Strelnikov
4th Level Red Feather
- Joined
- May 7, 2001
- Messages
- 1,820
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I have a friend who I’ll call Larry. I’ve known him for more than 50 yrs. We grew up on the same block in a blue-collar suburb of Buffalo, a place of small houses on postage-stamp lots, built for returning World War II veterans and their families. We met as little boys, immediately tried to beat the crap out of each other, and were buddies ever since. The friendship worked because our personalities were complementary. I’ve always been kinda prickly, while Larry is even-tempered, the sort of guy we Boomers used to describe as “mellow” or “laid-back”.
Larry had a younger sister – call her Laurie. She was a cutie, a petite girl with dark hair, long dark lashes, brown eyes, a cute shape and great legs. She was kinda prickly too, with a quick wit, a wicked sense of humor and a talent for verbal fencing. She had her off moments, but there was no meanness in her. Laurie and I dated briefly when we were in our early 20’s – we gave it up with no hard feelings and no regrets, and stayed friends afterward.
I stayed friends with both of them for years, and made a point to see them on visits after I changed jobs and left town.
Like nearly all Boomer boys, Larry and I were taught that it was unmanly (i.e., very bad indeed) to hit a girl, regardless of provocation. Laurie was full of mischief, so she provided plenty of good-natured provocation. But it wasn’t risk-free for her – she was uber-ticklish all over, and she couldn’t control it at all. We learned early that tickling was the ideal chastisement for Larry’s pesky sister – it leaves no marks, and nobody takes it serious. Especially tickling her feet – that drove her wild.
Laurie and I had a game we played. Every so often, she would start something – a practical joke, an outrageous insult, whatever. It would progress through various stages of escalation. And then she would push it to the limit, and by the rules of the game, I was then justified to tickle her feet until she was delirious. Her tickle laugh wasn’t really loud, but nice enough. She was a fun ticklee – squirmed and begged a lot, laughing the whole time. She fussed about it afterward, but I don’t think she really minded.
The last time Laurie and I played our little game was at Larry’s place, during a holiday visit when we were in our mid 20’s. She was staying there, and hadn’t bothered to get dressed – she was in her pajamas, barefoot. She started it, as always. It escalated, as always. And then the nuclear strike – it went like this:
Strel: “That’s all I can stand! I can’t stand no more!” (grab up her ankles in an arm lock and start tickling)
Laurie: “Sta– hahaha! –ap! Lar-ree– hehehe! Helllp!”
Larry: “Doesen’t look like he needs any help, sis.”
Strel: “Think that was funny? Laugh a little!”
Laurie: “OH NOOO! Haheha! Hahaha-haha-hahaha!”
So once again, as always, I tickled her feet until she begged for mercy – she got none, of course. We gave it up after that. Both of us were involved with other people, and I was about to move even further away.
And by now, you’re probably wondering what the title of this essay has to do with anything. Well, it happened like this...
It was early summer of 1967, and we were high school age. Larry and Laurie’s family had a swimming pool, the round above-ground sort. I was swimming with them, and after a while we took a break. Laurie laid down on her back to work on her tan. Larry and I got snacks and Cokes and sat cross-legged, close enough so she could join in the conversation if she so desired.
The Israelis had just defeated their Arab enemies for the third time. Magazines like “Newsweek” were full of articles about it, with sidebar articles about Arab culture and such. Larry belched, and I commented that traditional Arabs considered it good manners to belch after eating, to show the host they were satisfied. Larry said something about how Arabs sit cross-legged, because showing others the soles of your feet was an insult.
Laurie heard that part. So she sat up and held up her feet toward her brother and me, a deliberate provocation that called for retaliation. Laurie had to know she was setting herself up to be tickled, and we didn’t disappoint her. We each grabbed an ankle and gave her a lesson in manners through her ticklish soles. Their mom eventually saw what we were doing, made us quit and then chewed Larry and me out for “torturing” poor Laurie. I don’t know how long we tickled her feet, but long enough that she was pretty breathless when we stopped.
Where are they now? I last saw Larry at my father’s funeral – now, he’s another gray-haired old fart like me. Laurie died in a car wreck at age 48, leaving behind a husband and two teen daughters.
Vaya con dios, Laurie.
Strelnikov
Larry had a younger sister – call her Laurie. She was a cutie, a petite girl with dark hair, long dark lashes, brown eyes, a cute shape and great legs. She was kinda prickly too, with a quick wit, a wicked sense of humor and a talent for verbal fencing. She had her off moments, but there was no meanness in her. Laurie and I dated briefly when we were in our early 20’s – we gave it up with no hard feelings and no regrets, and stayed friends afterward.
I stayed friends with both of them for years, and made a point to see them on visits after I changed jobs and left town.
Like nearly all Boomer boys, Larry and I were taught that it was unmanly (i.e., very bad indeed) to hit a girl, regardless of provocation. Laurie was full of mischief, so she provided plenty of good-natured provocation. But it wasn’t risk-free for her – she was uber-ticklish all over, and she couldn’t control it at all. We learned early that tickling was the ideal chastisement for Larry’s pesky sister – it leaves no marks, and nobody takes it serious. Especially tickling her feet – that drove her wild.
Laurie and I had a game we played. Every so often, she would start something – a practical joke, an outrageous insult, whatever. It would progress through various stages of escalation. And then she would push it to the limit, and by the rules of the game, I was then justified to tickle her feet until she was delirious. Her tickle laugh wasn’t really loud, but nice enough. She was a fun ticklee – squirmed and begged a lot, laughing the whole time. She fussed about it afterward, but I don’t think she really minded.
The last time Laurie and I played our little game was at Larry’s place, during a holiday visit when we were in our mid 20’s. She was staying there, and hadn’t bothered to get dressed – she was in her pajamas, barefoot. She started it, as always. It escalated, as always. And then the nuclear strike – it went like this:
Strel: “That’s all I can stand! I can’t stand no more!” (grab up her ankles in an arm lock and start tickling)
Laurie: “Sta– hahaha! –ap! Lar-ree– hehehe! Helllp!”
Larry: “Doesen’t look like he needs any help, sis.”
Strel: “Think that was funny? Laugh a little!”
Laurie: “OH NOOO! Haheha! Hahaha-haha-hahaha!”
So once again, as always, I tickled her feet until she begged for mercy – she got none, of course. We gave it up after that. Both of us were involved with other people, and I was about to move even further away.
And by now, you’re probably wondering what the title of this essay has to do with anything. Well, it happened like this...
It was early summer of 1967, and we were high school age. Larry and Laurie’s family had a swimming pool, the round above-ground sort. I was swimming with them, and after a while we took a break. Laurie laid down on her back to work on her tan. Larry and I got snacks and Cokes and sat cross-legged, close enough so she could join in the conversation if she so desired.
The Israelis had just defeated their Arab enemies for the third time. Magazines like “Newsweek” were full of articles about it, with sidebar articles about Arab culture and such. Larry belched, and I commented that traditional Arabs considered it good manners to belch after eating, to show the host they were satisfied. Larry said something about how Arabs sit cross-legged, because showing others the soles of your feet was an insult.
Laurie heard that part. So she sat up and held up her feet toward her brother and me, a deliberate provocation that called for retaliation. Laurie had to know she was setting herself up to be tickled, and we didn’t disappoint her. We each grabbed an ankle and gave her a lesson in manners through her ticklish soles. Their mom eventually saw what we were doing, made us quit and then chewed Larry and me out for “torturing” poor Laurie. I don’t know how long we tickled her feet, but long enough that she was pretty breathless when we stopped.
Where are they now? I last saw Larry at my father’s funeral – now, he’s another gray-haired old fart like me. Laurie died in a car wreck at age 48, leaving behind a husband and two teen daughters.
Vaya con dios, Laurie.
Strelnikov
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