It's all too clear that Ned appreciates Ginsberg's initiative; he chokes on a moan, his toes curling, scrapes his fingernails against Ginsberg's back with a little less purpose and a little more sheer instinct. He tries to give a measured kind of approval but it comes out as mostly obscenities and repetitions of Ginsberg's name, pleas to keep doing that, to go faster.

Ned's breathing hard, now, lets his head fall back against the pillows and shuts his eyes. That look in Ginsberg's eyes was starting to get the best of him, and he wants to keep some thread of control over himself, to hold out as long as possible. But he can't shut out those delicious tiny noises Ginsberg's making, or the heat of him. He's moving to meet every thrust and stroke with a jerk of his hips, his little compliments and encouragements dissolving into mere sounds.