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"A Recipe for Laughter": mostly F>F, a hint of sex, a lot of chocolate

Capt. Spalding

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Apr 20, 2001
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A RECIPE FOR LAUGHTER
by Tee Hee Lawrence

a tasty F>F (mostly) tale intended only for those whose
palates are over 17 years of age


Middleville is the latest in planned suburban living. It is a shining example of American
civilization in the year 1956. With its modest split-level homes, apportioned on plots allowing for front
and back yards, set on wide, gently-curving streets, lined with young shade trees, above state-of-the-art
sewer lines and conduits for power and telephone cables, Middleville is America’s future. It is near
enough to the city which provides the livelihood for most of its residents, but far enough away to be
spared the problems, the tensions, and the fears of close-quartered urban life. Its residents, mainly
relatively young families of modest means—their mortgages and education subsidized by the GI Bill, feel, in spite of the uneasy state of global politics, sure of their community and confident of their future in it.

Take the Stevens family: John, 35-years-old, a risk-assessor for Monolithic Life and Casualty
in the city; his 34-year-old wife, Lillian; and their three kids, John, Jr., 14, Jennifer, 10, and baby Lucille,
only 5. John is a burly, blond, blue-eyed six-footer, while Lil is a few inches shorter, and a bit plumper
after having the kids, but fetchingly blond and round-cheeked, with bright pale blue eyes. Folks often
remark that she reminds them of Doris Day. The children all sport the light features and healthy
large-boned frames of their attractive parents.

They had been among Middleville’s earliest settlers, shortly after Jen had been born, when most
of the surrounding lots were empty or still forested, and the city, before the expressway, seemed ever so
much farther away. They are pillars of the young community. John’s a local Scoutmaster, and coaches
baseball and football outdoors in warm seasons and basketball inside in winter. Lillian is a bedrock of
the PTA, a volunteer at the public library, and Secretary of the Middleville Women’s League.

It isn’t strange, then, for the Stevens, of 27 Morning Glory Drive, to have taken under wing the
newlywed couple, Russell and Anne Mathers, recently moved into the new house built at 44 Daffodil
Way, just a several-minute stroll away. Russ is 5’6”, with his curly brown hair, brown eyes, and roly-poly
frame giving him a big teddy bear look. Anne is quite dark and delicate, with short bangs of black hair
and striking almond-shaped ebon eyes atop her 5’3” thin, elfin body; a comparison to Audrey Hepburn
would not be inappropriate.

John introduced Russ to the local hardware shop and recruited him immediately for the
Thursday night bowling league. Lillian drafted Anne, who had starred in her Drama Club at college,
to audition for the Community Players’ production of Our Town and invited her to the floating bridge
luncheons the local housewives hosted. No, it was just good neighbors rolling out the welcome wagon
for newcomers: the mark of Middleville’s touchstone American heartland civility.

Just exactly when Lillian began to regard Anne as a threat to her comfortable position as one of
the leading women in Middleville could not be pinpointed. Anne was a tremendous hit in Our Town,
earning sincere raves in the Middleville Weekly Booster. She became an ardent participant at the Library,
championing the purchases for the collection of what Lillian felt to be rather extreme examples of modern
literature and unsettlingly provocative periodicals. Anne seemed shockingly diffident about having children in the near future, implying that she and Russ enjoyed the freedom being childless gave them. She also
seemed to enjoy the company of men as much as women, which, it seemed to Lillian, made her inordinately attractive to the married men of the community. Anne didn’t hesitate to plunge into male
conversations about politics, business, or even sports. She seemed to enjoy drawing on her leftist schooling
in the East (with a year in Paris!) to fascinate the men with her exotic contentiousness.

Suffice it to say that by the time Anne hosted her first bridge luncheon, and won lavish plaudits for food and décor that usually came only to Lillian—the last straw!—Lil’s comfortable bedrock assurance of her place in the community suffered considerable strain. Lillian didn’t display it outwardly, of course, as she did not wish to disrupt the apparent camaraderie of such occasions. However, the seeds of envy towards this outsider took root--so that, with each compliment that Lillian heard Anne draw from their neighbors (and even her own John!), within her grew a weed of outright jealousy. Lillian was determined to make it clear to Anne that she would stop at nothing to head off this sneaky infiltration.

Lil’s opportunity for regaining her spotlight from Anne is the Seventh Annual Middleville
Women’s League Cake Competition. A noble cause, benefiting the children’s ward at the local hospital,
the contest had been a cakewalk for Lillian from its inception. She had won five of the previous six blue
ribbons--and the gift certificates redeemable at a local gift shop--for her celebrated layer cakes; she had failed only in ‘51, due to Lucy’s untimely, premature arrival. Last year, her sweet lemon-filled cake with the tart lime frosting had simply bowled over the already-predisposed judges.

This year, however, Anne Mathers is obviously going to be formidable competition. She has
brought impressive, even exotic baked desserts to bake sales and pot lucks; her recipes draw from Latin
American and European influences, and make the others’, including Lillian’s, offerings look squarely
American by comparison. The dessert Anne served at the bridge luncheon, a sacher tort displaying expert
skill, had the girls raving so, their praise echoing in Lillian’s ears even as she tried to sleep that night.
Anne does not display false modesty about her sweet creations, and is free with recipes, preparation tips, and encouragement for them all to go beyond Betty Crocker and Duncan Hines. Lillian finds Anne’s unconventional baking— like the woman herself—an unseemly threat to the harmonious order of her happy American home. Surely Anne is holding something back, some secret, foreign advantage that guaranteed her spectacular success. They would have to have a conversation—woman-to-woman—where Lillian would make clear that Anne would have to reveal her real secrets and promise to adhere to the established order of the community. Anne’s subversion of Middleville’s way of life had to be stopped—cold.

Lil’s invited Anne for brunch late on a sunny May morning. The kids are mercifully all at school,
and except for the sibilant sound of a lawnmower next door at the Deans’ and the Hudsons’ terrier barking
at its tether across the street, it’s a lovely, peaceful spring day in the neighborhood. Lil’ has prepared
a cheddar omelet and cold beet salad and an iced pitcher of lemon and mint tea, infused with an inordinate
amount of gin. Anne had once confessed at a bridge luncheon that she was highly susceptible to alcohol,
and could take only the merest sip before it rendered her silly. Lil’s hopeful that she can get unsuspecting
Anne sloshed enough to unguardedly tell all of her baking secrets, the ones she withheld when she had
appeared so generous.

At eleven, the doorbell rings, and Lillian--wearing a floral apron over her yellow dress, complemented by a yellow headband, beige nylons, and low brown heels, greets her guest at the screen door. She beholds the gamine dressed in a black turtleneck, black woolen slacks, and bare feet in black leather flats; a black beret set at a jaunty angle capped her. Lillian thinks it’s a sheer provocative display, however smart Anne looked. She thinks with dismay that she could never look as comfortable in slacks as this young bohemian could. Still, she fights distraction and proceeds with her web weaving.

“Come in, Anne,” she effuses. “Where did you park?”

“Oh, it’s such a nice day, I walked,” chirps Anne.

“All that way! You must be parched. Come and have some refreshing iced tea,” insists Lil’, and
she leads the dark elf to the kitchen and presses a tall glass of the tea upon her. Anne is most cooperative,
and thirstily drinks three tall glasses of the tea while the two sit in the kitchen pleasantly chatting about this and that. Soon Anne is noticeably slurring her words and seems unsteady on her stool at the breakfast nook.
Lillian decides it’s time to close her trap around the upstart.

“Tell me, Anne dear,” ventures Lil’, “what have you decided to place in the Cake Competition?”

“Now you know I can’t tell you that,” Anne responds slowly, her almond eyes a bit glassy. “I wash told to keep it a shecret and not to share the recipe so it could be printed in the Annual League Cookbook. ‘ Gotta play by the rulesh.”

“Why, of course, Anne,” persists the blonde. “but surely you can tell me. No one else will know.”

“Nope, shorry,” giggles Anne. “My lipsh are shealed.” Lillian thinks, “Not for long….”

“Anne, have I shown you the improvements that John made in the basement?” Lillian slyly
offers. “The poor dear’s been working so hard to build a playroom for the kids down there.”

“W-why, no—whoops!” replies Anne, sliding off her stool and practically toppling onto her
hostess. “Shorry, Lil’, dear. ‘ Can’t figure out wash wrong wi’ me. ‘Must be th’ heat.”

“’Don’t you worry, hon’,” answers Lillian. “You just lean on me and we’ll carefully go downstairs
together.” She leads Anne to the basement steps and helps her unsteady small guest downstairs, taking care
to securely close the basement door behind them.

In the basement, which has been divided and paneled and carpeted, and has already become the
domain of board games, dolls, beachballs, and John, Jr.’s workbench for his model rocket construction,
Anne nearly falls onto a large object in the dimness. Lillian switches on a light over the object, revealing
a set of unpainted wooden stocks.

“Well, I see you’ve stumbled on the children’s favorite new toy,” cracks Lil’.

“Ish thish a bashement or a dud-dungeon?” giggles Anne.

“That all depends,” Lillian says with mock severity, “on how obedient our guests are. You
haven’t changed your mind about telling me what cake you’re entering in the Competition and what the
recipe is.” As she speaks, she observes how small Anne is, how drunk she is, and how easy it will be to
either trick her or force her into the stocks, there to stay, helpless, until she confesses.

Anne doesn’t seem to hear her, and running her fingers along the sanded wood on the top
of the stocks and along the cloth padding lining the holes therein, she asks, “Where didja get thish thing?”

“John actually built it for the annual Scouts picnic. Volunteers are locked in and are pelted
with water balloons and pies as a fundraiser,” explains Lil’. The scheming blonde cocks one eyebrow, and
suggests, “Would you like to try them on for size?”

“Oh, ha-ha-ha, me?” giggles Anne. “I dunno…can I trusht you to let me out?”

“Now, Anne,” insists Lillian, “aren’t we neighbors, and the very best of friends? The idea…”

“Don’t get shore!” bleats Anne, her ebon eyes starting to tear. “It looksh real uncomf-uncomfor-
real hard! I prob’ly wouldn’t even fit!”

“Of course you’d fit,” Lil’ says impatiently. “Even I fit. Shall I show you how even I fit?”

“Pleashe,” says Anne, weaving a bit, but seeming very pleased. “Show me.”

Lillian, with Anne’s fumbling aid, raises the midsection from the base. “Now hold this open,
Anne,” Lil’ instructs, and she sits on a stool behind the stocks, placing her lower calves onto two semicircles carved out of the top of the base. “O.K. Lower it,” Lil’ says to her drunken guest, and the semicircles carved in the bottom of the midsection settle complete the circles. With the thick cloth padding ringing the holes, her legs are now snugly set in the stocks.

“That takes care of my legs,” the blonde chimes. “Now pull up the bar across the top. That’s right.”

Anne raises the wooden bar along the top of the stocks, and Lillian is able to settle her wrists in
the shallow, padded semicircles in the exposed frame. Once the bar is lowered, her wrists are firmly set
in the holes. The fair homemaker is perched, hunched over on the stool, so that her head is just above and a little behind the top of the stocks.

“See, Anne, how easy that was! I fit just fine!” Lillian announces. She quickly adds, “And it’s really not uncomfortable,” although her tone betrays her own doubt in this position. “But I am caught.” She
waves her hands and feet for emphasis. “’Course I can get out because I’m not locked in.”

“Locked in?” wonders Anne.

“Look on the side,” offers Lillian. “See those padlocks dangling on the little chains? If you slip
them through the latches on the side, the stocks are locked. I’d be really stuck here.”

Anne unsteadily toys with the padlocks for a few seconds, then, with a hazy smile, says to her
hostess, as two clicks sound in rapid succession, “Wow! They lock real nice!”

“Huh? What have you done?” shouts Lillian, struggling in the locked stocks. Then, regaining her
composure, she laughs and says, “Ha-ha, you silly. Now see that little key ring on the face of the stocks,
to the right—your left—of my hands. Take the key and unlock the padlocks.”

“Thish key?” Anne asks, twirling the key ring on her forefinger.

“Uh-huh, be a good little girl and unlock this thing,” Lillian says, with measured calm. She adds,
“Then, it’ll be your turn in these.”

Anne stops twirling the key and focuses a wicked, inebriated smile at the bound blonde. She
drawls, “Thash right. You wanted me in there. I wunna why. I know… You want my cake recipe.” She
strokes one forefinger with the other. “Naughty, naughty. You don’ wanna play by the rulesh.”

“Anne,” threatens Lillian, “let me out, or I’ll….”

“…Or you’ll what?” the gamine giggles. “Thish might be fun. You can’t do anything.”

She reaches over the stocks and tweaks Lillian’s nose, catching it between thumb and forefinger.

“Cut that out!” cries the blonde, shaking her nose loose, and then failing to withhold a prodigious
sneeze.

“Blesh you!” says Anne automatically. She then narrows her eyes and muses, “Shay, I jusht ‘membered shomething. ‘ Member that Holiday party where you got fresh with John, and he told usht what he does to you when you’re ‘bad’.”

Nervous now, Lil’ stammers, “Anne, if you don’t release me this instant, I’ll scream!”

“Sho what?” Anne said, gesturing to the small, sealed windows near the ceiling. “Who’s gonna
hear you? I can’t hear a peep from outside. Now, where were we? Oh <giggle> yesh…”

The bereted beauty steps behind her helpless hostess and, wiggling her ten fingers playfully,
slips then into Lillian’s short, baggy sleeves and upon her soft, shaven armpits, singing, “Tickle-
tickle-tickle…!”

“Arrghh! Stop! Don’t!” screeches Lillian, who indeed screams, with helpless laughter. “Ahha-hahaha-hahahaha-OHNOHOHOHO-AHHAHAHAHAAAA….”

Anne is giggling and repeating “tickle” in a delighted sing-song as she, for all her drunkenness,
methodically and unceasingly strokes her victim’s tender underarms for many minutes. Lil’s laughter
loudly reverberates throughout the dim basement.

“Please-hee-hee-hee! Please, Anne!” begs Lil’, her face reddening and her eyes streaming tears
through her makeup. “Stop-haha-hahaha-AH-HA-HA-HA-HAAAA …” Her hilarity is compounded by the dismaying thought that she, by plying Anne with gin and by introducing the stocks, had set herself up for this ticklish torment. “Oh, oh God, ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! No-no more-ha-ha-ha-ha…!”

Perhaps it is the alcohol that liberates the petite guest to seek out the straps of her hostess’
bra under the dress and to pull them down, so that she might free Lil’s ample breasts.

“’Bet theesh are ticklish, toooo, uh-huuuh,” croons Anne, as she lightly swirls strokes around her
captive’s breasts and teases her nipples with the lightest touches of her fingertips.

“Oh-oh-oh-no-no-ho-ho-ah-ha-ha-ha-ha…” splutters Lillian, panic at her increasing loss of
self-possession edging her desperate laughter.

“Maybe you wanna tell me a secret,” Anne whispers into Lil’s reddened ear, all the while
continuing the maddening breast tickling. “Maybe you wanna confess that you were tryin’ to seduce me
into givin’ you that recipe.”

“No—heh-heh-NO, Anne! Ah-hah-ahhahahahaa…!” Lillian protests through her gasps and giggles.

“No? Really?” laughs Anne, as she pulls her fingers out of Lil’s dress and begins to grope
and poke the housewife's tender sides. “Really, really?”

In response, the fair prisoner practically sprays staccato laughter all over the low-hung basement.
“ Yee-hah-ha-ha-ha-haaah! Please, Anne-ha-ha-ha! Please-hee-hee-hee!” However, the gamine shows
no mercy in an eager, extended exploration of Lil’s sensitive ribs and fleshy hips. Through the light fabric
of Lil’s dress, Anne’s fingers prod the vulnerable sides until Lil’s literally bouncing with laughter on the
very edge of the stool. Pressed against Lil’s perspiring back, Anne then begins robustly pinches the areas
just above Lil’s thighs. “Ah-ha! NO! Ahhaha! STOP THAT! Ahhahahaha! GET AWAY! <EEK!>Ahhahahaha-ohhohoho-ahha-ahhahahahaaaaa…”

Athletic minutes later, an overheated Anne reluctantly stops to stretch and blearily admit to hunger; after all, they never did eat the meal that her hostess had prepared for their get-together. Breathing heavily, Lil’ titters with relief at her torment’s apparent end.

“Wow! Am I hungry!” announces the guest. She sits in a lawn chair facing her captive host.
Her hand rests on a pump bottle of chocolate syrup standing on a rickety card table nearby. She picks
the bottle up and, pressing down on the pump, draws a bit of the sweet contents onto her forefinger.
Licking it avidly, she asks the weary Lillian, “So, ‘ready to admit you were cheatin’ ‘n’ tryin’ to take advantage of me? C’mon, so we can go eat.”

“Let me go! You must be crazy!” a disheveled Lil’ pants as she clenches her hands and waggles her feet, causing one of her shoes to drop to the carpeted floor.

“Oops!” giggles Anne, and she stops, with her chocolate finger in her mouth, to consider
Lillian’s stocking foot and the bottle in her own hand. Then she grins, and gets up to search for something
on John, Jr’s worktable. Soon finding it, she kneels in front of the stocks and removes Lillian’s remaining shoe.

“Will you let me go? My son will be home soon,” insists Lil’.

“Hey, it’s barely past noon, hon’,” assures the lithe guest, who wielding the pair of scissors
she’d just found, pulls at and cuts open the toe of each stocking on the trapped blonde’s feet. Lil’ shrilly protests, “Oh! My nylons! Don’t!” as Anne peels the hose back to each ankle. Revealed are Lil’s fetching bare feet, their smooth tops pale white, and their liberally wrinkled soles pink but tending to red at the toes, at the heels, and along the edges. Lil’ windmills them frantically as Anne, giggling, gives in immediately to temptation and playfully strokes the soft soles with the tips of her fingers.

“S-s-s-stop! Heh-heh! Anne! Please-hee-hee-pleasssse don’t! Ah-ha-ha-I can’t stand THAT!”

Anne, beaming, withdraws her fingers, and croons, “Oooo! You’re SO ticklish down here! <chuckle> Are you in trouble NOW!”

She then picks up the pump bottle and, firmly holding each heel in turn, she squirts generous dollops of chocolate syrup on each wiggling set of round, pink toes. “Argghh! S-stop t-that! Heh-heh!” titters Lillian. “You-re—heh-heh—making a meh-heh-ess!”

“Nope! I’m making a coupla five-toed chocolate eclairs! They look scrumptious!”

Dreamily contemplating the plump toes coated copiously with chocolate, Anne sighs, licks her
lips, and begins to languorously lick the dripping digits. Lillian shrieks with laughter, and moves her
feet furiously. Anne grabs the left foot, pulls its toes back with determination, and. yumming with contentment, works her tongue assiduously between each.

“No-ho-hahaha-heehee-plee-plee-PLEEEEZE! NOT THERE! Haha-hahaha! D-Don’t-ohho-
n-no-no-nha-hahahahaha…!”

“MMMM! So-so sweet!” croons Anne between licks. She stops only to switch feet, and
to pump more syrup on Lillian’s slick and scarlet toes. “Cootchy-cootchy-yummmmy!” Anne’s tongue
follows rivulets of chocolate making their way down the sticky soles, and she giggles when her lingering
laps along the sugary soles sends Lil’ into ever more desperate hilarity.

“WHA-HA-HA-HA-HAAA! Stopstopstop-AHHA-HAHAHA! Nomorenomorenomore-HAHA-HAHAHA-AHHAHAHAHAAAAA…!”

The tasty torment and Lillian’s hearty laughter continues, with the bottle seeming bottomless.
Suddenly, sunlight from the kitchen upstairs pours into the basement, and a questing male voice calls downstairs.

“Hello? Lil’? What’s going on down there?” It is man-of-the-house John, whose heavy footsteps
sound his descent.

Anne abruptly stops in mid-lick, and straightens up, to squint into the sunlight. Her tongue
almost reflexively seeks out the remaining syrup coating her lips.

Lillian shouts robustly through the giggles still rippling through her, “Oh, John! Thank God!
Come! Help! This-this bitch!”

John Stevens, hunching his tall frame under the low ceiling, reaches bottom. Right behind him
is the roly-poly, hirsute form of Russ Mathers, who doesn’t need to bend. The two men mouth
half-formed words of amazement at the scene of the bound barefoot blonde housewife and the bereted
raven-haired gamine. Chocolate coats Lillian’s bare feet extending from the stocks, and chocolate is
smeared on the face of Anne, whose guilty eyes reflect her sudden sobriety.

“Lillian, what IS all this?” asks the bewildered John.

“I invited this-this creature to lunch,” whimpers Lillian, “and she trapped me and… tortured
me!”

“Anne…Anne…” stammers a stunned Russ.

“She got me drunk, and woulda put me in there if I hadn’t gotten her first,” Anne mumbles.
Finally mustering the courage to meet her husband’s eyes, she moves to him, and grabbing his hand,
insists, “She was tryin’ to pump me for the recipe of the cake I’m enterin’ in the Compe-Competi-in the contest! She’s no angel!”

John bends down and picks up the bottle of chocolate syrup, scrutinizing its label. “And so you
“pumped” her, eh?”

A hush falls over the gathering. Then, the quartet, including Lillian, still in the stocks, roars with
laughter, which resounds in the basement for quite a while.

John breaks the ensuing quiet, saying, “I have to meet a field assessor here in town this afternoon,
so I called up Russ and invited him to lunch, and we thought we’d drop by and crash your party…”

Russ finishes, “…hoping you wouldn’t mind our joining you.”

Anne blinks rapidly, then gushes, “Why-why, no! P-Please join us!”

Lillian waves her bound hands and feet and chuckles, “Fine! Somebody let me out!”

Anne moves to unlock the stocks, when John reaches out to stop her. He says, “Wait a minute.
Russ and I haven’t had anything to eat yet.” He looks at his buddy. “Russ, how do you feel about…
chocolate?”

The mop-topped fellow muses, “Mm-hmm. ‘ Sounds…delicious.”

When John kneels before his wife’s feet, and begins to pump the sweet syrup upon them,
she nervously coos, “Now just wait a minute, John Stevens. I’ve had just about enough—heh-heh-
ha-ha-ha-no-NO! Ah-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha…”

Watching John lick Lillian’s sweetened toes with his eager tongue and stroke her soles with his
long fingers, Anne and Russ exchange broad smiles. To the accompaniment of Lillian’s shrieks of laughter, Russ squeezes his wife’s elbow and, winking, taunts, “’Guess who is going to be ‘taking stock’ soon herself?”

Anne giggles and tries vainly to escape his grasp, chuckling, “You-you wouldn’t dare!”

Lillian, given a moment’s respite from her husband’s questing tongue, stutters, “Th-the
k-kids! Heh-heh! They’ll b-be home s-soon!”

“Relax, hon’,” assures John, squeezing out more syrup on his wife’s plump, tender toes.
“We’ve got more chocolate—and butterscotch—and maple walnut toppings upstairs. There’ll be
plenty for all. Russ, help yourself to a flavor. Whatever tastes good with Anne.”

Lil’ squeals as John’s tongue finds her toes again. Russ’ fingers begin to dance along
his wife’s sides. The basement is filled with the sweet sound of unleashed feminine laughter.

The model lifestyle of this American suburb is thus being undermined by a surrender to an
irresistible, subversive urge—to tickle! I bring you a warning, America! The ticklers are here already! And you’re all next!

“Ahha-hahaha-ahhahahaha! NO-NO-S-STOP! Ahha-HELP! AHHAHAHAHAHAA…!”



*Copyright 2001 by the author.
*Dedicated to those folks who still keep a dusty bottle of Bosco in the back of the kitchen cabinet, awaiting
the perfect opportunity. (‘Course many gourmands today would use Ghiradelli or Lindt...)
*Offered with apologies to fans of the Fifties’ family sitcoms. (‘Course we all know what really went on between scenes in those households.)
 
Capt. Spaulding! Welcome back!! I've always loved your posts and have been missing you!!!! I see you're in the Bronx now, from Australia if I remember correctly! (lol)
 
Koala me and I'll be around...

Thanks, nontkl!
Not to show any disrespect for our Aussie friends, but the only resemblance this Bronx lad has to those Down Under is that he sometimes finds himself upside-down. No, the Australians would roo
the day I would move there, and would feel more than a kiwi bit threatened by me and my pouch full of bad puns.
Now, then, haven't YOU been teasing us with possibly telling tales of
your Lady Macbeth of an ex-girlfriend? (I think 'twere you.)Open
the shutters and throw open the innuendoes already!
 
LOL! Ironically enough, I just watched Orson Welles amazing version of "the Scottish play" WITH my ex this past weekend!(and Othello as well-I'm on a Shakespeare kick as well as an Awesome Welles kick as well-have you ever seen his version of Kafka's "The Trial"?) And I assure you, I am not teasing you guys nor making up any stories regarding her-I don't embellish anything, I promise.....how could I even make up these stories anyhow?

Anyhow, it's really great to have you posting again (I guess my memory was wrong regarding your locale being given as Australia-but I'm almost positive it wasn't the Bronx! But alright! My family is originally from Parkchester-but I live in Hell's Kitchen now by way of a childhood stint on Lowng Island!)
 
Captain, I grew up in a Levittown clone like this one, at the opposite end of the Erie Canal. Don't recall any wild ticklish laughter (except what I caused) but that's not too surprising. Where I grew up, there were two seasons, Winter and July 4, so the houses stayed closed up.

I like Anne. She's much like my Clarissa.

Strelnikov
 
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