The Tease (True, M/F, F/M, mildly adult)

Marta was new in town, and she was a tease.

I'd only known her a couple of days, but I noticed it at a party we were attending. Shoebox apartment, everybody elbowed everybody. Marta was squeezed next to Mac on the floor. The green-eyed crawler chewed my vitals while I tried not to watch them. Her brunette pageboy, her huge brown eyes that always asked who, me?, it wasn't just a crush, I was getting crushed, especially by that laugh. I always heard it, and it always dropped me in my tracks. Wedged into a couch corner, nursing a half-empty beer and willing down a half-erection, I couldn't help staring at Marta.

Somehow, that damned Mac and his greasy mustache had gotten Marta's foot on his lap. He was undoing one of her hempish sandals, the ones with the ropy tie-things around the calf. Bastard. Marta said nothing, just watched with a little half-grin. My fists clenched, unclenched, clenched.

Foot exposed now, toes unpolished but very cute. Mac drew his damnable finger across Marta's sole. Koochie koochie he sleazed.

Marta said (and I quote): Thank you for taking my sandal off. But I'm not ticklish at all. You can tickle me all you want (I never forgot THAT line) but I won't laugh.

She teased him! Ha!

Seconds later, Mac headed for the beer and bean dip. Good! Quitter!

Marta and I worked together in a small multi-media outlet, where over time, I pieced together what I observed and finally figured it out: Marta loved tickling. She loved to tickle (our staff was mostly guys), and I watched her -- around corners, through windows, on the smoking benches out back -- tickle just about the whole crew over the next year. One poor fellow, only 20 with a head that looked shocked to be so prematurely bald, was her special victim. She almost got him fired once. She tickled him on the air while the owners listened. They demanded to know why he was laughing (and "choking"). As we all did, he covered for Marta and saved them both -- barely.

We all tried to tickle her back (that's what she wanted all along). Poked her ribs at her desk. Tickled under her arms while she stretched. One guy even pinned her arms back while another thoroughly tickled her from ears to waist. Nothing. She didn't object, never squirmed in resistance. Just smiled that infuriating half smile. Sorry, guys. Doesn't tickle.

Erasing all doubt, she even ran naked through the building early one morning, holding a little homemade sign: Tickle Me! No one did. We were like paralyzed 10-year-olds who'd happened upon a girlie magazine. What were we supposed to do with this?

Until our special day.

Marta often wore cordovan loafers without socks. One day, some of us (it was strictly forbidden) sat in an on-air studio while some guy was trying to do a show. Marta, me, my buddy Jake, a couple of others. Marta rested her left foot on her knee. As usual, I had no idea what to say or do in Marta's presence. Foolish and tongue-tied, I sat on my hands.

But Jake became bold. He did what I had wanted to do for a year . . . reached across space and pulled off her loafer. Tickle tickle tickle! he coaxed.

Marta's expression was the same as always. Half-smile. Boys will be boys. "Try again," The Tease said. "You guys know I'm not ticklish." Jake tried again. Marta's foot might as well have been stone.

I couldn't stand it anymore. I was sitting right beside her and had never done anything! Now, or ever! Stunning even myself, I yanked the ballpoint pen from my shirt pocket and scribbled on the ball of her foot. Now THAT TICKLES! she yelped, and began laughing uncontrollably. But she didn't say stop! and she didn't even move her foot. Scribble. Scribble, scribble. Marta laughed, she shook, she cried out, she threw up her hands, bent at the waist, but her toes didn't even twitch. The guy doing his show even turned the music down and the mike up to put her crazy laughter on the air. After a few seconds, he said (in his best announcer voice) that laughter courtesy of Marta Green, ladies and gentlemen!

I tickled Marta's foot with the pen for at least one full minute. A little crowd had gathered, transfixed, outside the studio glass. Then Marta coughed a little, and I stopped immediately. Whew God! Marta wiped her streaming eyes, patted her deeply reddened cheeks. Ah ha, ha ha, oh, oh my, oh God she gasped, winding down. Then she looked reproachfully at me. And I have a swim date tonight she said loudly, looking at her inky foot. Where's my shoe? As she leaned over to pick it up, she whispered. Barely audible. For my ears only.

God that was GREAT

Carrying her shoe, Marta fake-pouted out of the room. Clack THUD clack THUD clack THUD. We who remained . . . silent, reverent as a church choir. Parts of us even resembled . . . steeples . . .

Great post! well-written and a lot of fun to read. Thanks. I look forward to reading more of your stuff.