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Her name wasn’t Miranda, but it had the same number of syllables and conjured the same innate dignity. She was, without exaggeration a dead ringer for a young Sigourney Weaver, albeit one with more European sophistication and intelligence. She had jade green eyes, pale, flawless skin and long...

Gretchen was another 6’ Valkyrie type, around 25 years old with very big red hair almost reaching her hips, but as this was the early 90s the volume might have been due to the perms all the fashionable girls affected in those days. Though not a hulk, at that point I was getting by as a fetish...

Bianca was another six-footer, 23 years old, and rich. She lived in a posh hotel in Kensington, used Harrods as her corner shop, had a postgraduate degree in Oriental Art from Oxford, and a mother who ran southeast Asia for Merrill Lynch. She’d been brought up by wealthy grandparents as ‘mummy’...

Three Tall Women; a play by Edward Albee. Three Tall Ticklish Women, a memoir by Proust: Part the First: I’m unremarkable in looks and height, and straight but omnivorous where the appearance of tickle partners is concerned. However, I do require at least prettiness, if not beauty, and a...

In retrospect, the Tale of Deborah d'Arc would have been depressing to read, hence the lack of comments- actually the incident itself was depressing to experience. Here's a link if you'd care to have a look...

This is the promised follow-on from my last memoir. It’s actually a prequel rather than a sequel but I think you’ll understand why I decided to post it second. The show I mention here is the one in which the producer who later facilitated my liaison with ‘Jane’ the following summer had cast me...

There's a sort of epilogue or continuation of this, but with a different heroine. That will be next time. Meanwhile, I hope this one pleases. I suppose it’s the situation rather than the actual tickling- in this particular case a walk in the park that led to a perfect seduction during...

I'm happy some of you enjoyed my previous tale. I have others to tell, but thought I'd lance the boil of this one first. I have no excuse for what happened, and even though it's likely, because of my own age, that the woman in question may well have passed by now, that doesn't matter. The...

My handle stems from Marcel Proust, the classic French writer. I'm straight and he wasn't, but the reason for my choice is his most famous novel, À La Recherche du Temps Perdu, generally translated as 'Memories of Things Past', but actually meaning 'In Search of Lost Times'. I'm a longtime...