Boomtown13
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- Joined
- Jul 24, 2001
- Messages
- 209
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Hi everyone.
I'm the Tickling Bandit of Los Angeles. Former, to be honest. There was a period of months there -- mm, let's say a year -- mm, okay, let's say more than a year -- where I would go out into the city and connive a tickling encounter.
It's no way to be, of course, and I don't recommend anyone do it. You get lost that way. Best to tickle when the opportunity presents itself to you.
But, hell, I'll tell you the stories. If nothing else, they're fun to listen to and to tell. I posted most of them on the old AMT -- the waiting room, the office, the dinner party - yes, I usually title them by location. But some went untold -- my waitering days (ooh, too many there), the museum, the roommate interviews, and the bookstore, to name some.
Here's the bookstore.
One night, around 9:00, I was browsing around a renowned West Hollywood New Agey bookstore. (I like the astrology, it's something of a hobby.) The yoga section was calling me this night, however. It's something I've tried only once, loved, and knew I should integrate into my life on a regular basis.
As I'm flipping through random yoga books, a girl sidles up to me and brushes my arm with hers. "Sorry," she says. She's a very cute, petite brunette, New York-looking. Sandals. Red toenails.
I don't care if opportunity's knocking or not, I want to make this happen. But how?
I'm not the type of tickler that can enjoy myself when the ticklee is hating it. I call that the "rape tickler." Not me. I need my ticklee to not only be laughing, but enjoying the laughing and the tickling. This posed a great challenge to my Tickling Bandit encounters.
But I loved the challenge. It's where I put my energy.
The girl and I parted ways. I went back to the astrology section, and she wandered over to, I think, Buddhism. For the next half hour we browsed around, eyeing each other every so often and smiling. With her liking me, I knew I had a chance at this.
What a surprise, we both found ourselves at the register at the same time. I paid, she paid, we both headed for the door, and the time to act was now or never. What I had in mind was a longshot, and it was going to come from left field, but what the hell did I have to lose, I thought.
We smiled to each other as we approached the exit. I finally spoke, "Can I ask you something? Are you in a rush to get home, or do you have a few minutes? I wanted to ask for a little help."
She regarded me with a happy smiley curiosity.
"This is going to sound crazy, but I want to give you a foot massage. I'm thinking of going to massage school, and I need to get the feet right."
There it was.
It was out there.
Man, is that not the craziest line in the world? I steeled myself for incredulous rejection. And here it came. . .
Her eyes widened and she regarded me with a shocked expression. "Oh...my...God!" she exclaimed. Damn, this is worse than I expected. She sounded totally insulted. Then she continued: "I LOVE foot massages!" Her face prounounced the words "foot massages" with a very happy smile. Whoever was driving my world pressed the clutch and threw the stickshift into SURREAL gear.
"Great," I said, as understated as I could muster. "Let's sit on the steps outside." We walked next door to the closed used-book store and sat on the steps. She slipped out of her sandals and placed her little soft-looking feet onto my lap. "God, I love foot massages so much," she repeated.
I massaged. I'm good at it too. She purred, as did I. Her feet were probably about a size 6 or 7, and they were as soft as they had looked. Delicate, soft feet, the kind that you don't want to apply too much pressure on when you're massaging, because that would hurt them.
I used just the right pressure. And, still on the first foot, I said, very businesslike "Are you ticklish?"
"Not too bad," she said with a smile, her eyes half-closed.
"Good, cuz that's the problem with massaging feet..." I trailed off. My fingers began skating up on their tips as I dragged slowly over the ball of her foot. She breathed in deeply. I dragged my fingertips, at the same pressure, down the center of her sole, and - yes! - she laughed.
"THAT tickles," she said.
"Try to fight it," I said, sounding sporting, and not stopping the tickling.
She smiled wide, and tried to keep control of herself while her foot began wiggling in my hand. After a moment, her laughter came chuckling reluctantly out of her mouth. It was a golden moment. "Okay, you deserve a reward for that," I said, and began massaging that foot in earnest again. She melted, and I turned my attention on her other foot.
The one that hadn't even been touched yet.
I could only touch it for the first time once, and I didn't want to lose the chance. Before touching it, I said to her, "Now THIS one's going to be very ticklish, isn't it?" She didn't respond. "Well, see what you can do," I said. Then I wrapped my hands lightly around the little foot, with my thumbs on the top and all eight fingertips gently grazing the center of her sole. I moved them almost imperceptibly.
It was the loudest laugh she gave all night.
Then we had a few moments where I was just tickling, as lightly as I could, and she was just laughing with abandon. After withstanding this for a spell, she said through chuckles, "I think I deserve another reward!"
She was right, and I massaged both feet for a good while longer.
When I realized the scene had played itself out, I brought it to a close. She got up and said, "My mother is going to be SO jealous!" which I find tittilating in a weird sort of way. I went home happy that night, and I like to think she did too, whoever she was.
Live from LA,
The Tickling Boomtown
I'm the Tickling Bandit of Los Angeles. Former, to be honest. There was a period of months there -- mm, let's say a year -- mm, okay, let's say more than a year -- where I would go out into the city and connive a tickling encounter.
It's no way to be, of course, and I don't recommend anyone do it. You get lost that way. Best to tickle when the opportunity presents itself to you.
But, hell, I'll tell you the stories. If nothing else, they're fun to listen to and to tell. I posted most of them on the old AMT -- the waiting room, the office, the dinner party - yes, I usually title them by location. But some went untold -- my waitering days (ooh, too many there), the museum, the roommate interviews, and the bookstore, to name some.
Here's the bookstore.
One night, around 9:00, I was browsing around a renowned West Hollywood New Agey bookstore. (I like the astrology, it's something of a hobby.) The yoga section was calling me this night, however. It's something I've tried only once, loved, and knew I should integrate into my life on a regular basis.
As I'm flipping through random yoga books, a girl sidles up to me and brushes my arm with hers. "Sorry," she says. She's a very cute, petite brunette, New York-looking. Sandals. Red toenails.
I don't care if opportunity's knocking or not, I want to make this happen. But how?
I'm not the type of tickler that can enjoy myself when the ticklee is hating it. I call that the "rape tickler." Not me. I need my ticklee to not only be laughing, but enjoying the laughing and the tickling. This posed a great challenge to my Tickling Bandit encounters.
But I loved the challenge. It's where I put my energy.
The girl and I parted ways. I went back to the astrology section, and she wandered over to, I think, Buddhism. For the next half hour we browsed around, eyeing each other every so often and smiling. With her liking me, I knew I had a chance at this.
What a surprise, we both found ourselves at the register at the same time. I paid, she paid, we both headed for the door, and the time to act was now or never. What I had in mind was a longshot, and it was going to come from left field, but what the hell did I have to lose, I thought.
We smiled to each other as we approached the exit. I finally spoke, "Can I ask you something? Are you in a rush to get home, or do you have a few minutes? I wanted to ask for a little help."
She regarded me with a happy smiley curiosity.
"This is going to sound crazy, but I want to give you a foot massage. I'm thinking of going to massage school, and I need to get the feet right."
There it was.
It was out there.
Man, is that not the craziest line in the world? I steeled myself for incredulous rejection. And here it came. . .
Her eyes widened and she regarded me with a shocked expression. "Oh...my...God!" she exclaimed. Damn, this is worse than I expected. She sounded totally insulted. Then she continued: "I LOVE foot massages!" Her face prounounced the words "foot massages" with a very happy smile. Whoever was driving my world pressed the clutch and threw the stickshift into SURREAL gear.
"Great," I said, as understated as I could muster. "Let's sit on the steps outside." We walked next door to the closed used-book store and sat on the steps. She slipped out of her sandals and placed her little soft-looking feet onto my lap. "God, I love foot massages so much," she repeated.
I massaged. I'm good at it too. She purred, as did I. Her feet were probably about a size 6 or 7, and they were as soft as they had looked. Delicate, soft feet, the kind that you don't want to apply too much pressure on when you're massaging, because that would hurt them.
I used just the right pressure. And, still on the first foot, I said, very businesslike "Are you ticklish?"
"Not too bad," she said with a smile, her eyes half-closed.
"Good, cuz that's the problem with massaging feet..." I trailed off. My fingers began skating up on their tips as I dragged slowly over the ball of her foot. She breathed in deeply. I dragged my fingertips, at the same pressure, down the center of her sole, and - yes! - she laughed.
"THAT tickles," she said.
"Try to fight it," I said, sounding sporting, and not stopping the tickling.
She smiled wide, and tried to keep control of herself while her foot began wiggling in my hand. After a moment, her laughter came chuckling reluctantly out of her mouth. It was a golden moment. "Okay, you deserve a reward for that," I said, and began massaging that foot in earnest again. She melted, and I turned my attention on her other foot.
The one that hadn't even been touched yet.
I could only touch it for the first time once, and I didn't want to lose the chance. Before touching it, I said to her, "Now THIS one's going to be very ticklish, isn't it?" She didn't respond. "Well, see what you can do," I said. Then I wrapped my hands lightly around the little foot, with my thumbs on the top and all eight fingertips gently grazing the center of her sole. I moved them almost imperceptibly.
It was the loudest laugh she gave all night.
Then we had a few moments where I was just tickling, as lightly as I could, and she was just laughing with abandon. After withstanding this for a spell, she said through chuckles, "I think I deserve another reward!"
She was right, and I massaged both feet for a good while longer.
When I realized the scene had played itself out, I brought it to a close. She got up and said, "My mother is going to be SO jealous!" which I find tittilating in a weird sort of way. I went home happy that night, and I like to think she did too, whoever she was.
Live from LA,
The Tickling Boomtown
