Hello everybody!! Thank you in advance for at least clicking on my little story. This particular one was a request courtesy of Q_0. This member gave me the idea, and some minor details and let me do the rest. I thank you all, and look forward to any and all comments.
Today is scorching hot. Even in my air conditioned room I’m having trouble keeping cool. It’s almost as if I’ve skipped my youth and plunged right into menopause with the amount of heat I feel on my body. I love my little town of Shiloh, but damn if it doesn’t get hot in the spring. I look out the window of my bedroom to the corner of the street and see a small neon poster indicating a yard sale just a few blocks north of my house. I love yard sales. I love collecting knick knacks and finding use in things others have found to be useless. Although it’s hot, I can’t pass up the chance to go to one so close by. I hop scotch around my floor which is littered with magazine poster pin ups, stuffed animals and dirty laundry and go into my closet to find something clean to wear.
Scrapping my loosely fitted t-shirt off I slip into a slim fit crop top that grips my perky breast. I squeeze into a pair of blue jean shorts that hike up around mid-thigh. I step into the reflection of my full length mirror adore my sun kissed bronze skin. My stomach lays perfectly flat, soft, but not enough to look chubby. A quick toss of my hair shakes the knots out of my curly blonde locks and it falls flawlessly at my sides. A pair of green thong sandals lay at the foot of my bed and I slip them on to protect my precious feet from the pavement. I am about to head outside when I hear my mother’s loud stomps echoing towards my room. In seconds she’s at my door and her voluptuous frame blocks my exit. At only 5’9 she towers over me and her very presence makes me back up.
“And just where do you think YOU’RE going?” she points down at me.
I point towards the window, “There’s a yard sale just a few blocks down, I thought, you know since I’m fresh off my 18th birthday, I could go spend some of my birthday money!” I exclaim.
My mother shakes her head, “Yeah right! So you can buy more junk to cram in here? Look at your room, it’s as if a tornado touched down and… ugh you, you can’t go Myra.” She reprimands.
I put my hands together as if I’m going to pray, “Please mom, please let me go! I, I promise I’ll straighten this room out!” I plead.
My mother steps closer to me, “Junk. That’s all there ever is at yard sales. Crap that’s used, that doesn’t even work. I don’t know why you insist on going to those things!?” She picks up a nearby pendant that was once glossy silver, now slightly tarnished, “I mean, look at this! Myra, I forbid you to go to that yard sale.” She throws the pendant down.
A fire erupts in my belly as I watch the pendant fall, “Ugh, MOM!” I pout childishly.
She shakes her index finger at me, “Don’t you, ugh MOM! And besides, what makes you think you’re going ANYWHERE in those rags?” she alludes to my crop top.
“I’m 18 mom, I’m not a little girl anymore and besides It’s like a million degrees outside.” I complain.
“Oh, no you don’t. No daughter of mine is going out looking like THAT.” She turns around to exit my room. No amount of spandex can hide her hideous cottage cheese thighs and they jiggle as she walks, “I’m heading out to the mall to get some shopping done. When I come home, you’d better be in some decent clothing. I mean for God’s sake it looks like you’re wearing a toddler’s outfit.” She stomps off and leaves me to my own devices.
For some reason unimaginable, my mother thinks we can afford the finer things in life. She goes mall shopping almost every weekend. She has more pairs of shoes than days of the week and she only wears name brand blouses. I must have been hit on the head as a little kid, because being “material” never really passed on to me. I enjoy finding a bargain, and if it’s used, so what?
I wait till my mother pulls out of the driveway and our suburban turns the corner before I pull my bicycle out of the garage. Although the bike is a little big for me being that I’m only 5’3 it sure as hell beats walking on the scalding hot pavement. The ride is quick and the wind that whips through my hair is welcome relief in the midst of the heat. I pull up to a small house that’s made up of dull colored bricks and a worn out screen door and drop my bike a safe distance from the street.
Laid out on the lawn are three tables with abundant amounts of gizmos and gadgets of all shapes and sizes. On a tight rope sits a line of clothes that stretches almost as wide as my mother, and below it is a box of movies most of which are on cassette. I’m the only customer, and rightfully so, you’d have to be a moron to want to brave this heat. My snooping must have prompted some attention because no sooner do I pick up a compact mirror that I hear someone shuffle out of the house. I turn to see an old woman who’s likely in her 80’s trotting in my direction.
“Hello there. Find anything you like?” she asks.
“Nope, not yet, but I’ll keep digging!” I squeak.
She’s a frail thing. She stands eye level with me, but her body seems deteriorated and thin like a twig. I can see every vein busting out of her wrinkly skin and she sags in most places I’d expect an elderly woman to sag in. Her face looks like a raisin and the only saving grace I can possibly see in her is that she’s got an impeccably white set of teeth. While they very well could be dentures I don’t dwell on the idea too long.
“Well ya holler if ya needs anything honey, I’ll be right over there.” She points to a small wooden rocking chair underneath an oak tree.
I continue to sift through her pile of whatnots and find a particularly antique looking hairbrush. It still has a few strands of steel gray hair that I can only assume belong to their owner. I take a liking to the small pink rose that’s printed on the back of the brush and clutch it tight because I know it’s going home with me. I’m about to scavenge the next table when a delicious aroma tickles the tip of my nose.
“Do I smell cookies?” I turn to look at her.
She flashes me a smile, “Why yes dear. They just came out of the oven. Chocolate chip.” She gently rocks herself back and forth.
I rub my tummy, “Mmm, they smell good!” I say.
The old lady eases out of her rocker and trots over to where I stand, “would you care to step inside for one? Maybe some milk, Miss?” she uses her hand as a visor against the sun in an effort to get a better look at me.
My mouth moistens at the thought and I simply cannot refuse, “Myra, my name is Myra and I would love some cookies and milk!” I exclaim, “…but what about your yard sale?” I point to her tables overflowing with stuff.
“Oh, ain’t nobody gonna mess with it.” She points towards my bike, “just park your ride inside. Don’t want to give folks the idea that it’s for sale. Oh and you can call me Ms. Patterson.” She scurries into the house while I pull my bike in. There’s a trickle of sweat running down my back and I quickly press myself against her air condition unit to cool down.
Her living room has a dull brown theme and along the wall hang several pictures I can only assume are family. In the habit of making myself at home wherever I go, I slip off my flip flops and embrace the cool crisp feel of the carpet beneath me. Ms. Patterson is nowhere to be seen, but I can hear her rattling dishes in the distance. Naturally inquisitive I tip toe over to the pictures and take in a couple of images. The one that strikes me the most involves a younger version of Ms. Patterson hugged up with a less than enthusiastic teenager most likely her daughter. This would explain all the teenage geared items I came across earlier. I’m about to take in another picture when Ms. Patterson appears out of the corner of my eye holding a tray filled with cookies and a small glass of milk.
“Got your cookies darling.” she places the tray down on the coffee table in the middle of the living room. “Admiring my pictures darling?” she asks.
“Oh, yes mam. Very much so.” I spin around and plop myself down in a couch so old I nearly sink between the cushions.
Ms. Patterson smiles bright revealing those pearly white teeth again, “Oh, Lord I was a peach back then.” She alludes to her youth, “When I rocked a bikini all the boys be hollerin’.” She takes a seat right next to me.
I apprehensively scoot over to create a small buffer zone, “I’ll bet you were.” I reach down and grab a cookie.
They’re still warm from the oven’s infernal heat and I try my best to grip the cookie daintily so as not to dirty myself, but it’s no use as the chocolate chips ooze out of the cookie and onto my fingers. I manage to squeeze half the cookie into my mouth and I chomp down on it sending a few crumbs down my body. An explosion of flavor excites my taste buds and I simply cannot wait to take another bite. I stuff the rest of the cookie in my mouth and turn to face Ms. Patterson. She giggles at the sight of my chocolate stained lips and quickly grabs a napkin to wipe it off.
She folds the dirty side of the napkin in, “Enjoy that?” she pipes.
There’s obviously cookie matter jammed in between my teeth but I smile anyway, “Oh, yes mam!” I don’t want to look gluttonous by reaching for another cookie, but my willpower doesn’t stand a chance against their sensational aroma and I reach for another, “You know, my mom makes cookies too, but hers are gross! She like buys the logs of dough already made, but still can’t put them together like this!” I proclaim.
Ms. Patterson shakes her head, “tsk, tsk, these are homemade little one, and they’re made with love.” She speaks softly almost as if the words she just uttered are some kind of family kept secret.
On any other occasion I would not take kindly to somebody calling me “little one”, but when that somebody has cookies as good as these I make an acceptation, “Mmm, these are GOOD! Say, I don’t mean to be nosy, but is that your daughter there in that pic?” I reach over and take a sip of milk. The cool liquid is welcoming as it washes down excess cookie from my mouth.
“Yep that is my daughter.” She says plainly.
“Like why does she not look happy in that picture?” I lie back on the couch and rub my slightly protruding belly.
Ms. Patterson sighs, “well you know how yall young folks is. Always wantin’ to grow up, get away from theys ma and pa. She was just cranky, das all.” She looks me over, “You kinda remind me of her, now that yous sittin’ there all full of cookies.” She lightly pokes my stomach evoking a twitch from me.
I smile, “Oh really?” I arch my eyebrows.
“Yep, yall even got the same kind of belly button.” She laughs.
I look down at my stomach and examine my navel, “Ooo, she had an innie?” I flick a few crumbs that have made residence on my shorts.
“Is that what they’s called?” She slaps her knees in unisons, “Oh, how I miss her. The minute she finished high school she went off to some college far away. I ain’t seen her since.” She stares down into her thin empty hands.
I place a hand on hers, “I’m sorry Ms. Patterson.” I swoop my head down to lock eyes with her.
A grin crawls on her face sending her wrinkles everywhere, “you know what we loved doing together?” she lifts her head.
I retract my hand and stretch my back, “What that?”
“Well she used to have de MOST ticklish tummy! I remember when she’d be feelin’ down bout boys or grades, I’d prescribe a small tummy tickle session, oh how I miss that.” She sinks her head again.
I’m not the brightest bulb on the chandelier, but I can already tell where this is headed, and I immediately shoot right off the couch, “Oh, Ms. Patterson it’s been really lovely, but I like have to get going. There’s no telling when my mom’s getting home and…”
She cuts me off with the loudest I’d heard her talk all afternoon, “Tis alright darling. No need to explain.” She turns away from me and focuses on the picture of her daughter.
I back away slowly, “Thank you so, so much for the cookies…”
“Ahh, just go.” She buries her head in one hand and shoos me with the other.
I feel a tremendous weight on me. Aside from her warm hospitality and scrumptious cookies, I owe her nothing. On the other hand, she’s a lonely old lady and my heart goes out to her, but my body? On top of all that I’m dreadfully ticklish, with my luck I’ll pee my undies and make a complete fool of myself. I don’t want that. I force one final smile which she doesn’t even acknowledge and turn for the door. Just as I am about to slip my flip flops back on I hear Ms. Patterson begin to sob. Half of me wants to believe she’s just delivering a very on cue cry, but my other half, my sympathetic half concludes she’s being sincere and I spin right back around and trot back to her. She looks up from her hand with tear stricken eyes, “What do YOU want?” I immediately take note that her southern hospitality is all but gone.
I playfully pat my bare belly like a drum making it ripple, “I want YOOOOU, to tickle MY tummy!” I’m grinning from ear to ear, but inside I’m dreadfully nervous.
A smile returns to her face as Ms. Patterson dries her eyes, “Oh, darling. You have no idea what this means to me.” She takes my hand and sits me down right beside her, “You sure yous okay wit dis?” She locks eyes with me.
I do my best to force a smile, “I’m like totally down Ms. P.”
She motions me over to her lap, “Alright lil’ Myra now you layz down on my lap, tummy up okay?”
I scoot around until my back is arched right over her lap and my tummy is as out as it can be, “Like this?” I rest my head comfortably on the cushion of the couch causing my golden locks to fan out.
She smiles down on me, “Perfect. Now let’s see about that tummy shall we?” She lightly grazes over my silky smooth midsection making my microscopic nerve endings stand erect.
I bite down on my lip completely aware that this is just the beginning and that her light grazing might escalate into something unbearable. Doubts flood my mind as to whether or not I can handle this and my pulse rises gradually with anticipation. I keep my arms tucked in at my sides in hopes that I can control my impulses which if I’m not careful could result in a broken bone for Ms. Patterson.
She continues to tease my tender flesh with light circular traces around my belly making me twitch and snicker ever so often, “Oh darlin’ what a smooth tummy you gots there, is it TICKLISH?” she accelerates her attack by wiggling her boney fingers up and down my skin, “Kootchie koo!” she smiles.
Despite her efforts, the lack of pressure has resulted in little to no reaction from me. I can feel her fingers, but she seems just too old to inflict any real damage, “Come on Ms. Patterson! Is that the best you got?” I try to encourage her.
Her response sends shivers up my spine, “OH YEA? I’z takin it easy on ya!” Now with more intent she digs her skeletal fingers right into my abdominals making them shake, “How’s bout that eh?”
It’s as if a surge of electrical shock has hit my core and my arms reflexively take a defensive position trying to ward off Ms. Patterson’s hands, “OH, YOU-YOOOO-OH-HA-HA-HA-HEE-HEE-WHEE-TEE-OOOH MS. P!” I struggle with all my will to sit still as her fingers drill into my flesh, but my arms want so desperately to flail around. In an effort to subdue them I position them underneath my butt.
Ms. Patterson is as ecstatic as can be, “Oooh, my, my, lookie here, I gots me a squirmy little thing!” she probes my tummy with her index fingers motioning them up and down in a frantic passion, “My, my, your tummy is so soft little one!”
I interlock my fingers underneath my butt as added security while she infiltrates my completely vulnerable midriff, “OOO-HA-HA-HA-JEEE-HE-HE-HE-HE-MMM-MMM-EEH-HE-HE-HE-OOO-HA-HA-HA! OOOH YOU’RE GOOD!” I exclaim. There’s no stifling the laughter now. I’m in over my head with titillating sensations erupting from my sensitive stomach.
Ms. Patterson maliciously pretends to play piano prodding me with all ten fingers simultaneously. At the pace she’s poking I can only imagine she’s playing, “Flight of the Bumblebee”, “cootchie coo little one!” each finger sends its own string of sensations up my back as she begins to penetrate deeper, “Oh, so soft and tender your tummy little one!” she teases.
I’m flopping up and off her lap with every poke and prod of her skinny fingers, “ST-ST-STOP-PL-EEEESE-HE-HE-HE—AHHH-HA-HA-HA-OOOO-THAT TICKLES!” I spout out.
Ms. Patterson abandons her piano playing for a more lucrative tickle spot, my sides. With full force she squeezes me, pressing her thumbs deep into my lower abdominals, “you should sees the look on yo face little one!” she clowns.
I can only imagine the visual show I’m putting on for her with my facial expressions. I’m willing -to bet I’m contorting my face into expressions I didn’t even think I could make, “HA-HA-HA-OOOH-HOO-REALLY-YE-YE-HEE-HE-HE-HE!” I try my best to converse but the involuntary laughter makes it near impossible to string more than two words together.
She shimmies her thumbs up and down my sides making my tummy wobble. Even my slender body has SOME sustenance and it shows as she ripples my supple stomach with deep massages, “Ooh, yous shakin now little one! Say, I’s seems to be bout two cookies short of a full dozen. Where did dem cookies go?” she giggles along with me, “hee-ooo, is they right HERE?” she clamps her fingers down on the left side of my tummy.
My knees hike up reflexively, “HA-HA-HA-OOO-HE-HE-HE-HE I-I-ATE-THEMMM-MA-HA-HA-HA-JEE-JEE-EEE-HE-HE-HE!” I shriek.
She pulls back her fingers and I make the most of my break by sucking in deep breaths of air, “where dem cookies at little one? Is they right HERE?!” With one swift plunge her digits are back squishing my right side vigorously.
I throw my legs up and flutter kick them like a swimmer trying desperately to reach the shore, “OOO-HA-HA-HA-NOO-NOT-THEREEE-HE-HE-HE-HE-TEEE—WHEE-HE-HE-HA-HA-HA-UGGHHHH!” I bellow.
She rubs me down and slaps my thighs, “now, now, behave little one. Control dem legs.” She takes her hands and stretches them in the air.
In spite of the fact that she’s not attacking me in this moment I can’t help but continue to wear a grin and giggle in small spurts, “OOO-HE-HE-HE-AWW!” I muddle. Ms. Patterson returns her hands just inches above my waist and I pinch my eyes closed awaiting another onslaught, “OOO-WHEE-HE-HE-HE-HE-GREEE-HE-HE!”
“I ain’t start ticklin you yet little one!” her voice is as giddy as I would expect from a rejuvenated grandmother.
I ease one eye open to take a peak. Her fingers dance only inches above my sensitive skin and it looks almost as if she’s casting a spell on me with the way her hands are hovering around, looking for a spot to explore, “OOO-DON’T DO IT-P-PLEASE DON’TA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA!” She pays me no mind as her fingers delve down onto my flesh kneading it like a baker flattening dough, in this case, cookie dough.
She laughs along with me taking pleasure in my torment, “Ha-ha, oh you’s so sensitive! Look at ya, flopping like a fish outa wada!”Her fingers knead my tummy applying pressure at my weakest spots like a doctor checking for appendix irregularities.
“P-PLEASEEE-HE-HE-HE-HE-OOOO-MS. P-PATTERSOOOON-AHA-HA-HA! I’VEEE-HE-HE-HE-BEEN NICEEE-TO YOOOOU! P-PLEASEE-HE-HE-HE-WHOOO-TOO TICKLISH!” I’m pleading with her for mercy on me.
I could run. I have every right to do so, but something is keeping me glued to her lap. Albeit for a couple of involuntary spasms I have no urge to shoot straight up and dash for the door. Maybe my own mother’s physical neglect is a factor. Maybe this attention from a total stranger is making up in some way for all the times I needed my mother for comfort and she wasn’t there. For every time I failed a test, for every time I’d been dumped; times she should have been with me instead of with friends drinking and smoking. It’s as if the hatred I have towards my mother is being released through volleys of laughter and I have Ms. Patterson to be grateful to.
With all my sporadic movement I’ve managed to inch away from her lap to where my tummy is out of her reach, “get on back up here little one!” she orders.
I shimmy back onto her lap and slip my hands back underneath the crevice between my butt and her legs, “HE-HE-HE-OOO-Sorry Ms. Patterson. I got carried away!” I flash a smile. For the first time I take notice of just how flush my cheeks feel.
Ms. Patterson’s thin fingers reposition themselves along my supple stomach, “Your tummy’s a’getin red Miss Myra!” she takes to tracing my navel ever so lightly making me snicker, “Oh, is that little innie a ticklish?” she teases.
My mind is running wild with anticipation as the scintillating sensations send shivers up my skin, “Why don’t you find out?” I provoke. A big mistake on my part because it only encourages my tormentor to plunge her index finger deep into my navel making me whip my head back and slam against the plush arm rest of the sofa, “HA-HA-HA-OOO-HE-HE-HE-HE-WHEEE-THAAAAT-HA-HA-HA-TOO MUUUCHA-AH-HA-HA-HA!”
I’m fighting every desire, every instinct in my body to pull my arms out from under me and make her stop. It would be easy. In her old age she couldn’t possibly overpower me. I could grab the toothpicks she calls arms and swipe them away, but I abstain, I endure. My legs are another story however, free to flutter I slam my feet against the worn cushion in frivolous jubilation.
Ms. Patterson rotates her finger the circumference of my belly button leaving no nook unchecked, no cranny untouched, “cootchie coo! My is yo innie a deep one!” She taunts.
It’s amazing the sensations she’s able to awaken with her one little finger and how one tiny circle in the middle of my tummy can be so sensitive. It’s as if a very determined worm is trying desperately to excavate into an impenetrable hole, “OOO-HA-HA-HA-YOU’REEEE-BA-HA-HA-AD-HA-HA-HA-HA-P-PLEASE-P-PLEASE-OOO-HA-HA-YOU’REEE-GONNA MAKE MEEEE-PEE-HE-HE-HE-HE!!” I confess.
It’s as if I said the magic words, because no sooner do the words leave my lips, that her hands retract from their attack position and quickly thread into my blonde hair stroking it back into conformity, “Ooo, your hair a mess little one!”
Through gulps of air I flash a smile, not a forced one brought on my insurmountable titillating sensations, but a legitimate one, “I guess I’ll be needing that brush then hu?” I allude to the rose imprinted comb I’d earlier griped tight with intent to purchase.
Ms. Patterson cracks up, “Ha, suppose you do.”
I sit up causing my tummy to bulge ever so slightly over the waist of my jean shorts, “Oooo, I feel like I just did a thousand sit ups!” I wince at the throbbing pain coming from my midsection and stand to my feet to stretch towards the ceiling. My body is so worn I almost can’t feel my cell phone vibrate in my pocket. I squeeze it out and see that my mother is sending me a text, “I’ll be home in ten minutes.” It reads.
Ms. Patterson eases off the couch to collect the tray of cookies and glass of milk, “that ya mama callin little one?” She asks.
“Yes. It looks like I’d better be going. My room was a pigsty when she left. If she comes home to find it still like totally trashed I’ll be in deep, deep trouble.” I say.
“Oh I remember dem days. My little Sylvia,” she points towards her daughter’s picture, “her room always looked like a tornado whipped through there and…”
“That’s like totally how my mom told me MY room looked like!” I press my hands into my chest astonished at how even with such a wide age gap parents have a tendency to think alike. I reach out for her hand; the same hand that only moments ago was inflicting a menacing workout on my tummy, “Ms. Patterson thanks again for the brush, cookies, and those sweet little tickles.” I duck my head low and grin almost as if I’m ashamed to admit I enjoyed the ordeal.
I feel her hand tremble as she does her best to squeeze down on mine, “Oh, I’m the one who should be grateful little one.”
I cock my head and scrunch my eyebrows, “But why?” I ponder.
She pulls me closer and envelops my small frame with a warm hug, “Because for a while there, tis like I’s back with MY little Sylvia. So thank you, Myra.” She pulls back, “Say, why don’t ya take da rest o dem cookies there? I bet yo mama would love em!” she exclaims.
I shake my head, “No, best we keep this just between us, my mom like gave me strict orders not to come.”
I let go of her hand and scurry towards the door. My flip flops are by the door. There are still tiny bits of dirt on them and they scratch my soles as I slip them on. I reach for the door, but something is keeping me from exiting. I feel an emotional tug that won’t let go almost as if though there’s an invisible bond I don’t have the power to break. I swivel around and see that Ms. Patterson has already gone about wiping up some of the crumbs I’d left behind. It isn’t until she says, “you’s welcome here anytime!” That I feel that restraint lift off me and I dash out the door. I only hope my mother hasn’t beaten me to our house.
A Moment In Time
Today is scorching hot. Even in my air conditioned room I’m having trouble keeping cool. It’s almost as if I’ve skipped my youth and plunged right into menopause with the amount of heat I feel on my body. I love my little town of Shiloh, but damn if it doesn’t get hot in the spring. I look out the window of my bedroom to the corner of the street and see a small neon poster indicating a yard sale just a few blocks north of my house. I love yard sales. I love collecting knick knacks and finding use in things others have found to be useless. Although it’s hot, I can’t pass up the chance to go to one so close by. I hop scotch around my floor which is littered with magazine poster pin ups, stuffed animals and dirty laundry and go into my closet to find something clean to wear.
Scrapping my loosely fitted t-shirt off I slip into a slim fit crop top that grips my perky breast. I squeeze into a pair of blue jean shorts that hike up around mid-thigh. I step into the reflection of my full length mirror adore my sun kissed bronze skin. My stomach lays perfectly flat, soft, but not enough to look chubby. A quick toss of my hair shakes the knots out of my curly blonde locks and it falls flawlessly at my sides. A pair of green thong sandals lay at the foot of my bed and I slip them on to protect my precious feet from the pavement. I am about to head outside when I hear my mother’s loud stomps echoing towards my room. In seconds she’s at my door and her voluptuous frame blocks my exit. At only 5’9 she towers over me and her very presence makes me back up.
“And just where do you think YOU’RE going?” she points down at me.
I point towards the window, “There’s a yard sale just a few blocks down, I thought, you know since I’m fresh off my 18th birthday, I could go spend some of my birthday money!” I exclaim.
My mother shakes her head, “Yeah right! So you can buy more junk to cram in here? Look at your room, it’s as if a tornado touched down and… ugh you, you can’t go Myra.” She reprimands.
I put my hands together as if I’m going to pray, “Please mom, please let me go! I, I promise I’ll straighten this room out!” I plead.
My mother steps closer to me, “Junk. That’s all there ever is at yard sales. Crap that’s used, that doesn’t even work. I don’t know why you insist on going to those things!?” She picks up a nearby pendant that was once glossy silver, now slightly tarnished, “I mean, look at this! Myra, I forbid you to go to that yard sale.” She throws the pendant down.
A fire erupts in my belly as I watch the pendant fall, “Ugh, MOM!” I pout childishly.
She shakes her index finger at me, “Don’t you, ugh MOM! And besides, what makes you think you’re going ANYWHERE in those rags?” she alludes to my crop top.
“I’m 18 mom, I’m not a little girl anymore and besides It’s like a million degrees outside.” I complain.
“Oh, no you don’t. No daughter of mine is going out looking like THAT.” She turns around to exit my room. No amount of spandex can hide her hideous cottage cheese thighs and they jiggle as she walks, “I’m heading out to the mall to get some shopping done. When I come home, you’d better be in some decent clothing. I mean for God’s sake it looks like you’re wearing a toddler’s outfit.” She stomps off and leaves me to my own devices.
For some reason unimaginable, my mother thinks we can afford the finer things in life. She goes mall shopping almost every weekend. She has more pairs of shoes than days of the week and she only wears name brand blouses. I must have been hit on the head as a little kid, because being “material” never really passed on to me. I enjoy finding a bargain, and if it’s used, so what?
I wait till my mother pulls out of the driveway and our suburban turns the corner before I pull my bicycle out of the garage. Although the bike is a little big for me being that I’m only 5’3 it sure as hell beats walking on the scalding hot pavement. The ride is quick and the wind that whips through my hair is welcome relief in the midst of the heat. I pull up to a small house that’s made up of dull colored bricks and a worn out screen door and drop my bike a safe distance from the street.
Laid out on the lawn are three tables with abundant amounts of gizmos and gadgets of all shapes and sizes. On a tight rope sits a line of clothes that stretches almost as wide as my mother, and below it is a box of movies most of which are on cassette. I’m the only customer, and rightfully so, you’d have to be a moron to want to brave this heat. My snooping must have prompted some attention because no sooner do I pick up a compact mirror that I hear someone shuffle out of the house. I turn to see an old woman who’s likely in her 80’s trotting in my direction.
“Hello there. Find anything you like?” she asks.
“Nope, not yet, but I’ll keep digging!” I squeak.
She’s a frail thing. She stands eye level with me, but her body seems deteriorated and thin like a twig. I can see every vein busting out of her wrinkly skin and she sags in most places I’d expect an elderly woman to sag in. Her face looks like a raisin and the only saving grace I can possibly see in her is that she’s got an impeccably white set of teeth. While they very well could be dentures I don’t dwell on the idea too long.
“Well ya holler if ya needs anything honey, I’ll be right over there.” She points to a small wooden rocking chair underneath an oak tree.
I continue to sift through her pile of whatnots and find a particularly antique looking hairbrush. It still has a few strands of steel gray hair that I can only assume belong to their owner. I take a liking to the small pink rose that’s printed on the back of the brush and clutch it tight because I know it’s going home with me. I’m about to scavenge the next table when a delicious aroma tickles the tip of my nose.
“Do I smell cookies?” I turn to look at her.
She flashes me a smile, “Why yes dear. They just came out of the oven. Chocolate chip.” She gently rocks herself back and forth.
I rub my tummy, “Mmm, they smell good!” I say.
The old lady eases out of her rocker and trots over to where I stand, “would you care to step inside for one? Maybe some milk, Miss?” she uses her hand as a visor against the sun in an effort to get a better look at me.
My mouth moistens at the thought and I simply cannot refuse, “Myra, my name is Myra and I would love some cookies and milk!” I exclaim, “…but what about your yard sale?” I point to her tables overflowing with stuff.
“Oh, ain’t nobody gonna mess with it.” She points towards my bike, “just park your ride inside. Don’t want to give folks the idea that it’s for sale. Oh and you can call me Ms. Patterson.” She scurries into the house while I pull my bike in. There’s a trickle of sweat running down my back and I quickly press myself against her air condition unit to cool down.
Her living room has a dull brown theme and along the wall hang several pictures I can only assume are family. In the habit of making myself at home wherever I go, I slip off my flip flops and embrace the cool crisp feel of the carpet beneath me. Ms. Patterson is nowhere to be seen, but I can hear her rattling dishes in the distance. Naturally inquisitive I tip toe over to the pictures and take in a couple of images. The one that strikes me the most involves a younger version of Ms. Patterson hugged up with a less than enthusiastic teenager most likely her daughter. This would explain all the teenage geared items I came across earlier. I’m about to take in another picture when Ms. Patterson appears out of the corner of my eye holding a tray filled with cookies and a small glass of milk.
“Got your cookies darling.” she places the tray down on the coffee table in the middle of the living room. “Admiring my pictures darling?” she asks.
“Oh, yes mam. Very much so.” I spin around and plop myself down in a couch so old I nearly sink between the cushions.
Ms. Patterson smiles bright revealing those pearly white teeth again, “Oh, Lord I was a peach back then.” She alludes to her youth, “When I rocked a bikini all the boys be hollerin’.” She takes a seat right next to me.
I apprehensively scoot over to create a small buffer zone, “I’ll bet you were.” I reach down and grab a cookie.
They’re still warm from the oven’s infernal heat and I try my best to grip the cookie daintily so as not to dirty myself, but it’s no use as the chocolate chips ooze out of the cookie and onto my fingers. I manage to squeeze half the cookie into my mouth and I chomp down on it sending a few crumbs down my body. An explosion of flavor excites my taste buds and I simply cannot wait to take another bite. I stuff the rest of the cookie in my mouth and turn to face Ms. Patterson. She giggles at the sight of my chocolate stained lips and quickly grabs a napkin to wipe it off.
She folds the dirty side of the napkin in, “Enjoy that?” she pipes.
There’s obviously cookie matter jammed in between my teeth but I smile anyway, “Oh, yes mam!” I don’t want to look gluttonous by reaching for another cookie, but my willpower doesn’t stand a chance against their sensational aroma and I reach for another, “You know, my mom makes cookies too, but hers are gross! She like buys the logs of dough already made, but still can’t put them together like this!” I proclaim.
Ms. Patterson shakes her head, “tsk, tsk, these are homemade little one, and they’re made with love.” She speaks softly almost as if the words she just uttered are some kind of family kept secret.
On any other occasion I would not take kindly to somebody calling me “little one”, but when that somebody has cookies as good as these I make an acceptation, “Mmm, these are GOOD! Say, I don’t mean to be nosy, but is that your daughter there in that pic?” I reach over and take a sip of milk. The cool liquid is welcoming as it washes down excess cookie from my mouth.
“Yep that is my daughter.” She says plainly.
“Like why does she not look happy in that picture?” I lie back on the couch and rub my slightly protruding belly.
Ms. Patterson sighs, “well you know how yall young folks is. Always wantin’ to grow up, get away from theys ma and pa. She was just cranky, das all.” She looks me over, “You kinda remind me of her, now that yous sittin’ there all full of cookies.” She lightly pokes my stomach evoking a twitch from me.
I smile, “Oh really?” I arch my eyebrows.
“Yep, yall even got the same kind of belly button.” She laughs.
I look down at my stomach and examine my navel, “Ooo, she had an innie?” I flick a few crumbs that have made residence on my shorts.
“Is that what they’s called?” She slaps her knees in unisons, “Oh, how I miss her. The minute she finished high school she went off to some college far away. I ain’t seen her since.” She stares down into her thin empty hands.
I place a hand on hers, “I’m sorry Ms. Patterson.” I swoop my head down to lock eyes with her.
A grin crawls on her face sending her wrinkles everywhere, “you know what we loved doing together?” she lifts her head.
I retract my hand and stretch my back, “What that?”
“Well she used to have de MOST ticklish tummy! I remember when she’d be feelin’ down bout boys or grades, I’d prescribe a small tummy tickle session, oh how I miss that.” She sinks her head again.
I’m not the brightest bulb on the chandelier, but I can already tell where this is headed, and I immediately shoot right off the couch, “Oh, Ms. Patterson it’s been really lovely, but I like have to get going. There’s no telling when my mom’s getting home and…”
She cuts me off with the loudest I’d heard her talk all afternoon, “Tis alright darling. No need to explain.” She turns away from me and focuses on the picture of her daughter.
I back away slowly, “Thank you so, so much for the cookies…”
“Ahh, just go.” She buries her head in one hand and shoos me with the other.
I feel a tremendous weight on me. Aside from her warm hospitality and scrumptious cookies, I owe her nothing. On the other hand, she’s a lonely old lady and my heart goes out to her, but my body? On top of all that I’m dreadfully ticklish, with my luck I’ll pee my undies and make a complete fool of myself. I don’t want that. I force one final smile which she doesn’t even acknowledge and turn for the door. Just as I am about to slip my flip flops back on I hear Ms. Patterson begin to sob. Half of me wants to believe she’s just delivering a very on cue cry, but my other half, my sympathetic half concludes she’s being sincere and I spin right back around and trot back to her. She looks up from her hand with tear stricken eyes, “What do YOU want?” I immediately take note that her southern hospitality is all but gone.
I playfully pat my bare belly like a drum making it ripple, “I want YOOOOU, to tickle MY tummy!” I’m grinning from ear to ear, but inside I’m dreadfully nervous.
A smile returns to her face as Ms. Patterson dries her eyes, “Oh, darling. You have no idea what this means to me.” She takes my hand and sits me down right beside her, “You sure yous okay wit dis?” She locks eyes with me.
I do my best to force a smile, “I’m like totally down Ms. P.”
She motions me over to her lap, “Alright lil’ Myra now you layz down on my lap, tummy up okay?”
I scoot around until my back is arched right over her lap and my tummy is as out as it can be, “Like this?” I rest my head comfortably on the cushion of the couch causing my golden locks to fan out.
She smiles down on me, “Perfect. Now let’s see about that tummy shall we?” She lightly grazes over my silky smooth midsection making my microscopic nerve endings stand erect.
I bite down on my lip completely aware that this is just the beginning and that her light grazing might escalate into something unbearable. Doubts flood my mind as to whether or not I can handle this and my pulse rises gradually with anticipation. I keep my arms tucked in at my sides in hopes that I can control my impulses which if I’m not careful could result in a broken bone for Ms. Patterson.
She continues to tease my tender flesh with light circular traces around my belly making me twitch and snicker ever so often, “Oh darlin’ what a smooth tummy you gots there, is it TICKLISH?” she accelerates her attack by wiggling her boney fingers up and down my skin, “Kootchie koo!” she smiles.
Despite her efforts, the lack of pressure has resulted in little to no reaction from me. I can feel her fingers, but she seems just too old to inflict any real damage, “Come on Ms. Patterson! Is that the best you got?” I try to encourage her.
Her response sends shivers up my spine, “OH YEA? I’z takin it easy on ya!” Now with more intent she digs her skeletal fingers right into my abdominals making them shake, “How’s bout that eh?”
It’s as if a surge of electrical shock has hit my core and my arms reflexively take a defensive position trying to ward off Ms. Patterson’s hands, “OH, YOU-YOOOO-OH-HA-HA-HA-HEE-HEE-WHEE-TEE-OOOH MS. P!” I struggle with all my will to sit still as her fingers drill into my flesh, but my arms want so desperately to flail around. In an effort to subdue them I position them underneath my butt.
Ms. Patterson is as ecstatic as can be, “Oooh, my, my, lookie here, I gots me a squirmy little thing!” she probes my tummy with her index fingers motioning them up and down in a frantic passion, “My, my, your tummy is so soft little one!”
I interlock my fingers underneath my butt as added security while she infiltrates my completely vulnerable midriff, “OOO-HA-HA-HA-JEEE-HE-HE-HE-HE-MMM-MMM-EEH-HE-HE-HE-OOO-HA-HA-HA! OOOH YOU’RE GOOD!” I exclaim. There’s no stifling the laughter now. I’m in over my head with titillating sensations erupting from my sensitive stomach.
Ms. Patterson maliciously pretends to play piano prodding me with all ten fingers simultaneously. At the pace she’s poking I can only imagine she’s playing, “Flight of the Bumblebee”, “cootchie coo little one!” each finger sends its own string of sensations up my back as she begins to penetrate deeper, “Oh, so soft and tender your tummy little one!” she teases.
I’m flopping up and off her lap with every poke and prod of her skinny fingers, “ST-ST-STOP-PL-EEEESE-HE-HE-HE—AHHH-HA-HA-HA-OOOO-THAT TICKLES!” I spout out.
Ms. Patterson abandons her piano playing for a more lucrative tickle spot, my sides. With full force she squeezes me, pressing her thumbs deep into my lower abdominals, “you should sees the look on yo face little one!” she clowns.
I can only imagine the visual show I’m putting on for her with my facial expressions. I’m willing -to bet I’m contorting my face into expressions I didn’t even think I could make, “HA-HA-HA-OOOH-HOO-REALLY-YE-YE-HEE-HE-HE-HE!” I try my best to converse but the involuntary laughter makes it near impossible to string more than two words together.
She shimmies her thumbs up and down my sides making my tummy wobble. Even my slender body has SOME sustenance and it shows as she ripples my supple stomach with deep massages, “Ooh, yous shakin now little one! Say, I’s seems to be bout two cookies short of a full dozen. Where did dem cookies go?” she giggles along with me, “hee-ooo, is they right HERE?” she clamps her fingers down on the left side of my tummy.
My knees hike up reflexively, “HA-HA-HA-OOO-HE-HE-HE-HE I-I-ATE-THEMMM-MA-HA-HA-HA-JEE-JEE-EEE-HE-HE-HE!” I shriek.
She pulls back her fingers and I make the most of my break by sucking in deep breaths of air, “where dem cookies at little one? Is they right HERE?!” With one swift plunge her digits are back squishing my right side vigorously.
I throw my legs up and flutter kick them like a swimmer trying desperately to reach the shore, “OOO-HA-HA-HA-NOO-NOT-THEREEE-HE-HE-HE-HE-TEEE—WHEE-HE-HE-HA-HA-HA-UGGHHHH!” I bellow.
She rubs me down and slaps my thighs, “now, now, behave little one. Control dem legs.” She takes her hands and stretches them in the air.
In spite of the fact that she’s not attacking me in this moment I can’t help but continue to wear a grin and giggle in small spurts, “OOO-HE-HE-HE-AWW!” I muddle. Ms. Patterson returns her hands just inches above my waist and I pinch my eyes closed awaiting another onslaught, “OOO-WHEE-HE-HE-HE-HE-GREEE-HE-HE!”
“I ain’t start ticklin you yet little one!” her voice is as giddy as I would expect from a rejuvenated grandmother.
I ease one eye open to take a peak. Her fingers dance only inches above my sensitive skin and it looks almost as if she’s casting a spell on me with the way her hands are hovering around, looking for a spot to explore, “OOO-DON’T DO IT-P-PLEASE DON’TA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA!” She pays me no mind as her fingers delve down onto my flesh kneading it like a baker flattening dough, in this case, cookie dough.
She laughs along with me taking pleasure in my torment, “Ha-ha, oh you’s so sensitive! Look at ya, flopping like a fish outa wada!”Her fingers knead my tummy applying pressure at my weakest spots like a doctor checking for appendix irregularities.
“P-PLEASEEE-HE-HE-HE-HE-OOOO-MS. P-PATTERSOOOON-AHA-HA-HA! I’VEEE-HE-HE-HE-BEEN NICEEE-TO YOOOOU! P-PLEASEE-HE-HE-HE-WHOOO-TOO TICKLISH!” I’m pleading with her for mercy on me.
I could run. I have every right to do so, but something is keeping me glued to her lap. Albeit for a couple of involuntary spasms I have no urge to shoot straight up and dash for the door. Maybe my own mother’s physical neglect is a factor. Maybe this attention from a total stranger is making up in some way for all the times I needed my mother for comfort and she wasn’t there. For every time I failed a test, for every time I’d been dumped; times she should have been with me instead of with friends drinking and smoking. It’s as if the hatred I have towards my mother is being released through volleys of laughter and I have Ms. Patterson to be grateful to.
With all my sporadic movement I’ve managed to inch away from her lap to where my tummy is out of her reach, “get on back up here little one!” she orders.
I shimmy back onto her lap and slip my hands back underneath the crevice between my butt and her legs, “HE-HE-HE-OOO-Sorry Ms. Patterson. I got carried away!” I flash a smile. For the first time I take notice of just how flush my cheeks feel.
Ms. Patterson’s thin fingers reposition themselves along my supple stomach, “Your tummy’s a’getin red Miss Myra!” she takes to tracing my navel ever so lightly making me snicker, “Oh, is that little innie a ticklish?” she teases.
My mind is running wild with anticipation as the scintillating sensations send shivers up my skin, “Why don’t you find out?” I provoke. A big mistake on my part because it only encourages my tormentor to plunge her index finger deep into my navel making me whip my head back and slam against the plush arm rest of the sofa, “HA-HA-HA-OOO-HE-HE-HE-HE-WHEEE-THAAAAT-HA-HA-HA-TOO MUUUCHA-AH-HA-HA-HA!”
I’m fighting every desire, every instinct in my body to pull my arms out from under me and make her stop. It would be easy. In her old age she couldn’t possibly overpower me. I could grab the toothpicks she calls arms and swipe them away, but I abstain, I endure. My legs are another story however, free to flutter I slam my feet against the worn cushion in frivolous jubilation.
Ms. Patterson rotates her finger the circumference of my belly button leaving no nook unchecked, no cranny untouched, “cootchie coo! My is yo innie a deep one!” She taunts.
It’s amazing the sensations she’s able to awaken with her one little finger and how one tiny circle in the middle of my tummy can be so sensitive. It’s as if a very determined worm is trying desperately to excavate into an impenetrable hole, “OOO-HA-HA-HA-YOU’REEEE-BA-HA-HA-AD-HA-HA-HA-HA-P-PLEASE-P-PLEASE-OOO-HA-HA-YOU’REEE-GONNA MAKE MEEEE-PEE-HE-HE-HE-HE!!” I confess.
It’s as if I said the magic words, because no sooner do the words leave my lips, that her hands retract from their attack position and quickly thread into my blonde hair stroking it back into conformity, “Ooo, your hair a mess little one!”
Through gulps of air I flash a smile, not a forced one brought on my insurmountable titillating sensations, but a legitimate one, “I guess I’ll be needing that brush then hu?” I allude to the rose imprinted comb I’d earlier griped tight with intent to purchase.
Ms. Patterson cracks up, “Ha, suppose you do.”
I sit up causing my tummy to bulge ever so slightly over the waist of my jean shorts, “Oooo, I feel like I just did a thousand sit ups!” I wince at the throbbing pain coming from my midsection and stand to my feet to stretch towards the ceiling. My body is so worn I almost can’t feel my cell phone vibrate in my pocket. I squeeze it out and see that my mother is sending me a text, “I’ll be home in ten minutes.” It reads.
Ms. Patterson eases off the couch to collect the tray of cookies and glass of milk, “that ya mama callin little one?” She asks.
“Yes. It looks like I’d better be going. My room was a pigsty when she left. If she comes home to find it still like totally trashed I’ll be in deep, deep trouble.” I say.
“Oh I remember dem days. My little Sylvia,” she points towards her daughter’s picture, “her room always looked like a tornado whipped through there and…”
“That’s like totally how my mom told me MY room looked like!” I press my hands into my chest astonished at how even with such a wide age gap parents have a tendency to think alike. I reach out for her hand; the same hand that only moments ago was inflicting a menacing workout on my tummy, “Ms. Patterson thanks again for the brush, cookies, and those sweet little tickles.” I duck my head low and grin almost as if I’m ashamed to admit I enjoyed the ordeal.
I feel her hand tremble as she does her best to squeeze down on mine, “Oh, I’m the one who should be grateful little one.”
I cock my head and scrunch my eyebrows, “But why?” I ponder.
She pulls me closer and envelops my small frame with a warm hug, “Because for a while there, tis like I’s back with MY little Sylvia. So thank you, Myra.” She pulls back, “Say, why don’t ya take da rest o dem cookies there? I bet yo mama would love em!” she exclaims.
I shake my head, “No, best we keep this just between us, my mom like gave me strict orders not to come.”
I let go of her hand and scurry towards the door. My flip flops are by the door. There are still tiny bits of dirt on them and they scratch my soles as I slip them on. I reach for the door, but something is keeping me from exiting. I feel an emotional tug that won’t let go almost as if though there’s an invisible bond I don’t have the power to break. I swivel around and see that Ms. Patterson has already gone about wiping up some of the crumbs I’d left behind. It isn’t until she says, “you’s welcome here anytime!” That I feel that restraint lift off me and I dash out the door. I only hope my mother hasn’t beaten me to our house.
