magic, just a little follow-up:
I admit, the last day in that workplace (I was there 7 years) was a red-letter day. There were other tickling experiences similar to the ones I've shared in this thread, but none like the one in my office (see above).
BUT EARLIER THAT DAY: Another young lady paid me a visit in my rather remote location (they put me there because I was the creative type, and I liked privacy to play music and think). magic, I can't think of a celebrity to which I might compare her, but she was about 5'11" (she wore a size 11 shoe; isn't that wonderful? Again, I had been able to check while her feet were elsewhere), late twenties, athletic, sandy blonde hair with nice highlights, and a light splash of freckles beneath demanding blue eyes. I found her to be fun because her bark was much worse than her bite (I wouldn't have minded being bitten, however).
(Slight aside: Great hips! They swiveled, and she always had a hand on one of them, like Daphne from Scooby Doo).
I'll call her "Kelly"; K. usually came to my office at the end of the day; she represented us outside the office and was on her feet a lot, so it was typical for her to come visit, sit down, and slip her shoes off. She talked about herself so much that I could look at her feet all I wanted without her noticing (I think I could have used a magnifying glass. She was so into herself that I think I could have regularly stared up her skirt and she wouldn't have been any the wiser. I'm not made that way, though).
It was odd to see Kelly in the morning; it was even odder to see her truly upset. She griped all the time, but it never meant anything. Today, she was mad at me, really hacked. Why?
Damn you she said, sitting on that same cabinet where everyone sat. Damn you for leaving!
I was speechless.
How am I supposed to do my job now? I saw her point; they hadn't found anyone to replace me, and a number of jobs depended on how effectively I did mine. So I managed a weak I'm sure they'll find someone soon.
She said something I don't like to hear ladies say, and kicked me squarely in the calf. It really hurt.
Hey! I said (or something just as ineffectual).
And then a light came on. That hurt! And with your shoes on, too! You usually have the courtesy to take them off when you invade my office! (Do you think I goaded her enough? It seemed to work!)
Invade?! Oh, the truth comes out! Is that how you see me . . . some kind of INVADER! Kelly quickly slipped off her classic black pumps and kicked at me with a pretty -- but big and strong -- nyloned foot. I dodged; she kicked again (she really was angry) and I caught her ankle with my left hand. Let go! she growled. I wanna kick you!
Not if I TICKLE you! I said, lightly scraping her sole with my fingertips (I had dreamt of this moment. What a great day!).
She bent double with laughter. Quit it! Don't tickle! But I was pretty strong as a young man, and I had a good firm hold. She began to beg. Please! Oh, please! (you can mix in as many ha-ha's as you like; there were plenty there).
Finally, I let go (but gotta tell you . . . those were 15 seconds of tickling heaven. Maybe 20). She pulled her foot back and held it with both hands. I never let anyone tickle my feet!
Oh, why is that? I asked, innocently. She just glared, and poutily shoved those great, athletic feet back into her pumps (and I never saw them again). But I'll bet you're not as mad now I said.
And she half-smiled, and said: I couldn't stay mad at you. I would just hate it if you left my world completely. Her eyes were a little misty; she tossed her hands around in frustration, left my office, closed the door . . . and her fading heels on the hallway floor punctuated my wonderful morning. Still, even writing this so many years later, I feel like a bit of a bastard where Kelly's concerned.
