Boomtown13
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- Jul 24, 2001
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Hi there folks. How's everyone doing?
Don't worry, there is no underage tickling involved in this story. It's all grown-ups like us. We are grown-ups now, aren't we? Aren't we?
This past weekend I took my little boys to a place we haven't been in over a year -- a discovery zone type of place, an indoor playground with the hamster tunnels, the spiral slides, the ball pools, you know what I mean. The kids, they love it.
Oh, and you know something? There's a rule there -- no shoes allowed, on anyone.
Being there this weekend brought up a memory. And though my Tickling Bandit days are behind me, I wanted to share with you all an experience that I made happen the last time I was there. The Tickling Bandit days are behind me, but I just have so damn many of those Tickling Bandit days! I figure if anyone would appreciate their telling, it's you good people.
So.
The last time I was there, the boys were playing in the tunnels and slides, and I wandered into the art room to check it out. There were three people in there -- the art room attendant, a beautiful blond woman, and a little boy. The art room attendant was washing something in the sink. The beautiful blond was reading a hardcover book. The little boy was trying to get a stencil-puncher to work. I spoke with him and helped him out. The blond looked up from her book and thanked me, giving me a warm smile. She had a mane of blond hair that surrounded her perfect face like a big picture frame. Her legs were crossed and she was wearing cute little black socks.
I wonder. . . I thought to myself.
But what was I gonna do? She went back to her book and I went back to watch my kids.
I sat in the opening of the ball pool. My youngest was in there, throwing balls and swimming through them. And now who do you think shows up and sits right next to me? Hey! You know where this story's going, don't you? Am I that predictable? It was her. Her little boy was started playing in the red, blue, and yellow balls, and she sat next to me and watched. She placed her book down next to me, so I peeked at the title. It was in Russian. She and her son spoke English to each other, but now I picked up the accent in her voice. She was very warm and smiley to me, and this is always the Tickling Bandit's cue to come out, my own stylized Mr. Hyde.
Her son got playful with us, and began throwing the balls at the two of us. We were picking them up and tossing them back at him. I reached down to get a ball between us, and grazed the top of a black-socked Russian foot. She giggled, not at the sensation, but at the contact. It was a polite, nervous, flirty giggle.
I said "Are you ticklish?"
She laughed in such a way that I knew she didn't understand the question.
I said, "Do you know that word -- ticklish?"
She looked into my eyes and shook her head, smiling widely.
I said, "It's this --" and I picked up her foot and scrabbled my fingers on the underside.
"No no no no!" she laughed, and squirmed.
I kept it up. "This is tickling," I said. "You are ticklish, see?"
She stopped saying "no" and just kept laughing and squirming.
I ceased the tickling, and told her now she knew a new word. We played with the kids a little longer. Eventually, I wanted to go check on my older son, so I broke our little sitting-together.
But before I did, I asked her, "Now what's the new word I taught you?" and I made tickling movements with my fingers near her feet.
She quickly said "Ticklish," with a spark of fear and excitement in her eyes.
My work is done here, said the Tickling Bandit inside me, and I turned back into Dr. Jeckyll. For a spell.
You see, then there was this cute red-head wearing Lisa Loeb-type librarian glasses. I always like that. She was sitting with her toddler by a large fishtank. We made eye contact and started up some small talk. We talked about the place, and then kids, and then parenting, and then stresses, and then yoga, and then massages, and then reflexology, and then. . .
Wait a minute. Look at this. We're here talking about reflexology. Here I am telling her about my one reflexology treatment, how great it was, how thoroughly relaxing, and then I ask, "Are you ticklish?"
"Am I ticklish? Yes. I am. But only in certain situations. Are you? Did it make you uncomfortable at all through your treatment?"
"Not really," I say. "But she started the treatment by soaking my feet in hot water with eucalyptus oil."
"Ohhhh," she purred.
"It felt great," I agreed. "You can imagine. But then she puts her hands in the water and scrubs my feet like this--"
And then I picked up one of her white-socked feet by the ankle, and with my other hand raked my fingernails side to side in a scrubbing motion between the ball of her foot and her heel.
"Oh! Oh!" she exclaimed. And then the laughter came, as she said "That tickles. That does tickle."
"But the reflexology itself felt so good," I continue, and I turned the tickling into massaging her foot, as a reflexologist might.
"Oh God," she sighed. "You've got about an hour to cut that out," and she smiled at me.
I massaged her foot for a little bit, and then stopped to talk a little more. After a minute I pointed to her other foot and said, "Oh, I have to balance you out." I got up to move to the other side of her.
"You know how important that is," she said, and this time put her foot right on my lap herself. I started tickling the bottom of this foot, but didn't get a response. Almost disappointed, she said, "See, now it doesn't tickle! I don't know why that is."
"Maybe I relaxed you too much with the massage."
"Probably. This is wonderful."
I massaged the foot in that expert way we ticklers do. And then in one motion I slid the sock off her foot. Her bare foot was thin-skinned and delicate.
"There you go," she said approvingly.
I lightly scratched down the underside, from toes to heel, and felt her slightly brace herself. Then I lightly scratched the top of her foot, from toes to shin, and back down to toes, and back up to shin, and back down to toes. Over and over. First she tittered, then she giggled, then she laughed and moved her mouth close to my ear saying, through laughter, "Now that tickles. Now that really tickles. That really tickles."
I could have kept it up for I don't know how long. She was ticklish, and being tickled, and not seeming to be in a hurry for me to stop. But suddenly both her kids and my kids were standing before us. Whoops.
"Daddy, some kids are being mean to us."
"Mommy, we're hungry."
She and I looked at each other and laughed at the situation. "Well, I'm going to tend to the kids," I said.
"Yeah, we better. Thank you SO much for that foot massage. That was just the best."
The rest of the day was great, but there endeth the tickling portion of it.
You just gotta love the No Shoes rule.
Your LA tickler,
Boomatowna
Don't worry, there is no underage tickling involved in this story. It's all grown-ups like us. We are grown-ups now, aren't we? Aren't we?
This past weekend I took my little boys to a place we haven't been in over a year -- a discovery zone type of place, an indoor playground with the hamster tunnels, the spiral slides, the ball pools, you know what I mean. The kids, they love it.
Oh, and you know something? There's a rule there -- no shoes allowed, on anyone.
Being there this weekend brought up a memory. And though my Tickling Bandit days are behind me, I wanted to share with you all an experience that I made happen the last time I was there. The Tickling Bandit days are behind me, but I just have so damn many of those Tickling Bandit days! I figure if anyone would appreciate their telling, it's you good people.
So.
The last time I was there, the boys were playing in the tunnels and slides, and I wandered into the art room to check it out. There were three people in there -- the art room attendant, a beautiful blond woman, and a little boy. The art room attendant was washing something in the sink. The beautiful blond was reading a hardcover book. The little boy was trying to get a stencil-puncher to work. I spoke with him and helped him out. The blond looked up from her book and thanked me, giving me a warm smile. She had a mane of blond hair that surrounded her perfect face like a big picture frame. Her legs were crossed and she was wearing cute little black socks.
I wonder. . . I thought to myself.
But what was I gonna do? She went back to her book and I went back to watch my kids.
I sat in the opening of the ball pool. My youngest was in there, throwing balls and swimming through them. And now who do you think shows up and sits right next to me? Hey! You know where this story's going, don't you? Am I that predictable? It was her. Her little boy was started playing in the red, blue, and yellow balls, and she sat next to me and watched. She placed her book down next to me, so I peeked at the title. It was in Russian. She and her son spoke English to each other, but now I picked up the accent in her voice. She was very warm and smiley to me, and this is always the Tickling Bandit's cue to come out, my own stylized Mr. Hyde.
Her son got playful with us, and began throwing the balls at the two of us. We were picking them up and tossing them back at him. I reached down to get a ball between us, and grazed the top of a black-socked Russian foot. She giggled, not at the sensation, but at the contact. It was a polite, nervous, flirty giggle.
I said "Are you ticklish?"
She laughed in such a way that I knew she didn't understand the question.
I said, "Do you know that word -- ticklish?"
She looked into my eyes and shook her head, smiling widely.
I said, "It's this --" and I picked up her foot and scrabbled my fingers on the underside.
"No no no no!" she laughed, and squirmed.
I kept it up. "This is tickling," I said. "You are ticklish, see?"
She stopped saying "no" and just kept laughing and squirming.
I ceased the tickling, and told her now she knew a new word. We played with the kids a little longer. Eventually, I wanted to go check on my older son, so I broke our little sitting-together.
But before I did, I asked her, "Now what's the new word I taught you?" and I made tickling movements with my fingers near her feet.
She quickly said "Ticklish," with a spark of fear and excitement in her eyes.
My work is done here, said the Tickling Bandit inside me, and I turned back into Dr. Jeckyll. For a spell.
You see, then there was this cute red-head wearing Lisa Loeb-type librarian glasses. I always like that. She was sitting with her toddler by a large fishtank. We made eye contact and started up some small talk. We talked about the place, and then kids, and then parenting, and then stresses, and then yoga, and then massages, and then reflexology, and then. . .
Wait a minute. Look at this. We're here talking about reflexology. Here I am telling her about my one reflexology treatment, how great it was, how thoroughly relaxing, and then I ask, "Are you ticklish?"
"Am I ticklish? Yes. I am. But only in certain situations. Are you? Did it make you uncomfortable at all through your treatment?"
"Not really," I say. "But she started the treatment by soaking my feet in hot water with eucalyptus oil."
"Ohhhh," she purred.
"It felt great," I agreed. "You can imagine. But then she puts her hands in the water and scrubs my feet like this--"
And then I picked up one of her white-socked feet by the ankle, and with my other hand raked my fingernails side to side in a scrubbing motion between the ball of her foot and her heel.
"Oh! Oh!" she exclaimed. And then the laughter came, as she said "That tickles. That does tickle."
"But the reflexology itself felt so good," I continue, and I turned the tickling into massaging her foot, as a reflexologist might.
"Oh God," she sighed. "You've got about an hour to cut that out," and she smiled at me.
I massaged her foot for a little bit, and then stopped to talk a little more. After a minute I pointed to her other foot and said, "Oh, I have to balance you out." I got up to move to the other side of her.
"You know how important that is," she said, and this time put her foot right on my lap herself. I started tickling the bottom of this foot, but didn't get a response. Almost disappointed, she said, "See, now it doesn't tickle! I don't know why that is."
"Maybe I relaxed you too much with the massage."
"Probably. This is wonderful."
I massaged the foot in that expert way we ticklers do. And then in one motion I slid the sock off her foot. Her bare foot was thin-skinned and delicate.
"There you go," she said approvingly.
I lightly scratched down the underside, from toes to heel, and felt her slightly brace herself. Then I lightly scratched the top of her foot, from toes to shin, and back down to toes, and back up to shin, and back down to toes. Over and over. First she tittered, then she giggled, then she laughed and moved her mouth close to my ear saying, through laughter, "Now that tickles. Now that really tickles. That really tickles."
I could have kept it up for I don't know how long. She was ticklish, and being tickled, and not seeming to be in a hurry for me to stop. But suddenly both her kids and my kids were standing before us. Whoops.
"Daddy, some kids are being mean to us."
"Mommy, we're hungry."
She and I looked at each other and laughed at the situation. "Well, I'm going to tend to the kids," I said.
"Yeah, we better. Thank you SO much for that foot massage. That was just the best."
The rest of the day was great, but there endeth the tickling portion of it.
You just gotta love the No Shoes rule.
Your LA tickler,
Boomatowna
