Boomtown13
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- Jul 24, 2001
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Hm. Midnight. The witching hour. Time for one... more... tale.
This one's about the Tickling Bandit, back when he was...
A WAITER! (dum dum DUM)
Now, you've heard the other Tickling Bandit tales -- in the park, in the bookstore, in the office, at cafes, indoor playgrounds, on planes and trains, and, yes, a few automobiles. If it's a place, and it has a name, then he's most likely tickled there.
Well, maybe not ever in a graveyard. At least there's that.
No, no, wait a minute... it's coming to me...
Actually yes, a graveyard too.
But this here's not about that. It's about (dum dum DUM) his waitering days. Table service. Black pants, white shirt, and tie. He was an order-taker. A food-server. A tip-getter.
But, is it not unethical to tickle your customers? Why, yes it is unethical. That's why, when he reached the wise old age of 30, he retired. Hung up the Tickling Bandit persona, and began TELLING people how fun tickling was for him, before he would tickle them. That opened up whole new doors of excitement and satisfaction for him.
Okay, okay, Boomtown! Ticklng bandit, shmickling bandit! Tell us about when you tickled people as a waiter already!
Psh. Fine.
I won't mention all the occasions, because it would become a tedious list. Let me tell you about the best one. The best, because I actually got this woman to request it.
It was an Italian bistro. By day you got your panino, your insalata, your pizza. At night you got your pasta with lobster, your pasta with clams, your tiramisu. Capuccinos all around.
Table for one. A cute redhead was dining alone. Her shoe dangled from her bare foot when her legs were crossed. I attended to her every need, and we formed that secret boyfriend-girlfriend temporariness that occurs between a table-for-one and a server of the opposite sex. (Did I lose you there?) Anyway, the chemistry was good, but it was purely professional. Until she finished her meal and was thinking about dessert.
"What else can I get you?"
She smiled up at me. "Hmm, what do I want right now?"
"You want a coffee and maybe some apple torte. Or maybe you want just a coffee. Or maybe you want to sit back, relax with another glass of wine, and order a foot massage?" I said with deadpan silliness.
Her eyes brightened. "A foot massage?"
"It's not on the menu. But it's our specialty."
"And how would you manage that?" she asked.
"Well, I'd do something like this..." I said as I bent down to her dangling shoe under the table and scrabbled my fingers on her bare sole, with no pretense of massage at all. Her eyes shot open wide and she laughed, trying to repress it. I let it last only a few seconds. I was, after all, on the job.
"I'll have another glass of wine and the apple torte," she said after we both regained composure.
Like a good waiter, I fetched that which she requested. When I served them to her, I stepped back and asked, "Is there anything else I can do for you?"
Her face reddened as I had been serving her dessert, and now she blushed even more. She looked down at the table and said, "I want you to tickle my foot again."
It was golden. I just had to hear it twice. I said, "Excuse me?"
She said, "I want you to tickle my foot again."
"Of course," I said very formerly, like a butler. And I bent down and tickled her foot in the same way, but this time lasting longer, and tickling more determinedly. She subtly grabbed the table and her shoulders rose up. She did her best to keep her laughter discreet, letting it out as softly as she could.
When I relented, I told her I'd be back to check on her in a little bit. This was late at night, and the kitchen would stop serving soon. I didn't have too many other tables. My redhead was at the ideal table for this kind of affair -- it was on the other side of the bar, away from other customers and my co-workers.
When I went back to check on her, I saw that her dangling foot was now completely bare. Its shoe lay dropped on the floor. I stepped up to the table and said, "Oh, now don't do that to me." She rotated her foot around in response, flexing the toes. "Would you like anything else?" I asked, switching back into butler mode. "Maybe a little more?" We both knew what I was talking about.
"Maybe." Now she was being flirty.
I bent down for my third and last time. Now I could get at her toes. I tickled her from toes to heel and back. Her foot danced with my hand as it tickled her. She couldn't eat or drink while I was tickling, she had to again hold onto the table, her eyes closed, her face happy and laughing.
I'd like to leave the story there. After that, there was just a dropping of the check, a hefty tip left behind, and mutually warm good-nights. She goes down as one of my favorite customers, I'll tell you that. And for all my fellow virgos out there, yes, I diligently washed my hands after every time I touched her feet. It was a small hassle, completely outweighed by the stimulating interaction. I can't tell you how intoxicated I was with the scenario, successfully working tickling into that kind of situation.
Can I take your order?
Boomtown,
Tickling Since 1970
PS-what horror movie am I quoting at the top? Okay, maybe paraphrasing, but I know I'm close!
This one's about the Tickling Bandit, back when he was...
A WAITER! (dum dum DUM)
Now, you've heard the other Tickling Bandit tales -- in the park, in the bookstore, in the office, at cafes, indoor playgrounds, on planes and trains, and, yes, a few automobiles. If it's a place, and it has a name, then he's most likely tickled there.
Well, maybe not ever in a graveyard. At least there's that.
No, no, wait a minute... it's coming to me...
Actually yes, a graveyard too.
But this here's not about that. It's about (dum dum DUM) his waitering days. Table service. Black pants, white shirt, and tie. He was an order-taker. A food-server. A tip-getter.
But, is it not unethical to tickle your customers? Why, yes it is unethical. That's why, when he reached the wise old age of 30, he retired. Hung up the Tickling Bandit persona, and began TELLING people how fun tickling was for him, before he would tickle them. That opened up whole new doors of excitement and satisfaction for him.
Okay, okay, Boomtown! Ticklng bandit, shmickling bandit! Tell us about when you tickled people as a waiter already!
Psh. Fine.
I won't mention all the occasions, because it would become a tedious list. Let me tell you about the best one. The best, because I actually got this woman to request it.
It was an Italian bistro. By day you got your panino, your insalata, your pizza. At night you got your pasta with lobster, your pasta with clams, your tiramisu. Capuccinos all around.
Table for one. A cute redhead was dining alone. Her shoe dangled from her bare foot when her legs were crossed. I attended to her every need, and we formed that secret boyfriend-girlfriend temporariness that occurs between a table-for-one and a server of the opposite sex. (Did I lose you there?) Anyway, the chemistry was good, but it was purely professional. Until she finished her meal and was thinking about dessert.
"What else can I get you?"
She smiled up at me. "Hmm, what do I want right now?"
"You want a coffee and maybe some apple torte. Or maybe you want just a coffee. Or maybe you want to sit back, relax with another glass of wine, and order a foot massage?" I said with deadpan silliness.
Her eyes brightened. "A foot massage?"
"It's not on the menu. But it's our specialty."
"And how would you manage that?" she asked.
"Well, I'd do something like this..." I said as I bent down to her dangling shoe under the table and scrabbled my fingers on her bare sole, with no pretense of massage at all. Her eyes shot open wide and she laughed, trying to repress it. I let it last only a few seconds. I was, after all, on the job.
"I'll have another glass of wine and the apple torte," she said after we both regained composure.
Like a good waiter, I fetched that which she requested. When I served them to her, I stepped back and asked, "Is there anything else I can do for you?"
Her face reddened as I had been serving her dessert, and now she blushed even more. She looked down at the table and said, "I want you to tickle my foot again."
It was golden. I just had to hear it twice. I said, "Excuse me?"
She said, "I want you to tickle my foot again."
"Of course," I said very formerly, like a butler. And I bent down and tickled her foot in the same way, but this time lasting longer, and tickling more determinedly. She subtly grabbed the table and her shoulders rose up. She did her best to keep her laughter discreet, letting it out as softly as she could.
When I relented, I told her I'd be back to check on her in a little bit. This was late at night, and the kitchen would stop serving soon. I didn't have too many other tables. My redhead was at the ideal table for this kind of affair -- it was on the other side of the bar, away from other customers and my co-workers.
When I went back to check on her, I saw that her dangling foot was now completely bare. Its shoe lay dropped on the floor. I stepped up to the table and said, "Oh, now don't do that to me." She rotated her foot around in response, flexing the toes. "Would you like anything else?" I asked, switching back into butler mode. "Maybe a little more?" We both knew what I was talking about.
"Maybe." Now she was being flirty.
I bent down for my third and last time. Now I could get at her toes. I tickled her from toes to heel and back. Her foot danced with my hand as it tickled her. She couldn't eat or drink while I was tickling, she had to again hold onto the table, her eyes closed, her face happy and laughing.
I'd like to leave the story there. After that, there was just a dropping of the check, a hefty tip left behind, and mutually warm good-nights. She goes down as one of my favorite customers, I'll tell you that. And for all my fellow virgos out there, yes, I diligently washed my hands after every time I touched her feet. It was a small hassle, completely outweighed by the stimulating interaction. I can't tell you how intoxicated I was with the scenario, successfully working tickling into that kind of situation.
Can I take your order?
Boomtown,
Tickling Since 1970
PS-what horror movie am I quoting at the top? Okay, maybe paraphrasing, but I know I'm close!
