glentickle
TMF Regular
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- Apr 22, 2001
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Let's see now...this would be the summer of 1996, I guess, when I left for Europe, all alone, with no itinerary, and no return date. My intention was to force myself to meet new people, to leave myself without the safety net of traveling with friends or with other students.
The first week went well. So well, in fact, that I hadn't had enough time to write in my journal; so one night I stayed in my room (at the Three Ducks Hostel in Paris -- anyone know it?), ignored drunken ruckus from the courtyard below, and tried to get in a few pages. I wrote about how I'd been trying so hard not to socially isolate myself, though even as I wrote I realized that I was doing exactly that -- writing in my journal had always been a way to keep from having to interact with people.
Fate played a little joke on me, though, when one of my roommates came in. I'd met him the day before, and had a strange conversation: I couldn't tell whether he was suicidally depressed or simply debating a point, but he was a thoroughgoing determinist -- someone who believes that there is no free will in life, that everything that has ever happened, can happen, or will happen is already determined, and therefore there's nothing anyone can do to make any kind of positive impact on the world. He was stoic about it, seeming to accept this fate without emotion. He also smoked a lot of joints. But then again, so did I, and I believed in free will.
So I put down my journal to talk with him, thinking that if Fate saw fit to send companionship into my room, I shouldn't shun it just for the sake of writing about how I wasn't being as antisocial as I was accustomed to being. Make sense? That's irony. After we'd been going at it for about half an hour I felt frustrated with the guy, because he wouldn't really say anything much, would only reply to my claims by saying "how can you be sure?" His manner was so subdued, so aloof, that all I wanted to do was get a rise out of him.
By and by we were joined by another one of the travelers staying at the Three Ducks, a blonde girl in tie-dye that I'd seen around but hadn't spoken with. There was something pretty about her, in her peaceful manner, her soft voice, her attempt to perpetually radiate love to the world...I'm pretty sure she had dandelions in her hair. I quickly recapped for her the discussion I'd been engaged in with this determinist guy, and it made her feel so sad for him. She was so full of hope, so wanting to love the world into being a better place, that she couldn't leave until he had been lifted from his stupor. But her arguments, though more beautifully uttered, were no more successful than mine. She grew despondent.
"You see," I finally said to him, "you do have an effect on the world. You have made her unhappy."
"How do you know she was not supposed to be made unhappy?"
"I don't. But I can observe that she was happy when she came in, and now she is not. Had your actions been different, the result would have been different."
"You don't know that," he replied, stone-faced as ever. "If she was supposed to be unhappy, then nothing could change that."
And that was enough of a dare for me. Knowing that she was pliable, would be willing to do just about anything to change this poor guy's mind, I improvised an evil scheme that would result in the benefit of all. (Well, it would benefit, me, anyway.)
This pretty flower-child wore a long skirt and gold sandals. I didn't know her name, and had really only just met her ten minutes before, but...sometimes you just know you can get away with it. "If she were meant to be unhappy, then nothing could change it, you say? Well, I think I can prove you wrong," I said, and bent down towards her feet. Taking one ankle in my hand, I looked up at her and said "may I?" in a detached, clinical way. She just looked at me, waiting to see what I meant, without answering. But she hadn't said no, so I pulled a chair up in front of her, sat down, and placed her foot on my lap.
"Your actions have put a sad expression on her face," I said, "but mine can take it off again. Observe -- " and with that, I slipped the strap off her heel, and removed her sandal. I have to pause now, just to point out that the feeling of having a woman's bare foot in your hands, in your lap, gently holding it there at the ankle, and knowing full well that you're going to tickle it -- is so sublime that it's a shame to waste the joy of anticipation by tickling too soon. So I drew it out as long as I could, played on the moment, and tried to let it unfold at its own pace...I took the tone of a magician performing some elaborate trick -- well, it WAS a trick.
"You see now that on her face is sadness. Is it not?" He did not respond, so I looked at her. She merely looked back, trusting, a little curious, waiting. "But it would be a simple thing to make her appear happy." Again I paused, letting them both think about this, and waiting to see if any protest came. It did not. I addressed her now. "This is your foot, is it not?" She nodded, still confused. "And it is a part of your body, no less a part of you than any other, right?" I tightened my grip on her ankle, anticipating her possible reaction, and turned back to the determinist. "You see that I have removed her shoe, and here this is her bare sole." I held it up a little for him to see, which allowed me to hold her ankle even more tightly. "Touch it," I said.
He fidgeted a little, but otherwise did nothing. "Go ahead," I said, then turned again towards her. "You don't mind, do you?" She may have, but I don't think she understood what I had in mind. "Touch her foot," I said again, "unless you're afraid your action may have a result?" By now he, at least, knew what I meant, and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "No? You won't take that chance?" I teased him now. This was absolutely mind-blowing to me: there I was, having an existential argument, in Paris no less, conniving to use philosophy as an excuse to tickle a girl I barely knew. And they had no idea. She was still clueless. It was time to push things a bit.
"Is your foot ticklish?" I asked her. The sudden tension in her leg was answer enough. I tugged back at her ankle, and promised her "Don't worry, he won't touch you; but you ARE ticklish?" She nodded, and couldn't keep from smiling, still involuntarily trying to pull her leg away. "You see?" I said to the determinist. "She no longer looks sad, does she?" He mumbled something about this being simply what was meant to be, but his voice wasn't as calm or detached as it had been. I turned back to Dandelion Girl.
"He would argue, you know, that you have no control over anything, even over whether you are ticklish or not. But you think he is wrong?" I must have been smiling too much, because she was no longer buying it. But I had her ankle firmly, and still one hand free. I teasingly waved my fingers near her foot, and challenged her to prove him wrong. She giggled softly, protested, and the determinist let out a strange coughing noise. I looked up at him, saw him in obvious discomfort, fidgeting and unable to sit still, grimacing, holding back a smile.
"What's the matter?" I asked him. "Does it make you uncomfortable to see her laughing? What do you think she feels right now? What do you think I'm going to do to her?" This was unbearable; he couldn't stand it, and neither could she, and, finally, neither could I. "Do you think I'm really going to tickle her? Like -- this?" And I dropped one finger down her sole, from the balls to the heel, scratching the arch, making the foot wrinkle. One little laugh escaped her, and I teased her for it, reminding her that her mission was to prove this determinist wrong: to be not ticklish.
"You have free will," I told her. "You can feel what you want to feel, or not feel. You don't have to be ticklish! (I tickled again.) "You (tickle) don't (tickle) have (tickle) to (tickle tickle tickle...) -- " and she suddenly yanked her foot away so forcefully that I was pulled right along with it, right out of my chair, and nearly fell on top of her. So the flood gates were open: I wrapped my arm around her ankle, grabbed her other foot and stuck it in my arm along with the other one, easily slipped off the other shoe, and just started going nuts all over the bottoms of both of her feet. Her laughter came out in sweet giggles, long, sing-song laughter, high-pitched but not squeaky, a beautiful sound...she was too much a pacifist to fight back, even; her legs tried to bend at the knees, but I had her ankles locked in and all she could do was cross one foot in front of the other, then cross the other foot, over and over, while I tickled away happily. "Hold on!" I told her. "It's working!"
And it was. The determinist guy was still sitting, but he couldn't keep from laughing too. It was a demented laugh, low-pitched and cruel, anguished. "Are my actions producing a result?" I called out to him. "Would she be laughing right now if I weren't tickling her? Is she just imagining this, or is she really getting tickled?" She had rolled over onto her stomach, and her skirt rode up above her knees; she had been sitting on one of the beds, and she now lay down on it. I jumped on top of her, sat on the backs of her thighs, and tickled behind her knees. She folded her legs, trapping my fingers in there, and now she really started to scream with laughter. I leaned forward, pushing her legs back down with my torso, and tickled all up and down her calves, back over her feet, back up her legs, all the while making existential arguments about reality and sensation and free will, challenging her to resist, and accusing her of not trying hard enough. Through her laughter she tried to say "I'm trying, I'm trying!" but mostly she could only get out "no no no!" and finally she just tried to say "I can't help it -- I can't help it! OKAY! I'm ticklish! I'm ticklish, I said! Oh, no, no, no!" I cinched myself up and sat directly on her calves, leaving her two little bare soles trapped right beneath my legs, and I gave her a few more minutes right on the bottoms of her feet before finally letting her up. The last minute or two she didn't have enough breath even to try to protest, and she just lay there laughing and laughing, helplessly flexing her toes, wiggling her feet in the cutest way. She had gorgeous skin, too. Her feet were a lot softer than I thought they'd be, figuring a hippie like her would go around barefoot a lot. But then, it seemed she had good reason to keep her shoes on...
I never did finish the argument with the determinist guy. After letting her up we all just sat there, while she caught her breath, and I laughed nervously. I remember her gently shoving me, and saying something like "that wasn't necessary!" No, it certainly hadn't been. But it sure was fun. And despite what had been my best effort to hole myself up indoors and write, company of the best kind had come walking in.
The first week went well. So well, in fact, that I hadn't had enough time to write in my journal; so one night I stayed in my room (at the Three Ducks Hostel in Paris -- anyone know it?), ignored drunken ruckus from the courtyard below, and tried to get in a few pages. I wrote about how I'd been trying so hard not to socially isolate myself, though even as I wrote I realized that I was doing exactly that -- writing in my journal had always been a way to keep from having to interact with people.
Fate played a little joke on me, though, when one of my roommates came in. I'd met him the day before, and had a strange conversation: I couldn't tell whether he was suicidally depressed or simply debating a point, but he was a thoroughgoing determinist -- someone who believes that there is no free will in life, that everything that has ever happened, can happen, or will happen is already determined, and therefore there's nothing anyone can do to make any kind of positive impact on the world. He was stoic about it, seeming to accept this fate without emotion. He also smoked a lot of joints. But then again, so did I, and I believed in free will.
So I put down my journal to talk with him, thinking that if Fate saw fit to send companionship into my room, I shouldn't shun it just for the sake of writing about how I wasn't being as antisocial as I was accustomed to being. Make sense? That's irony. After we'd been going at it for about half an hour I felt frustrated with the guy, because he wouldn't really say anything much, would only reply to my claims by saying "how can you be sure?" His manner was so subdued, so aloof, that all I wanted to do was get a rise out of him.
By and by we were joined by another one of the travelers staying at the Three Ducks, a blonde girl in tie-dye that I'd seen around but hadn't spoken with. There was something pretty about her, in her peaceful manner, her soft voice, her attempt to perpetually radiate love to the world...I'm pretty sure she had dandelions in her hair. I quickly recapped for her the discussion I'd been engaged in with this determinist guy, and it made her feel so sad for him. She was so full of hope, so wanting to love the world into being a better place, that she couldn't leave until he had been lifted from his stupor. But her arguments, though more beautifully uttered, were no more successful than mine. She grew despondent.
"You see," I finally said to him, "you do have an effect on the world. You have made her unhappy."
"How do you know she was not supposed to be made unhappy?"
"I don't. But I can observe that she was happy when she came in, and now she is not. Had your actions been different, the result would have been different."
"You don't know that," he replied, stone-faced as ever. "If she was supposed to be unhappy, then nothing could change that."
And that was enough of a dare for me. Knowing that she was pliable, would be willing to do just about anything to change this poor guy's mind, I improvised an evil scheme that would result in the benefit of all. (Well, it would benefit, me, anyway.)
This pretty flower-child wore a long skirt and gold sandals. I didn't know her name, and had really only just met her ten minutes before, but...sometimes you just know you can get away with it. "If she were meant to be unhappy, then nothing could change it, you say? Well, I think I can prove you wrong," I said, and bent down towards her feet. Taking one ankle in my hand, I looked up at her and said "may I?" in a detached, clinical way. She just looked at me, waiting to see what I meant, without answering. But she hadn't said no, so I pulled a chair up in front of her, sat down, and placed her foot on my lap.
"Your actions have put a sad expression on her face," I said, "but mine can take it off again. Observe -- " and with that, I slipped the strap off her heel, and removed her sandal. I have to pause now, just to point out that the feeling of having a woman's bare foot in your hands, in your lap, gently holding it there at the ankle, and knowing full well that you're going to tickle it -- is so sublime that it's a shame to waste the joy of anticipation by tickling too soon. So I drew it out as long as I could, played on the moment, and tried to let it unfold at its own pace...I took the tone of a magician performing some elaborate trick -- well, it WAS a trick.
"You see now that on her face is sadness. Is it not?" He did not respond, so I looked at her. She merely looked back, trusting, a little curious, waiting. "But it would be a simple thing to make her appear happy." Again I paused, letting them both think about this, and waiting to see if any protest came. It did not. I addressed her now. "This is your foot, is it not?" She nodded, still confused. "And it is a part of your body, no less a part of you than any other, right?" I tightened my grip on her ankle, anticipating her possible reaction, and turned back to the determinist. "You see that I have removed her shoe, and here this is her bare sole." I held it up a little for him to see, which allowed me to hold her ankle even more tightly. "Touch it," I said.
He fidgeted a little, but otherwise did nothing. "Go ahead," I said, then turned again towards her. "You don't mind, do you?" She may have, but I don't think she understood what I had in mind. "Touch her foot," I said again, "unless you're afraid your action may have a result?" By now he, at least, knew what I meant, and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "No? You won't take that chance?" I teased him now. This was absolutely mind-blowing to me: there I was, having an existential argument, in Paris no less, conniving to use philosophy as an excuse to tickle a girl I barely knew. And they had no idea. She was still clueless. It was time to push things a bit.
"Is your foot ticklish?" I asked her. The sudden tension in her leg was answer enough. I tugged back at her ankle, and promised her "Don't worry, he won't touch you; but you ARE ticklish?" She nodded, and couldn't keep from smiling, still involuntarily trying to pull her leg away. "You see?" I said to the determinist. "She no longer looks sad, does she?" He mumbled something about this being simply what was meant to be, but his voice wasn't as calm or detached as it had been. I turned back to Dandelion Girl.
"He would argue, you know, that you have no control over anything, even over whether you are ticklish or not. But you think he is wrong?" I must have been smiling too much, because she was no longer buying it. But I had her ankle firmly, and still one hand free. I teasingly waved my fingers near her foot, and challenged her to prove him wrong. She giggled softly, protested, and the determinist let out a strange coughing noise. I looked up at him, saw him in obvious discomfort, fidgeting and unable to sit still, grimacing, holding back a smile.
"What's the matter?" I asked him. "Does it make you uncomfortable to see her laughing? What do you think she feels right now? What do you think I'm going to do to her?" This was unbearable; he couldn't stand it, and neither could she, and, finally, neither could I. "Do you think I'm really going to tickle her? Like -- this?" And I dropped one finger down her sole, from the balls to the heel, scratching the arch, making the foot wrinkle. One little laugh escaped her, and I teased her for it, reminding her that her mission was to prove this determinist wrong: to be not ticklish.
"You have free will," I told her. "You can feel what you want to feel, or not feel. You don't have to be ticklish! (I tickled again.) "You (tickle) don't (tickle) have (tickle) to (tickle tickle tickle...) -- " and she suddenly yanked her foot away so forcefully that I was pulled right along with it, right out of my chair, and nearly fell on top of her. So the flood gates were open: I wrapped my arm around her ankle, grabbed her other foot and stuck it in my arm along with the other one, easily slipped off the other shoe, and just started going nuts all over the bottoms of both of her feet. Her laughter came out in sweet giggles, long, sing-song laughter, high-pitched but not squeaky, a beautiful sound...she was too much a pacifist to fight back, even; her legs tried to bend at the knees, but I had her ankles locked in and all she could do was cross one foot in front of the other, then cross the other foot, over and over, while I tickled away happily. "Hold on!" I told her. "It's working!"
And it was. The determinist guy was still sitting, but he couldn't keep from laughing too. It was a demented laugh, low-pitched and cruel, anguished. "Are my actions producing a result?" I called out to him. "Would she be laughing right now if I weren't tickling her? Is she just imagining this, or is she really getting tickled?" She had rolled over onto her stomach, and her skirt rode up above her knees; she had been sitting on one of the beds, and she now lay down on it. I jumped on top of her, sat on the backs of her thighs, and tickled behind her knees. She folded her legs, trapping my fingers in there, and now she really started to scream with laughter. I leaned forward, pushing her legs back down with my torso, and tickled all up and down her calves, back over her feet, back up her legs, all the while making existential arguments about reality and sensation and free will, challenging her to resist, and accusing her of not trying hard enough. Through her laughter she tried to say "I'm trying, I'm trying!" but mostly she could only get out "no no no!" and finally she just tried to say "I can't help it -- I can't help it! OKAY! I'm ticklish! I'm ticklish, I said! Oh, no, no, no!" I cinched myself up and sat directly on her calves, leaving her two little bare soles trapped right beneath my legs, and I gave her a few more minutes right on the bottoms of her feet before finally letting her up. The last minute or two she didn't have enough breath even to try to protest, and she just lay there laughing and laughing, helplessly flexing her toes, wiggling her feet in the cutest way. She had gorgeous skin, too. Her feet were a lot softer than I thought they'd be, figuring a hippie like her would go around barefoot a lot. But then, it seemed she had good reason to keep her shoes on...
I never did finish the argument with the determinist guy. After letting her up we all just sat there, while she caught her breath, and I laughed nervously. I remember her gently shoving me, and saying something like "that wasn't necessary!" No, it certainly hadn't been. But it sure was fun. And despite what had been my best effort to hole myself up indoors and write, company of the best kind had come walking in.
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