glentickle
TMF Regular
- Joined
- Apr 22, 2001
- Messages
- 173
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I have early memories. Two years old is faint and fuzzy, but three is crystal clear. I remember the apartment in Brooklyn where we lived until I was seven: the cracked plaster in the hallway, breaking away in triangles, with yellowed wall underneath; the silver paint caked in layers on the old steam radiators; the gray concrete of the courtyard beneath the living-room window; a permanent spot of melted blue candle on the bright orange carpet in the bedroom I shared with my sister. It occurs to me now that all of these are colors and textures. I have a harder time remembering dialogue. But I vividly recall the night I was awakened by the sound of my mother laughing hysterically; I peered out through the bedroom door and saw my parents sitting on the love-seat sofa they had been given by my grandmother (olive-green plaid cushions) and found that my mother was crying, not laughing, and my father spoke to me in a perfectly calm, secure, reassuring voice. "Go back to bed, son, everything is all right." Years later I reckoned this as the night he told my mother he wanted a divorce. Just now, in the five minutes it has taken me to write this, it occurred to me for the very first time that perhaps this was the event that made a tickler out of me: hysterical mother, whether crying or laughing, caused by calm father.
I have a memory of sitting on the toilet, staring straight ahead at the towel rack on the wall where my mother's stockings were often hung out to dry. Taupe was the color, and their shape, wrinkled and damp, was not nearly so pretty as when my mother wore them on her feet. And so I had fantasies, imagining that I was a tiny little man, who might crawl unnoticed into the feet of the stockings, and hide there until my mother put them on. Trapped inside, I could tickle and tickle my mother's feet, making her laugh uncontrollably, while she would be defenseless and unable to stop it. She was petite, at four feet ten inches, ninety-five pounds, with a size two foot. And she was immeasurably ticklish. She thought it the cruelest torture, and said so.
She taught my sister to say so too. I would love to say her name here, but I cannot, for fear of being identified. So I will call her...hmmmm...no other name will do. She is two years older than I, but I was a feisty three-year-old, and I pinned her down one day. "Grandma! He's torturing me!" she screamed out as I tickled her. But I succeeded in making a ticklee out of her -- or perhaps I just played a role in larger forces working towards that end? In any event, from my earliest memory I grew up with a pretty girl that I tickled often. She was ticklish everywhere, under her knees and under her arms, but especially so on her feet and sides, which are still my favorite places to tickle a girl.
We were frequently left unsupervised, or left with our grandmother, which amounted to the same thing. By the time I was five I could overpower either of them, though looking back now it occurs to me I did not abuse this ability nearly as often as I might have. It was the threat of tickling that thrilled me so; the act itself, however enjoyable, did not come up to the excitement of anticipation. I was eight or nine when one day my sister and I got into our mother's knitting basket, where there was several skeins of old yarn, unused for years. It was only natural for us to try tying each other up, to see if we could escape. I cannot remember whether I let my sister tie me up; I think I was too afraid she would tickle me. But she willingly sat in the old wooden rocking chair (that has since been painted black) and let me wrap length after length around her wrists and ankles. Was she barefoot before I tied her? She certainly was afterwards. I am astonished to find I cannot remember the color of her socks; I imagine lavender, though this may be an invention of the present. I can still see her feet, however, innocent, unsuspecting, dangling below the crossbar of the rocking chair. I can taste the peculiar flavor of the saliva welling under my tongue, the result of anticipation, which happened at no other time. But I did not tickle her. Perhaps one quick touch, but no more. I think I understood that this was unfair.
I was rebellious by age thirteen, and a habitual pot smoker. I suppose I had always been rebellious, but now I was too big and too strong to be restrained. I could tickle my sister if I wanted to, and if she fought back I could hold her down. I was fascinated by the idea of what I now know is called nonconsensual tickling, and I wondered what would happen if one tickled a girl, and just kept tickling her, without stopping, despite any protest, no matter how fervent or angry. And so one day my sister returned from school when I was home alone, and I simply went up to her, picked her up, and carried her towards a bed in the living room that was used as a sofa. She knew exactly what I was going to do, and fought with all her might. I had my arms wrapped around her waist from behind, lifting her off the floor, and she kicked backwards at my legs. I tried to throw her on the bed face down, but she got her legs out in front of her. I kicked them away, spun around, and we fell. I landed on top of her, sitting on her legs; from there I cinched my way up to her back, though she bucked me clear into the air. But I outweighed her, and was as determined to follow through as she was to resist. Sitting on the backs of her thighs, my weight held her down, and I dug my hands into her sides. She did not laugh so much as scream in protest, then groan in anguish -- she knew not to let me hear her laugh. I have no clear idea how long we struggled; perhaps only one minute, perhaps five or ten. I felt pity, for I knew how I would detest being in her place. But I sat there, stoic and unexpressive, tickling and tickling, like a scientist bombarding atoms with radioactive waves to see how they will react. Right now I feel so far removed from the state of mind I was in that I would like to say I was frenzied, possessed. Someone should criticize me for attempting to escape judgment by pleading insanity.
Likely the event left more of an impact on me than on her. The memory leaves me with guilt, though my sister sought me out for playful tickles many times since, as she had always done. She is now married, and her husband has tickled her in front of me more than once. She laughs, protests, and lets him go at it a while. She is still pretty, though not nearly as ticklish as she once was. The last time I tried to tickle her was a few years ago. She barely reacted, other than to tease me, saying "Glenny, you're losing your touch!" I take a perverse pleasure in thinking it serves me right.
I have a girlfriend now who is terribly ticklish, and phobic of it. Her father and brother, she said, used to tickle her endlessly, and she feared death by asphyxiation. I will not tickle her, though on more than one occasion she has actually given me permission to. The thought of doing so makes me delirious enough, and it spares her the torture. I don't need to find out what it would be like...I need to not find out. And she is happy with that.
I have a memory of sitting on the toilet, staring straight ahead at the towel rack on the wall where my mother's stockings were often hung out to dry. Taupe was the color, and their shape, wrinkled and damp, was not nearly so pretty as when my mother wore them on her feet. And so I had fantasies, imagining that I was a tiny little man, who might crawl unnoticed into the feet of the stockings, and hide there until my mother put them on. Trapped inside, I could tickle and tickle my mother's feet, making her laugh uncontrollably, while she would be defenseless and unable to stop it. She was petite, at four feet ten inches, ninety-five pounds, with a size two foot. And she was immeasurably ticklish. She thought it the cruelest torture, and said so.
She taught my sister to say so too. I would love to say her name here, but I cannot, for fear of being identified. So I will call her...hmmmm...no other name will do. She is two years older than I, but I was a feisty three-year-old, and I pinned her down one day. "Grandma! He's torturing me!" she screamed out as I tickled her. But I succeeded in making a ticklee out of her -- or perhaps I just played a role in larger forces working towards that end? In any event, from my earliest memory I grew up with a pretty girl that I tickled often. She was ticklish everywhere, under her knees and under her arms, but especially so on her feet and sides, which are still my favorite places to tickle a girl.
We were frequently left unsupervised, or left with our grandmother, which amounted to the same thing. By the time I was five I could overpower either of them, though looking back now it occurs to me I did not abuse this ability nearly as often as I might have. It was the threat of tickling that thrilled me so; the act itself, however enjoyable, did not come up to the excitement of anticipation. I was eight or nine when one day my sister and I got into our mother's knitting basket, where there was several skeins of old yarn, unused for years. It was only natural for us to try tying each other up, to see if we could escape. I cannot remember whether I let my sister tie me up; I think I was too afraid she would tickle me. But she willingly sat in the old wooden rocking chair (that has since been painted black) and let me wrap length after length around her wrists and ankles. Was she barefoot before I tied her? She certainly was afterwards. I am astonished to find I cannot remember the color of her socks; I imagine lavender, though this may be an invention of the present. I can still see her feet, however, innocent, unsuspecting, dangling below the crossbar of the rocking chair. I can taste the peculiar flavor of the saliva welling under my tongue, the result of anticipation, which happened at no other time. But I did not tickle her. Perhaps one quick touch, but no more. I think I understood that this was unfair.
I was rebellious by age thirteen, and a habitual pot smoker. I suppose I had always been rebellious, but now I was too big and too strong to be restrained. I could tickle my sister if I wanted to, and if she fought back I could hold her down. I was fascinated by the idea of what I now know is called nonconsensual tickling, and I wondered what would happen if one tickled a girl, and just kept tickling her, without stopping, despite any protest, no matter how fervent or angry. And so one day my sister returned from school when I was home alone, and I simply went up to her, picked her up, and carried her towards a bed in the living room that was used as a sofa. She knew exactly what I was going to do, and fought with all her might. I had my arms wrapped around her waist from behind, lifting her off the floor, and she kicked backwards at my legs. I tried to throw her on the bed face down, but she got her legs out in front of her. I kicked them away, spun around, and we fell. I landed on top of her, sitting on her legs; from there I cinched my way up to her back, though she bucked me clear into the air. But I outweighed her, and was as determined to follow through as she was to resist. Sitting on the backs of her thighs, my weight held her down, and I dug my hands into her sides. She did not laugh so much as scream in protest, then groan in anguish -- she knew not to let me hear her laugh. I have no clear idea how long we struggled; perhaps only one minute, perhaps five or ten. I felt pity, for I knew how I would detest being in her place. But I sat there, stoic and unexpressive, tickling and tickling, like a scientist bombarding atoms with radioactive waves to see how they will react. Right now I feel so far removed from the state of mind I was in that I would like to say I was frenzied, possessed. Someone should criticize me for attempting to escape judgment by pleading insanity.
Likely the event left more of an impact on me than on her. The memory leaves me with guilt, though my sister sought me out for playful tickles many times since, as she had always done. She is now married, and her husband has tickled her in front of me more than once. She laughs, protests, and lets him go at it a while. She is still pretty, though not nearly as ticklish as she once was. The last time I tried to tickle her was a few years ago. She barely reacted, other than to tease me, saying "Glenny, you're losing your touch!" I take a perverse pleasure in thinking it serves me right.
I have a girlfriend now who is terribly ticklish, and phobic of it. Her father and brother, she said, used to tickle her endlessly, and she feared death by asphyxiation. I will not tickle her, though on more than one occasion she has actually given me permission to. The thought of doing so makes me delirious enough, and it spares her the torture. I don't need to find out what it would be like...I need to not find out. And she is happy with that.