selective, very discrete.
Only in her mind does she miss no opportunity, does she let nothing that comes to her attention go by without an image, perhaps a whole fantasy.
Just like-
She cannot believe this. Still, it makes sense.
With the exception of herself, the beach is deserted, after all.
So why should this boy or man, which she is not really sure, be any more inhibited than herself?
As he runs along the surf, big, black cock flopping this way and that, flaccid and heavy and, no doubt, very, very potent.
He is superbly muscled, with that rounded, solid beef that seems so typical of the black, athletic type, as she has seen them.
And now, she watches his prominent, rounded buttocks, shiny with sweat or surf or both, as they work and he disappears down the shore.
And she feels her pussy getting hot, juicy.
And the image comes to her.
Him and her, the two of them, just the two of them, their surroundings hazy, vaguely jungle-like, with green, plant-like shapes and suggestions of vines, all out of focus.
While he is not.
No, he is in very sharp focus, the smooth perfection of his muscled body rubbing up and down against her big boobs, even as his huge tool does its work, pistoning smoothly in and out of her hot, drooling cunt, even as her snapper of a pussy sucks and devours it.
Even his face, stereotyped and thereby deprived of all irregularity, all handsomeness, all ugliness, expressionless and silent, she sees hovering, inches from her own.
And it is perfect, the flood of erotic, lascivious sensations that flow through her, that his big, black prick generates.
And she sees herself becoming hotter and hotter, her body writhing on its own or bucking as he plows into her with mighty thrusts, again and again, rocking her each time.
And now, eyes closed, it is not the heat and her lotion that make her glisten in the sun.
Because she has actually broken her sexual sweat.
Her big breasts are hard, engorged with the blood of real, aroused passion, the nipples erect and rubbery.
And now, she slides a finger down, down, down her slippery body.
And in, in, into her cunt.
Finding her clit, itself engorged, rubbery.
And now slippery, as she smears it with her clear, hot, flowing pussy juices.
And, in her mind's eye, the black man speeds up, redoubling his powerful efforts.
And goes faster and faster.
And she is able to see the powerful, smooth, hard boulders of his protruding buttocks flexing and relaxing as he packs his powerful prod into her pussy.
And now, he makes that smooth, rotating motion with his hips, not side to side but toward and away from her, that exquisite technique which some men use, whereby the hips rotate forward and back in a circular motion while the piston of their (invariably) large cocks go in and out.
Warmer and warmer she becomes.
As her finger does its delightful work.
Until-
She gasps, mouth open, only the large, dark goggles of her sunglasses concealing her look of ecstasy.
Again and again she spasms on her finger, her multiple orgasms rocking her this way and that.
Until the series subsides and she removes the finger from its hot, wet housing.
And lays there.
And knows.
Knows that it would not work.
Because what she has seen is a real person.
So that she cannot summon him, conjure him with her mind into reality, use him, and dismiss him back out of existence.
And because of this, it is no good.
Perhaps he is a student on vacation.
Perhaps he works in a warehouse somewhere.
Or in a fast food restaurant.
He was sexy, gorgeous.
But only because he was isolated.
She knows this.
In and of himself, by himself, his image was-is perfect.
But it is the perfection of incompleteness.
She does not want to know about his living conditions, his relatives, his girlfriends, his education or lack thereof, his criminal record.
And yet, in the real world, these are factors.
So that there is no other relationship possible with him than what she has just had.
And this is sad, she thinks.
Because she knows that her fantasy is not the same as having the real, solid, powerful, hot, sweating, aroused body, the great, fantastic but very real cock inside her.
Still, what can she do?
True, Rufe, the black chauffeur, is available, has been available on more than one occasion.
But even so, he is hired help, aiming to please.
And no doubt even pleased to please.
But even so, he carries with him his job, of which even fucking can become a part, thanks to her.
So that there is no perfection there, no spontaneity.
No, the bottom line is one more black servant doing what he is paid for.
And yes, she could probably hire that young man for his services.
And then try to overlook the macho, the pride in his eyes at his momentary triumph that he not only got him some first class white poon but got paid on top of it.
So that his major anxiety is that his friends should actually believe that it happened.
So that the feeling, the communication, the interchange of sensation, the giving and the taking well, there would be, could be none of that.
And for that matter, she has had big, black beef before, on a commercial basis.
Courtesy of Bruce, of Bruce's Travel and Tours, the best escort service in the big city up north.
And they have performed satisfactorily, perhaps even extraordinarily.
Many times, in fact.
That is one of Chipper's favorite homecoming ceremonies Cynthia arranges for him.
In which she gets double-fucked, in cunt and ass hole at the same time, by two hulking black studs as Chipper watches from the closet, emerging after they have both shot their loads into her.
And passing them as they leave the bedroom and he approaches her-
And diving onto her crotch, mouth open, to clean her fore and aft with his tongue before fucking her to his own climax.
So that she still wonders about, and has yet to actually experience, the spontaneous, and in that sense genuine services of a black stud on a free and voluntary, equal footing.
And she doubts that she ever will know what that will do for her, for her body, for her psyche, for her repertoire of memories.
Will the black guy return or not? she wonders. Perhaps he has run by earlier and that was his return to the nowhere from whence he came. Did he notice her?
But she knows that even that does not matter.
At most, if he has, all that can happen is that a fantasy will form in his mind involving a voluptuous, beautiful blonde wearing only sunglasses and himself.
As he beats his meat in the darkness of a dingy room somewhere.
And suddenly, she is sick of the whole situation.
And the Florida scene, or lack thereof.
Why should she stay down here, isolated, frustrated?
When she could be in bed, if not with a boyfriend (she has none of those at the moment), then with one of her female friends.
But no, that has no appeal for her, either.
Because to do that is to merely give in to the frustration, relocating it, trying to compensate for it.
What to do, what to do?
And it seems to her that there is no intelligent, practical solution to the problem.
She wants, she needs a man and not a boy, and one who will not look upon her as a conquest, as some kind of tribute to his own prowess, or manhood, or whatever.
She thinks of her masseur, Steve, a former Mister Galaxy.
And smiles at the thought.
Still, what is he, if not still another hired service.
And well worth the money, she admits.
But what is the point, short of the mechanical satisfaction of getting her ashes hauled?
Simple.
There is none.
Because his mind is elsewhere.
It is on regaining that title.
Which, she supposes, is a very fine, a very important title, in some tacky way she does not really understand.
Or want to.
Because there is a female division to that sport, or art, or neurosis called bodybuilding now.
And she knows that, in his world, she cannot compete with his female counterparts.
That is, not without a lot of working out, a lot of training in order to achieve results she is not entirely certain she would be happy or pleased with.
No, she does not want to become a muscle broad.
She---likes herself just fine, as is.
And she supposes she owes those women a debt of gratitude.
Because they have enabled her to see beyond Steve's admittedly gorgeous, spectacular musculature, into his world.
And thereby come to understand the impracticality of her becoming a part of that world.
So that she has not let herself go, let herself open up to her feelings for Steve.
And love denied has become love impaired has become love destroyed.
Except that it died before it was born, an abortion of the mind.
Still, he has the power, the power to reach her deep inside where she lives.
But then, so does Rufe, the chauffeur.
And so do the studs she arranges through Bruce.
And in fact there is an advantage to all of these arrangements.
No residue.
Nothing left over.
A clean break, each and every time, each and every act.
Because this is understood, and in no way subject to misunderstanding.
And yet, it is this very lack of any remainder, this emptiness that she finds so oppressive.
It weighs on her, even though, by all standards of logic and reason, it should not.
Because there is an image behind the images, a common denominator, perhaps even a fundamental truth that eludes her.
And, in her mind, she begins to form a list of requirements, to systematically identify what she does want.
He must he big, handsome, muscular, built. He must be wealthy, independently wealthy, even as she is.
He must have a whang that won't quit.
He must have no serious attachments.
He must be mature and well spoken.
He must have a ready availability to her, with little or no obligations or duties standing between them.
And he must allow her to remain married to Chipper.
Hey, she reasons, if I'm going to have a dream man, he might as well be able to fulfill the whole dream, right?
But other than that, he need not be anything special, ha ha.
And now, the naked black athlete reappears.
And her eyes follow him.
But her body does not move.
No, she sighs, that one definitely will not fill the bill.
Even to hear him say a single word will detract from his image.
And she condemns him to anonymity for the sake of preserving his image in her mind.
She absorbs another few hours of rays.
Before saying to herself, Enough of this shit.
And she decides to return north.
CHAPTER TWO
"Very nice tan."
"Thank you, Juanita."
"Any messages?"
"Uh, deed Meester Cheeper ge' hole of joo down there?"
"No, he didn't. Why?"
"He say he no gonna he able to come home for a' leas' another mont'.
"He say he try to reach joo, hut I guess joo were already onna way hack here."
"I guess."
So, she thinks. Mister International Finance strikes again.
Once more, she is on her own for longer than originally intended.
"Deejoo catch de launch?" Juanita asks.
"The what?"
"De space chuttle! Was on all de news."
"Uh, no, no I didn't. Guess I'll wait for the book."
Juanita looks at her, puzzled, then shrugs and starts to go on about her business.
"Anything important happen while I was gone?" Cynthia asks.
Hey, Juanita thinks, if the shuttle isn't important, what is?
"Uh, no."
Cynthia, leafing through the mail, continues, "Did Steve call?"
"No. Joo cancel de service ontil joo ge' back, remember?"
"So I did, so I-did."
"And Bruce?"
"No."
Bruce calls her every once in a while, just to see how things are going, whether or not she has any up and coming needs for his services, or sometimes to entice her with a new "find" for his stable.
He is always interesting to speak with.
At one time, she even considered taking on the big, light-skinned black as a serious relationship, but she could not separate him from his business in her mind.
And besides, he is more valuable to her as a procurer.
Yes, she sighs to herself, it would seem that, when it comes to sex, she is destined to be a client forever.
What to do, what to do, what to do?
And the question, for which she has no answer, continues to hammer at her.
Sulkily, she flops on the overupholstered couch in the sunken living room of the penthouse, ignoring the skyline of the city through the picture window as she turns on the TV with the remote.
"... and with this successful launch, NASA, the National Aeronau-"
Click!
"... an' we was all jest awatchin' an' aprayin' 'at nuthin' lak whut happent last tarn-" Click!
"... so that with this revised seal, there was virtually no possibility that the O-rings would repeat their failu-"
Click!
"... Welcome to the Sports Channel!
"Where we bring you this exclusive interview with the the current heavyweight champion, Teddy Robinson, and the challenger, Spike Johnson.
"Over to you, Howard."
"Thanks, Ray. "First, the challenger.
"Tell me, Spike, with the fight less than a month away, and given the champ's perfect record, mostly by knockouts, how do you see it going down?"
"Ah teh ya, Howart, onlies' thang ah sees goin' down is Teddy!
"Me an' ma trainah, we studied the dude, Howart!
"Ah mean, we looked at the cat in fas' motion, in slow motion, evah which way.
"Man's got some weaknesses won' quit?"
"Could you be a little more specific, Spike?"
Crafty grin.
"Hey, ah jus' wanna give the dude somethin' ta worry 'bout, not pointers gon' he'p 'im none. Thass why he gots a trainah, aft'all."
"Then can you tell me this, Spike: Will it be a long fight or a short one?"
"Gonna las' one secont aftah his fois' mistake, is all ah'm gonna say."
"That's all?"
Spike shrugs.
"Hi Mom?"
They laugh.
"Thank you, Spike Johnson. "Now, the champ. "Teddy Robinson. "Theodore Lewis Robinson. "Champ.
"You've heard Spike's remarks.
"What do you think? Is he serious, is he trying to psych you out, what?"
Come on, boy, say something profound, Cynthia thinks, her voice in her mind sarcastic.
Teddy thinks it over.
And chuckles before replying, "Little bit of both, I think, Howard.
"He thinks he's trying to mess with my mind, but actually, there are some things I have to work on.
"But I doubt that Spike or his trainer have the necessary perception to pick up on them.
"Let me assure you, however, that I have, as has Tony.
"I intend to win.
"Never having lost and having faced opponents who, at least as far as their records go, seem far more formidable than Spike, I think I'm a reasonably safe bet."
And Cynthia is drawn to the screen with increasing interest.
Maybe, she thinks, the reason he looks like a pinhead is because his shoulders are so broad.
Because he certainly doesn't sound like one.
Perception? Formidable?
And it was not a prepared speech.
She listens with half an ear as Howard Ruff's annoying voice continues to question the champ.
She looks at Teddy, at his mannerisms, his tone, more than what he is saying.
She knows nothing about the man.
And this fact sounds a note of caution in her mind.
He looks so good because I know so little about him.
Familiarity breeds contempt. Above all when it comes to men, has been her experience. Still-
"On a personal note, champ, and I've known you for a number of years, but for the benefit of the listening audience, are you married?"
"No, and I have no serious attachments of any kind, Howard.
"I do date occasionally."
"Inspiration for you ladies out there, I would say, right, Teddy?"
"Please, no cards, no letters!" They laugh.
"You have a family, close relatives."
"My trainer and my manager, Howard. "And I adopted them." They laugh again.
And Cynthia finds herself genuinely interested now.
She has made out her check list for her ideal man, half in jest, half in self mockery.
But now, Teddy is looking a lot like a serious candidate.
And what Cynthia wants-Still, there is always a first time. Although, thus far, she and the champ both have perfect records.
And she is not yet a hundred percent sure that she does.
Want him, that is.
On the other hand, if he really is merely dating casually right now, where's the harm? A project worth doing. Something to do. And she decides. She will work on it.
* * * * *
He has no serious commitments? He only dates occasionally? What is this shit?
That boy an' me are definitely going to have to have a talk.
Thus thinks Virginia-Ginny Mae, as she is called here at the training camp. She is black, but not very. Indeed, she is much, much lighter than Teddy. And she is beautiful. Men have told her this. A lot of men.
Tony the trainer did.
When he gave her this opportunity.
Which, as he pointed out to her, certainly was an improvement over working the counter at Burger King, which is where he "discovered" her.
At first, she thought he was kidding, putting her on.
So that she was wide-eyed, speechless, when Tony actually produced the champ himself, right there at the counter.
But she was a self-confident girl.
So she recovered quickly.
And she and the champ hit it off right away.
So that she became his unofficial mistress.
He sleeps with her at night.
And does not know that, once a week, she gets a paycheck from Tony.
Who also makes sure that the birth control problem is being handled.
For services rendered, ha ha.
And yes, Ginny Mae knows that she is hired help.
Still, even hired help has rights.
Nightfall.
And they are in bed. And Teddy is elated. His country is once more in space. He even forgives Tony for his pettiness, his blindness at not seeing how important this is. He is in a very good mood.
And they even aired his interview with Howard Ruff today.
He came across as intelligent and professional, whereas his. opponent was clearly, as Tony would say, a cavone.
Which Teddy---likes to think of as the Italian equivalent of "caveman".
Face it Spike, he thinks, grinning, you are a chimp.
And now, this.
She is smooth and creamy and beautiful and voluptuous.
And she has been a real comfort to him. Because she takes the edge off, keeps his head cool.
But now, she does not respond as he snuggles up to her.
Puzzled, he props his head up on one hand, running a finger idly down her spine, into the crack between her generous buttocks.
Angrily, she pumps her hips, moving away from him.
"Something wrong, Ginny Mae."
"Not if you call this an 'occasional date', there ain't."
"Oh, so that's it!
"Understand one thing, Ginny Mae, and that is that I got a public image to maintain. "What I tell the media's got nothin' to do with what happens between you an' me.
"You know yourself I'm not seein' other people.
"And you sure as hell know that there's nothin' occasional about what you an' me do every night.
"So what is your problem?"
"Where do I stand with you?"
"Where do you-hey! What is this?"
"That's what I'd like to know!
"What is it with you an' me, Teddy?"
"What you see is what choo get."
"An' that's it."
"Well baby, what else can there he?
"I'm the heavyweight champ, gettin' ready to defend the title and-wait a minute.
"What the fuck am I doing?
"Listen, kid. I don't have to justify myself to no-body!
"You here so you here.
"It is what it is.
"Take it or leave it."
She turns over, facing him.
And he sees the defiance die in her eyes.
She goes limp.
But that is not good enough.
"Listen, babe, I don't want anybody here who doesn't wanna be.
"I want happy people on my team."
"Your, your ... team?"
"Fuck you think this is, Never-never Land?
"Get with it.
"This is a team effort, centered-by necessity, necessity, you understand?-on me.
"You wanna face Spike Johnson next month, I'll be on your team and we'll all concentrate on servicing you, okay?"
Team effort. Servicing.
Her head swims with anger and disappointment.
She has a function not that much different from a sparring partner.
Nothing less, perhaps, but certainly nothing more.
Still, how could it be. She has seen him in ecstasy. She has put him in ecstasy. And it was no act, either. She can tell.
So that there were moments-many moments, and often much longer than mere moments-when there was only the two of them, man and woman, and the passion they shared.
And it would not have mattered if he was a shipping clerk or an African king.
But now, he is singing a different song.
And she dares not even show how hurt she is by this.
She turns away, so that he will not see the tears. Because she has seen him this way before. Coldly logical, eminently reasonable-and capable of the most profound disgust with those who were not.
And she supposes that, in a way, he has a point.
He is the champ at all times, whether sparring or throwing a fuck.
And she had obviously been wrong to think that, like other jobs, his had an off duty state.
She sees now that it does not-ever.
So that what was intended as a privilege and an honor, in return for the satisfaction of certain needs and desires has been misconstrued by her as quite something else.
But she cannot help it.
She tries to get hold of herself and fails.
So that she cannot turn and face him.
And he will not tolerate her melting into him in tears.
Far from gaining her sympathy, it will almost surely lead to instant rejection.
And now, a probing finger seeks the depths of the crack of her ass.
And she is careful to lie there, to allow it.
Knowing that mere permission, mere tolerance is hardly what he is after.
She has had anal sex with him before.
But it was playful, the two of them laughing, chuckling as he helped himself to mouthfuls of her freshly scrubbed ass cheeks, even of her immaculately clean ass hole.
That's right, the world champion had actually -rimmed her.
And prepped her thoroughly, using baby oil on one finger and then two.
So that there was no discomfort as he shafted into her, his hands playing with her tits, with her cunt as he fucked her faster and faster, strumming her clit as he came so that she too experienced a series of orgasms.
But now, it is different.
He is different.
He is a presence behind her, his proximity merely physical.
He is simply there, as opposed to being "with" her.
And now, his finger probes the center of her star.
But he does not shift position in the bed.
Only his finger, with a powerful, spiral motion, moves in, in, into her.
So that she is forced to relax her anal sphincter.
Because, tight or loose, in he goes.
And his finger passes the knot, the ring of resistance.
So that he feels the heat, the moisture, the soft, yielding tissues of her rectum.
As he rolls his finger round and round, widening her ass hole.
And she feels discomfort as a second finger joins the first.
Where was his mouth?
Where is the oil? Where is-oh, no!
Because suddenly he withdraws the fingers.
And yanks her hips roughly up in the air.
So that she is on all fours.
Maybe it's all right, she tells herself.
He is a little pissed off so he doesn't want to look her in the face.
He will fuck her from behind, but not in the behind.
He will-like shit he will!
Because now she feels it against the slackened, finger-violated entrance to her ass hole.
It.
His huge knob, with its battering ram head and thick flange.
And there is no question as to what is coming next.
Because he pushes in, holding his monster cock with one hand, the other on the belled flare of one of her hips, holding her steady.
And she moans as he buttons the head inside her ass hole.
And it is not comfortable.
She is uncomfortably stretched back there, not really ready for him.
But, ready or not, here it comes.
Because now, his hand reenforcing the corkscrew motion of his hips, he is inserting his mighty shaft further and further into her ass.
And it does not get any easier.
Not for her, at least.
Because the massive head is making its way into her depths, going deeper and deeper.
And the shaft, long and thick and hard, does not permit her rectum to do what it wants to.
Which is to expel him.
And what her body wants, her mind wants still more urgently. But it is no good.
He is into her more and more with each passing second.
And they seem to pass very slowly for her.
As the agony takes shape-long, deep, tubular.
So that it is not the warm, intimate, lascivious pleasure of ass fucking that usually radiates outward from the cylinder of her rectum.
It is painful.
And he does not make it any easier for her. As he accelerates too fast.
So that, very quickly, he is reaming her with his rampant intruder as hard as he can, hanging onto her hips with both hands.
So that it does not even have to be her.
It does not even have to be a girl in this bed with him.
It could be anyone.
It could be any ass hole.
And perhaps that is the message he intends.
Because she has acted like an ass hole and is even now reaping an ass hole's reward.
This is little better than a rape.
She does not feel in the least sexy; she feels victimized.
Even when her ass hole manages to accommodate him without the sharp, piercing lightning bolts of pain that characterized the beginning of his vicious ass fucking.
Because that has to be blood which lubricates the action.
And he does not hold back.
She can feel the grip of his powerful hands, digging into the soft surfaces of her hips.
In fact, they hurt more than her rectum at the moment.
Although the pain has not been replaced by pleasure.
Rather, it is an awareness of a strange, a foreign body moving around within her, a sense of otherness, of something in her but not of her and not under her control.
And it is obvious that he intends to drive her all the way.
And all she can do is crouch here and take it. And she does.
And she feels the contractions, the spasms of his big cock as he comes deep inside her.
And she feels him as he pulls out.
And she collapses forward on the bed, not wanting to Iwk at him.
In the. event, she does not have to worry about that.
Because, suddenly, she hears the heavy, wooden door of the room open and close. And she is alone.
And now, looking down, she sees the reddish-brown stain spreading slowly from her asshole, where she sits, onto the sheet.
And she holds the cheeks of her ass together with both hands as she makes her way to the shower.
And forces herself to stand under the full force of the cold water, bent over, cheeks spread, wincing as the water strikes the fissures.
* * * * *
Tony hears the knocking on his door.
And opens it, shocked to see Teddy standing there, naked, his cock long and shiny with reddish slime.
"Teddy! What, what-"
"Gimme a towel. I gotta use your shower.
"But Teddy-"
"Never mind!" he snarls.
And stalks into Tony's bathroom.
And Tony stands there, nonplussed, as the drumming of the water against the metal walls of the shower stall fills the room.
And puts a pair of pants on over his boxer shorts, and then a t-shirt.
And Teddy reminds him of a panther, a large, dark, dangerous wild animal, as he bends and twists, drying himself.
And Teddy emerges, midsection wrapped now in the towel he used.
"Wanna ... talk about it?" Tony asks, not entirely sure he even wants to hear this.
"Ginny Mae."
"Yes? What about Ginny Mae."
"In the morning. "Out of here."
"Why?"
"Because I say so, dammit!
"You have one of the guys drive her back to town, or wherever she wants.
"She wants a fuckin' plane ticket, have 'im take 'er to the fuckin' airport.
"Whatever.
"I don't care where she goes, as long as its not within a hundred miles of here.
"I don't wanna see her, I don't wanna hear from her again. Not ever, you got that?"
"Yeah, sure.
"You, uh, you wanna sleep here tonight?
"I'll move out to the game room couch, if you want."
"No, that's okay, Tone. "I'll sleep out there. "In the morning, she's gone, right."
"You got it-Fuck it, Tony thinks. I'm gonna worry about some spade bimbo?
Still, he wonders what she has done to set Teddy off.
CHAPTER THREE
"Pack. You're leaving." I'm what?"
"Leaving."
And Tony and Ginny Mae turn at the sound of Teddy's voice. They are in the office.
And Tony has just written her a check, her severance.
"Pack your stuff and clear out.
"Tony'll have somebody drive you to wherever."
Said in a flat, even, quiet voice which nevertheless has about it an air of finality. There can be no appeal and she knows it. But there can be parting shots. "Just like that, I'm through, right."
"Just like that."
"Yeah, well lemme tell you somethin', chump, I mean champ.
"Hired help, is what I was. More a part of the team than you knew, Mister Smart-ass!"
"That true, Tony?" Teddy asks.
"Teddy, Teddy, Teddy!
"Just tryna keep the old emotional level even, is all.
"Hey, I handled colored-I mean, I had other boxers before.
"Boxer's gotta be virile, hot-blooded or it's no good, see?
"But he's also gotta have an outlet for all that aggression, a safety valve, ya know? "So I thought."
"I see what you thought. "Tell ya what, Tone.
"You lemme do all the thinkin' along those lines from here on out, okay?"
Tony shrugs.
"Yeah, sure. Okay. Only-you will do somethin', right?"
"Hey, that's my-"
"No! No, dammit, Teddy, no!
"It's all our business, Teddy.
"You lose, we all lose.
"Ain't happened yet, hopefully never will.
"But I know what you need."
"Hands off this area, Tony, from here on out.
"That, or so help me, bad as I needja, there's the door and the limo is leavin' momentarily."
Turning to Ginny Mae, "And you, don't just stand there. Get packed."
"I hope Spike fuckin' kills your ass, creep!"
And she turns and leaves the office.
"Paid for it! Geez!"
"Look, Teddy, she'd of prob'ly done it for zip, all right?
"Just, I knew she wasn't gonna have nothin' else ta show for it when the fight was over, right?"
Teddy says nothing.
"Well, am I right or not, champ?
"Tell me you were gonna keep her around after the champagne!"
"You got all the answers, don't cha, Tony?"
"You take a young, single, black girl pushin' fast food, throw 'er into bed with the heavyweight champ, also black, also single-an' young, maybe three, four years older than she is, you really think a couple hucks're gonna kill the dream, huh?
"Tony, read my lips.
"No! Way! In! Hell!
"Got that?
"I am what they live for! "Not braggin', either. Nuthin' personal about it. "Hey, Spike does me, he gets the crown. "The king is dead, long live the king, and like that.
"They'd all be wantin' him.
"But right now, it's me.
"That gal was workin' her points.
"Any of 'em would, given that position, that ... opportunity."
"Took the money, didn't she?"
"Did she? Guaranteed, she ain't cashed check one yet.
"She took the money because you gave it to her. "She never thought about it once, not until just now.
"I give her a ring and all that paper comes back in your face, guaranteed."
One of the sparring partners, Ralph, appears in the doorway.
"All set, Tony."
"Where ya headed?"
He shrugs. "Bronx, she says. Gonna take me four hours ta get back here."
"Then best you get started," Teddy says. "Take off," Tony confirms. He does.
"One door closes, another opens," Teddy says. "like what?"
"You're gonna hafta leave that in my hands, Tone."
"You got a full cup aready, pal."
"Then in that case, stand back, because my cup is about to run over."
* * * * *
"Do you follow boxing, Rufe."
"Yes ma'am.
"How much money do they make?
"The best ones, that is. Take the heavyweight champ, for example."
"Well, he got twelve million his las' fight and I unnastan' the one comin' up is gonna come to more'n 'at."
"So he's quite wealthy, then."
Rufe smiles.
"You could safely say that, yes ma'am."
"Then in that case, do you know where his summer camp is."
"Summah camp?"
"Or exercise camp or whatever it's called. "Where he's practicing."
Rufe grins at her terminology.
Man's probably kicking the shit out of half a dozen sparring partners and she makes it sound like he's taking piano lessons.
"Well, I know where the town is."
"And undoubtedly one of the locals could tell us how to get there, yes?"
"Us."
"Uh, yes. I was thinking of ... visiting him."
"Up there."
"Well, of course. I mean, visits are permitted, are they not?"
"Don' know."
"I'm sure he'll see me."
Rufe looks her up and down and grins.
"Wouldn't surprise me none if he would at that, ma'am."
Because, like himself, Teddy would not have any difficulty at all figuring out exactly what she has in mind.
* * * * *
No big thing.
With the pressure of getting ready for the title defense, if he has to, he can get along without for a while.
And Tony better not try to surprise him with a replacement for Ginny Mae, either.
Not that he could.
And Teddy grins at this last thought.
Because Tony cannot possibly know that he has one new, major requirement.
It is one that Tony would not pander to, not even for Teddy.
She has to be white.
Has to.
Because it is absolutely true, what he has told Tony about black girls.
For which he does not blame them.
He is, after all, and by definition, available.
And the universally accepted manifestation of sincerity, of commitment, is sex.
And girls who might he perfectly willing to do it for the sheer fun of it, no strings attached, with nobody in particular or everybody in general, back in their own neighborhood would automatically, like Ginny Mae, find great significance and what they see as the genuine opportunity of a lifetime doing it with Teddy.
The money, the fame, the perceived obligation?
No way do they walk away from Teddy once he gets a taste.
That would be asking too much of them and Teddy knows it.
And so would Tony have known, if he had cared enough to think it through.
The obligation is-would be-inescapable, from their point of view.
No, the black chicks are out. No question.
So that leaves the white ones.
But not just any will do.
They must be independently wealthy.
They must expect nothing except a calm, friendly end to what Teddy does not even wish to accord the status of a full-blown affair.
It must be strictly a meeting of libidos.
A physical thing, period.
Understood as such, right up front.
A series of episodes of purely sensual delight, each complete, in and of itself, and leading to nothing except more of the same and even that is not guaranteed.
Enough that his position has brought him this privilege.
Enough that their disposition has brought them to him.
Oh, he has no doubt that there are black girls who would agree to this up front, lying to him, thinking, Yeah, baby, you say that now, but just wait 'til you get a taste of this brown sugar!
Because-and this is something that Tony could never understand-there is no pride like black female pride.
These girls will lie to him one way, to their family and friends, and to themselves another-and believe it.
They've got what it takes and they know how to use it, and a chorus of angels telling them it ain't gonna happen is not going to change their minds.
No, Teddy knows that he has no option in this direction.
Not as long as he has fame and fortune. Not as long as he has no wife, no fiance, no live-in.
Because even this last is no defense, no deterrent to black pride and ambition.
You done had de res', honey! Now you gonna get de bes', you dig?
He is, by definition, the biggest game in town.
And if they have the nerve to play, they have the confidence to believe they can win.
So that the only way out of such painful situations was-is-not to create them in the first place.
And you don't have to be a genius to figure that one out.
You do, however, have to be black to understand it, to be in possession of the facts.
Sorry, Mr. Lincoln, but all men are not created equal.
There are some things you just have to be black to know.
Tony meant well with Ginny Mae, but he didn't know, he couldn't know what he was doing. And Teddy gives Ginny Mae a lot of credit that she took it as well as she did, that she was not a crazy, a danger to herself, or a psycho, a danger to everybody, and in any event a source of disgrace, of scandal.
Because, now that he thinks about it, if ever there was a situation with a potential for violence, surely it was the one that stupid, clumsy greaseball created.
And he meant well.
And that is, perhaps, the most terrible aspect of this whole thing.
And Tony's ordeal is not over.
Because Teddy can imagine the reaction if and when he sees what Teddy comes up with for nookie.
Oh, Tony has been around.
He has seen black guys with white women.
But not such as Teddy is holding out for.
No, Teddy has seen those white women too, the ones Tony knows about.
They fall into categories-those who are making a social statement, those who are in rebellion against class or family, and those who feel that they can, by crossing the line, come up with a better husband than anything they could get on their own side of the fence.
In other words, they have gone nigger fucking out of guilt, out of revenge, or from a sense of their own inferiority.
And Teddy wants none of that.
He is not looking for the political, the angrily outrageous, or the condescending.
He wants a woman who can use him on his terms and vice versa.
And none of the bullshit that goes along with it.
And he grins.
Because, having defined his ideal sex partner of the moment, the image alone gives him a kind of contentment, of satisfaction.
And he can only hope the feeling stays with him until after the big fight.
Because this is as close as he islikely to come to the real thing between now and then.
* * * * *
Rufe knows that look.
He has seen this coming, ever since she got back from Florida.
The restlessness in her, the ceaseless motion of her voluptuous body.
As though she cannot find a comfortable position in which to sit.
Crossing and uncrossing her legs.
And not dismissing him, keeping him standing there, waiting.
And now, questions about the champ.
Big, black, muscular, head close-shaven like his own.
And we all look alike, right? Miz Cynthia, he thinks. Or is that the Chinese?
In any event, he knows she has a taste for the licorice stick.
And his fulfills the stereotype he knows she has of that particular appendage of the big, black stud.
Fulfills it in theory and in practice.
And yes, she has had him before.
That is, his body.
She has had him as thing, as object, as living dildo.
She has invited him into her bed, lying there, eyes closed, as he does his thing.
That is what she does if he is very lucky.
If he is merely lucky, she will lie there, legs already raised and spread, bent at the knees, head to one side, eyes closed, waiting.
Telling him that, this time, he is not free to explore her-all of her, every nook and cranny with hands and fingers and mouth and tongue.
Telling him that, this time, the most he can do by way of a build-up is to burrow into her snatch with his mouth open for a while before he socks it into her.
And afterward?
Always the same.
Not so much as looking at him.
Getting up as soon as he has dismounted.
And running into the bathroom, locking the door behind her.
And leaving him standing there, cock not yet detumescing, long and thick and slimy with a mixture of come and pussy juice, shining as though made of marble.
So that he must gather his clothes and head for the guest room, there to shower in solitude, there to dress by himself.
And afterward head for the garage, busying himself with the limo or the Continental or the Porsche or anything, anything at all so that she does not have to look at him.
So that it will not have happened.
So that the memory is not that of fact but of fantasy, her episode with the big, black stud a thing of the mind and having no part in reality.
In the real world, he gets no credit for what he is, what he has, what he can do.
She has used him, like a vibrator, a dildo, her finger.
From his point of view it was sex; from hers, masturbation.
Degrading? Insulting? Less even than that.
It is a man, a fellow human being one degrades or insults. But objects?
How does one go about insulting a thing?
Abuse it, perhaps; but insult? Impossible.
And many a time he has said to himself, You don't like it, sport? Then go do better somewhere else.
And he knows.
He knows that he will not, that he cannot.
And he cannot even flatter herself that he has tempted her despite herself.
So that it is her shame, her disgust with herself, with her own weakness that has forced her to demand his sexual attentions.
He knows better.
Rather, it is an image, a symbol, something that predates him, that remains in her mind whether or not he himself is available that has prompted this.
It is not her hunger for the vibrator or the dildo, her attraction to it, her desire for it that drives a woman to masturbate, after all; it is the images that form on the screen of her mind that turn her on and that she must satisfy by satisfying herself.
And now, she very clearly has that look again.
"Let's do it."
Murmured, only half heard as she passes by him, but very well understood. He knows the drill.
He will give her five minutes and then enter the master bedroom. "Where ees-"
And Rufe puts a finger to his lips, as Juanita, the maid, appears on the landing above the living room.
And points repeatedly in the general direction of the master bedroom.
"Oh!"
Juanita understands at once.
And grins.
And he grins back.
She too has done the duty.
And sometimes, even she and Rufe together.
Because Cynthia is a woman of many moods, many images.
Discretely, Juanita retreats to the kitchen.
What she has to know can wait.
And besides, this will not take long.
Because she knows that Cynthia does not linger with the hired help, does not bask or wallow in their extended company.
She would no more lie in the arms of maid or chauffeur, dreaming idly, relaxing, than the man in the moon.
She makes love with and to them, but she does not love them.
And, as though to emphasize this, there will be a bonus in the next paycheck.
It is a combination of something purchased, consisting of both product and service.
And yet, they do not think of themselves as whores; rather, it is but another aspect of their jobs.
It comes with the territory.
Take it or leave it.
And there is no motivation at all to do the latter.
And besides, she happens to have a hell of a body.
So that Rufe feels himself coming to life down there in anticipation.
Time enough, he tells himself.
And goes into the master bedroom, closing the double doors behind himself before turning to see what awaits him.
Today, he will be very lucky.
Because she is lying on her side, facing him, eyes closed.
Inviting him to take her the slow way. Naturally, he thinks.
She was watching TV when she summoned him to talk about the champ.
And it is his image Rufe will be carrying, merged with, as he takes Cynthia in his arms.
Quickly, Rufe strips.
And slides onto the bed smoothly beside her.
And knows, even as he runs his tongue from beneath her ear, over the pulsing neck vein on his way to her breast, that it is Teddy Robinson, the heavyweight champion, who is ardently servicing her.
Yes, it is that image glimpsed on the TV screen, drawn out of it, become three dimensional, become flesh and blood and muscle and heat, that even now sucks the doorbell of a large, rosy nipple to rubbery erection.
And it is the hands that have knocked out over a hundred men that gently but firmly knead the ample, suntanned flesh of her big boobs.
He is at her breast, the champ.
She has but to reach down and touch the nappy head to know that it is he.
And it is not the hulking, thick shoulders and trapezius of hours and hours in the gym which Rufe has spent that she feels beneath her kneading fingers, but rather muscles built by another, venting pent-up aggression against punching bag and sparring partner, practicing for the many title defenses he has undertaken.
And now, he twists and molds her body in his large, firm hands, sliding down, down, down the hourglass figure.
Chewing mouthfuls of her, sucking them as his tongue runs round and round within the vacuum he has created, savoring her taste, her texture.
And only now does he arrive at her bush, inhaling it, chewing it, as his tongue runs up and down the slick slit of her hot, juicy pussy.
And she sighs with pleasure as his long, thick, powerful tongue fucks her as it rubs her clit, in and out, in and out.
And again, she sighs, as she feels him shaft into her, all the way, long and thick and hot and vibrant and powerful.
And now, she knows ecstasy as the body that has destroyed others converts all its strength, all its drive, into gratifying her lust.
Because it is not the fame, not the fortune, but this, this, this! which is his true reward.
And she knows that he knows this.
And she sighs with further contentment, as Rufe gathers her legs up, scooping them from below, doubling her up.
So that now, she is totally helpless, totally surrounded by him.
She is completely invaded, within and without.
And it seems to her that he completes yet another circuit of sexual electricity as, bending his head forward and down, he sucks her tits as he continues to fuck her.
So that there is a unity, a completeness to what they do together.
And it is together that they are doing it, because even now she feels her cunt come to life as though with a mind of its own as it sucks his cock, inhaling it as he thrusts in, clinging smoothly, wetly to it as it slides back out.
And Rufe must be content to wear the identity, the aura, the image of another.
And he is.
And a part of him wryly, cynically hopes that he is performing to the champ's full satisfaction, representing him adequately and all that.
But fuck this bitch and her head games, he thinks.
Because she can think what she---likes, but even now, it is Rufe and none other who is shooting his big, hot load into her with his big, hot cock.
And it is Rufe's equipment and no other's that her flowing pussy is milking with the spasms of her multiple orgasms.
As, somewhere else, the real champ is, Rufe is sure, engaged in pursuits far more productive, if far less delightful.
CHAPTER FOUR
"Say-hey, Ginny Mae! what it is, gal?
Long tam no see!"
Ginny Mae looks at her step father in distaste.
He, however, is distracted by the large, muscular presence of Ralph, whom he did not see at first, crowding in behind her, arms bearing two worn suitcases.
"Jus' leave 'em there, Ralph."
"An' who might dis here fan young man-"
"Oh, knock it off, Willy! He just' hringin' me home is all."
"See ya 'roun', Ginny Mae," Ralph says. "Or mehhe not.
"An', uh, sorry things din't woik out h'tween you an de champ."
"Yeah, well, like, live an' learn, you know?"
"See ya."
And he is gone.
Quickly, Willy pulls the lace curtain aside. "Oo-ee! Dat sho' he one fan setta wheels dat dude he dravin'! "An' whuss this 'bout a champ? "What champ?
"Wheah you hin all dis tarn, sugah."
"Mom around."
"She woikin', babe."
"Yeah? You oughtta try that yourself sometime, Willy."
"Now don' y'all be comin' in' heah bussin' ma chops, chile.
"You needs a place ta stay, an' ah sees you do, hey, you welcome in ma home."
"Oh, knock it off, Willy! I know who pays the rent here.
"And buys the groceries too, unless things have changed since ah lef."
"Well, now, ah is woikin' on a few thangs, unnas-tan'.
"Ma invessmint po'tfolio ain't bin too healthy of late, ah ammits, but ah fully specks thangs'll straighten theyse'ves out sho'tly."
"Still pickin' the wrong ponies, huh Willy?"
He grins.
"Seems lak.
"But enough about me. "Teh me 'bout whut ch'all bin up ta lately. "We ain' ho id nuffin' turn you since you lef. "Yo' mama an' me, we bin worried sick." But he does not sound concerned. But then, why should he be? He married her mother when Ginny Mae was fourteen.
And Ginny Mae never knew her real father.
She looks Willy up and down as he sits there, big and fat and lazy, his handsome brown features beginning to melt into an excess of flesh that appears to have crept up from his belly and is invading his face from the bottom.
None of his fucking business is her first reaction.
But then, she realizes, she is going to have to tell somebody something, her mother if no one else.
But what?
What can she say that is not going to evoke a reaction of derision or contempt at her stupidity? She has to say something.
And she wonders that she could have been so benumbed by the sudden adverse turn of events that she has not realized this until now.
She looks at Willy, sitting there, expectant, and thinks, Why not?
Why not run it by this nothing, this zero, this loser?
Because she is incapable of doing anything that would embarrass herself in front of this piece of shit.
She could fart in his fat fucking face and not bother to say, "Excuse me."
"You really wanna know, huh?" He shrugs.
"If it don' be too much trouble."
"No trouble at all. I tried somethin' and it didn't work out, is all."
And she glares at him, challenging, adding, "At lease, ah tried!"
He shrugs, looking away, putting a hand to his mouth, as though wiping it. "Ah hoid dat."
"Well, here goes."
And she tells him the whole story, from Tony's picking her up at Burger King to her return here.
And Willy listens without interruption, looking attentive, thoughtful, even intelligent. And It is as though she is taking a shower. As though, by telling the tale, she is gaining absolution, cleansing herself of having done it.
And it does not matter that it is this piece of garbage in human form to whom she tells it.
It is as though the reality of the words, the act of telling, of saying them aloud, erases the deeds, canceling them out, negating them, one by one as she relates them.
So that, when she is done, she honestly feels that she is no better perhaps, but certainly no worse off than when she began her misadventure.
And Willy does not appear derisive, or contemptuous or amused or mocking when she has finished.
Rather, he seems bemused, as though lost in deep thought.
What can he be thinking? she wonders. Does he have a sympathetic side she has not suspected?
Is he actually overcome by her tale of woe? She doubts this.
She has not come across as all that pathetic.
He looks at her.
"You say you got paid fo' dis?"
And her eyes widen in anger.
So! she thinks. That's this mother-fucker's angle!
Did I get any money, do I have any money, and how much and how fast can he get his fat fucking hands on it!
And he sees at once what she is thinking.
"No, no, no! B'lieve me, chile! Ah don' want one cint fum you!
"Even you was ta offah, ah wouldn' touch it!"
"You can't touch it, you fat fuck!
"Ah nevah cashed de fuckin' checks."
"No shit?
"But den you mussa put 'em in de hank, so it he de same thang, right?"
Impatient, still angry, at him, at the world, she plunges a hand into her purse, clutches, and pulls out a fistful of crumpled checks.
"Here!
"Here's the fuckin' money, numh nuts! "Paper, thass all!"
He stares at the wad of checks, incredulous. "But don' choo worry none! "Soon's Mama gits home, ah'll discuss wit' her what she he needin' an' we take care of it."
"Hmmm. Mehhe not."
And she sees a crafty look come over his face. "Whut choo he tryna pull, fool."
"Now, wait a minnit, wait a minnit, chile. "Cashin' dem checks may not be de way ta go on dis one."
"What? Whut choo be talkin' 'bout."
"Jus' wait a minnit now. "Stay cool. Heah me out, okay."
"You got money fum de champ, right."
"From Tony. From the organization. "Robinson Enterprises, see?" She shows him the checks. "Put dem away. Don' wanna see 'em." And he looks away, holding up a big hand, fending off the sight.
And she sees he is making a genuine effort t fight temptation.
Slightly puzzled, she puts the wad back in h purse.
"What's up?"
"Comin' ta dat.
"Stay wif me on dis, okay?"
"Teh me wummo tarn 'bout whut choo an' d champ did tagethah."
"Waddayou, sick? Not gonna sit here talkin' di ta you. Ah done tole you arready whut we done."
"No, no. Jus' wanna be sure ah unnastan's whut went down poifeckly."
"He fucked me every night, okay?
"An' thass all I got ta say on that subjeck."
"Sometimes ... two, three times a night?" Willy persists.
"That too," she sighs. "Now can we talk about somethin' else."
"Sho' can.
"Le's talk patrimony suit."
"Say what."
"Patrimony.
"You know. like you havin' his baby."
"Ain' bin that fuckin' stupid, Willy.
"Bin onna pill since ha' schoo'. "
"Yeah? Then how's come you nevah-"
"An' nevah will, suckah! You don' put choor fat han's on dis bod, pal! "Not now, not evah."
"Okay, okay. Not impawtint anyways. "To continue.
"Now, de fack dat choo bin', uh ... wif him dat many times leaves consid-rable room fo' gittin' yo'se'f knocked up."
"You got a hearin' problem, Willy.'"
"Ah said-"
"An' ah hoid joo, okay?" he says, holding up his hand, cutting her off. "But ain' no method safe, hunna p'cent.
""Specially widda virile stud lak de champ.
"You heah me, what ah'm sayin'? "
"You talkin' jive, niggah. Read ma lips.
"I! Am! Not! Preg! Nint!"
"No, but you could be."
She looks at him a long moment.
And then bursts out laughing.
"Man oh man!" she manages to say, at last. "You somethin' else, Willy, you know that?
"You musta stayed awake nights thinkin' on how you gonna git into ma panties!"
"Hey, baby, I ammits ah's hot fo' yo' body.
"Ain' no secret about dat.
"But no way could I of planned this one!
"Think on it, babe!
"If de champ done gone an' knocked you up, wif whut he can affawd, is dey any doubt a-tall but whut choo gon' end up rich."
"Yeah, but he didn't so ah ain't."
"When's de las' tarn he socked it to you."
"Las' night."
Said without hesitation, not telling him that he really socked it to her all right, right up her keister. Still, the night before-
"An' bein' wif chile ain' de same thang as punchin' no tarn clock."
"How would joo know 'bout punchin' a tarn clock, you lazy fuck?"
He ignores the insult.
"Point is, give or take, say, a couple weeks, ain' no way de champ or anabody else ta be absolutely sure he couldn't of done it, tam-wise."
She lapses into deep thought.
Two weeks.
Two weeks for the chemistry of the pills to work its way out of her body.
Two weeks for her to ovulate and be fertilized.
And it will take a lot of luck.
And a lot of fuck, to make sure.
And even then, it might not work.
But then again, it might.
And what does she have to lose.
She will let it depend on one thing.
She closes her eyes tightly.
If, when she opens them, that fat fuck is staring at her with a shit-eating grin, sucking his teeth so he won't drool, then fuck him and all bets are off.
Because there is no time.
No time to think, to decide.
If it is to be done, then it has to be now.
Technically speaking, she should already be pregnant.
So it all comes down to luck, to chance. And, since it comes down to that, let it begin with luck, with chance.
If he is leering and drooling, then it's no. If not, then yes.
And she tries to convince herself that she is indifferent, that she is leaving it strictly up to fate.
Ginny Mae opens her eyes.
He is staring at her intently, his expression anxious.
And yes, there are beads of perspiration on his forehead.
So that he is not merely jerking her around.
He is serious, and about something far more important, more far-reaching in its implications than getting into her drawers.
She nods slowly, once.
And he understands.
And she gives herself one last chance to back out. One rebel yell, nigger, and watch how fast I'm outta here. Instead-
"Now, don't say nuffin' 'bout de checks to yo' mama, chile.
"Put 'em in a safe place wheah she ain' gon' fine 'em an' wheah you kin git at 'em fas'.
"All goes well, de nex' one gon' see 'em be yo' lawyah."
"What am ah gonna tell Mama?"
He shrugs.
"De troof, chile. Onlies' thang, it cain' be de whole troof.
"Jus' leave out de part wif de money.
"On'y ones need know 'bout dat is you an' yo' lawyah.
"Hell, de champ hisse'f din' know 'bout de money 'til you was all thoo, right."
"Right."
"So don't choo be worryin' none.
"Me an' yo' lawyah, which, by de way, ah got someone in mine fo' de job, we gonna come up wid somethin' you not gon' be-leeve.
"Impawtint thang heah bein' dat a jury will."
And now he grins at her.
But it is benign, reassuring, avuncular.
"Whin Mama be home?"
"Mmmmm, usually, she come 'bout six, she don' hafta stop de mahkit fois', pick up a few thangs fo' suppah."
Said as though he is an outside observer, not personally involved.
And the flood of misgivings, of resentment comes hack over her for a moment, so that she is once again ready to chuck the whole thing and walk out, cursing him for a lazy turd and her mother for the fool who puts up with him. But the plan is too good.
And it is something she would never have come up with on her own.
No, it takes a lazy, cunning, devious mother-fucker to come up with something like that.
And Willy meets the requirements to perfection.
She loathes him.
She despises him.
But then, at the moment, she could say the same about the champ.
And she grins at the thought of the two of them-Willy and the champ-killing each other, Willy slashing the champ to ribbons with a switchblade as the champ beats Willy to an equally bloody pulp.
If that could happen, then she would think this the best of all possible worlds.
But it will not.
Any more than she will ever have white skin, blue eyes, and flowing blond tresses.
And now, in her mind, she builds on Willy's plan, expands it.
Yes, short range, she will follow his every direction.
Until judgment day.
That settled, Mama will have a choice.
Come with me and the hahy and live in luxury or stay with this hum. Those will he the options.
She, Mama and the hahy to luxury condo paradise, Willy to the gutter where he belongs.
And now the plan sits even better in her mind.
Because now vengeance-not the ideal, bloody grand finale she would like, but the real thing-is at hand.
And it is delicious, complete, perhaps even better than the ideal.
Because she can savor it, month by month, year after year.
She has read about such things, about settlements with celebrities.
And now, contrary to what she told the champ, she hopes that the champ beats Spike.
She hopes he wins and wins.
Because she knows this much, which is that she can go back to the court, again and again, to increase his payments to her, each time his income increases significantly, each time he wins.
Yeah, Champ, she thinks, I wish you a long and healthy life.
May you reign forever!
Because she will have every day to look forward to.
And special nights, nights that are better than fucking, nights on which she will sit in front of her (wide screen) TV and watch him get smashed around "as she sips a cool drink and knows that a piece-an ever larger piece-of the purse has got her name on it.
And she smiles as she thinks of what is going on in this neighborhood at this moment.
As the welfare mothers queue up at their tenement mail boxes, looking for the welfare check that will be late, the child support check that will not be there at all.
Yes, they will be playing the loser's game, without hope, without future, condemned forever to a life of squalor and misery.
While she, she! will go onward and upward and never have to work another day in her life.
So that, in the end, it will have worked out for her, her time spent with the champ.
If.
If she can get pregnant. If Willy can get her pregnant in time. And now, Willy sees her looking at him. And he sees her expression of vague distraction, as though she is looking right through him. As though seeing him in a new light? As though-can it be?
And he resists the tendency to let his face break out in a broad smile of triumph. This bitch is hot for my body! he thinks. She is going for the whole ball of wax.
Hook, line, and sinker.
And he tells himself, I shoulda been a pimp.
Because, the way he always thought Ginny Mae felt about him, if he could turn her around, then he could turn any of 'em.
But this will be better than being a pimp, he thinks.
This is a direct pipeline into a fortune.
And it is a fortune so vast, with such tremendous potential, that others will be able to get fortunes out of it.
Some others, that is.
Or perhaps just one other.
But that is fine.
That will do very nicely, thank you. So long as that other is one William Chatsworth Washington II.
* * * * *
"Just enough for three days, Juanita. "I mean, I can't have it appear as though I'm moving in with him, lock, stock, and barrel."
"Jes, Meez Seent'ia."
"You don't think I'm being presumptuous, do you, Juanita?"
"Oh, no, Meez Seent'ia." And Cynthia is reassured. Because Juanita is so definite, so very sincere.
And why not?
For one thing, she has no idea what presumptuous means.
"And I'll take the pink jogging suit as well.
"And don't forget the matching headband, dear. It's over in that top drawer.
"Oh, and the pink Reeboks."
"Escuse me, ma-am, I gotta go get some plastic bags from de keetchen for de choos."
"Go, go, go.
"Now, let me think.
"What else?"
And she rummages through the three suitcases on the bed, checking, envisioning the events of the immediate future in her mind, relating them to wardrobe and accessories.
And yes, this is good enough for that particular scenenario, but what if we do that instead?
Easy, girl, she tells herself. Don't let's go overboard.
Because she already has two suitcases of "what if clothes, incorporating everything from horseback riding to tennis, although Rufe has been singularly unhelpful in his inability to confirm the existence of horses or tennis courts at the champ's training camp.
Really, she finds his ignorance appalling.
After all, the champ is one of his people and a credit to his race.
Don't these darkies ever talk to each other?
After all, those jungle movies are simply loaded with message drums.
Which have to be much less efficient than the telephone.
Ah, well.
When one is on safari, she supposes that one must accept a few informational lacunae.
What would an adventure be without surprises, anyway?
And now, Juanita is wrapping shoes in plastic bags, one per bag.
"Oh, and I shall need all my straw hats, Juanita.
"Do see if you can get them down without causing an avalanche, won't you?"
"Jes, ma'am."
And Juanita stands on a chair in her stocking feet, carefully extricating hat boxes from the closet shelf, hopping up and down, moving the chair, as she goes from compartment to compartment.
And making a mental note to write identifications on the outsides of the hat boxes.
"I certainly hope what's-his-name, Teddy, appreciates all the trouble I'm going through, Juanita."
And Juanita wonders how he possibly can, since he is not yet aware of her existence.
"Oh, and don't forget the little black deerstalker as well, Juanita.
"And my riding hoots.
"It's no use my packing jodhpurs if I don't have the hoots to go with them, is it?"
"Joo wan' de red jacket too, ma'am?"
"No, no, no! We're not riding to hounds, I don't think.
"That is, unless-where is Rufe."
"Joo sen' heem home to pack, remember."
"Oh, that's right, so I did, so I did. "No big loss there.
"Really, for a sport at which his people excel, you'd think he'd be more knowledgeable about what goes on in those training camps.
"You wouldn't happen to know anything about them, would you, Juanita?"
"No, bu' joo shoul' axe me abou' de boolfights."
Cynthia pauses, thinking that one over.
"Some other time, perhaps.
"Oh, and bring me another suitcase, please.
"I really could use a steamer trunk, but that's only proper for ocean voyages, I believe.
"Honestly, I utterly despise packing.
"Because I just know that, no matter how much I take with me, I will utterly guarantee you I've forgotten something essential.
"Just lay the rest of those things in that one, Juanita.
"There! That will have to do it.
"Teddy Robinson, you had better be worth all the trouble I'm going to, is all I can say."
CHAPTER FIVE
Willy is unbelievable! She does not like him any better, of course.
In fact, she confirms within herself the extent of her contempt and disgust.
Still, she must give the devil his due.
And she has discovered his one real, genuine talent.
He can fuck.
Boy, can he fuck!
Of course, the first time, it was over so quickly that she saw nothing and felt so much so fast that, when it was over, her body was not certain about what happened.
Which was mostly her fault, she supposes.
Because she could not bring herself to fuck face to face.
Not that first time, anyway.
So that she let him take her doggy style.
And take her he did. like a machine, a robot, a vibrating automaton.
One minute, they are standing there in the darkened room, she fighting down the nausea at letting this fat creep touch her.
The next, she is on hands and knees and he is shafting into her like a door bolt sliding home.
The next, her, the bed, the world shudders as he drives in and out of her with a speed of which she did not think the human body capable.
And she barely has the time to fight the mounting sensation of arousal within herself before, with a series of open-mouthed grunts, he is packing her interior with long, thick bursts of jism under high pressure.
And she notices, in passing him as he stands there at the sink washing his cock, that it is indeed quite impressive-long, thick, the head a plum in shape, size, and color.
Still she avoids looking at him as she takes a washcloth to her crotch, seated there on the toilet, careful to avoid touching his hand as she places it under the faucet, again and again.
But she cannot avoid seeing him out of the corner of her eye as they sit there in the living room, naked, on the couch, together, not because she wants to be, but because that is the only way she can see the TV sitting down.
Still, she remains as far as possible from him on the couch.
And she is surprised when they do not even make it through one whole soap opera episode-something about a bunch of white folks growing grapesbefore his pole is sprouting from his lap, massive, turgid, and yes, inviting.
As he stands and gallantly offers her a hand to help her to her feet, her eyes glued to the mighty prong that has come to such vibrant life so soon again after dying the little death.
She frees her hand from his gently clutch, following his large haunches into the bedroom.
He goes to fondle a breast as they stand there.
But she breaks away from him, quickly flopping onto her back, legs raised and spread and bent at the knees.
Letting him know that, if he is ready-and very clearly that is the case-she is ready, so go to it.
And this time, whether because the initial pressure of a long buildup has been relieved, the edge taken off as it were, or because he deliberately wishes to savor the action, he gives her a long, slow buildup.
And true, he has not fondled her body or eaten her first, actions she has long come to expect as the initial stages of her arousal and that of her partner.
Still, she finds herself becoming slowly, reluctantly aroused.
Face it, she tells herself, the man can fuck.
Being a no good mother-fucker and being able to fuck in general are not mutually exclusive properties, she supposes.
As Willy is so spectacularly proving at the moment, beyond all doubt.
Or maybe, she reflects, it is simply a case of a man whose life has become specialized, who does absolutely nothing else but fuck.
So that it is no wonder, if this is his only outlet, his only expenditure of energy in his total existence, that he can perform thus.
Because perform he does, with a power, an energy, a skill she has had equalled on occasion, but never for this length of time.
The man is a tireless dynamo.
And she supposes that he is expending masses of energy, that he is actually drawing on his reserves, stored in fat.
So that he is losing weight-whole pounds in fact-as he plows her.
But then, Willy has pounds to spare.
And will no doubt gain bad back and every one, freeloading at her mother's table tonight.
Still, for the moment, he is the world's greatest lover.
Or at least its greatest fucker. As his mighty piston moves in and out, in and out of her pussy. Which betrays her.
Which, much to her disgust, begins to respond, to welcome him.
And she tries to justify it in her own mind. It.
Not the fucking, but the feelings nascent within her cunt.
A man is not his cock, after all, and vice versa. So that she need not accept the whole man to accept just this part of him. Nature is not fair.
It has made her black, after all, instead of white and blonde.
But nature can err on the side of excess as well as to the detriment of a person.
And in this case, a wholly undeserved endowment has been bestowed on a piece of crap.
The man himself is beneath contempt; his cock is truly noble.
And now, her pussy comes to want it, to want to know it in intimate detail.
So that she feels the taut, hard roundness of the massive head as it separates the smooth, drooling lips of her pussy, moving in and out, in and out.
She feels the exquisite, distinct, added thrill of the flange at its rear as it reams her, in and out, in and out.
She feels the thick shaft, its hard, long, thick, vibrant, irregular, cylindical surface as it passes smoothly in and out, in and out.
In and out, in and out.
And each move is a thrill, a complex sensation of many sensations, many feelings, all separate and distinct, and yet, at the same time, all one exquisite, delightful thing.
Yes, she has done Willy a slight injustice.
She has always considered him good for nothing.
And now, she knows, beyond all doubt, that there is one thing he is good for.
And perhaps his one talent is so great that-no!
He was, is, and ever shall be a piece of shit.
He is a scab, a maggot, a turd.
He is a worthle-well, he is a parasite, anyway.
And a fucking machine! her body seems to exclaim.
Yes, is being serviced, no question.
For perhaps the very first time, she feels that she is, externally, unilaterally, being taken care of sexually.
So that she does not feel the obligation, the necessity, if she is to get herself off, of giving anything, of actively making an effort to contribute to his feelings, his stimulation or to her own.
She is free to simply lie back and let it happen.
And her body will-
Her body is responding.
Reflexively, automatically, on its own.
So that she is active.
She is in motion.
She is responding.
But without any sense of expending energy, of exerting herself, of initiating any action in any way.
Rather, her body is being moved, is being twisted, turned, flexed by forces within her, but not within her contol.
Of its own volition, her body is responding.
Without her trying, without her willing or even wishing it, her pussy is milking his driving piston of a cock.
Without her brain, her mind understanding the messages, her cunt and his cock are in full, intimate communication.
And now, she cannot fight him.
Well, she could, but why bother?
What is the sense, the advantage, the point?
So, reluctantly but no longer able to justify even that reluctance, she lets herself go.
Partially in contempt, in disgust at herself, at her body, she thinks, if it feels that good, you want it so bad?
Take it and be damned!
And her body's like, I will!
And it does.
Okay, okay, she links.
There is nothin; wrong with the whole body reaping the benefits of supercock down there, working away in the boiler room.
Because it is nor as though it is Willy fucking her, getting anything ... out of it.
Rather, it is his cock to which he just happens to be attached.
Hey, nobody ever said Mother Nature doesn't have a sense of humor, right?
And what is Willy, after all, if not a fucking sick joke?
So okay, no big deal.
She can use the rest, reject the rest.
Of him, that is.
And she is.
Her body and that cock. The world according to Ginny Mae. They are what matters at the moment, all that counts.
And outside them, there is nothing. It is all garbage.
The whole world is garbage, one huge open cesspool.
From which she, her body, has extracted the one, the only thing that is of any worth, any value or use.
This mighty, this all-powerful, this fantastic cock.
Which stays right in there, faithfully, fully supporting her slow, steady rise up the rainbow of her sexual pleasure.
Lascivious, intimate, infinitely luscious the feelings it creates.
Hungrily, greedily, infinitely responsive are the reactions it provokes.
Her body demands more.
His cock gives more.
And more and more, sometimes responding to, sometimes in anticipation of her ever-increasing demands.
Independent and yet responsive at one and the same time it is.
All-powerful, free, and reveling, glorying in that power, that freedom and yet at the same time captive to her body, to her grasping, clinging, sucking, devouring cunt it is.
As it works and plays and soars onward and upward through the realms of sensual pleasure, through one sexual paradise after another, each more glorious than the last.
As sensation upon sensation piles up within her.
And all of them are deep, meaningful, of the first quality.
Thrills there are, and to excess.
But no cheap thrills, no sleazy, shallow, surface tingles. The real thing. That's what this is.
With nothing strained or put on or contrived in any of it. The cock of cocks. The specialized man.
And perhaps she has been unfair with him.
Perhaps she has judged him too harshly.
All men are not created equal.
Some have more talent, some less.
Some are general, some are specialized.
And so it is with Willy, perhaps.
Perhaps he is not a waste after all.
Perhaps it is simply that he was born with the ability to do one thing well-that and nothing, absolutely nothing else.
Perhaps it is just as well that he does not try to drive a bus, for example.
He could run over somebody or crash and kill all the passengers.
Maybe the world is just a little safer over the fact that he pours no cement, drives no nail, assembles no electrical appliance.
Maybe the world is just a tad cleaner because it is not Willy swinging the mop, pushing the broom.
Maybe the world looks a little better over the fact that it is not Willy wielding the paintbrush.
And the books at the bank more balanced because it is not Willy cashing the checks, making the change.
And, on the other hand, the courts a little less busy, the jails a little emptier because Willy has not the daring to do that to which he is by nature inclined.
So that right now, as he propels her through level after level of lascivious, raw, sexual pleasure, he is not only doing the best he can, he is doing the only thing he really can.
And after all, is it his fault that there is no profession, no category of financial reward, for his particular field of expertise?
If they gave trophies or medals for fucking, surely he would qualify.
Fact: They do not.
If there were want ads in the paper for fucking, surely he would be the applicant of choice. Fact: There is not.
So that he is, in that sense, the sense of a square peg for a round hole, a walking absurdity. His fault?
She does not think so, she does not know, she is not so sure. Not any more.
And now, he propels her up, up, up and over the top.
And the pleasure beyond pleasure takes her.
Again and again, the spasms of her orgasms milk the j ism from the tool of tools, the cock of cocks.
And this time, she would not mind if he left it in for a little while, letting her pussy cling to that which gives it so much pleasure.
But he does not, as though knowing how she feels about him, as though only too well aware of it and not wishing to offend her, he removes himself from her as quickly as possible.
And does not dare look at her as they wash up again, lest she take offense at his glance and abandon the project.
So that he does not see her now, seated on the toilet, her eyes wandering to where the mighty meat is draped into the sink, flopping massively, voluptuously this way and that as he washes it off slowly, carefully.
And she, the heat now slaked within her for the moment once more thinks ill of him.
Because it is not possible, she reasons (now that reason is restored) that a man should be put on this earth without handicaps and yet be completely useless to any purpose for which the world provides recognition and reward, however slight.
And there is, there has to be, something he can do, however badly, that will provide him with at least his own sustenance.
Unless.
Unless nothing happens for nothing.
Unless everything is part of a mystical master plan.
So that he has been put here, so that, in simplest terms, he exists, in order that he should do exactly as he is doing, right here, right now.
So that his power, which seems unearthly, might in fact be the manifestation of some higher purpose.
Such as rescuing Ginny Mae and her mother from the grip of poverty.
So that he has been made cunning, dishonest, deceitful, lazy, not for his own sake and not by chance, but in order that he can say what he said, in order that he can do what he does, in order that he can be available to her.
And not even to her personally, but to the Purpose.
Let it be, let it be! she thinks, as she sits once more beside him, naked, on the couch.
Yes, if this is the case, if this is the way things are, then there is powerful magic at work here.
And she cannot miss.
And now, she sits there, actually impatient for it to happen. It.
And now, as though in response to her will, her conjuring, it does.
As his mighty stalk rears its monstrous, bulbous, one-eyed head, twitching with its power, vibrant with its imperative.
Which is to fuck Ginny Mae.
And this time, she does not pull away, does not resist as his hands help themselves to handfuls of generous, rounded, caf au lait buttocks.
And he presses his luck.
Because, this time, he dives into her muff, tasting her greedily, hungrily, strumming her clit with his tongue.
And he wallows in her, revels in her.
And she permits this, even this.
For the sake of the Purpose, she tells herself.
But still, she is no longer able in her mind to so readily divorce the magic wand from the magician who wields it.
Because it does not drive itself into her with even, powerful strokes.
It does not control length or frequency.
It does not maintain energy or enthusiasm.
It does not have its own heart, driving the blood into itself after only minimal rest.
Unless.
Unless his body is merely the slave of his cock. In which case he actually is handicapped. Because a cock has no brain to think, no eyes to see.
So that, if it is that which leads, that which is truly in charge of him, then he is as fucked in one sense as she is even now being fucked in another.
So that somebody-her mother, herself, whoever does indeed have to look after him, to take care of him.
And now, she sees here a hint of why her mother has never listened to her criticism of Willy, however vehement or eloquent, impassioned or rational the presentation.
Because, if he can do this, then what else, really, should be required of him?
And now, she revises her plan.
Now Willy can go with them.
Because, if not with them, then where can he go?
And she knows the answer to that one.
Into the street, into the gutter to which she so readily consigned him, only minutes before.
It is his idea, and his tool that will make it all happen.
And now, she has no doubts whatever but that it will come to pass, all of it, even as he has spoken, beyond what he has spoken to what she herself has projected.
And now, he is plowing away on her once again.
And he has cut short his foreplay, evidence of his impatience and of the power behind that impatience to fuck her still more, to inject her still more.
And it is probably too soon for it to do any good, she thinks.
The contraceptive chemicals of the pill have not had time to flush themselves from her body. Still, they say you mustn't miss a day, so how potent can they he?
But then, she reasons, how potent are they anyway, compared with the power of the higher purpose, of the. destiny to which they are all subject?
Let it be, let it be! she chants to herself, as she feels the warmth welling up within herself once more.
Quickly, more quickly than ever before, it builds within her.
So that he has her up and over the top in what seems to her to be record time.
Speaking of which-
"We bes' hose down an' git dressed, babe.
"Yo' mama gon' be home soon, an' ah gots ta go ovah sumthin' else wif you befo' she git here."
They shower separately, he letting her go first.
And now, they sit fully clothed in the living room and he turns off the TV with the remote.
She looks at him.
"You cain't be goin' back ta work."
"No?"
"No. You gots ta be broken-hearted, unnastan'?
"You have been thoo a severe traumatic esperi-ence, you dig?
"In othah woids, the champ has made you promises, used you, gotten you pregnant, an' then thown you out lak yestiday's trash.
"You done give him yo' whole life an' he took full advantage of yo' youth an' yo' innocence to git hisse'f jus' anothah piece of ass."
"That's uh, that's just about what happent, 'cep' fo' the pregnant part."
"Details, details!"
And he laughs quickly, turning serious again almost at once.
"Point is, you too broken up ta be any use to yo'se'f or anybody else.
"An' yo' mama, fine human bein' that she is-an' ah sincerely mean it-is mos' natch'ly gonna hope fo' de bes', teh y'all take it easy fo' a whal, an' lak 'at."
"But I don't-"
"Look. You an' me, we got us a job ta do.
"Now, ah knows you ain' neva' 'spected me ta say nuffin' 'bout a job, an' that's neithah heah no' theah, but b'leeve me, this job ah'm gon' see thoo to de end.
"But fo' me ta do whut ah gots ta do, fo' us ta do whut we gots ta do, ah gots ta hab you rat cheer, an' you know dass de troof."
Involuntarily, surprising herself, she feels a twinge of arousal in her abdomen.
Because he is talking about their being right here, all day, five days a week, while her mother is at work.
So that they can fuck and fuck and fuck, until he gets her pregnant.
And the very idea turns her on.
So that, despite herself, she finds herself warming to him.
Reminding herself that it is all for a cause, all in fulfillment of her (their?) destiny.
They are. like the astronauts, embarked upon a journey of higher meaning.
And no less technically proficient, personally dedicated, uncompromisingly determined to fulfill the mission.
Astronauts they are.
Olympians they are.
You think you're with the program, Teddy? she thinks. Shee-it!
You ain' seen nuthin' yet, bro'! You see the numbah we gon' pull off, you think you done lost by a knockout! Virginia!
"Mama! Oh, Mama!"
And she falls, sobbing, into her mother's outstretched arms.
And Willy can only look down, sinuses grasped between his fingers, shoulders heaving up and down, hoping for all the world that his snickers will be mistaken for deep sobs of sympathy, so overcome is he at the tender and pathetic .return of the prodigal daughter.
As he thinks, Cheer up, folks.
Better days are coming.
Much, much better days.
CHAPTER SIX
Alice in Wonderland. That's all Rufe can think of, as they sit here at the rest stop, picnicking on roast cornish game hens and chablis.
He saw the Disney movie, and now, here they are, in the country, on a bright summer day, reality transformed into the surreal by this beautiful, rich Alice in her sun-backed frock.
All that is missing is the Mad Hatter and the other odd creatures.
Because Alice herself is here, on her unreal mission.
And pouring the wine.
And picking out fruit and cheese and assorted goodies from the picnic hamper she has had Juanita pack for them.
And Rufe sits there, munching, staring at her, issuing the occasional monosyllabic response to her mostly rhetorical questions.
Not that she pays attention to the answers.
She is excited, animated at the prospect of a meeting which, to the best of Rufe's knowledge, is based entirely on her own initiative and of which the champ and his people know nothing.
And she is going up there at what has to be a point of maximum intensity in the champ's training.
As far as he can tell, she is being really stupid, really thick about this.
She asks him all kinds of silly, off the wall questions to which he cannot possibly know the answers.
But she does not ask him his opinion of whether or not she should be doing this.
And he is in no position to volunteer his admittedly humble opinion.
But fuck it anyway, he thinks. She will go up there, she will get her stones crushed, and they will return, with her slumping in the back seat like a sack of dirty laundry.
So he sits there, bemused, eating his lunch, enjoying the day, ignoring the chatter. As her one-woman celebration continues. It started yesterday.
And he does not deceive himself as to where her head was at as he serviced her.
Yes, he was the champ yesterday, a much more realistic simulation than her vibrator.
Still felt pretty good, he reasons.
And what the hell, he had the option of putting his head wherever he wanted.
But she is beautiful enough, voluptuous enough, hot enough that he was content to let her be herself.
"Had enough?" she asks.
"Yes, thanks."
"Me too."
And she goes off to the woods to tinkle, as he puts everything back in the hamper, puts the hamper in the trunk, where there is barely room for it because of her luggage.
And he finds a tree for his own use, meeting her on the way back to the car.
He opens the door for her, she seats herself, and it seems to him that, as he closes the door, the solid thump marks the close of one chapter in this crazy adventure, the beginning of another.
* * * * *
"Up the highway, right at the first turnoff, about half a mile up that road, you'll see the sign on the left, with the champ's picture on it.
"That's the entrance. You can't miss it."
"Thanks."
And now, they are here.
There is a movable barrier across the road.
Rufe honks and a man emerges from a little shed to one side.
"What can I do for ya, buddy?"
"Ask her," Rufe says, jerking his thumb back toward the rear of the limo.
Apparently having some experience with such vehicles, the security man walks around the back of the limo.
And stands there, looking at the opaque, one-way glass until it rolls down.
"I'd like to see Teddy," Cynthia smiles.
"You got an appointment?"
"No."
"He know you?"
"No. That's one of the things I'm here to accomplish."
"Wait here. I'll get the trainer. They're at lunch."
He disappears into the shed, apparently to use the phone.
And does not reappear.
Instead, Tony walks down the short road from the building complex. And he too has had experience with limo's.
Because he walks down the right side of the car to the rear window. "What's up."
"I'd like to see Teddy.
"And no I don't have an appointment and no, he neither knows nor is he expecting me."
"Innat case, you come a long way for nuthin', lady."
"If I can hear the same from him, I assure you, I will leave promptly."
"Write 'im a letter, lady. "I'll see he gets it. "Now, if you'll excuse me."
"Then I take it, you won't raise the gate."
"You got that right, lady."
"Oh, dear.
"Lucky I wore flats, then." And she gets out of the limo. "Now look, lady--. "
"Aren't you heing a bit childish about this?" she asks.
And she towers over him.
So that he finds himself staring into her generous decolletage.
He sighs.
"Listen, lady, I got a schedule to maintain here."
"Then don't let me detain you. "And could you direct me to where the champ is at the moment?"
"No, you don't understand, lady. It's his schedule, not mine. "And he don't have no time for."
"What?"
And Tony turns around to see Teddy standing behind him. "What don't I have time for, Tony? "Especially since I need an hour after lunch. "Hello, there!"
And he shoulders his way past Tony. "I'm Teddy Robinson.
"But then, I guess you know that already, or you wouldn't be here."
"No, I wouldn't. I'm Cynthia Harrington.
"Or, if you prefer, Mrs. Chipper Harrington III."
He eyes her up and down, very clearly liking what he sees.
"Well, Mrs. Harrington, exactly what can I do for you?"
"You can win."
He smiles.
"A fan, huh?
"Looks like you come a long way for an autograph."
"I don't want an autograph."
"Oh? Then what do you want."
"I want to help."
"Hear that, Tony? Lady wants your job. "And I can see she is obviously well qualified.
"So, Tony, it's been real but, unfortunately, I've had to make a hard decision."
"Yeah, yeah, quit kiddin' around, will ya?"
Then, to Cynthia, "Listen lady, we got a pretty heavy schedule, comin' so close to the main event an' all, so if you will kindly be on your way--"
"Whoa, whoa, whoa, Tone!
"Lady says she wants to help.
"Just what did you have in mind, uh-"
"Cynthia."
"Cynthia. Of course.
"Well, Cynthia, just what is it you want to do to help me?"
She looks at him a long moment before replying, "Anything Tony can't." Teddy smiles.
Then, he breaks up in guffaws. When he recovers, he puts an arm over Tony's shoulders.
And says, "Tony, I want choo ta meet the newest member of the team.
"Cynthia, this here's Tony, my trainer.
"Tony, you help the driver of this tank to find a berth in with the sparring partners.
"Cynthia and I have to discuss, uh, short range strategy."
"You're the boss, Teddy, but do you really think this is such a-"
"Tony, you just said it all.
"I am indeed the boss.
"Now, get the driver and the limo taken care of quick.
"We got a schedule to keep, remember?" Grumpily, Tony says, "Open 'er up, Tom. Comin' through."
And slides into the front seat next to Rufe.
Cynthia and Teddy watch them drive through and Teddy leads her up a wooded path.
Teddy, huge, graceless, formless in his training sweats, walks beside her, hands shoved into the back of his pants, beneath the draw string.
"I just wanna be sure there's no misunderstanding here," he says.
Because it is unbelievable.
White, stacked, rich, beautiful, married-and, to all intents and purposes, his.
As though he has put in an order for her somewhere.
But she might be a nut case.
He has to be sure.
"What's the story?" he asks.
She shrugs, hesitating, before she replies, "I saw you on TV, I wanted you, and I'm used to getting what I want."
"How do you know the guy on TV is me?"
"That's the part I want.
"And I'm offering you the same deal.
"What you see is what you get."
"That's the part I want too. "That's all I want.
"First time you want inside my head, first time you want, like, emotional involvement, don't even bother to bring it up.
"Just leave, okay?"
"I am happily married, wealthy, and looking for ... an interest."
"And painting or flower arranging won't cut it? " She smiles.
"The female seeks the male. "Anything else is symbol or substitute. "And I think I'm high enough in the pecking order of this world that I can have the real thing."
"Okay, we'll give it a shot.
"You don't interfere with my training, you don't bug Tony any more than you already have, and we'll get it on.
"We're comin' up on the crucial part of my preparation for next month.
"You've got the run of the place.
"You can come and go as you like.
"Only thing I ask is that, while you're here, you sleep with me."
"That's the main thing I'm here for."
"And the rest?"
"I want to be ... a presence."
"A presence?"
"Oh, don't worry.
"I'll wear dark glasses, give no interviews.
"But if I'm good enough for the sack, then I'm good enough for ringside, for night clubs and restaurants.
"I'm good enough for you to act like we are what we are." He smiles. "I like it.
"Believe it or not, it solves a bunch of problems for me."
"Oh, I believe it.
"I can well imagine the number of women who'd like to get their hooks into you.
"I'm your defense against them.
"Let the details stay a mystery.
"But, at the same time, courtesy of the media, of what they will see and what they will guess, the message will be there for all to see, which is that you already have a female interest.
"And I flatter myself that I'm not the kind of competition most women can easily handle."
"Got it all figured out, have you?"
She shrugs.
"Pretty well, I think."
"Well, I think so too.
"How long will you be staying?"
"Well, I wasn't certain as to my reception, so I only brought enough clothes for a few days.
"If all goes well, then I'll go back to the city and get some more things, so I can be with you full time, right through the fight-and after."
"What about your husband?"
"Out of the country, for at least another month."
"That does make it convenient, doesn't it?"
"Almost as though fate planned it that way."
"We have bent the world," he grins.
"So it would seem."
"Then let's go with the flow."
"Certainly."
And they walk back to the building complex.
Where Tony stands on the porch, glaring.
"Have the lady's chauffeur move her stuff into my room, Tone. Seems I have a guest."
Tony shakes his head, but moves off in the direction of the bunk house where the sparring partners reside, the limo now parked in front of it.
"He'll get used to you, don't worry."
"I could care less and I don't worry."
He laughs.
Tony comes back as they stand on the porch. "He'll be comin' right over with her shi-with her luggage.
"You ready for some road work now, or what."
"Ready.
"If you'll excuse me-"
And he does not await a reply before he takes off. Tony does not look at her either, letting the champ get a head start before he climbs into a jeep and slowly takes off after him.
As Rufe pulls the limo up to the porch, gets out, and opens the trunk.
And the spectacle of all that luggage, topped by hat boxes, emerging from the trunk draws a crowd of sparring partners.
"One of you guys wanna tell me which room is Teddy's?" Rufe asks.
"Sure," one of them says. "Lemme give ya a han' with all that stuff."
And Cynthia leans against a porch column as the luggage moves in.
* * * * *
Two weeks later. "Check it out, babe.
" 'Champ Dates Mystery Woman', says heah." And Willy shows Ginny Mae the headline of the sports page.
And fondles her buttocks, then her breasts, as she stands there naked, looking at the picture, then reading.
"Some fan white meat," she admits, "but don' say who she is."
"Yeah, ah noticed.
"Not that it mattahs," he adds, "consid'rin' whut he got comin' down the pike." And now, he rubs his lazy hard-on up and down the crack of her ass.
And she puts the paper down, relaxing hack into his embrace as his hands knead and fondle her large breasts.
He cannot seem to get enough of her.
And she in turn has become accustomed to him.
So that no sooner does her mother leave for work than they are naked.
He will fuck her twice before lunch and at least twice after.
She thinks she is already pregnant, but he has put off taking her to the free clinic to confirm this.
For her protection, as he explains, so that she will not be disappointed if it has not yet happened.
No hurry, as he explains, because they will not proceed with the lawsuit until after he fight.
Don' wanna shake the boy up none befo' he does his thang, thowoff 'isconcentrayshun, unnastan'.
They have, however, been to the lawyer already.
Yes, Willy has actually taken time out from their busy schedule to put clothes on, to have Ginny Mae do the same, to take the subway to see the man.
Who is all set.
Who is prepared to proceed along several lines, each more lucrative than the one before it.
Who has complimented Ginny Mae and Willy on their cleverness, their astuteness in not cashing the checks.
Who will use it all-the uncashed checks, Teddy's ignorance of their issuance until after the fact, the pregnancy-to build a case that he is prepared to take to court, to take to a jury, the instant he fails to obtain an eight figure settlement.
A lump up front, installments on the rest, an acceleration clause tied into the champ's future earnings.
Looking good.
And there is nothing, nothing, nothing that Teddy or Teddy's people can do about it.
So that now they are living in an earthly paradise, the two of them, Willy and Ginny Mae.
The money is theirs.
And the blonde?
She is the frosting on the cake.
She is the further evidence of Teddy's bad faith.
Hell, she is on their side!
"Babe, de sky is da limit!"
And he whirls her round and round, burrowing into the cleavage between her naked breasts, nuzzling her as they turn.
"Put me down, fool!
"We got sumthin' bettah ta do'n play merry-go-roun!
"Ah heah that!"
And he carries her into the bedroom-the one he shares nightly with her mother-and laughs as she bounces on the mattress.
And slides down her back, helping himself to mouthfuls of her smooth flesh, chewing them, tonguing them as he descends.
And overwhelming her once more with the variety of his love-making expertise.
And his total and unrestrained hunger for her.
As he wallows in the crack of her ass, mouth open, sucking her ass hole, jamming his tongue in, in, into it.
And pulling on her hips, forcing her ass up and backward, impaling her on his thrusting tongue.
And drilling into her with it, opening her up.
Until she moans, "Oh, fuck me! Fuck me right in my ass! Stick it into me!"
And he obliges her.
Even though it has nothing to do with the project.
Because you cannot get pregnant this way. He knows it and, once she is able to think again, so will she.
But she has asked for it and he is only too happy to oblige.
Because here, now, is the proof of how far she has come in her feelings for him. Full circle.
That's what it is, he realizes. This hot young bitch is in love with me! he thinks.
But then, is not this too a part of his plan? His plan, and yet not entirely his.
He has not planned for, has not anticipated the blonde in the paper, Teddy's arm around her waist at his most recent press conference at the training camp.
And yet, there she is.
Making an ass out of Teddy without his having any way to suspect it.
She is the clincher in an argument already won.
And now, as he buttons the throbbing head of his massive cock into her ass hole and shoves forward, hands on both her hips holding her steady, he can only shake his head and smile at the manner in which this hard, closed world has suddenly opened up to him.
Just like Ginny Mae's ass hole.
* * * * *
The body.
That's all there is, Cynthia thinks, feeling the champ's power as he throws a basic, savage, full bore piston fuck into her.
As though he is packing her cunt, injecting it, pounding the compound of his lust into her, more and more with each savage lunge.
Because she feels it, the pressure, the sensation of fullness, of pleasure physically occupying her, ever increasing as Teddy hammers his big, black cock into her.
He is like this to a greater degree, the closer he gets to the day of the big fight.
As he builds his aggression, honing it to a knife edge.
And it has worked out well, she reflects. For her, for him.
As he must release the excess of his malevolence against his opponent, which grows within him like a mushrooming atomic explosion in slow motion.
Yes, there is only the body, the flesh, as far as she is concerned.
And yet, she knows that, to him, she represents more, much more than her mere physical self.
She is the promise.
She is the promise of the world out there, the world of wealth, of power, the world which is not his, the world of which he is not and can never really be an integral, natural part.
No, he must fight his way into that world, fight to remain there.
Today, tonight, forever.
There is no way that he can ever really rest, not for a minute.
The best he can do is to temporarily take advantage of the perks, the rewards of what he has achieved, what he must be ever in the process of achieving.
He has come from nothing, from less than nothing.
He has risen to the top of the only pinnacle this world has to offer him.
He is king of the hill and can remain so only so long as he is willing and able to II in a certain way.
Yes, kill.
So that only luck will leave his opponents with their lives.
Opponents. A euphemism for enemies, for the enemy, individually and collectively seeking to knock him from his shaky perch.
And now, he is sampling one of his rewards, one of his prizes.
If he were not the champ, she would not be here.
When he is no longer champ, she will not be here.
But the fact is that, at the moment, he is.
And therefore, he is free to use it all up, to expend his total energy, the essence of his being, in this championship moment.
And in fact, it would be great, it would be ideal if he could actually have a stroke, if he could die right here and now, in the saddle and at the top of the world.
And now, he actually decides to do this. He will fuck himself to death. And they will never know that he has committed suicide.
And this thought seems especially delicious to him.
And he sets out to accomplish it.
"Uh! Uh! Uh!"
He is knocking the wind out of her, each time he drives himself into her. Faster and faster he goes.
He is achieving vibrator speed, the heat of his body incredible, his breath a shuddering intake and exhalation, his lungs a fiery bellows.
And, in the midst of the pleasure beyond pleasure, there is only the faintest twinge of soft regret, regret that, as his wads of jism explode into her again and again, he is still here, still in this world, where he must carry on.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Cameras flash. The arrival of the champ at the coliseum.
First, the trainer and the manager emerge from the middle seat of the limo on their own, smiling and waving to the crowd, livid in the intermittent glare of the flashing cameras.
Then, the chauffeur (Rufe, hut who cares?) opens the door.
And Cynthia emerges, her face occluded by her dark glasses, her K ly sinuous, flashy in the satin of her evening gown.
Clearly, she is ready dressed for the victory celebration.
And this is not lo-I on the media, on the gathered crowd.
"He ain' won yet lady!"
"Whut choo be clebratin', white meat?"
"Where's da champ?"
But she ignores it ill-the flashes, the noise, the crowd.
She smiles and waves.
As a roar goes up from the assembled spectators.
And the champ emerges from the limo, tuxedoed and grinning.
So that he confirms her message.
The first blow h; is yet to be landed and already he has won.
And, according t; the experts, this is true.
He is far and away the favorite.
And there is very little long shot action on the street.
So that the principal fascination, the main draw is the presumed fact of the knockout.
It is not a question of who is going to win, but of how much punishment his opponent can withstand.
The ancient Roman roots of tonight's action are very much in evidence.
Not will the lion win, but what will the victim do during the destruction by way of satisfying the crowd's vicarious blood lust?
And behold now the lion himself.
Moving very quickly inside with his entourage.
The rest of his crew-handlers, assistant trainers, additional security-await him in his dressing room.
To which Cynthia will ostentatiously accompany him, before being escorted to her seat in the front row, where she can clearly see the fight and the cameras can clearly see her.
* * * * *
A dead man.
Teddy looks at Spike and that is what he sees.
He does not hate him.
He is not even angry with him.
Rather, he is looking at a man who is about to do a fatally foolish thing. like looking at a picture of a person about to jump to his death from building or bridge, caught the moment before the leap. like seeing a racing car driver talking to his crew moments before he will pull onto the track, accelerate, and crash fatally into a wall.
Yes, he looks at him and he sees a dead man.
Because, even now, his fists, inside the gloves, are metamorphosing.
He can feel them turning to steel.
He can see the metalizing as it spreads to wrist and forearm.
And this fool, glaring at him, trying to stare him down, is about to stick his head into a meat grinder.
He is about to but his gleaming black skull into a whirling circular saw blade.
And so psyched is Teddy that he wonders why this madman would want to do such a thing?
Why does he want to hold his face up to a jackhammer?
Indifference and incomprehension have once more taken possession of Teddy's mind.
Even as he feels it, feels the steel taking over his body, turning him--it-into a deadly automaton, an invulnerable robot programmed to destroy any organic matter which attacks it.
Organic matter.
As in a man.
As in a pile of shit.
Because it is not a bout, not a contest. It is mere mortal against a special purpose, deadly machine.
Spike may land a few punches or he may not. It makes no difference. Because Teddy will not feel them. Nor will he allow his puzzlement at this fool's suicidal decision to face him distract him.
Because, at the first bell, the metal will reach his brain, turning it into a computer, its analyses electric.
So that, with the speed of light, he will be programmed to respond to his opponent's moves. Because that happens too.
So that now, at the first bell, Spike appears to go into slow motion.
There is no way he will block this jab, that combination.
And he does not.
And yet, the crowd roars, becomes excited once, as Spike lands a series of resounding blows.
And only the television cameras pick up the fact that they have been caught, all of them, on a forearm, which is a steel form, seven inches thick.
Spike is energetic, well trained.
So that the computer mind is kept somewhat occupied, most of the time, in defense.
So that the steel hammers do no more than open up a cut here, cause a deep bruise there.
So that the fight can continue into the second round, provided that Spike's trainers are good enough with cotton swab and coagulants.
They are.
* * * * *
"Go Champ go!" Willy shouts at the TV screen.
As Ginny Mae, flanked by Willy and her mother on the couch, smiles complacently. Her man is going to win, no question. Her man.
The father of her child. He could be, after all.
How does she know that he did not, despite her precautions, succeed in impregnating her?
So that Willy's efforts were actually superfluous.
And she could not swear with hundred percent certainty, now that she thinks about it, that she did not actually feel pregnant when she left the training camp.
The free clinic has confirmed her pregnancy.
So that a smiling Willy was able to deliver the form attesting this fact to lawyer Farley, slapping it down on his desk with a, "There, tole ya so!" after Farley's many requests that he produce this vital evidence, this evidence of a new vitality in the world.
Willy waited until today to do this.
And now, he and Ginny Mae have an appointment with Farley in the morning, for the purpose of finalizing their initial requirements of a soon-to-be victorious Teddy.
After which, Farley will file with the court for a hearing date and issue the appropriate summons to Teddy.
As he explained, Farley has every confidence that Teddy's lawyers will not allow the suit to come to trial.
Which means a very fast initial settlement.
As Ginny Mae's mother, bemused by it all and assuming all along that her daughter has been pregnant, and made so by the champ, goes on about her daily business, not believing in the reality of what Ginny Mae, pushed by Willy, is doing.
So that she sits there, indifferent to the match on the screen, not really caring which of the figures who touch gloves at the beginning of the second round does in the other, not fully understanding what all the excitement, all the fuss is about.
Hers is a simple world.
You work, you get paid.
And the work is hard and the pay is small, but those are the rules.
And boxing champs' salaries, like movie stars and glamour and fame and wealth in general, are pieces of another world, of a separate reality in which she has no part, where she does not exist, and to which you can't go from here.
* * * * *
Spike's luck runs out.
Unless one could consider it lucky that he makes it through the second round. As Howard Ruff, the network announcer, clearly does not.
"You see here, ladies and gentlemen, a perfect argument for the outlawing of this vicious and dangerous sport.
"If I could, I would throw in the towel for Spike.
"Very clearly, he is in no condition to continue.
"But such is the greed, the blind self-interest, the cold indifference to health, to safety, to life in today's society that he will be forced to his feet at the bell."
And sure enough, Howard has spoken the truth.
Because the bell sounds and a shaky Spike totters to the center of the ring, touching gloves with the champ.
It is as though Teddy is a spectator.
He has the best seat in the house.
If one goes for such spectacles of carnage, that is.
As Teddy does not, really.
Because there is an incongruity, an absurdity, an almost comic sense in seeing some clown present his face to a huge, rapidly advancing steel hammer.
And it all happens in slow motion.
The idiot has lots of time to duck, Teddy thinks.
But he does not.
And Teddy can only watch as bone and tissue cave inward, all around the edges of the high-powered club end in its ridiculous, meaningless glove, somebody's idea of a practical joke.
And Teddy supposes that there is a kind of humor in it as the weapon is retracted, to reveal a face flattened as though by a steamroller, like in those cartoons on TV.
A funny face, looking like a combination of black and Chinese, with its tightly slanted eyes and inscrutable expression on an impossibly flat, black visage.
But there is nothing funny about it now, as he watches the face snap back to an impossible angle against the thick neck, the bulky, sloping shoulders, surrounded by a halo of atomized moisture.
And now, Teddy feels it, the steel rods and levers becoming flesh again as he stands there, the referee pressing on his chest, moving him back, out of the way as he continues to stare, eyes now glued to the unmoving body.
And he sees the ridiculously over-dramatized antics of the referee as he counts Spike out.
And grabs his arm, raising it to the shouts and applause and camera flashes, acknowledging him the victor, confirmation ensuing scant moments later as the ring announcer, in tuxedo and (appropriately) red boutonniere, proclaims, "The winnah by a knockout an' still heavyweight champion of da world-Teddy Robinson!"
And Teddy, robe hastily thrown on by his handlers, dances around the ring, gloves raised.
As the stretcher crew removes the body of Spike Johnson.
And Teddy knows.
It has really happened, as it was bound to, one day.
He does not heed the doctor's official determination, the findings of the medical examiner as to cause.
A man has placed his face in the path of a working pile driver.
And one need not be a genius to predict the inevitable result.
* * * * *
Time for the late news.
And Willy and Ginny Mae are watching.
Mother has already retired for the night. She has to get up early to go to work next day and needs her rest.
"This just in from our newsroom.
"Heavyweight contender Rudolph 'Spike' Johnson died tonight, the result of massive trauma to the face and head sustained in his bout with the incumbent champ, Teddy Robinson.
"Stay tuned to this station for a special edition of Nightwatch with Howard Ruff, in which Howard will examine the current state of the sport of boxing.
And Willy laughs and laughs. Ginny Mae looks at him, puzzled.
"What's so funny."
"The price tag on de bun in de oven jus' wen' up, babe."
"Gots ta talk wif ma man Farley tamorrah 'bout de feah factah when dis fuckin' monstah done kep' y'all up theah fo' all dat tarn as his sex slave."
Ginny Mae says nothing.
""Samattah, babe?
"Cat got yo' tongue?"
"Is that any way to be talkin' 'bout the fathah of ma chile?" she asks.
He looks at her a long moment. Then he grins. Then he chuckles.
Then he rolls around on the couch, holding his belly, shaken with roaring guffaws.
He slaps his knee, convulsed into silence with the intensity of his laughter.
Finally, he catches his breath, with a rasping intake.
And gets up off the couch, wiping the tears of laughter from his eyes as he heads toward the bedroom where Ginny Mae's mother is asleep.
"You sumthin' else, babe," he chuckles as he retreats.
Ginny Mae looks after him, puzzled.
And she shrugs, turning off the TV with the remote and turning out the lights before heading toward her own room.
* * * * *
"It wasn't your fault," Cynthia says, a lacquered nail tracing the center line of his chest as they lie in bed together, naked.
"I know that."
"Then why did we have to leave the victory celebration so soon?"
"We didn't leave the celebration, babe-we are the celebration.
"All you got back at the hotel is a buncha parasites, hangers-on.
"An' all thinkin' the same thing.
"Which is that they gotta put on a happy face an' ignore what actually went down tonight.
"Bes' thing we coulda done is get the hell outta there.
"That way, they don't gotta strain their faces lookin' like nothin' happened.
"They don't hafta pretend this was just another fight, you know. Because that's exactly what it was."
"What's, what's ... going to happen?"
He shrugs.
"They gonna change the rules. Or not.
"Nothin' ta do with me."
And he turns over on her, taking her in his arms, adding, "Or us."
And his hands are all over her, exploring her, arousing her.
And thinking, We are indeed the celebration.
We are what it is all about.
Because what is fame, what is fortune, if not a making possible?
He is black, she is white.
But who they are transcends this distinction, even while preserving it intact.
So that this difference becomes an exotic feature of their relationship, and one which enables rather than disables.
It enables them to be together thus, to have and to thoroughly enjoy a strictly physical relationship, free of restriction or prejudice, their own as well as those of others.
They are above and beyond censure, all condemnation unheard or unheeded.
Not for them the rules and strictures of those below.
Which, at the moment, includes just about the whole world.
So that their freedom, freedom within themselves, freedom mirrored within each other, that inspires them, above and beyond raw physical attraction.
So that, in that sense, there is more to them than the strictly physical.
And yet, for their freedom to be real, it must be so in the physical sense.
And thus they are led in a circle, right back to their bodies.
Which have taken on meaning to each other which their minds do not comprehend.
Because how can it be, after a month of being together, that there is still more to explore, to discover in each other?
Surely they have gone through every permutation and combination of sexual activity.
But still it persists, the fascination, the desire, the raw lust.
His for her, hers for him.
So that they have come to question if anything that they do is truly repetitive and is not instead a new experience, unique each time.
Because it seems to Teddy that each time is better than the last, a deeper, more profound experience, even on the strictly physical plane.
Because Teddy feels himself getting better and better.
And her body, her presence brings out the best in him.
So that, since that is always changing, always improving, so is their sex.
He has not only become stronger day by day as a result of his training, he has become sexier.
So that what was said in jest as he began his adventure with her has turned out to be nothing more than the simple truth.
What Tony does for him professionally, Cynthia does for him personally.
So that she and Tony have in fact become a team, devoted to servicing him.
And his sensual development has proven to be no less satisfactory than the progress in his professional prowess.
For the first time, he actually feels happy, almost contented.
Despite Tony's warnings.
"Don't get too comfortable, kid.
"Because all that means is that you're in deep shit and don't know it."
What does Tony know anyway?
A lot about the fight game, but beyond that, zippo.
And Teddy grins at the memory of Tony's clumsy efforts to get into an area he doesn't understand. Fucking Ginny Mae.
He got out of that one easily enough, probably because Tony was paying her.
Hey, that made her a whore, right?
So that, without knowing it, he made the correct move dumping her over the fact that she was getting an attitude.
Even though he felt pangs of guilt before he found out she was on the payroll. Some face. Some bod.
She had a lot going for her, but she couldn't get over her black ambition, couldn't see beyond their physical proximity to what he was.
Which was not just some handsome, well built black guy.
Because even in bed, he was, is the champ. That comes with him.
So that, with Cynthia, one of the great things is that she would not even be here with him if that were not the case.
And it is not something to get below, beneath, behind, beyond.
That is not something to be overlooked, bypassed.
Not ever.
Because that comes first.
Before he is black and young and handsome, he is the champ.
And Ginny Mae was a stupid bitch for not understanding that.
Tough shit for you, Ginny Mae, he thinks.
She should have left well enough alone.
But she didn't even have enough sense to do that.
But enough of dwelling on the past.
Goodbye and good luck to you, Ginny Mae.
And, this said, she is gone from his mind, as though she never was.
And he loses himself in Cynthia.
Because it is safe to do so.
As they open their bodies up to each other.
And it is as though they are melting together, merging into a sensual unity.
So that she becomes an attribute of him, his feminine aspect.
As her body responds to the pressure of hands and fingers, to the squeezing, the kneading, the probing and caressing.
As she yields herself to him, surrendering, giving over, relaxing her mind, forcing it to empty out, to become a blank, a receiver of pure, physical sensations.
And his body rubs up and down against hers, their heat making their contact slippery smooth, each movement a silken thrill.
As his cock becomes massive between them as it throbs to full erection.
And he squirms on her, feeling the pressure on top and bottom of his meat monolith as it is imprisoned between his abdomen and hers.
And he feels her soft bush rubbing his balls, large and loose in their thin-skinned sack.
And it is but the work of an instant, a minor adjustment, one handed, for him to enter her as she spreads her legs and raises them, bent at the knees, to accommodate him.
And he sinks into her hot, juicy depths, the pressure of her cunt on his turgid shaft exquisite and total.
And her hands explore the musculature of his body, even as she feels its power, the protruding boulders of his buttocks flexing and relaxing as he shafts in and out of her.
She has waived all claim to him, to any part of him, to anything except his physical presence, his company.
But, having relinquished all, she has gained all.
Yes, she possesses him, in the way that one body may possess another.
He is hers and she is his.
In rhe strictly physical sense, as agreed.
And yet, it is more than what was agreed.
Because the total absence of any over-riding social factors, social pressures, social obligations has made their physical joining a wholeness, a completeness which leaves nothing more to be desired.
Because there are no relationships to he cemented, no points to be worked here.
There is only two hot bodies, two perfections in relationship to each other.
What you see is what you get.
And it is also all there is to be had.
And it is enough and more than enough.
As the magic communication, body to body, sensation to sensation, works within them, filling them with its tingling warmth, with the electricity of sexual excitement.
So that now they are climbing the rainbow together.
Onward and upward, as they approach the peak, as they reach their capacity for the intimate, lascivious sensations that have built from delight to ecstasy, from ecstasy to rapture.
Up, up, up-
And away!
As the pleasure beyond pleasure seizes them, takes them over, jerking them this way and that, rendering them now paralyzed, now frenetic, as they come, again and again, the spurts of his hot jism alternating with the spasms of her multiple orgasms.
CHAPTER EIGHT
"A blood test. A blood test, or we don't even talk."
"Now wait a damn minute, here! "You know those things are inconclusive. "And we have here a body of fact, a body of evidence-"
"The blood test, or we see you in court."
"Now wait a second, Charley!
"You takin' a real chance here, ain't cha?"
"You heard me, Farley. "And I know I'm taking a chance. "I'm taking chances and you're making assumptions."
"Such as?"
"Such as the champ's unwillingness to do the right thing."
"He bettah he willin' ta do-"
"See what I mean, Farley?
"I mean his willingness to do the right thing as you and your ... client define it."
"Spell that out, will ya, Charley?"
"Obviously, there is a case to be made for the very real possibility that Teddy is, in fact, the father of your client's unborn child.
"Should you make a sufficiently cogent presentation of the situation, my client is fully prepared to render adequate compensation.
"The blood test, Farley.
"Then we talk."
Silence.
Then, "Y'know, Charley, fo' a white boy, you ain' half bad ta do bizniss wif."
"No comment.
"Blood tests and then we talk." And the line goes dead.
Farley looks at the dead phone, smiling, then over at Willy.
"Lookin' good, bro', " he says.
"Not if fuckin' blood tests fuck it up it ain'tblood."
"In which case, we go to Plan B."
"Don' wanna heah 'bout no fuckin' Plan B."
Plan B.
Love affair, intercourse, but no offspring.
And Teddy gets off very, very cheaply.
A nuisance award, more to avoid distraction and ' scandal than an acknowledgement of any obligation.
Fifty big ones. Maybe.
When, with a child involved, no way is Willy not looking at eight figures.
"Hey, man, you think I don't wanna get ri-get compensated fo' de max?
"Don' choo be gittin' on ma case 'til we gits off dis one, okay?"
"You bes' not fuck it up, Fah-lee."
"Tell me about it!
"Okay, enough frettin' an' fussin'.
"You heard my esteemed colleague.
"Blood tes' an' git back ta me."
"Okay, okay!"
* * * * *
Positive!
Posi-fuckin'-tive! And Willy cannot believe it. Who would of thought. And AB positive at that.
One in a thousand blood type, Farley explained over the telephone, ecstatic at the prospect of an astronomical fee for which he need preside over one hopefully brief meeting.
Tell me that fucker's inconclusive! he thinks.
And now, dressed in a three-piece suit, he is on his way to Farley's office.
With Ginny Mae.
He has wanted to leave her out of it, but Farley told him she would have to be there in case something has to be signed. .
And now, getting off the subway, going into Farley's office, holding the door for Ginny Mae, he feels his groin tingling in anticipation.
"Will-ee!"
And Farley shakes Willy's hand firmly.
And gallantly bends down, seizing Ginny Mae's hand, kissing the back of her wrist.
"Ouah, uh, guests are heah, in de con'frince room," Farley says.
And ushers them in.
"Where's, where's-" Ginny Mae begins.
"Willy, Virginia, this here's the champ's lawyah, Charles McFee an' his associate, uh, sorry."
"Sacchi. Ben Sacchi," the dark, chubby young man says, nodding.
"I'm here to teach my young friend here how to give gracefully," Charley says.
"Teddy's not gon' be here?" Ginny Mae asks.
"Well, in a manner of speaking, he is, Virginia," Charley says, peering at her over the tops of his bifocals. "I mean, I am fully empowered to represent him."
"Oh. Thass okay, then."
"Glad you approve," Charley replies dryly.
He clears his throat.
"Now then, I have drawn up the form of agreement and inserted therein a lump sum, one time payment.
"Naturally, this entails a quit claim clause in consideration."
"That means whut ah thinks it do, an' you done wasted a lotta pay-puh, friend."
Charley looks at Willy.
"And you are here in what capacity, sir?"
"Fren' of de fam'ly."
Ginny Mae looks at him, surprised.
He looks back at her, adding hastily, "An' step fathah of V'ginia, of course."
"Whatever you are, sir, I must tell you that you, or more properly Virginia, would have to be totally insane to turn this down.
"This figure is astronomical in a situation of this nature.
"I have not seen its like in all my years of practice. "You are over eighteen, are you not, young lady?" She nods.
"Then the decision, the right to decide, is legally yours, and I strongly recommend against abrogation of that right."
She looks at him, expressionless.
Then, "What's this say, Mr. Farley?" she asks.
"It says that no later than five days from now, Robinson Enterprises agrees to pay you the sum of twelve million dollars, in return for your relieving my client permanently of all liability or responsibility in connection with events occurring during or as a result of time spent with him."
"Y'see, babe, thass whut ain' no goo-"
"Shut up, Willy."
Then, to Farley, "In othah words, I get twelve million, out of which you get-"
"Ah, we need not bother present company with the details of my retention, heh, heh."
"Still comes out okay.
"Where do I sign?"
Farley beams, ear to ear.
"Five copies, right here wheah you see the X."
"Oh, an' fo' times here wheah you vacates the procedings in consideration of et cetera an' like that."
"Movin' too fas', babe," Willy warns.
Everyone ignores him.
Farley hands her copies of the two documents she has signed.
She notices that Teddy's signature is already on the agreement.
"When may we expect-" Farley begins.
"I have the check right here," Charley says, pulling the item in question from his briefcase and handing it to Farley. "As you can see, it is made out to you as attorney for Virginia here, in the full amount."
"Excellent!
Farley stands, hand thrust out.
Charley and Sacchi shake with him and file out.
"Come on into the office an' I will give you your money," Farley says to Ginny Mae.
He motions them to chairs as he sits at his desk, writing Ginny Mae a check for nine million dollars.
"I would suggest you open an account with this in a full service bank today, then disperse the money in, say, million dollar increments among nine banks until you can line up an investment advisor.
"You are now a very wealthy young lady.
"It will take approximately three days for the check to clear, but there will be no problem.
"I'll deposit this one this morning, just across the street."
"Ginny Mae, why don't choo jus' wait outside a minute whilst Fahley an' mase'f go ovah a few thangs?"
"Not necessary," Farley replies. "I am retired, as of the end of the week.
"If you require advice of council, Willy, I'd be glad to refer you."
"Ees for de champ, Meez Seent'ia," Juanita says. Cynthia hands him the phone from the end table as Juanita hangs up the hall extension. "Yeah."
"Done."
"Thanks, Charley."
"I still think it was nuts.
"For that kinda money, we coulda forced a DNA test and-"
"Case closed, Charley, and I never want to hear about it again, okay?"
"You got it, Champ.
"You look at the deal with Barrington?"
"You got what you wanted."
"Ever any question but what I would?
"Guy loses, he gets six mil."
"And if you do, you get half what you just gave away."
"Y'see, thass whut-I mean, that's what you don't understand, Charley.
"What I just gave away leaves me no option. I gotta win now."
Charley sighs.
"Yeah, Champ, twenty mil should make you well real fast."
""Specially since I ain't all that poor ta begin with. "Believe me, Charley, this was the way to go."
"Whatever you say. Ciao, Champ."
"Talk to ya."
He hands the phone back to Cynthia, who returns it to the end table.
They don't understand, any of them.
They don't know that he has wanted to cancel out this last bout, from the training that preceded it to the purse he won.
They cannot suspect that this is his penance, his expiation for killing Johnson.
This is his tribute, his memorial to him.
And the only way to know to compensate for the fact that, try as he might, he feels no guilt, no remorse, nothing.
And now, he appreciates Cynthia more than ever.
Of all the people he knows, she alone has not tried to talk him out of his spur of the moment decision, has not called him a nut case or an imbecile.
Take the fucking purse, whatever it was, and give it to the black girl, the death of whose dreams was the precursor of Johnson's fate.
And he is responsible for both.
And feels his lack of feeling for both.
So that he will negate his gains, killing two birds with one stone.
He has cancelled the entire episode.
And restored to himself the imperative to win at all costs to his next opponent.
He is ready, on that score.
And now, he is here with Cynthia, relaxing in her penthouse, hers and Chipper's.
And Chipper is once more delayed, this time in Europe.
So that the place is all hers and the champ's, their play house, their rumpus room, to do with as they will.
And he has challenged her.
"Show me somethin' I ain't seen before."
"Are you sure?"
"Whatever it is, I'm up for it." Because he is bored.
The next fight is too remote, too far away.
He cannot feel it, cannot feel the tingle of anticipation, cannot experience the brouhaha that precedes the pre-fight interviews at the training camp, the articles, the speculation by and in the media.
And Cynthia has told him of the special parties she arranges for Chipper's homecomings.
She has told him of the services she obtains from Bruce and his escort service.
But he is not interested in catered sex. Pro's are out.
Still, he wants-something. Hence, the challenge.
Which she has accepted, with only this one restriction. Tonight.
Tonight, after supper, his surprise. And he has every confidence in her. She has become his companion out of boredom, after all.
And she has had much more experience being bored for much longer periods of time than has he.
And she has obviously taken very good care of herself, which can only mean that she has taken care of her boredom.
And if she can take care of a wealthy, pampered, sophisticated person such as herself, then it stands to reason that she will have no problem satisfying him.
"Lunch ees served," Juanita announces. They eat lightly.
They will jog this afternoon, side by side through the streets to the park, through the park and back.
And they will clean up and have a light supper, casually dressed in their bathrobes.
And Juanita and Rufe will be dismissed for the evening.
And then, it will happen.
* * * * *
Teddy is at a loss, unable to even speculate at what she has in mind. The intercom.
She gets it and returns to sit beside him on the couch.
Both of them are naked beneath their robes. Bing-bong.
And Cynthia goes to the landing. And Teddy stands up, ready for whatever comes next.
Still, he is not prepared for Steve, muscles bulging in white t-shirt, his sweat pants stretched tight by his bulging leg muscles.
"Champ," Steve says, perfect smile radiant in his suntanned face, as he advances, hand outstretched, "this is a real honor!"
They shake hands vigorously.
"Don't I know you?"
"Two times Mister Galaxy, if you follow the iron game," he replies. "Sure! Sure!
"But, uh, you lost last year, didn't you."
"Well, came in second." And he smiles.
"Same thing in your book, though, right?
"I mean, in war and boxing, there's no such thing as coming in second." They laugh.
"Well, you lookin' good, anyway."
"Oh, I'll get it back this fall."
"How do you know?" Cynthia asks.
"How do I know? Ask Teddy if he's gonna win his next bout."
"Man's right, Cynthia," Teddy says. "We're here to win or we ain't here."
And there is a bond established between the two men.
Both of them have to win, come fall. Have to.
Which is something they cannot expect Cynthia to understand.
"Well," Cynthia says, changing the subject, "would you like a drink, Steve?"
"Only if you two are having one."
Teddy shrugs.
"Why not?"
Buying time.
Getting used to the idea.
Because he knows now what Cynthia has in mind. So that now it is he who is challenged. She is giving him what he asked for. And it is something he has never had before, that is for sure.
He probably does not even know the term for it.
Manage trois.
But he has never in his life shrunk from a challenge and he is certainly not about to start now.
And it is not as though Cynthia has lined up some nobody, some ass, or some greasily handsome gigolo.
Mister Galaxy.
Or at least, the once and future Mister Galaxy. A physical ideal for a physical situation. And now, they sip gin and tonics. Calming down, normalizing a situation which is anything but.
And now, it is time.
"Teddy, why don't you let me get Steve settled in and then you can join us?"
"Fine with me," he shrugs.
Thinking, What do I know about it anyway?
And he wonders if Steve has ever done it like this before.
"Give us about five minutes," she says.
And he watches the two of them go to the landing and disappear down the hallway.
Let it happen, he tells himself.
There is a time to control and a time to release.
And he has nothing to win, nothing to lose in this unreal, surreal situation.
It is an entertainment, a diversion, arranged at his request.
Therefore, he will enter into the spirit of the thing.
Because he can see some good, clean fun for a change.
Still, he is pleased, as he enters the master bedroom, that they are not already at it, hot and heavy.
So that he would be a kind of late-comer, an intruder.
Rather, they are merely lying there, Cynthia in the middle of the bed, Steve to one side of her, clearly awaiting him.
And now, as he approaches them, Steve reminds him of a colossal statue, come to life.
He gets on the bed next to Cynthia, in the space reserved.
And she grabs his thick prick, yanking on it, even as she does the same to Steve's, as Teddy can see by looking over there.
Both of them turn toward her, sliding down slightly, each of them helping himself to a big breast, which they suck avidly.
And soon, she is genuinely aroused, eyes closed, chin thrust into the air, face flushed.
But Steve's hand has been busy as well, a finger playing with her snatch, her clit.
And now, as his prick goes to full, massive erection, it is Steve when crawls atop her, inserting himself as she raises and spreads her legs.
And murmurs to Teddy, "You can take me in the ass this time."
So that Teddy pulls back.
And catches only a glimpse of Steve's broad back and big, rounded buttocks as he carefully supports Cynthia while he turns over with her.
So that now it is she who is on top of Steve.
And pumping up and down on his massive prong slowly, evenly.
So that Teddy can see the insertion of the thick piston into her pussy, the big balls below it.
But the champ has his assignment.
So he spreads her cheeks.
To discover that she is not stretched, lubricated, ready.
Surely, she does not expect. And he grins.
That is exactly what she does expect, and he will not disappoint her.
As he leans forward, sealing his mouth to her ass hole, puffed out toward him due to the pressure of the rampant intruder she is riding, careful only to avoid the meat piston, shiny with her pussy juices, shafting in and out below.
And she responds, relaxing her anal sphincter, letting his tongue go into her, where he can feel pressure applied and released as the mighty shaft does its work of thrusting and withdrawing.
So that, very quickly, she is loose enough, wet enough for him to do the deed.
And now, feeling the shifting motion on the bed behind her, she knows that Teddy is in position, between the two sets of legs.
And now, she raises herself up until only the head of Steve's thick prick remains inside her pussy.
And not until, with a sigh of pleasure, Teddy shoves his cock into her ass does she settle back down.
And Teddy does indeed feel a unique sensation.
It is as though the bottom of Steve's massive erection is against the bottom of his own.
And now, as they fuck her, fore and aft, it is this action of their cocks sliding against each other, separated by only a thin band of interior tissues, that provides a continuation of the exquisite novelty of sensation and experience.
He is fucking Cynthia in the ass, but another him, an alter ego, white as he is black, facing up as he is facing down, is also fucking her.
So that he feels both of them, Cynthia and this extension of himself, large and powerful as he is himself.
He feels their heat, their excitement, their vibrancy, their motion.
He feels it and becomes one with it.
And it is Steve's mighty, bulky sinews that rub against his own legs.
And it is Steve's cock, hot and hard and throbbing and wet with Cynthia's flowing pussy juices that he feels against his dangling balls.
And he can reach around for handfuls of big breast.
Or he can reach lower, to feel solid muscles, mirror images, extensions of his own.
And Cynthia has done it. She has succeeded in providing him with a unique experience, stimulating as it is novel, erotic as it is strange to him.
And he is the top man, controlling the action.
But with his body rather than his mind, as he rides Cynthia, even as he surrounds her with his other self.
And now, they climb the rainbow together, toward the pleasure beyond pleasure.
Cynthia, Teddy, and his new-found best buddy, Steve.
* * * * *
"Look, Ginny Mae, jus' 'cause yo' mama an' me ain' nevah got 'roun' ta doin' de deed don' mean ah ain' de one she wants ta make her happy.
"Dat make you happy, babe?
"Okay, I'll axe her.
"Ain' no big deal, one way or t'othah."
"Guess not, leastways fum your point of view."
"C'mon, babe, don' be doin' me lak this! "You knows damn well, wasn't fo' me, y'all wouldn't be movin' uptown inta no imagine-assed condo!"
"Oh no? I ain't so sure. Somethin' about a positive blood tes', now I recall." And Willy grins.
And pulls a piece of paper out of his pocket. He was hoping she would bring that up, would throw that in his face. "Check it out, babe!
"Me an' de champ, we gots de same blood type AB posi-tive!"
She stares at the paper, then at him.
"What the hell," she sighs, "get in the cab wif Mama."
