Fair warning - this story contains very little tickling and pretty much zero sexual content. Sorry. Just got in the mood to try and write something more, I guess thoughtful is the word so take it for what it is and I hope some of you like it.
Edit - Forgot to mention, any feedback would, as always, be gratefuly received whether positive or negative.
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You get up, you dress, you go to work, you come back, you watch TV, you go to bed.
You get up, you dress, you go to work, you come back, you watch TV, you go to bed.
You get up, you dress, you go to work, you come back, you watch TV, you go to bed.
Over and over again, the same routine, the same endless drudge broken only by the weekends as you desperately pretend that this is what makes the rest of the week worth living. The lie-in, the sport on TV, popping down the pub for a quick pint then back home to get dressed for the big night out. Off to town, on the prowl, ready to pounce on the first person who’s even vaguely interested or interesting, drunken conversation then back to yours or theirs for a one night stand that’ll make both of you feel good even as you fail to connect. Just enough to get you through the next week, just enough to let you talk to your work colleagues - that’s what they are after all, not friends, not mates, just people who happen to share a building with you - on Monday morning and brag about the weekend, the incredible sex with the supermodel even if it was a quickie with a Margrat Thatcher look-a-like.
And then, one day, it happens. You walk down a street, the same street you walk down every day and something catches your eye. The graffiti scrawled across the brick work of a factory long-since closed, the smoke-blackened windows of a house ravaged by fire, a missing pet poster hanging from a lamppost by one corner, fighting for life thanks to a single strip of tape as it flaps forlornly in the breeze. It’s always been like that, ever since you can remember, just one more mark that all was right with the world, that all was in its proper place. Though, of course, for someone, no, more than just someone, many people, things aren’t right and proper at all, their job gone, their home and possessions of a lifetime swept away, a creature that was practically a member of the family gone forever with no rhyme or reason as to how or why.
And you realise, in one brief moment that burns in the very depths of your soul, just how mundane and boring and pointless and routine your life is. Worse, that you’ve turned a blind eye to it all. What was that poster even about anyway, a cat wasn’t it? Or a dog? Yeah, yeah it was a dog, golden retriever. That had to be it. Certainly you remember something that looked blonde on those rare occasions you glanced over as you trudged to work and back. And something else, something that managed to worm its way past your studied indifference… a name. Elizabeth. Odd name for a dog, you remember thinking, for surely it was a dog, gold fur looking like blonde hair in those snatched glances, if it wasn’t, if it wasn’t a missing pet but… something, someone else… you’d have paid more attention right? You’d have gone up, studied it, kept a lookout for her on the streets right? Right? Right….
You turn, intending to walk right back up that street and check, but it’s at least a couple of hundred yards back up that street. Which street? That street, this street, any street, any town, your town, right outside your front door, right outside your home. Home, home so close now and the light’s fading, a cold wind biting as you pull your collar up against the chill and scurry on your way, poster fading into the darkness behind you, the thoughts that momentarily assaulted you falling away, the guilt and drive and purpose that assaulted you fading away, fading, fading, fading into the mist of memory.
You get up, you dress, you go to work, you come back, you watch TV, you go to bed.
You get up, you dress, you go to work, you come back, you watch TV, you go to bed.
You get up, you dress, you go to work, you come back, you watch TV, you go to bed.
Routine. Safe. Predictable. Guilt-free. Run and hide in the routine of the normal, of the expected. Don’t stand out, don’t draw attention, blend with the crowd for fear of becoming the victim of the mob or, worse, of having to face the truth of you. That horrible truth that if this is all you do, if this is all you aspire to, then what in fact are you in the final reckoning? What do you bring to the world other than another mouth to feed, another body to care for, another corpse to bury when the time comes?
You get up, you dress, you go to work, you come back, you watch TV, you go to bed.
You get up, you dress, you go to work, you come back, you watch TV, you go to bed.
You get up, you dress, you go to work, you come back, you watch TV, you go to bed.
And then, one day, you meet someone. Not out on the town, not in a meat market with lights blazing, music pounding, chemicals and alcohol pumping through your body with every beat of your heart. No, you just… meet them. Down the supermarket. On the bus. They drop their bag and you help clean it up. You ask them the time and they tell you with a small smile. They almost bump into you in the street, both of you trying to move out of the others way. They smile, you laugh, your first dance together. You talk, a word or two, no more, such a small thing and yet the start of the landslide.
You get up, you dress, you go to work, you come back, you watch TV, you go to bed.
You get up, you dress, you go to work, you come back, you watch TV, you go to bed.
You get up, you dress, you go to work, you come back, you watch TV, you go to bed.
But now you can’t concentrate on the routine anymore. Now they seem to be around every corner. Maybe you see them again, more likely not, but now you’re looking for them. Maybe you took their number, their name, something, anything to help you find them. Maybe you didn’t, maybe it’s fate that you have to trust in now. But doing nothing seems to be wrong, almost a crime to sit and wait and trust in fate so you go out and start looking in earnest, visiting the place you met, trying to work out where they may be or where they were going or where they were coming from. More and more it, they, are all you’re looking for, more and more they become the routine even as life goes on around you.
You get up, you dress, you go to work, you come back, you watch TV, you go to bed.
You get up, you dress, you go to work, you come back, you watch TV, you go to bed.
You get up, you dress, you go to work…. And there they are!
Suddenly, wonderfully, you see them. Where, when, what they’re doing, none of it matters now. The world goes away and they seem to glow. You step up, nervous, worried, desperate to say the right thing and terrified of mistakes, standing on the cliff edge, the waves below a distant cacophony, the wind pulling and tugging, gently insisting that you jump, the smallest sliver of rock beneath your feet, gravity pulling you down to the rocks hidden far far below you if you step off. And yet you can’t stop now, you’ve come to the edge of that cliff yourself, by your own merits and your own desire, you’ve broken the routine to get there and for better or worse turning back to the grey nothing of that interminable, dreary, dull, empty, pointless life without taking that step, without knowing what will happen and what could have been, seems impossible. You say the hardest thing you’ll ever ask them, two little letters that cost you more to say than you ever thought possible.
"Hi"
And you fly! Over the cliff now but not falling, soaring into the clear blue skies and you realise that you both went over that edge together, their eyes meeting yours, each of you supporting the other as words spill uncontrollably. You talk for hours, getting to know each other, seeing the routine you know so well, so damnably well, reflected back in their face, their own routine, their own path through life so well worn as to be almost automatic. You lift each other out, tearing apart and rebuilding preconceptions of life, of normalcy and confronting the belief you both held that there was nothing more.
Finally you return to yours, or to theirs, doesn’t matter now and sit close together. The moment stretches on, becoming awkward. A kiss seems too forward, too much of the routine, a prelude to yet another one night stand, of something without meaning and substance. Suddenly you reach out and place your hands on their sides, tickling hard. They collapse into laughter and try to pull away, but not hard, not with force or meaning behind it. Their hands find your hips and dig in, your world explodes into laughter and your hands falter.
They dive on top of you, hands tickling, body trying to pin you down as you twist and writhe under them. It’s harmless fun, it’s playtime, it’s silly, it’s erotic, it’s foreplay, it’s contact. You’re fully clothed, both of you, hands firmly on the outside of layers of fabric yet your skin burns, their breath is coming quicker now. You try to concentrate and for a moment get your hands under your control, shift them up under their arms and dive into their armpits, squirming your body up as they shriek and jump and wriggle downwards.
You end up face to face and now intentions are clear. You pause as they do, your bodies moving as one already, a look into each others eyes enough to know the connection is starting to build between you. Your sense alive with the feel of each other, a burning desire to know more, and a thousand and one ways to go about it. Futures spill out in front of you like grains of sand on the beach:
Tickling each other for hour after hour, letting the tension build until it becomes unbearable.
Tearing each others clothes away that very moment, the desire to see each other naked and to explore the secrets of the other’s body too much to resist.
A gentle, teasing courtship, building upon the moment with each passing day.
And further on, a life together, a future. A path that winds away from you so you can barely glimpse its edges. Work, fun, family yes, all that and more if you want it but more, far more than simple check boxes on a page. A life, a rollercoaster of unpredictable twists and turns, some good, some bad, some delightful, some terrifying but always with the other at your side no matter what. A routine maybe, but not your routine, and not theirs. The routine of the unknown.
Edit - Forgot to mention, any feedback would, as always, be gratefuly received whether positive or negative.
***************************************************
You get up, you dress, you go to work, you come back, you watch TV, you go to bed.
You get up, you dress, you go to work, you come back, you watch TV, you go to bed.
You get up, you dress, you go to work, you come back, you watch TV, you go to bed.
Over and over again, the same routine, the same endless drudge broken only by the weekends as you desperately pretend that this is what makes the rest of the week worth living. The lie-in, the sport on TV, popping down the pub for a quick pint then back home to get dressed for the big night out. Off to town, on the prowl, ready to pounce on the first person who’s even vaguely interested or interesting, drunken conversation then back to yours or theirs for a one night stand that’ll make both of you feel good even as you fail to connect. Just enough to get you through the next week, just enough to let you talk to your work colleagues - that’s what they are after all, not friends, not mates, just people who happen to share a building with you - on Monday morning and brag about the weekend, the incredible sex with the supermodel even if it was a quickie with a Margrat Thatcher look-a-like.
And then, one day, it happens. You walk down a street, the same street you walk down every day and something catches your eye. The graffiti scrawled across the brick work of a factory long-since closed, the smoke-blackened windows of a house ravaged by fire, a missing pet poster hanging from a lamppost by one corner, fighting for life thanks to a single strip of tape as it flaps forlornly in the breeze. It’s always been like that, ever since you can remember, just one more mark that all was right with the world, that all was in its proper place. Though, of course, for someone, no, more than just someone, many people, things aren’t right and proper at all, their job gone, their home and possessions of a lifetime swept away, a creature that was practically a member of the family gone forever with no rhyme or reason as to how or why.
And you realise, in one brief moment that burns in the very depths of your soul, just how mundane and boring and pointless and routine your life is. Worse, that you’ve turned a blind eye to it all. What was that poster even about anyway, a cat wasn’t it? Or a dog? Yeah, yeah it was a dog, golden retriever. That had to be it. Certainly you remember something that looked blonde on those rare occasions you glanced over as you trudged to work and back. And something else, something that managed to worm its way past your studied indifference… a name. Elizabeth. Odd name for a dog, you remember thinking, for surely it was a dog, gold fur looking like blonde hair in those snatched glances, if it wasn’t, if it wasn’t a missing pet but… something, someone else… you’d have paid more attention right? You’d have gone up, studied it, kept a lookout for her on the streets right? Right? Right….
You turn, intending to walk right back up that street and check, but it’s at least a couple of hundred yards back up that street. Which street? That street, this street, any street, any town, your town, right outside your front door, right outside your home. Home, home so close now and the light’s fading, a cold wind biting as you pull your collar up against the chill and scurry on your way, poster fading into the darkness behind you, the thoughts that momentarily assaulted you falling away, the guilt and drive and purpose that assaulted you fading away, fading, fading, fading into the mist of memory.
You get up, you dress, you go to work, you come back, you watch TV, you go to bed.
You get up, you dress, you go to work, you come back, you watch TV, you go to bed.
You get up, you dress, you go to work, you come back, you watch TV, you go to bed.
Routine. Safe. Predictable. Guilt-free. Run and hide in the routine of the normal, of the expected. Don’t stand out, don’t draw attention, blend with the crowd for fear of becoming the victim of the mob or, worse, of having to face the truth of you. That horrible truth that if this is all you do, if this is all you aspire to, then what in fact are you in the final reckoning? What do you bring to the world other than another mouth to feed, another body to care for, another corpse to bury when the time comes?
You get up, you dress, you go to work, you come back, you watch TV, you go to bed.
You get up, you dress, you go to work, you come back, you watch TV, you go to bed.
You get up, you dress, you go to work, you come back, you watch TV, you go to bed.
And then, one day, you meet someone. Not out on the town, not in a meat market with lights blazing, music pounding, chemicals and alcohol pumping through your body with every beat of your heart. No, you just… meet them. Down the supermarket. On the bus. They drop their bag and you help clean it up. You ask them the time and they tell you with a small smile. They almost bump into you in the street, both of you trying to move out of the others way. They smile, you laugh, your first dance together. You talk, a word or two, no more, such a small thing and yet the start of the landslide.
You get up, you dress, you go to work, you come back, you watch TV, you go to bed.
You get up, you dress, you go to work, you come back, you watch TV, you go to bed.
You get up, you dress, you go to work, you come back, you watch TV, you go to bed.
But now you can’t concentrate on the routine anymore. Now they seem to be around every corner. Maybe you see them again, more likely not, but now you’re looking for them. Maybe you took their number, their name, something, anything to help you find them. Maybe you didn’t, maybe it’s fate that you have to trust in now. But doing nothing seems to be wrong, almost a crime to sit and wait and trust in fate so you go out and start looking in earnest, visiting the place you met, trying to work out where they may be or where they were going or where they were coming from. More and more it, they, are all you’re looking for, more and more they become the routine even as life goes on around you.
You get up, you dress, you go to work, you come back, you watch TV, you go to bed.
You get up, you dress, you go to work, you come back, you watch TV, you go to bed.
You get up, you dress, you go to work…. And there they are!
Suddenly, wonderfully, you see them. Where, when, what they’re doing, none of it matters now. The world goes away and they seem to glow. You step up, nervous, worried, desperate to say the right thing and terrified of mistakes, standing on the cliff edge, the waves below a distant cacophony, the wind pulling and tugging, gently insisting that you jump, the smallest sliver of rock beneath your feet, gravity pulling you down to the rocks hidden far far below you if you step off. And yet you can’t stop now, you’ve come to the edge of that cliff yourself, by your own merits and your own desire, you’ve broken the routine to get there and for better or worse turning back to the grey nothing of that interminable, dreary, dull, empty, pointless life without taking that step, without knowing what will happen and what could have been, seems impossible. You say the hardest thing you’ll ever ask them, two little letters that cost you more to say than you ever thought possible.
"Hi"
And you fly! Over the cliff now but not falling, soaring into the clear blue skies and you realise that you both went over that edge together, their eyes meeting yours, each of you supporting the other as words spill uncontrollably. You talk for hours, getting to know each other, seeing the routine you know so well, so damnably well, reflected back in their face, their own routine, their own path through life so well worn as to be almost automatic. You lift each other out, tearing apart and rebuilding preconceptions of life, of normalcy and confronting the belief you both held that there was nothing more.
Finally you return to yours, or to theirs, doesn’t matter now and sit close together. The moment stretches on, becoming awkward. A kiss seems too forward, too much of the routine, a prelude to yet another one night stand, of something without meaning and substance. Suddenly you reach out and place your hands on their sides, tickling hard. They collapse into laughter and try to pull away, but not hard, not with force or meaning behind it. Their hands find your hips and dig in, your world explodes into laughter and your hands falter.
They dive on top of you, hands tickling, body trying to pin you down as you twist and writhe under them. It’s harmless fun, it’s playtime, it’s silly, it’s erotic, it’s foreplay, it’s contact. You’re fully clothed, both of you, hands firmly on the outside of layers of fabric yet your skin burns, their breath is coming quicker now. You try to concentrate and for a moment get your hands under your control, shift them up under their arms and dive into their armpits, squirming your body up as they shriek and jump and wriggle downwards.
You end up face to face and now intentions are clear. You pause as they do, your bodies moving as one already, a look into each others eyes enough to know the connection is starting to build between you. Your sense alive with the feel of each other, a burning desire to know more, and a thousand and one ways to go about it. Futures spill out in front of you like grains of sand on the beach:
Tickling each other for hour after hour, letting the tension build until it becomes unbearable.
Tearing each others clothes away that very moment, the desire to see each other naked and to explore the secrets of the other’s body too much to resist.
A gentle, teasing courtship, building upon the moment with each passing day.
And further on, a life together, a future. A path that winds away from you so you can barely glimpse its edges. Work, fun, family yes, all that and more if you want it but more, far more than simple check boxes on a page. A life, a rollercoaster of unpredictable twists and turns, some good, some bad, some delightful, some terrifying but always with the other at your side no matter what. A routine maybe, but not your routine, and not theirs. The routine of the unknown.
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