Read Online Tiger, Tiger by Margaux Fragoso - Free Book Online Page A

we were alone that I began to fantasize more and more about having a family just like Little Mama.
    The first few times we went to the basement, Peter would insist on hugging and kissing me mouth to mouth for long periods of time. The first time we kissed like grown-ups, I thought too much about the largeness of his face and the feeling of his skin close up. That I couldn’t breathe well bothered me, so I dropped to the floor, pretending to be Sleeping Beauty. While I was positioned on what I imagined to be a bed covered with tulips, I felt like I was really sleeping or in a trance as he continued to kiss me. These games went much deeper than regular playing. As I sat playing with the kittens, Peter would begin to stroke my back, face, buttocks, neck, and between my legs. He always found ways to make me accept more touching when I was past my threshold. For instance, when I sank to the cement floor to show him I’d had enough, he’d caressingly remove my pelt, as big-game hunters do to tigers. Convinced I really was dead, I no longer felt the overwhelming sensations.
    As the weather got warmer, Peter suggested I undress, and he’d play hide-and-go-seek with me in my underpants. Peter would count to ten and I’d try to figure out where to go, since there were so many hiding places in the huge basement. A few times, I hid in the oak wardrobe, or climbed into a trunk; occasionally, I crouched behind the motorcycles. It was strange and freeing to run about in just my underpants. Then came a day when Peter dared me to take off the underpants, saying real animals in the jungle didn’t wear clothes. After that first time, I had no problem getting naked; it made me feel less like myself and more like a tiger or a rabbit, or whatever I pretended to be. Often, while naked, I would growl under my breath or lick the Suzuki’s handlebars. Another time I wouldn’t open my eyes or stand up until Peter shone a flashlight in my face. Afterward, he remarked, “Boy, you get so wrapped up in your games it’s like you disappear. It’s a little scary.”
    Down in the basement, I sometimes climbed atop the Suzuki nude: seizing the big handles, I pretended to drive. One time Peter slipped the motorcycle key into the ignition, turning it on; I felt a roaring, searing feeling rise from somewhere inside the engine and radiate out, through the cracked leather seat, spreading all through me like the strands of one of the arching cobwebs in the crevice of a wooden beam, and I gripped the handles, barely able to take it, my eyes tearing; I said something weird, that I felt like Little Mama having her kittens; and then this melting, searing, crazed feeling burst like a sac containing millions of dazzling pearl-sized eggs, like pollen swirling through the air, like the white wisps of exploding seed heads. I got off the motorcycle, drowsy, almost falling over, wondering what had just happened to me.
    By spring, I was getting naughtier than ever, throwing more tantrums, and bossing Peter around so often that he started to call me Sergeant Ma’am. My mother often said that he was giving in to me way too much lately, and that if he wasn’t careful I’d be spoiled rotten. I was even starting to do mean things just for the thrill of it, like letting go of Peter’s hand when we went to the playground and running across the street by myself. I also started to deceive Peter by breaking something and then concealing the damaged object, or hiding his cigarettes and lighter and then insisting I didn’t know where they were.
    “I don’t like deception,” Peter said. “We have a really strong bond now. Every lie you tell, whether large or small, is making a crack in our bond. It’s just the tiniest crack, you can’t see it, but this lying stuff—it only gets worse and worse. Let’s make a pact right now, never to lie to each other and never to break any promises.”
    We made the pact and, for some reason, I took it very seriously, so I stopped